“Love blurs your vision; but after it recedes, you can see more clearly than ever. It’s like the tide going out, revealing whatever’s been thrown away and sunk: broken bottles, old gloves, rusting pop cans, nibbled fishbodies, bones. This is the kind of thing you see if you sit in the darkness with open eyes, not knowing the future.”

–Margaret Atwood

I used to be a freaky mom.  Sixteen years ago, when I had my first child, I thought I could do it all.  Control it all.  Be the perfect parent.  I certainly had seen enough examples of what I considered ‘bad parenting’ – those kinds of adults who would make excuses for their kids, send them to school without their homework, and blame their teachers and the school for everything wrong in the world – plus some.

I waited to have a child.  I had a husband, had finished college, had a career I loved, and we even bought a house.  American dream, huh?  And then she came along and rocked my world.

She was a summer baby.  Sweet and tender and absolutely perfect.  She kicked and rolled furiously for the last five months of pregnancy-I should have known it would be a battle for dominance.  According to her father she was an angel; never cried, never fussed.  I believe otherwise.

After six months of bliss (no sleep, aching limbs from carrying her ‘just so’, and a complete refusal to eat according to my schedule), we entered the holiday season.  Our favorite time of year, really – we loved the traditions, the music, the crisp change in the air….and couldn’t wait to share it with our baby.

Enter the Christmas tree tradition.  With visions of how it is supposed to be, we strapped baby into a backpack and headed out.  The first problem arose when we realized that in central California, Christmas trees don’t grow the way the look in the movies.  Here, our 100+ degree summers produce scraggly, misshapen and downright ugly pine trees.  At least the ones we saw.

Humbled, muddy and on our last nerve, we loaded back into the car and headed for Target.  The price was right, and the Christmas carols over the speaker system did add a certain festive charm.  If Charlie Brown could do it, so could we.  It would look better with decorations, we decided.  30 minutes later we shoved the tree in the car and headed home.  Mission accomplished.

Year after year, we tried it all.  Not ready to give up on our Norman Rockwell vision, we lugged both babies (eventually #2 joined the quest), confident we would ultimately find the perfect tree and the perfect tradition for our family.  Each year, we managed to bring evergreen home, struggle with burned out lightbulbs, and smile with satisfaction as we gently and carefully placed each ornament of  our growing collection onto our tree.  We started ornament collections for each child and ourselves, adding specially chosen symbols of the previous year.

Somehow, we finally realized that Home Depot was our spot.  No mud to trek through, no saws to negotiate, no tromping around with crying babies, hungry toddlers, or frustrated parents.  My dreams of a traditional Christmas tree expedition had shifted just a bit.  Instead of hiking in the hills, we were tossing the Nerf ball in the parking lot, unwrapping tree after tree, spinning them around and tripping over ourselves to find the perfect  one.  We were laughing, smiling, posing for photos and breathing in the fresh pine scent.  We were just doing it on asphalt, not a mountain top.  We began worrying less and less about how it happened, and more and more about the hours we would spend together once we got it home.

I realized then that so much of parenting is not about hanging on, but letting go.  Step by step, we navigate the path together, no guidebook to tell us where to go or how long it will be before we get there.  We plan, we prepare, and we persist in creating the dreams we’ve held since we first became parents, but we do so gently, cautiously, and oh so carefully – for it’s not the exact replication of the mind’s picture of the ‘perfect’ moment, but the creation of the moment that means the most.  We might not do it the way other families do, but we do it the way our family does.

And so our tradition continues.  Each year we load up in the car, blast the Christmas music on the radio and merrily sing our way to the Christmas tree lot –this year, with my newly licensed driver behind the wheel.  We bundle up, pile out, and this year we agreed on the very first tree we set our eyes on.  My kids smiled.  They giggled.  We high-fived our speedy decision-making process, headed inside to pay, and loaded back up in record time.

An added bonus?  We bought lights, a gingerbread house kit and a tree, finishing in an hour-all the more time to spend together at home, where Christmas traditions really matter the most.

It was just a moment in time, really.

