“Mom, where’s the greenery that goes on the mantle?”
“Mom, I’m looking for the Baby Jesus manger. The one that I made in Sunday school with Popsicle sticks.”
“Here are the ornaments for the tree, Mom. I’ll get the ladder. Where do you want this wreath?”
The house has gone wild. We cut the tree yesterday, but the madness begins tonight. The boys are toting boxes, winding down the old stairwell in a steady stream. Lonny’s working on lights, stretching the strands over hardwoods and through two rooms.
Rugby the new pup doesn’t know what to make of this fresh evergreen tree propped in the corner where the arm chair used to be. He tugs at the branches and nearly causes the fir to fall.
I run all over, picking up, chasing down, trying to control the mayhem that’s moved into my home.
“Mom, what about this box? Where do these things go?” A son moves across the floor, arms full of breakables.
There’s another son, tottering on a chair, reaching for a high branch.
Smatter-crash.
An ornament hits the floor.
I grab the box from the boy and then rush for the broom. As I do, I see Rugby’s wagging tail as he dashes behind the sofa. Cranberry-colored wooden beads dangle in long loops from his mouth.
And I wonder, how does one keep on top of all of this?
Judy Garland’s voice, deep and low and soothing, comes from our stereo speakers, but one has to strain to hear it someone is pounding out “Jingle Bells” on the piano.
I bend with the dustpan to gather the fragments of ornament from the floor, and when I do, there’s a hand on my shoulder.
A small, warm hand.
“What do you need?” I ask. I glance up, behind me, and look into the smiling face of my youngest son.
“Just wondering about these,” he says. “Where do the angels go?”
He’s holding two metal angels. Candle holders. Given to me by my boys years ago. My son beams. Joy shines bright in his eyes.
And I understand, hunkered over the remains of an ornament, that this moment is precious.
Yes. The house is a wreck. Yes. It’s loud and wild. No. This is not the gentle, easy-paced scene I may have created in my head.
But it’s my family. It’s my life. It’s my home.
Maybe the madness isn’t something that needs to be wrestled down. Managed. Controlled.
Maybe I just need to love this life. Right here. Right now.
Maybe the key to being on top is to allow myself the blessing of joining in.
“Let me help you,” I say. I stand and lift my little boy, and he places the angels on the mantle. “Now let’s go upstairs and get another box.”
My son’s hand folds into mine.
And just like my sweet life, it fits just right.
