The morning after Christmas used to feel like the calm after a storm. Now that the kids are all in their late teens and early 20s, the morning after is more anti-climactic, or so I thought when I crept down from the guestroom to my sister’s kitchen.

I was trying to get back on the diet wagon after 24 hours of gluttony that could’ve landed me a spot on the dieting edition of “Food Hoarders”. I had almost completely abandoned my attempt, cracking open the fridge in search of leftovers, when I heard my sister in her thick socks, padding into the kitchen. She got a small bite to eat, and we nibbled and chatted about work and kids — our first sister to sister chat since start of the holiday – until my father emerged from the other guestroom just off the kitchen.

Dad made a piece of toast, and the three of us talked, keeping our volume low –a tacit recognition that a very short, rare spell was being cast as the early sun started warming the kitchen and chasing the frost on the windows. A few minutes later, my mother, perfectly coiffed, emerged, only slightly increasing the hum of our conversation.

Work conversation morphed into discussion of family summer vacation plans, and suddenly my mom uttered a high pitched, “Huh!”

We didn’t realize it at the moment, but spell had just been broken.

“I can’t remember when the four of us have last been in the same room at the same time,” my mom said. I looked at her and looked around the kitchen, and realized it had been years since our foursome had been in one place without in-laws and children or grandchildren present.

When I thought back to the times when just my sister and I were alone with our parents – our little unit, I remembered being completely different person. I remembered being unsure of and unhappy about what life would bring. I remembered times when I all but cut off communication with our unit and the reasons I reconnected.

In the intervening years and distances, we’ve all changed. We’ve recycled and renewed our relationships, almost creating new ones as different people.

Now, as my sister and I are parenting young adults, we are watching our own family units start to divide. Our children are beginning to make their own lives and become their own people, and I started to wonder how many more opportunities like this the Big Guy and I have for moments like this with our boys.

We heard one of the kids moving around upstairs and knew that our small moment was about to end.

“Do you all want to move into the dining room where it’s a little more comfortable?” My sister asked, sensing a change.

“No,” my dad answered, “dining rooms are for eating, kitchens are for talking.”

We laughed, and, even though our little spell had ended, we lingered in the kitchen waiting for the next arrival to find a little piece of conversation to nibble on.



Not the typical Christmas image, but the last minute finishing touch on a present for someone special. This is a mate to a piece I did a few years ago.

A few months ago, Thing2 expressed an interest in playing drums (along with guitar and piano). He had the guitar and had taught himself “Imagine” on the piano.

When the obligatory plea for drums came, I attempted what I thought would be a bit of genius parenting.

“If you can practice enought at school to play in a concert,” I said, “We’ll look into it.”

As it happens, thought, December is just as good a time as April 1rst for life to pull the grand-daddy of pranks on us. It’s also the time when Thing2 had two concerts at school – one for chorus and a second one for the band where he plays a number of instruments. The chorus concert was first.

Thing2 and a couple of his friends were scheduled to play as well as sing at the chorus performance, and I knew he had mentioned playing percussion. Having completely forgotten our ‘deal’, I imagined him playing a bongo drum or a triangle.

We got to the concert early enough to get a good seat and read the program. When the second song ended, Thing2 and his band mates made their way from the risers to the group of instruments. Thing2 seated himself behind an impressive drum kit and the Big Guy and I gave each other our ‘Color me impressed’ looks.

The band started playing a song called ‘Christmas in LA’, a pop song that it heavy on rhythm. And right there was Thing2 keeping the beat for everyone. Every rat-a-tat-tat made me look from my video camera to the Big Guy and back to the video of the performance.

The Big Guy is extremely musical. He plays guitar for folk music group once a month and can pick out any tune on his guitar. Watching Thing2 starting to follow in his creative footsteps was the best Christmas presents we could ask for, but there was a tiny lump of coal headed our way.

The concert ended, and we began the task of pealing Thing2 away from his friends. We were already talking about the band concert next week as we walked to the car. The Big Guy went to get the car, and Thing2 gave me a hug as we waited.

“So you really liked it?” He asked, bouncing from foot to foot.

“I — we loved it,” I answered without needing to think about it. I told him how impressed we were with the drumming. He smiled mischievously then.

“Mom?” I recognized the tone as one that usually accompanies a request for money. “Do you remember your promise?”

“Buuuhhhh,” I answered, going through my mental catalogue of promises ad requests.

“About a drum kit?”

And, suddenly, I remembered why it’s always a bad idea to think you have outstmarted your kid.

We’re currently researching kits and options. Score 1 (more) for the kids.