Angels in the Window [Ellen Stumbo Writing Prompt: A Christmas Memory]

We are having a slightly awkward and unusual Christmas this year; many of our traditions are taking a hiatus as we empty my parents' (I still think of it as my parents' even though my Dad, Jessie’s Grumps, died 2 years ago) condominium in Montreal. My mother, while keeping her beachfront condo on the Atlantic in Florida, has moved into a seniors' residence. Last year was our first Christmas without Grumps, and by this year, we had fully expected the condo to be gone and our family to be forging new traditions. But things, as in life, did not go completely according to plan, and while my mother is delightfully ensconced in her new apartment, we are only now divvying up the significant leftovers, if they can rightfully be called that. They include a beautiful Quebecoise pine dinning table and a full kitchen complete with Cuisinart, kitchenaid mixer, and a full silver cutlery service. Too. Much. Stuff. But, as ours is all falling apart at the seams and hers has so much value—material, historical, and narrative— most of our Christmas in Montreal will be spend packing. I will say that my mother has done all the difficult work of sorting, and deserves a medal. As do my brothers, who live in Montreal and have dealt with the daily-ness of the downsizing.

So, the short part of this long story is that at home here in Ottawa we do not have a tree. It is the inherited one sitting in a box (along with the reindeer) in Montreal. We do, however have Christmas decorations and a tradition (mostly) of breaking out the Christmas music and books on December 1st. Which usually morphs into a much later date, but I am sure you all know about that kind of tradition. Last year, in preparation for our own kind of downsizing, I put all the angel ornaments that Jessie had been given over the years into one box, separate from the other ornaments. When we did get around to the music and the books, I also felt the need to add to the festiveness and brought out two extra boxes—the boughs and this box of angels.

I placed the box on Jessie’s lap and said “These are all your angels from all the different angels in your life.” And together, as a family, we unpacked them and placed them in the window:

As we were unpacking we shared the stories of their provenance—some funny, some mundane, some bittersweet. I think the first angel came from my parents' friends in Montreal, the Garners, who always have a special place for Jessie in their thoughts, at their home, and in their gifts. While we don’t see them as often as she (Jessie) and we would like, their angels grace her life, and that is gift.

There is the angel that I am sure Dan stole from some theatre group’s Christmas party, and the one that our laughing neighbours Randy and Nancy gave us. We live in an old neighbourhood, one where the lots are tiny and the houses cheek by jowl, so you really have to have good neighbours. Randy and Nancy were the epitome of that: Randy babysitting in emergencies and making passports with Jessie and traveling by spinning the globe in the living room, Nancy by giving me great educational advice and adapted cooking books and connections to teachers and mentors (she was a special ed teacher). They no longer live next door and we miss them.

There is the angel that I, with forethought, remembered to keep. It was the year that Jessie made and hand-painted angels for gifts. Usually, by the time any Christmas craft was done we had run out of any extras to keep. This one, though, I put aside specifically as a keeper. The bright colours and half moon smile are so typical of her drawings in grade 1.

Then, there is the final angel. The one I take out last, as it was a gift to Jessie from my Aunt Kathy, just a few years before she died. Kathy was just 10 years older than me, so a cross between a sister and a very special aunt. She loved me, and Jessie (and Dan) unconditionally, and you can never replace that kind of love. So this angel is my bittersweet ornament, a gentle prick of regret and deep-rooted love. And I place it with great care on the window, and hug Jessie, and remind her that she is indeed loved.

This she knows. And feels. And she grows silent as she contemplates the window. And then the tears fall. Because I have told her that these are her angels and when she moves away this box of angels will go with her and grace and bless her own home at Christmas. “It is sad to grow up,” she says. “I know I want to grow up and move away, I’m excited to grow up and move away. But sometimes I just want to be a kid again and have nothing change. Its HARD growing up!” She smiles and cries. I hug her. She holds her arm out, beckoning Dan. We have our family hug, blessed by bittersweet angels.

inspired by Ellen Stumbo {a writing prompt} a christmas memory.

Retro Jessie: Life With Jessie 11: Falling in Love Again [fall 1996, 6 years old]

The last of an 11-part series about Life With Jessie (written in the early years), first broadcast on CBC radio in 1997/98 and re-shared here as part of 31 for 21.

I’m still reeling from the expanse of a full day before me, trying to adjust to Life Without Jessie, since Jessie is in grade one and at school all day. I miss her more than ever this fall because something wonderful happened over the summer. I fell in love with her all over again.

You know, the terrible twos lasted a long time for us. About four and a half years to be exact. And while my love and delight in Jessie never stopped growing, it certainly hit a number of rocky patches. Patches where the thought of waking up and battling over getting dressed, or walking to school, or brushing teeth just made me want to stay in bed. But this summer I can honestly say I finally reached a point where I found her persistence admirable.

It has allowed her to learn to swim, to get on the swings by herself, to talk to other children, to continue to try to play tag and hide and go seek when she can’t quite keep up. And this summer Jessie and I were actually able to do things together without either of us insisting on going in different directions.

