It was the day before Christmas Eve, 1994.  The boys had reached that moment just before Christmas where children appear that they are going to burst with anticipation.  Despite the fact that we didn’t reinforce it, the idea that Santa won’t bring you presents if you’re naughty permeated the air in the weeks before Christmas.   One year I even had to take Andy aside and reassure him that he HAD been good enough, that Santa WOULD bring him presents.  As Christmas had approached, the more he tried to be good, the more acutely he recognized that he was screwin’ up, and his little meltdowns became more frequent.   He was much happier after our little talk!

That  Christmas Eve-eve, it was cold and foggy and I decided it would be a warm, cozy, old fashioned thing to do to bake cut-out cookies.  When I was a little girl, my Mom taught me how to roll out the dough, dip the cookie cutter into a little pile of flour – I loved the soft powdery feel – then place the cutter on the rolled out dough, press it in and remove it, magically making a little Santa or star or angel.
So I prepared the kitchen – cleared the decks,  made the dough,  pulled out all the cookie cutters, including the ones from my childhood, made one little pile of flour for each of the boys and got ready to roll.  There was only one problem.  Boys don’t do anything gently.  They held the cookie cutters above their heads and slammed them down like little bombs, causing a mushroom cloud of flour to rise.  Too much fun!!!!

I quickly felt intense frustration bordering on anger well up inside of me as my little Christmas card scene turned into a chaotic mess that would be left for me to clean up when the party was over.  I had been conscientious trying not to have meltdowns myself, I was very burned out on being a mom and was rather depressed during that time.  So I excused myself, said I’d be right back, and went into my bedroom where I sat in a little rocking chair and cried. 

Because I was writing little poems in those days, the words came fast and furious and I wrote them down:

Hope

I put on my warmest jacket

and grabbed my flashlight

made sure the batteries were good

and went out looking for Hope 

first I looked in all the obvious places

nearest to home

but Hope was nowhere to be found

not answering my nervous call

I began to search the neighborhood

getting slightly panicked, I admit

I went around the block five times

no luck 

I decided I needed some assistance

called a few friends

all were very concerned about Hope’s whereabouts

and promised to help me find her 

we looked everywhere

questioned where she might have gone first

where she might be now

how we might entice her back

becoming frantic

we started to backtrack

found ourselves covering the same ground

crossing paths too frequently 

we finally gave up

my friends went home brokenhearted

I sat alone in the dark, grieving

not believing she could be gone forever 

I fell asleep

and was awakened by the soft touch

of Hope returned

she was very sweet 

she apologized for not having phoned

to tell me her whereabouts

said she didn’t know I would worry so

and that I should really trust her more

we have a deal now

she will leave me a little note

if she is going to be gone for more than a day

or if she cannot be contacted

and I will not think the worst

if I find her not at home

and will take the opportunity

to just enjoy the quiet desperation

I went back into the kitchen, revived.  I found Hope there, and not only that, but she had brought her good friend Joy with her.  When I walked into the kitchen, it was snowing.  The boys had taken the opportunity to fully appreciate how beautiful flour is.  I grabbed not my flashlight, but my camera, and the photo below is my favorite photo EVER of my sons as they were growing up.  The joy in their faces will forever remind me that I was a good mother, after all.