My grandkids are getting to an age where they can hold me accountable for things I said. For example, in our ongoing discussion about Santa, Snowdrop, who is very close to turning seven, interrupted my soliloquy about hearing mysterious bells ring in the distance late on Christmas Eve and said -- gaga, you already told me you used to fool your girls about Santa being nearby with a set of bells that you yourself would jingle! So I did. But how is it that I am now reminded of what I did with "my girls" by my own granddaughter?
Being held to one's words can be a problem. After all, your attitude might change and new information may have you think twice about promises once made. In the case of Santa, there are shifting sands, too, as kids age and your conversations become more penetrating. And it's not only about Santa. The pandemic keeps reconfiguring our parameters of what is safe. Yet people expect consistency. I know I promised travel with Snowdrop. Too, she was told forever and ever that once vaccinated, she would be safe. Yet here she is, still asked to avoid crowded indoor spaces, still needing that mask, because there are the younger kids and the community spread and the new variant and so on and so on.
You hope kids realize that you are not omnipotent and that promises are best guesses and they're not without merit -- they are twinkling stars that keep us feeling the enchantment of life, even as we can't really tell if they will twinkle for us every single day in exactly the same way. Some will, some wont and that's fine too. An adventurous life is one where we can't always predict the outcome, but we know for sure that there will be stories to tell of the daring deeds and faced obstacles and yes, eventually those stars we encountered along the way.
There was a lot of rain last night and eventually that rain turned to snow. Not much snow for us here, in south central Wisconsin, but enough to make you want to go out and touch it. Delicately, because, well, it's just a thin layer that's bound to melt, if not today, then in the days ahead.
(cat, hiding)
Snowdrop is left here right after her early morning activity. (Her brother is at a birthday event, so she comes alone). She shows up without a jacket so I assume she wants to hurry inside.
And she does -- just to put on some farmhouse mittens, caps, pullover, gloves. There's always warm stuff she can use here.
Then out she goes again. Even this tiny bit of snow makes her giddy!
But I remind her that she insisted we bake muffins together and I held off eating breakfast until we had some fresh from the oven, and eventually she agreed to turn her back to outdoor play. I was relieved. Neither of us were properly dressed for freezing temps.
Indoors, we baked.
And ate.
And yes, it is the perfect combination -- a romp in the cold crisp air, and a session of baking in a very warm kitchen.
Some time in the afternoon, after we'd gone through too many books to count and she had played out all her own stories in the playroom I take her home. And now, back at the farmhouse, I watch the light change all around me. Outside, and inside as well.
My candle -- this one from the Keap people, ever so gently bringing the whiff of Northlands into the house -- is like light therapy only without the ugly white box shining at you. Just a flicker is enough. Funny how oftentimes just a little something goes a long way.
