Susiej

I looked up from the hospital gown that draped over my belly, my knees poking through the stiff cotton fabric, dotted with green diamond rosettes, and was surprised to see the straight black hair framing the face of my still pregnant girlfriend, as she poked her head through the doorway. She had come to visit my first-born son and me. I had been through an ordeal… my emotions within the last 24 hours had run through the possibility of loosing my son, to an emergency c-section, to the beautiful realization that he was all right, to the awareness that I now had a catheter, and to the excruciating pain in my belly if someone dared to make me laugh. Or worse, if I had to sneeze, or cough. Excruciating pain.

Like a true girlfriend, she sat down on the bed beside me, and snuggled up close to see how I was, before checking on the baby. I lifted the sheets, and showed her how magically this birth had just “flattened my belly like a pancake.” A weight had truly been lifted off of my lungs, and air was much easier to take in. I was thinking how lucky I was to get off so easy – no crunches required. The second I gave birth, my stomach was instantaneously “concave.”

Except when I lifted the sheets and saw her eyes, I sadly realized my perception was a little skewed from reality. Maybe it was all those percocets I had been taking. She looked at my belly, and back up to my face and said, “yeah, it takes awhile to loose some of that.” A bit embarrassed, I pretended to know what she was talking about, brushed off her words and turned our attention to the little baby lying beside the bed.

Fourteen years later, she surprised me again by standing on my doorstep, her black hair falling forward, framing her face. Like a true girlfriend, she plopped down on the sofa with me, and she held me close, knowing a hug was what I sorely needed. Her hand dropped slowly across me, and we both noticed the four-inch wide gap between the waist of my pants and the now truly concave shape of my belly.

A girl may carry her emotions on her face, but it is her belly that reveals what’s happening in her spirit. The belly is the center of power. Yogis tell us that strengthening the belly is vital, as all the energy centers radiate from the frequency given off by the belly. That little pouch that first appears signals the arrival of a new life, or the “extra tire” reveals her satisfaction with the people she loves, and in her confidence to eat just two more of those chocolate chip cookies. Sometimes the belly is not just flat, but seems to be missing. The cookies have lost their charm, and greasy indulgences of junk food are simply passed over. Nothing seems to fit. Almost as if she is getting rid of everything that no longer belongs to who she is. When the belly is truly concave, this is a time when a girl is quietly giving birth to herself.

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The monster appeared out of nowhere…

The “monster” is in the pages of book entitled Shrewbettina’s Birthday, part of the series of  “wordless” children’s books by John S.Goodall with vintage pages that flip like a movie theater. Two pages are full size,

while a half page flips up in the middle to keep the action moving, as if it’s really a flip book.

Back then, it was just the two of them, and we had never heard of a little boy who was so attached to trains he hoped to grow up to be an old man who loved them. And, could there be something wrong with a little boy who learned how to poach an egg before he learned to make cookies?

We were too busy devouring picture books, and I was so inexperienced, so new at this mothering thing, with only two boys; I was literally cutting my teeth on what it meant to be a mom, and to fall in love with little boys who would find a spot to live in my heart and stay there forever.  The two would dress up like the dynamic duo — in reverse, while Max ran around in the background.  The little one was always Batman, while the older one was always Robin. They would put mile markers into their lives by saying, “That happened two pairs of shoes ago.”

Now, their legs are so long. It’s important to look back, and peek into our simple world back then, and to remember, just exactly what filled up those legs to make them grow so tall, besides all that milk and cookies.

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His ship was arriving in a few days to take him back home. The war was far from over. He had read in a postcard from home that his baby sister had been saving a bucket of snow for him since Christmas – she was keeping it in the barn. Later, when she would take his hand and led him to spot, the mud squishy from the spring thaw, she would say, “Someone must have stolen my snow. It’s gone. All they left me was a bucket of water.”

This is where the story stops.  I add this to the growing pile of mysteries that I left unsolved; the questions I didn’t ask before they all left me. My boys quickly, and efficiently, tucked this enchantingly beautiful currency into the vintage album, without a thought. Free from connection or memory. (At what age will they being to ask those questions?)

If I had the chance I would ask, “what did you sacrifice so that you would have this money to take back home? An egg salad sandwich on rye? A pair of boots to replace the ones you had with holes? Or are these dollars merely the leftovers, a souvenir, from your big-spending party night before you came back home? Tell me the truth, now. The suspense is killing me.”

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Today my mailbox was filled with two complete polar opposites of emotion. The first was a white envelope that contained the words, “I’m sorry, but…” End of story. I had suspected that if such a letter was coming, they would have held off until after the holidays – now I realize that is simply not the case. “Four days before Christmas, and we’re sending off a letter that will make you feel as if you just got kicked in the stomach.” “And,” I can hear them in my head, “We have no problem doing that, because this is just business.”

