I would like to wish my readers a very merry Christmas! I pray that your Holiday is wonderful and filled with light, love, and peace! Blessings on you all! 🙂
Author: Melissa Snyder
I am Charlie Brown
Every year, at Christmastime, I have the same realization: I am Charlie Brown. I’ve been depressed with Christmas shopping, run off my feet with activities, stressed out with preparations, and just not very much in the Christmas spirit, honestly. At some point in the holidays, I “always end up feeling depressed”. And I forget.
I forget the quiet moments, the still small voice that seeks to remind me of the reason why we celebrate Christmas and this season. I forget the Lord that came to earth, bringing hope with his life, and joy amidst the fears of the day-to-day. I forget His peace. And I wish I didn’t. But peace is fleeting in this season, and I snatch it in the few moments that I can. Five minutes in the snowfall after taking out the trash. Twenty minutes in a nearly-empty Bob Evans while waiting for my order. It’s that tranquility that I should be keeping with me all the time, not snatching them like islands in a sea of chaos. But that’s what the season has become for so many of us: chaos. The peaceful moments are so few and far between in everyday life, and I wish that weren’t the case. But sometimes, those fleeting instants of peace are all we can do.
The Truth About Birthdays
Pinterest is a fantasy world, in case you haven’t noticed. For the heck of it, I looked up ‘baby first birthdays’ (check it out for yourself) and looked through the pins that showed up. And I almost laughed out loud. Elizabeth’s first birthday looked NOTHING like these elegant, magazine-glossy affairs.
I had planned a simple, laid-back day with snuggles and cuddles and reflections on the past year, to be culminated with an afternoon nap to be fresh and ready for a family dinner at Johnny Carino’s that night. Yeah, that is NOT what happened. The morning was filled with errands, what should have taken perhaps two hours, took four, there was no nap when we got home, there were presents to wrap amidst amusing a rightfully sleepy baby. Then it was bathtime and getting ready time. The birthday girl did NOT want to get dressed, comb her hair, etc. Mommy ran through three outfits before she found one that she didn’t feel ridiculous in. Once we got everything packed and loaded up, including Elizabeth, we were fifteen minutes late leaving the house for dinner. She wasn’t happy being back in the car, naturally, and the rush hour traffic had begun. Even my husband beat us to the restaurant, coming from work, and he works about an hour away.
When we got to the restaurant, Ben took Elizabeth inside while I got the stuff out of the car. Naturally, as I’m getting out of the car, I drop her birthday presents. On the ground. In the mud. I could have cried right then and there, as I could have at many points that day. My mother handed me some tissues and I brushed them off as best I could. We got inside and found out that some family friends who had come had to leave at 6pm (it was almost five). We got Elizabeth situated and our drink orders placed (our server was patient and wonderful, thank you!). When Elizabeth’s milk came, I overfilled her sippy cup so when I went to screw on the lid, milk shot up into the air, only splishing her rather than soaking. Her bag got most of the wet. I sat there and just covered my face, again almost crying. Throughout dinner, Ben and I fed Elizabeth lots of bread and bites off our plates, though I know that she wasn’t getting as much food as she might normally. But she really seemed to like the bread and the milk at least. Elizabeth suddenly decided that she had had enough of being in her high chair so I managed to free her and give her to our friends so they could cuddle her. They soon had to get ready to go so I had to rush along opening her presents from them, singing happy birthday and giving Elizabeth her birthday cupcake (we didn’t bother lighting it).
And there was my moment: watching Elizabeth stick her fingers in the frosting and eat bites of the cupcake as well as tasting her fingers. For a few minutes, I got to sit there and tape my girl and watch her enjoy her cupcake and frosting, eating far more daintily than I think I have ever seen a one year old eat cake. She did try to smoosh it towards the end but there was no huge mess.
On the whole, the day was not the best. I felt a great deal like a failure as a mommy, weary as a woman, and a shadow of a person, run off my feet and brain-weary. It was a ‘the universe hates me’ sort of day. But there was that moment and that moment made all the difference.
Baby Year 1
As my husband says, I look like I’ve been hit by a truck here. Yeah, I felt that way, too. But this moment, it’s the only moment that I allowed myself to be photographed, even requested it. Because I wanted to remember that first moment of ultimate joy with Elizabeth.
Tomorrow, my baby girl will be one year old. I don’t quite know how to put all of that into words. I don’t at all, actually. When I look back through all of the pictures, read through her baby book, look at the portraits on the wall, and see her toddling around or reaching her arms up to be picked up by Mum-mum or Dada, I just…marvel.
