We were late in bed this morning, eating toast with jam and trying to keep the coffee from spilling while Alice crawled across our laps for a taste. I broke off little pieces for her while I took apart David’s wallet, trying to find his health insurace card.
Our house is swallowed up. A wreck of Christmas and chest colds. I try to dig into a mess like this and then, ugh, sit back down. One more chapter. One more rerun. The only way I can manage to start is to pick one corner in one room and attack the whole thing counter-clockwise.
What I like about the space between Christmas and New Year’s Eve is how, except for the highlight reels, everything kind of pauses, and we get to sigh and sniffle over montages of our most heroic moments. I know it probably sounds like I am being ironic here, but I am not. I truly enjoy that.
That, and the dusting off of Square 1. The new start. The recalibration. The comforting reminder of which way is up and where we were trying to get to in the first place.
I like to wake up early enough on New Year’s Day to watch the Rose Parade live. I used to set an alarm clock to wake up early enough to watch the pre-show. No kidding. (Is there still a pre-show? I think I might have grown up during a golden age of Rose Parade enthusiasm. It was broadcast on all the networks, often without commercials, sometimes in 3-D.)
In 2010, we applauded – not just figuratively, I mean we actually clapped our hands – successful burps after successful meals, her heavy head raised shakily off a blanket, the first time a Cheerio made it, without diversion, from tabletop to tongue. And it was momentous. All of it. Truly. It swallows my heart.
And yet, I could not tell you where it started, if it started anywhere. There is just this feeling, a very comforting feeling, that it always was.