What happened to the little blond haired, sparkly blue-eyed
boy that would go outside for hours and hit a golf ball, bounce
a basketball, or kick a football? This parenthood train is one
that at times I wish I could slow down, but it just rumbles down
the track.
Taking down Christmas decorations and returning to
life’s routines is for me always a melancholy event. On this
year, I delayed it as long as practically possible. It marked the
last Christmas that our five children were centered in their
nuclear family. Intentionally savoring the special moments all
during the holidays intensified the awareness that things were
getting ready to shift. I wondered where, or even if, he would
hang his stocking in the years ahead…
Weeks later, I asked, “Why did you take your stocking
to your house?“ His response was, “I needed something to
carry my stuff in. I used it like a bag.” I am still not sure
whether that is the entire truth, but this situation did beckon
me to ponder and consider one concrete aspect of letting go as
a mother.
Ultimately, my son returned this stocking to me and
allows me to hang it on the mantle each year. Right next to his,
another bearing the name of his wife has been added to the
mix. If they are able to travel to our home at Christmas time,
Santa fills both of them. He requested that his grandmother
create two new and different felt stockings that hang on the
mantle of his faraway home each Christmas. Rather than an
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