Perhaps it’s because she has the skills to be more independent now and doesn’t need as much support—she can get most of her clothes on by herself, get her own breakfast, look both ways before she crosses the street, answer the phone, get out her paints  . . . she doesn’t always have to ask for help or have me in there interfering in her life. Or maybe it’s because I eased up this past summer.

Not by choice, mind you. I had grand plans: swimming lessons, summer camp, reading, writing. We were going to get a head start on grade one and really work on developing friendships. We were going to have a “productive” summer.

But just as our productive summer was about to start, my aunt began to lose her battle with cancer. My Aunt Kathy. I don’t know how to describe who she was or what she meant to me, except to say that she was a perfectly ordinary woman with an extraordinary impact on my life. She loved me. But I mourn the space that her dying has left in Jessie’s life. A space that has no real meaning to Jessie, but that strikes me hard and at awkward moments. Jessie needs people who just love her. People who will continue to love her and support her through the different stages of her life. And Kathy won’t be one of those people, which is unfortunate, because Kathy knew how to love unconditionally. That was one of her gifts.

So this summer I spent as much time in Montreal as I could, needing and wanting to be with Kathy and our extended family. Trying to give back a small measure of what she had given me, and scrambling to learn how to love as she did.

When I was at home in Ottawa, a bit dazed and saddened and thinking, that way that you do when you are losing someone you love, about life, I found myself watching Jessie. Not with eagle eyes, but with open curious eyes as she splashed and giggled and did tricks in the pool, or as she transformed herself into a princess and demanded that I be the frog. “No, not that way. You have to hop Mom.”

I listened as she tried to join in on conversations with other children and invented a brother and a sister that lived with her in her house. “A long, long time ago my brother and my sister . . . .” And instead of seeing the falseness of her conversational offerings, I was impressed with her ability to understand that she had to share something that was on topic, which, in this case, happened to be siblings. Searching for something appropriate and finding only what her imagination could conjure up, she boldly offers it and waits for a response. I don’t intervene right away because I don’t want to interrupt the flow of the conversation, the back and forth jangle of 5-year-old banter, in which my daughter is an active participant.

It felt so good to watch her get excited by the prospect of a new day, of going to the pool, of painting , of having a friend over. It felt so good to watch her being happy. I had forgotten, in our struggles over process, just wat a joyous, curious, excitable, perceptive, and creative child she is. I hate to admit it, but I had forgotten to let her be happy, to let her be. And Kathy’s dying made me more aware of just how important it is to be.

The summer passed, not without pain, but certainly with a lot of love.

Jessie drew many pictures for Kathy. Pictures that surrounded her at home, in the palliative care unit, and when she died. Pictures of family, of birds and sunshine and rainbows. The last picture Jessie drew for her was done in bright green paint—a picture of Kathy in bed in the hospital. And beside her she drew pictures of all the things that she thought Kathy would like with her: “Toys, a book, coffee, a ball, and you and Grams. She would like you and Grams to be there. But oh, there is no room . . .” and she pointed to the full page and looked at me with disappointment as she struggled with how to get two more figures on the page. “That’s okay,” I said. “Our spirits are with her.”

While Jessie might not have known exactly what those pictures meant to all of us, she certainly put her heart and her love into them. I was reminded, between Kathy and Jessie, that the most powerful and enlightening force is love.

I fight for Jessie. I advocate for her. I speak to doctors and students, I sit on committees, I stay up late reading and stay out late at meetings, I find resources for teachers, I struggle with existing systems and for changes to the system . . .  because I love my daughter Jessie. That is the underlying force, the ghost in the machine. Sometimes I forget why I’m doing all these things, and they take on a life all their own. Sure, they’re all noble and challenging commitments, often they’re necessary parts of planning for Jessie’s inclusion. But this summer I began to realize that if all these other activities only lead me away from loving Jessie, from having Jessie know and feel that love, then I’ve got to stop doing them. I get tired of having to struggle and be polite and find ways to support the people who are supposed to be supporting us. I get tired of being an advocate and want to shout, “Just let me be a Mom!”

Jessie loves grade one. She gets off the bus smiling, ready to play or paint or do homework. Happy to see me, but also happy because school has been such a delight. She proudly shows me her home reader and says “We have homework” then she pauses and looks at me “What’s homework?” As I explain it to her, I realize that she has been doing homework all her life. It’s time to play. To follow her lead and delight in the messy black paint we are using for the witch’s tower she has created or to act out, once again, the story of Cinderella.

This morning on the way out the door to school, Jessie and I pause for a moment on the front porch. The wind chimes that Kathy gave us tremble and gently ring in the cool wind. “Listen Mom. It’s Aunt Kathy’s spirit,” Jessie says with joy and delight. And I think about how much I miss Kathy, and how much I miss Jessie. Sometimes you have no choice but to let go. And it’s only in the letting go that the joy and delight shines through.