I haven’t thought about it much for fourteen years, but suddenly, it came flooding back.  Then, you were my only child, bundled up for the day: jean overalls that snapped on the legs, sturdy white leather shoes to help you run faster than I ever imagined.

It was just a fleeting instant in time.

Chunky red plaid fleece jacket, softly lined, hood to cover your flaxen hair; you never liked hats.  I think it was November, early snow.  Ten tiny fingers gently captured snowflakes.

It was just a snapshot, really.

We walked out on the dock, just the three of us.  Our family almost complete.  Your gleeful squeals filled the silence with joy, envious couples glancing our way.

It was just an instant, then it was over.  Inhale.  Exhale.

We stopped, you posed, we snuggled you between our legs, holding you tightly.  Never wanting to let go.  You raised your face to the sky and grinned with rapture.

It was just one moment, really.  But I remember every detail.

I guess by some people’s standards I have a large family.  Three sisters, two brothers – some with different moms, but all the same dad.  Four of us have our own children, three have spouses, and all have dogs.  Throw in a few miscellaneous relatives that typically show up for holiday gatherings (occasionally including my mom, long divorced from my dad) and we end up with quite a crew.

We all anticipate different parts of the gathering, but aside from seeing siblings and those relatives coming in from out of town, one of my most looked forward to parts of the holidays is baking dessert with my daughter.  Spending the day in the kitchen with her is incomparable; we talk, laugh, strategize and sometimes even sing – anything Taylor Swift being our favorite baking accompaniment.

This year, we decided to go simple yet elegant, and adapt a recipe from one of our favorites, Ina Garten.  Her apple tart just seemed like the perfect complement to a heavy dinner: sweet apples, flaky crust, and a tang of apricot jam make this simple dessert one you’ll want to try for any holiday gathering.  So grab your favorite baking partner, crank up the tunes, and have some fun!

You’ll need:

For the pastry:

2 c. flour

1/2 t. salt

1 T. sugar

1 1/2 sticks cold butter, diced

1/2 c. ice water

For the apples:

4-5 Granny Smith apples

1/2 c. sugar

1 T. cinnamon

1/2 stick cold butter, diced

1/2 c. apricot jam

2 T. water

Steps:

To make the pastry, put flour, salt, and sugar in a food processor and pulse for a few seconds to combine.

Add the butter and pulse until it is the size of small peas.

With motor running, pour ice water down feed tube and pulse just until dough sticks together-not too long or the pastry will be tough.

Knead into a ball on a floured board.

Wrap in plastic and refrigerate 1 hour.

Preheat oven to 400 degrees and line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

Roll the dough approximately 10×14 inches.  Trim the edges-it’s a rustic tart, so no need to be perfect.  Refrigerate the dough while preparing the apples.

To make the apples, peel and cut them in half through the stem.  Be sure to remove stem and any leftover peel.

Use a melon baller to scoop the core – it leaves the apples in a pretty shape.

Slice apples crosswise in about 1/4 inch slices.  Try to be uniform.

Lay apple slices diagonally down the center of the pastry first, then fill in the sides until it is covered.

Sprinkle with combination of sugar and cinnamon.  Dot with butter.

Bake about 45 minutes until pastry is browned, and edges of apples start to brown.  Rotate after 20 minutes.    Watch carefully – if it starts to drip in the oven, place another sheet below to catch the mess.

When baked, heat the apricot jam with water and spread completely over the top.

Loosen tart so it doesn’t stick.  When cool, slice in squares.  Can be served warm or at room temperature.

When I was hired for my first teaching job, I had no idea that the man who recruited me had AIDS.  It was the early 1990s, and AIDS wasn’t mainstream.  It was a secret.

He didn’t look sick.  He didn’t act like he was dying.

He never told us.

He just disappeared from work one year.

We didn’t know what was wrong.  We wondered why he was gone for so long.

And one day when he came back to visit, we figured it out.

And then he died.

Thank you, Steve, for taking a risk with me.  I was young, eager, and enthusiastic.  You gave me a chance.

I think you’d be proud of the teacher I’ve become.

I’ve never forgotten you, or your infectious laugh, or your love of the strange-but-contagiously-addictive middle school human.

Thank you.  I wish you were here.