This Thanksgiving I hope to drag out all the Christmas stuff while my sons are here and have everyone decide what can move along and what we should keep.  I have already learned that I have no idea what is important/sentimental for my sons and what isn’t.  So I dare not throw out an ornament that would end up being “a favorite” for someone. I actually have a couple of ornaments from my childhood that bear that moniker.  One is a tiny little paper church ornament with sparkles all over it.  The other is a softball sized glass ornament with a Santa painted on it – also a bit sparkly.  That one has particular meaning because, as a small child, it was the one I could see hanging on the bottom branch of the Christmas tree. It was so big and it meant Santa and his magic.

Over the years I have had an extra little side-tree that bears all the ornaments the kids made over the years.  This is the Christmas version of the box of stuff they made or papers that were special.  I will always keep the papers that were special – I’m a writer after all.  Over the years the boxes have gotten smaller as I’ve grown a little less sentimental about the early years.

The Christmas ornaments, though.  I think about them a lot and how I will throw them away.  There will be a moment of wistfulness, I’m sure, but I’ve noticed my perspective is changing about that.  Until the last few years or so, those mementos from years gone by were so important because they gave me an opportunity to “go back.”  The photos I went through recently allowed me to do that as well.  However, my friends know that I absolutely love having adult offspring now.  They have grown into such wonderful, competent men.  Suddenly, the childhood mementos do not remind me of their childhood – they do.  Suddenly, there is no bittersweet reminiscence of days gone by.  Suddenly, the childhood memories of the cute red head and the silken haired toddler and the round faced “bean” are just that – memories – and the sight of their adult faces and the sound of their adult voices in my home is just as precious as any little one snuggled up for a bedtime story.  And hell, the jokes haven’t really gotten any less infantile..albeit they are a bit more bawdy.

Suddenly, it’s like getting a second chance to make dinner (and they eat it!), to be patient, to enjoy every second of their being without the stress of “raising” them.  I will be able to throw the ornaments away now, because the memories are all stored right there in who they are now.  I still get to be the Mom.  They still get to delight me with their unique being.