Tuesday, November 28, 2006

What I Want for Christmas

What I want for Christmas is a Red Ryder BB gun with a compass and a stock and this thing which tells time. They're very good for Christmas. I don't think a football is a very good Christmas present. Besides that, here are some other things I wouldn't mind finding under my tree:

Gilmore Girls- any season
Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure
Sixteen Candles
Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest
White Christmas
Sliding Doors
Lady in the Water
Roman Holiday

The Beautiful Sessions- Bethany Dillon
Unexpected Gifts- Various Artists
Get Lifted- John Legend
Strange and Beautiful- Aqualung
Nothing is Sound- Switchfoot

Gift Cards
Old Navy
Bath and Body Works
Barnes and Noble

Low top Converse All-Stars- red or pink; men's size 6
2007 Dodge Charger- also red or pink

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

My Mom

When I was little it was easy. "She's my mom," was all I'd say. Everyone knew what that meant, what the title "mom" entailed, at least in my mind. Everyone knew that moms make you macaroni and cheese and tuck you in at bedtime and tell you to settle down when you're being too noisy and they're on the phone. Everyone knew that moms read thick novels, "grown-up books," but will gladly put them aside to read you your favorite story, even though they've read it a thousand times before. And everyone knew that moms gave you hugs, that they would hold you when you were sad, or scared, or sleepy, or silly. Everyone knew that when your head rested under your mom's chin and she spoke to you, you felt rather than heard her voice, as acutely as you felt the soft cotton of a sundress or the rough wool of a turtleneck sweater rubbing against your cheek. I thought everyone knew this, because I did.

Now that I'm older, my mom is no different to me. No different, but somehow deeper, more. More to me because I have become her, in more ways than either of us realize. Her face, her smile, her voice all mirror my own, or do mine mirror hers? (At least I know I'm not adopted.) The same full mouth, the same second toe slightly longer than the first, the same stack of thick novels by our nightstands. Our sky-blue eyes and rounded cheeks make photos of us at the same age inter-changeable. If we stood on either side of you and sang you would hear one voice in stereo. See one face in two places.

And someday, when I have a child pressed to my heart, when I have put aside my thick novel to read to her, or when she is sad, or silly, or scared, and I speak to her, she will feel, rather than hear, the same voice that I did: my mother's, and mine, and, someday, her own.