I realize that our normal Christmas routines have changed dramatically with two teenage daughters who want to spend more time with friends than with me. It’s a different kind of holiday season.
I’m making snowflakes by myself.
I’m watching The Nutcracker on Netflix by myself in the afternoon.
I’m frosting all the cookies by myself.
Sure, the teenagers drop in like little Sugar Plum Fairies, spinning and alighting for just a moment or two (mostly for food), and then they’re off to their own celebrations of Christmas and their own private worlds of friends and books and dreams. Sometimes, they’ll stay longer, lounging on the couches like cats who have agreed to put up with us.
But my husband reminds me of how sweet it is to let teenagers be teenagers. I’m the one adjusting. I’m the one left behind with scraps of cut snowflakes on the table after school.
Well, I’m here. I’m here if any child of mine wants to join in.
And I suppose that’s motherhood for me now. I’m here.
I’ll savor the moments I have.