Here is this little life that was lifted out of me almost a year ago, whom I fearfully bundled up and brought home through the snow several days later. Here is this babe whom I recorded with the hiccups on her week-old-day in the wee hours of the morning. Here is this baby girl who greets me with a smile and a bounce in the mornings, who sets up a wail when I tell her no or when her loved ones leave. Instead of a tiny baby cuddled in my arms, there is this fearless, energetic kid starting to walk quickly around my living room, squealing and laughing and playing. It’s amazing, beyond words amazing.
So, Elizabeth, on your first birthday, I want you to know how amazing your Mum-mum and Dada think you are, as do everyone 
else in your life and everyone you meet. Thank you for blessing and challenging us this year, and we are looking forward to many more wonderful years with you, my little love.
The Silence of Winter
After taking out the trash this afternoon, I found myself just standing there in the falling snow, looking out at my backyard and the field and park beyond it. Snowflakes swirled around me in the wind, the world was white and clean, the trees reaching up their bare arms to a grey sky. Yes, it was cold; yes, it’s winter and dreary. But what I love about it was there. Indiana in the winter has this profound, beautiful silence, if you will allow yourself to be still enough to enjoy it.
The cold, clean scent of winter was refreshing. The silence was heartening. It was just a moment but one that I sorely needed.
Oh, How Sweet It Is!
My ‘me time’ today consisted of me sitting in a corner at Bob Evans, waiting for my carry-out order for my family to be ready. As I sat there in silence, watching the staff bustle back and forth, I found myself realizing just how…beautiful it smelled in that restaurant. It was all but empty of customers at the time but still there were delectable things being made. I sat there and inhaled the savory aromas of suppers being cooked (at least two turkey dinners and one meatloaf and gravy for our household), the warm sweet tickle of icing drizzled over fresh-from-the-oven sweeties, the fluffy comfort of rolls baking five feet from me. And I smiled. I really smiled for the first time in several hours.
For those twenty minutes, I was at peace, and the world was beautiful. I wasn’t tired, I wasn’t stressed. I wasn’t a ball of emotions. FOr those twenty minutes in Bob Evans, the world was that corner and that corner was beautiful.
Ghosts of Talent Past
I saw a vision of myself dancing last night. Granted, a self five or six years younger with twice the grace and talent. So…a vision of me as I would have wished to be, I guess.
Several years ago, I was at the height of my bellydance fervor – at least five hours of classes/troupe practice per week, daily practice, frequent performances, including at large conventions. And I loved it. I was good at it. I looked good doing it. I loved it. Then life set in, my goals and hobbies changed, and that was not quite so important anymore. Now, after having had a baby and been majorly out of the scene for over a year, I just went to my first hafla as a performer. It was…disappointing. I was nervous about dancing. I tried my best but didn’t do as well as I’d hoped, didn’t feel as sassy, beautiful, or graceful as I used to. As I drove home in silence, I just felt sort of…ill. It was no one’s fault. Everyone was great; from Zhenna, who taught my class so wonderfully, to all the other dancers that I reconnected with, albeit briefly. No, it was no one’s fault.
It was me. I felt disappointed. I felt less. Dancing didn’t make me happy like it used to. I didn’t feel lovely, like I used to. I felt like I had let myself down somehow. Perhaps, as far as dancing, it’s time for me to step away from performance entirely and just concentrate on the fitness aspect of the dance.
Thanks in the Season of Giving
Christmas is often known as the season for giving but I am also endeavoring to be thankful. As we near upon Christmas Day, I am coming upon another very important date within the next week: my daughter’s birthday. On the 19th, my daughter will be one year old. This time last year, I was preparing to be induced, preeclampsic, on bed rest, and growing very nervous. I had never been hospitalized before, not since my own premature birth, so this was completely unknown territory for me. By the end of the day, after laboring for fifteen hours, two of those spent pushing, it was decided that I was to go in for an emergency c-section. An hour later, I held my daughter in weak, trembling arms.
As I look at Elizabeth now, toddling and babbling, smiling and clapping, I am incredibly thankful – for her and to have her in my life. I am thankful for the expertise of the doctors who took care of us that night and the nurses who did so the rest of the week afterward, and for the patience and strength of my husband who was at my side the whole time. I realize that, without them, I might not be here, might not have the blessing of holding my daughter in my arms each day, might not even be here to do so. There is no way for me to say just how thankful I am, as I know how fortunate I am.
