This evening, Brandon and I carefully
unpacked our Christmas ornaments, eager to find 'just the right spot" for
each and every treasured piece. There was the glass snowman, painted with broad
preschool strokes by a child oblivious to the outside world, his only concern
that Santa find him and his family in the only home he'd ever known.
Then there was the star made of
popsicle sticks, a treasure created in kindergarten and Brandon's first attempt
at blending oil paints. I closed my eyes and recalled the day Brandon pulled it
out of his backpack and we ceremoniously placed it on our tree, a tree
positioned in front of the same window in the only house Brandon had ever
known. Brandon giggled at his amateurish artwork but I smiled. I knew I would
hang that ornament on our tree every year until the day I died.
We continued, unwrapping one treasure
at a time, re-telling the story behind each ornament that had come into our
lives. If Brandon was too young to remember its origin, I'd tell him. He
listened intently to the story behind the glass tennis balls, a gift from
Mormor in honor of our Labrador Brandy's obsession with the yellow balls. And
of the hand painted botanical globes, painted in art class with care by
Nanna. And the beaded candy cane his mommy made in Girl Scouts. After each
story, we carefully chose a spot on the tree we’d spent the better part of an afternoon selecting at
the tree farm just the day before.
An hour later we both paused and stared at the
ornament with the hand painted Labrador and the name MAX underneath it. Our
first Christmas without our beloved dog. This Christmas held many firsts for
us. “I know just where to put it Mommy,” Brandon whispered. He gently lifted
the ornament and hung it on a branch next to a Labrador with angel wings. “Max
is our angel dog now, and these two ornaments together means he’s watching over
us.”
I squeezed his shoulder and smiled.
“It’s perfect.”
As Brandon gathered up the glass
icicles and placed them around the tree, I deftly buried the handcrafted
ornament depicting a family of three adorned with santa hats in tissue paper
back in the box. The ornament no longer had a place in our home.
“I love our tree,” Brandon smiled.
“There’s just one thing left to do,” I
said. I scanned our collection of Christmas songs and selected River by Sarah
McClachlan. I clasped Brandon’s hands and we danced in front of our tree, our
first Christmas dance. We stared at the
tree and swayed to the music. I was grateful my young son didn’t seem to mind
that our home was a third the size of the only home he’d ever known. That our
tree was half the size of the only Christmas trees he’d ever known. It didn’t
matter. We created this new home together and it was built on love. We created
this tree together and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world,
created this new tradition together. A Christmas dance.
As I tucked Brandon
into bed tonight, I envisioned our next Christmas dance. And the one after
that. And, many years down the road, that first dance when I had to look up to
him because he’d grown taller than me. I can't wait. But for now, I’m content
to watch my little boy sleep, and dream of Santa Claus coming to our home. A
warm, secure home built on love and new traditions.
