I sat in Friendly’s, across from my five-year old Sunday afternoon, and while she spooned frigid spoonful after spoonful of vanilla ice cream with sprinkles into her numbing mouth, I told her the story. Because, the funny thing is, she doesn’t know it. When you’re a parent of multiple children, I think you easily forget that the last, often coined “the baby” far beyond her diaper years, is often overlooked when it comes to details. I joke about how she’s raised by a house of four moms. Because her older sisters really dive in and help her with just about everything. And that really helps this tired mommy out. Continue reading
I’ve been contemplating presents lately. How much I’m not really into the whole frenzy of gifts and wrapping and shopping. Even on-line. And how I think it’s rather interesting how a tradition that began in days of old had nothing to do with gift exchange between friends and family, but rather the act of bringing precious items of worth to the feet of one who might not seem to even understand their worth. A baby. The baby Jesus. And I’ve been thinking about how this child came into the world to tell us a story. His story and ours. Wrapped up in a gift too huge for any Fedex box and yet simple enough to tell year after year, every Christmas. A story that many continue to write songs about. A moment significant enough to divide history into the letters of B.C. and A.D.