The other day, I was contacted by Heather Von St. James, a wonderful woman, and I’d like to share some of her story with you in her own words:
In 2005, at the age of 36, and only three months after giving birth to my beautiful daughter Lily Rose, I was diagnosed with pleural mesothelioma. Upon learning of this life-altering diagnosis, my husband Cameron and I embarked upon a search to find the best mesothelioma treatment care available. Our search eventually led us to Dr. David Sugarbaker, a renowned mesothelioma surgeon at the Boston based Brigham and Women’s hospital.
Today, I am a seven-year mesothelioma cancer survivor and have made it my mission to help other mesothelioma victims around the globe. I share my personal story to help spread hope and awareness for others going through this, in hopes that one day no one else will have to. If having cancer has taught me anything, it’s the value of life and the value of gratitude. My diagnosis was in November, and every year during the holiday season, I am reminded of this difficult time. Therefore, I have set out to acknowledge something in my life that I am thankful for every day throughout the month of December.
– See more at: http://www.mesothelioma.com/heather/#.UqvE8vRDu-c
This Christmas and every day, be thankful for the wonderful things in your life. I know that I am. And thank you for your courage and inspiration, Heather.
Dream Memories: Little Precious
Author’s Note: This is the storified version of a dream that I had on March 10, 2005. Yes, I actually do write these things down. 🙂
= = = =
I was so very tired; every part of me ached. I was sweaty and felt nearly ripped in two. The room still swam a bit and I felt too tired to lift a finger. I could hear voices around me, people moving around the room. Some leaving, others staying.
It was over. Finally.
I felt the doctor place a little blanketed bundle in my arms and they shook a little as I raised them to grasp it. It squirmed. I blinked to clear my vision and my breath was taken away for the umpteenth time that night.
He was perfect, absolutely perfect! Perfect little hands, perfect little nose, perfect little mouth. He clenched his little fists and squirmed again, opening his eyes. He looked right at me and seemed to almost visibly relax in my arms. Such clear, bright little eyes. I couldn’t believe it.
I felt lips kiss my forehead and a whisper of absolute amazement above me. I sighed. “Say hi to Daddy.” And lifted him into his father’s arms.
My pillow was soaking wet when I leaned my head back against it. The nurse said they would change my linens and bed after I’d caught my breath. She said he was a beautiful baby boy. We should be very proud. I assured her that we were.
I watched him hold our son, look into that brand-new face, so fresh from God’s presence. I found myself smiling, though I didn’t know what to say. But it was just the most beautiful moment.
After a minute, he placed him back in my arms. “I think he wants his mama.”
Mama. Me? It sounded so foreign to me, so impossible. And yet here he was. I held that precious, terrycloth-wrapped bundle and marveled all over again. Lips kissed my cheek and breath brushed my ear.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too…Daddy.” That didn’t sound foreign to me. I had always pictured him as a father, with a little boy or girl trailing after his heels. Playing with dogs, climbing trees, teaching his child to love the earth, the forests, and the fields that he had loved all his life. A little boy to teach how to open doors for a lady and to be simply charming, to play video games and knights and dragons with. A little girl—his own little princess—pelting around in the dirt after her grandfather’s chickens in her dress while her father laughs; a little girl to indulge in fairy tales and to teach to dream.
I determined then that our son would be encouraged in his wildness, to dash around the backyard, climbing trees, jumping rocks, and building forts in order to break every bone in his body. To dream of battle, of being a hero. He’d go camping and hiking and hunting with his father and grandfather, learn to love the land. I would read him bedtime stories full of heroes and quests, help him put together costumes for Halloween of superheroes. Campouts in the living room, safaris in the backyard. Yes, I knew there would be hard times, difficulties, shouting matches maybe, even. But we would make it through. God had placed him in our arms and we would give him back to into His hands.
I felt him smile against my temple as I set the little one to nurse.
“We still have to give him his name.”
I smiled, too. “Yes. But what do you say we tell Him thank-you first?”
Don’t Have It In Me Today
Sorry, dears. I. Am. Exhausted. Today, I:
1. Cleaned the Keurig coffeemaker
2. Cleared off the kitchen table and did the dishes
3. Rearranged some furniture to put up Christmas decorations
4. Put up the Christmas tree and all the decorations
5. Tidied and organized the garage
6. Have been screamed at constantly by a child who has been wholly unhappy with me all day and with all I have tried to do to soothe her
Yeah, I’m tired. I’m ready for the child to go to bed, take a hot shower, eat food, and just…sit.
MWGS: Mom, Writer, Geek, Superwoman 