Browsing through the photos I took this Christmas season; I'm filled with awe. And a lot of awwwww. The memories look so sweet and precious, so well organized and executed. They look quite miraculous even.
It's not that I curated the photos in this way, removing or displacing the ones that didn't tell the right narrative. It's that I tend to only capture the good moments and images that match. And because of that, there are distinct, palpable and lasting memories missing from my collection.
I can't be the only one that does this. Thinking back on my childhood and looking through the photos in any given year of it, my dad did an amazing job archiving the flawlessness of the 80s and 90s. There was no sign of exhaustion of two professional parents, no indication that the vacation took way too much work to have fun, no sibling squabbling. It was all pure and perfect.
But some of my more vivid memories come without a photo attachment. There was a Thanksgiving on Bartlett Street when I remember playing in my bedroom with all my cousins. I was wearing my sister's patent leather 'high heels', dancing and kicking my legs up high like the Rockettes in the Thanksgiving Day parade. One shoe flew off and landed heel first in my little brother's lip. It was gushing blood and he was rushed to the ER. I remember silence and sobriety in the house, my Dad's Thanksgiving dinner resting idle until Tiny Tim returned. I remember my dad carrying him inside the house, hours later, seven stitches later, to a room of anxious and hungry attendees. When dinner was finally served, my brother still under the effects of anesthesia slept through it in my mom's arms. I was probably five or six at the time, my brother two or three. There are no photos of this scene. But no one in the family will ever forget that imperfect Thanksgiving.
I think there is an unspoken rule to take photos that match a certain vision, particularly around the holidays. And the rise of social media has exacerbated this. On my iPhone, our Christmas was delicious, decorated, and delightful. In my current mental state, our Christmas celebrations were challenged, mostly driven by twins in their very terrible twos.
While the photos show the moment when everyone was happy, here are moments that were a little less so.
The Phipps light show. Destination worthy at Christmas time. I miraculously got a parking spot right in front of the Conservatory. Peter and his dad were delayed at the Roberto Clemente Museum, so I had set out to start our tour as a solo parent. I got the first three out, unbuckled Caroline and then Jacqueline. I lifted Caroline out and as I turned my back to put Caroline on the sidewalk, Jacqueline fell out of the car and onto the sidewalk, crying and screaming, bystanders looking at me like what the heck?! I was a terrible mom, but I kept cool. She was fine, she stopped crying almost immediately, and we all ran in to bob and weave through the crowds, me counting that I had 1, 2, 3, 4, where's Bobby?! okay, 5 kids, every minute or so.
Our Christmas tree. Peter had broken his ribs before Thanksgiving, and they were still healing when we purchased and put up our nine-foot Christmas tree this year. Peter lugged it inside, got it into the stand, and stood back to admire it with me. I told him it wasn't straight. He agreed. He unscrewed the screws, and worked with me to get it in place, wincing, wailing, and swearing so only I could hear how painful it was to lie in the ground, hold the tree in place, and screw it into the stand. He asked the kids to leave the living room till he was done to preserve the perfection for them.
Christmas Mass. Bobby's candlelight procession was beautiful. The whole church was beautiful and full for the first time since last Christmas. The Gospel, and Caroline started her antics. The homily, and Jacqueline was getting restless too. Peter and I walked them up and down the side aisles, the source of entertainment for everyone sitting behind the massive gothic beams that couldn't have seen the pulpit or altar anyway. They scampered around the baptismal font. They had a tantrum in the back of the church, side vestibule, and atrium door. Peter finally said enough was enough and ejected them from Church.
Christmas Eve Lunch - our reunion with our dear friend, Charles. The twins were just crazy. The security guards around the Museum yelled at them at least three times.
Christmas Eve Dinner. Beautiful dinner. The twins watched Cocomelon through it.
Christmas Day, Caroline and Jacqueline wouldn't nap. I knew they would be fussy at dinner at my parents house, and they were. I made myself and my mom a French 75 while Caroline was on my left hip - the one that hurts more and more day by day from the twins overusing it. I put Caroline down for a second, and Jacqueline saw her opportunity to climb aboard. As I was about to say Cheers with my Mom, she bulldozed me and my cocktail and I spilled all over me and my Mom. Cheeeeeese.
During Mass, one of my stops with the temperamental two-year-old in my arms was the Manger. Caroline was actually perfectly quiet contemplating it, or my bracelets that she was holding in her hands. I looked and prayed. For patience. For fortitude. For peace. And as I stared a little deeper, I recognized how imperfect the diorama was. It was a manger after all - filled with animals, and hay, it smelled, it was uncomfortable, it was surrounded by shepherds and sheep. That's where Mary gave birth after riding on a donkey for days. But in this unlikely place, one of the most holy miracles in Christianity occurred. Over the years, it's lost context - the images look sweet and beautiful - just like my Christmas photos. But in that deeper reflection, you can witness the power of imperfection. How grace abounds in even the lowliest of places. That challenges and even moments of defeat will surface, but it's what you do through those tough times, that can strengthen a family, a friendship and one's faith.
And looking back, the hilarity of life frequently lives in the messy parts. My mom told me that my Grandma always took and cherished the goofy pictures - that they were the best ones. As a mom of eight, she was quick to find laughter in all that life challenged her with. May I have the same courage and that same sense of humor.
Lo.
