It's that time of year again where the veil between adult reality and childhood fantasy thins, giving us glimpses of the long forgotten and the wholly cherished.
As a parent Christmas morphs into something even more meaningful, more complex, more important, and vastly more simple.
I've had a few "episodes" as the holiday stress has gotten to me, or when I'm gifted by my children (as I so often am) with massive crises. The children are getting more comfortable with my malfunctioning brain. For them it is just another new thing to be adapted into our lives, like getting a new car, or changing the carpet. They know I love them and that so long as I'm careful I won't go back to the hospital. I take my "shaking medicine" when it gets bad, and they seem to be pleased there's something I can do to make it lessen if not stop entirely.
I try to remember I am their guide while they are my teachers. The idea makes me think of the intricately knotted grasses the girls would make in Ireland. Loose braids and knots that are almost soothing to look at as the different lengths and kinds of grass twist and blend together until they all become part of a single piece.
Perhaps that's how I see family in the idyllic part of my mind. It is a constantly moving blend of unique colors that fit in and out and through one another so that, where each is its own, following a single thread of color would be impossible.
Ah, my time's up. I foresee cuddling and watching TV (well, Netflix through the xbox) in the glow of the collage of family history that surrounds us in the Christmas room.
