Being a full-time momma to two little ones means that Murphy’s Law is in full effect. All the time. Before kids, I taught grade one and figured that a few of my own children would be a cinch. HA. I blog at Murphy Must Have Had Kidsand connect through Facebook as well.
My grandma was a doctor’s daughter, one of seven children, from a big brick house in a tiny Canadian prairie town. When we were kids, my brother and I cross-country skied across the frozen barley field from our farm to hers. As we neared her yard, we saw her silhouetted through the picture window in the living room. She dropped everything to watch for us. Sometimes she even did a little dance, and my grandpa chuckled from his brown armchair in the corner. When we walked in that door, we were all that mattered.
A Lucky Pie is a big, wrapped box with ribbons sticking out of the top. Each ribbon connects to a small wrapped gift inside, one for each person attending Christmas dinner. Usually, each person’s name is on a card taped to the end of their ribbon. There was often an extra ribbon or two, for when an unexpected guest showed up needing the warmth of a family at Christmas.
The presents were little toys or knickknacks my grandma had collected all year and stowed away in her hall closet, things like mini-flashlights, Nestlé rosebud chocolates, tiny Swiss Army knives or brightly coloured nail polish. My uncle Andrew always told us we could swap gifts with each other if we didn’t like what we had received. You can imagine the chaos that created between my brother, my cousins, and I some years.
Last year was the first year both my children were old enough to participate in the Lucky Pie. As their tiny hands held the name tags, I swear I could smell the Yardley lavender soap my grandma always used. I yearn for just one more hug from her but she has been gone for more than four years now.
Some days I’d love to still be that little girl with braids in my hair, cocooned in the safety of my grandma’s house. But it’s my turn now to carry on our traditions. When I think of her example, it helps me squeeze just a little more patience out of a trying day with my own children, to give another hug instead of an admonition.
As kids, whenever we left her house, my grandma would stuff the pockets of our puffy winter jackets full of Christmas oranges, never letting us leave empty-handed. She taught me what it means to love unfailingly.
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