First snow: an oldie but a goodie
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"Here too! Love it!" I shot back. "I'm suddenly feeling craftastic!" (I'm only crafty when the snow flies.)
"Uh oh. What are you scheming?"
"Oh...things..." The truth is, while I have a few ideas brewing, I mostly just like the idea of pulling out scraps of material and shiny paper, and canvas, and scissors, and paints, and glitter and helping my girls make a big old-fashioned mess on the kitchen table. It's one of the things we do best at our house: make messes. There's nothing cozier when the wind is howling outside. Hot cider. Warm gingerbread. Three small bodies. And craft supplies.
I love firsts. The first snow yanks at my inner elf every season, prompting day dreams of Thanksgiving feasting around my mom and dad's table with its 1:1 pie to person ratio; it finds me planning trips to Michael's for seasonal craft supplies and a sure-fire guarantee of late nights cutting, sewing, gluing, and assembling projects that will likely sit in corners and gather dust till spring. The girls and I have been scheming since yesterday morning and we did again on the ride to school this morning while giant, wet flakes made soft thumps on the windshield and the still-warm and thirsty ground drank each one up.
"Do you think it will stick?" asked E.
"Nah," I told her. "The ground's too warm still, but it's still so great, isn't it? All this snow falling from the sky?"
K was fun to watch. He held his hands up to the sky as we walked the pup and let the snow brush his apple cheeks, his mouth spread wide in a little boy grin. His eyes crinkled shut against the cold, but the grin...it told the story. He doesn't remember snow. Another first of sorts.
Our pup, Bodie, pranced through the white swirl like a deer, trying to keep his paws off the cold ground. I think he would have levitated if he could have managed the miracle. Though he wasn't a fan of the cold, he seemed curious about the wet drops that dappled his black fur, craning his neck to reach back and snatch them from his coat. "Look how it gives him polka dots!" E had laughed earlier that morning. First snow for a new puppy--a first puppy.
E walked that pup three times today and fed him, too. I found A snuggled up on the floor with him while she watched a show. And K bestows kisses on Bodie's silky fur all day long. It's not uncommon to find the slobbery marks of one on Bodie's back at any given time. The four of them are settling in together: three towheads and their black and tan pal. I love seeing them all lined up on the living room rug. The dog smells bad. And the dog is a lot of work. And the dog whines before I even open my eyes in the morning, begging for a walk. But seeing the four together--great friends, already--makes the little annoyances bearable. They do love their Bodie. "He's the best dog ever, Mom," I hear many times a day, only to be followed with a cry, "He scratched my face again!"
We're hearing all sorts of words from our boy these days. Last week he said his first sentence, uttered like a single word, "Ididit!" His physical therapist the first to hear and understand, he uttered it again not ten minutes later for his mama's own ears.
"Did you hear that?!" I turned to her. "That was the first time! The first full sentence!"
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "He just said it earlier with me. I didn't know it was the first time!"
And I didn't even care that she was the first to bear witness to the miracle sentence, because her ears were the proof I needed--the expert witness who heard it just as clear as the biased mama.
So we're enjoying this season of firsts, whether they truly are a first or not. At the holidays we rehearse so many little traditions that only happen at this one time of year. And they always feel new to me. Baking and crafting and snuggling warm inside. Watching a first snowfall and counting the frost crystals on rattling windowpanes. Keeping food traditions and holiday traditions like my mom's gingerbread and our Advent countdown and the Nutcracker ballet. All of it well worn and all of it new.
"What has been will be again,
what has been done will be done again;
there is nothing new under the sun." intones the writer of Ecclesiastes.
I'm not sure if the writer meant this as lament or comfort. There are times when the truth of it pulls a restless heart down into the deep of despond. And there are times when the truth of it brings to bear a certain warmth found in the repetition of habits and rituals that are dear. In any case, it's always somehow true.
The winter holds long here. That, for sure, is nothing new. But little else reminds me better than this darkening season that the repetition of patterns and habits and dimming light can bear fruit. Good fruit. Fruit that ties us close to family and home, where the hours spent indoors under a small roof help us notice a different manner of things that matter. We keep warm in proximity to one another. We celebrate firsts that are not new with as much cheer as the ones that are. And we prepare, wait, and prepare some more. For family, for friends, for traditions old and new, for first steps big and small.