Now I’m grinding my teeth during the day too.

There was a second pole of emotion that came in a brown box wrapped in red, white and blue postal priority mail service tape. Inside was a vintage box of angel hair. The $.89 Shopper’s Fair sticker is still attached.

The return address on the package is not one I recognize – although the last name sounds familiar, but I cannot place it. But, the location I clearly do not know. This is a time that it’s difficult not for me to remember those cookies.

There is a passage in the book Julie and Julia: My Year of Cooking Dangerously where Julie writes on her blog that she can’t afford to buy enough butter to cook Julia Child’s butter-laden recipes. To her surprise, she finds more butter than she needs in her mailbox – from people all over the world.

As I read this, I was struck by the power of words to incite people to care and to reach out. To send cards when there is nothing else that can be done. To motivate someone to send a rare box of vintage angel hair to someone else.

While Julie became known by the mailman as the butter girl, I get angel hair. (I prefer the hair.)

So, whoever you are, I am grateful for this puddle of angel hair to spin magic around the house for the holidays, and for the vintage box to keep it safe year after year. An extra 3.5 ounces of magic where nothing existed before.

Part of me knows that the bad news that arrived in my mailbox today is just another link in the chain to something better. Before X can happen, this Y must happen too. But, it’s still quite a blow; one the angel hair softens. And, thank you my friend, for putting a bit of joy in what otherwise would have been a very, bleak day for my mailbox. Your timing couldn’t have been better.

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The stores are dressed in holiday style, and in the air there’s a feeling of Christmas.

So, in that spirit, I decided to take each of my boy’s shopping for each other, alone. I wanted them to truly think about what the other person needs; I expected nothing more than a pack of gum, or a toy they just happened to want for themselves. (Here’s an open door for that.)

Four days later, my feet ache. Over the last four nights, I have driven in a circle, spent time walking up and down the aisles of the stores closest to our home, and have completely tired out my legs, feet and eyes.

These were gifts I was going to purchase anyway, so why not share them with the brothers as a way to infuse Christmas Cheer and the spirit of what “giving” is all about.  Plus, if some of my gift stash was put into the hands of the siblings, I would have less gifts to hide. We could put them directly under the tree, and save me the trouble of hiding and finding.

Of course, I also did not anticipate how hard it would be to keep everyone’s gifts straight. I have a “map” scrawled in cryptic code that only I can decipher to guide me down the path of the store aisles, and the writing of the name tags during the wrapping phase; making sure not only “To” is correct, but more importantly, “The From.”

In years past, it has just been easier to do all the shopping myself, because honestly, is it really practical to go back and forth to stores four times in a week? Apparently, it is.

One surprise was the sudden time I had, almost out of thin air, to spend alone with each child, free to talk without interruption. Next, the minutes we spent at the bookstore surprised each of them the most; a place they never associated with gifts. Yet, this spot turned out to be the place of deepest treasure hunting.

Next, when I posed the question, “What do you think your brother needs,” they offered suggestions I had never considered. Under Armour to keep his big brother warm at ski club, a new Calvin & Hobbes book because he’s finished the one we already have, or “he doesn’t even have a wallet.” And, as he chose the wallet, he thought about where his brother normally keeps his quarters – the front pocket. So, we found a font-pocket wallet, that snaps shut with a magnet, around a loop. Each one of them, regardless of age, came up with truly thoughtful gifts.

My oldest son was 2 when Toy Story 2 came out, and he was the expert I consulted as I bought miniature Toy Story figures for his little brothers. He knew exactly which ones to get — “because you can set up a scene with Slinky Dog, and Hamm, and Etch  and Mr. Spell. We already have Buzz and Woody — and we definitely need the get-away car, RC.” His mind was spinning up a scene of his own.

At the checkout, there was a miniature red-stripped sock monkey. “Mom, don’t you think he would love to have one of those?”

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After the tree was decorated and I went to sleep, my Mom would sneak to the Christmas tree and wrap the lights in angel hair — my entire favorite part of the Christmas tree. Angel hair went out with tinsel icicles, and is very rare to find today. But my Mom saved one last box of angel hair among her Christmas decorations stored in her attic — for me, I’m sure to find someday. She imagined me, as big girl, with children of my own, sneaking down to the tree to swirl the lights with angel hair.

Angel hair looks exactly like an Angel’s hair would look.

Angel hair is spun glass, and the glass fibers can get into your fingers — so she always “fussed with it” after I was in bed. She swirled the angel hair around the lights, so that the tree would glow.

Then she used extra angel hair to tuck around the nativity scene, and her Christmas Village — so that everything looked as if it were sitting in a cloud.

With one box of angel hair left to my name, I use it wisely. Usually, I put it in a glass bowl among the vintage ornaments she left behind, and a few more strands for the tree.

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