At this time of year, we celebrate the birth of a baby who grew up to change the world. Painting upon painting has been created, song upon song has been sung about this event. We have firmly fixed in our minds the picture of a small, innocent human ensconced in a straw filled manger. Even those who are not religious know at least the outlines of this birth. I think part of the attraction of that scene is the very purity of that newborn baby.
Part of the rejoicing of the season for me is remembering the artlessness of my children when they were small, before the world with its crushing expectations took away some of their simple joy. I remember a four-year-old in a brand new white and red dress twirling around admiring the swirl of her skirt. Some adult commented on how pretty she was, and with the simplicity of childhood she said only, “I know.”
Then there was the morning of Father’s Day as my husband and the children all trapsed off to a celebration at a cold, June swimming pool to play games and eat donuts. I waved them off at the door holding my cup of coffee and looking forward to a quiet time on the couch with The Washington Post. This was really Mother’s Day for me. However, the eight-year-old dragged her feet going out to door worried that I was missing out on such a great party. My last glimpse of her was as she rounded the corner on the way to the poo,l looking back over her shoulder at the mother that she felt had left behind.
There was the ten-year-old who barreled down the stairs to through her arms around me and tell me how much she enjoyed the book I had suggested she read. And the musical six-year-old who sat snuggled with me in the light of the Christmas tree while we heard for the first time George Winston’s take on Christmas carols. The silence was filled with our mutual joy.
I am sure everyone within reading distance of this blog has memories like this of children. Perhaps, no matter what our beliefs, our political party, our religion, our customs, or traditions we can all unite in rejoicing over these precious memories of the unadulterated simplicity of childhood.