The annual list. It begins as scribbled notes on a piece of paper torn carefully from the perforated edges of a spiral notebook. At the cusp of the new year, we look back at the finished one and write its history. Like pulling yarn from a skein, we carefully unwind the threads of our past days, re-rolling them into this paper list.
"What else?" I ask, and they remember.
"Remember when Benjamin got his first haircut?" I put ink to paper and rewind to the day that baby wisps drifted to the floor, tuft by tuft. How joy and sorrow swirled together as my scissors snipped away strands of babyhood.
"Remember when Maddie lost her first tooth?" I think of that March day, when I was eleven weeks pregnant and drowning in morning sickness. Brian returned to work that day after the winter off, and that day, Maddie wiggled out her first tooth and brought me out of my pity into her delight.
"Remember when Maddie lost her first tooth?" I think of that March day, when I was eleven weeks pregnant and drowning in morning sickness. Brian returned to work that day after the winter off, and that day, Maddie wiggled out her first tooth and brought me out of my pity into her delight.
"Remember last winter we had two snow storms in one week?" "Remember this summer when it hit 100 degrees so many times?" My pen flies over paper, remembering stretches of days snowed in the house, snowed ...and stretches of days out of the house when the simplest of summer activities was exhausting in the oppressive heat (and seven months pregnant!).
Yes, it begins as scribbles on paper. The tears and giggles come together. Calendar pages act as cheat sheet when minds ache with the effort of recollection. We remember the mundane and the fascinating, the good with the bad.
"Remember when Aunt Kati spent the summer away?" I jot words again, thinking of missing her quiet smile and counting the days to her return.. How when she departed, a babe rested under my skin and when she returned, Alaine was seven days out of my belly.
Yes, it begins as scribbles on paper. The tears and giggles come together. Calendar pages act as cheat sheet when minds ache with the effort of recollection. We remember the mundane and the fascinating, the good with the bad.
"Remember when Aunt Kati spent the summer away?" I jot words again, thinking of missing her quiet smile and counting the days to her return.. How when she departed, a babe rested under my skin and when she returned, Alaine was seven days out of my belly.
"Remember when Owen moved into a booster seat in the car?" Remember when Gavin and Daddy went to three baseball games?" "Remember when Aunt Sarah had her baby in Thanksgiving Day?" "Remember..."
The voices slow and the list feels complete. I begin to scratch numbers in the margin, organizing and ordering this jumble of dates and thoughts.
"Oh! Remember when Maddie went to horse camp?" I squeeze words into a strip of open white space. There is always room for more on the list.
I move to computer, transferring handwritten scratchings to letters on the screen. "Anything else?" I ask. Nothing more.
I push a button and our year prints out in black and white. A year of God's faithfulness condensed onto one single sheet. I punch holes, preparing it for a notebook. I remember the holes placed in His hands, allowing us the grace for the past year and more for the coming one.
Remember.
"Oh! Remember when Maddie went to horse camp?" I squeeze words into a strip of open white space. There is always room for more on the list.
I move to computer, transferring handwritten scratchings to letters on the screen. "Anything else?" I ask. Nothing more.
I push a button and our year prints out in black and white. A year of God's faithfulness condensed onto one single sheet. I punch holes, preparing it for a notebook. I remember the holes placed in His hands, allowing us the grace for the past year and more for the coming one.
Remember.
by Dick Gackenbach on our shelf when I was growing up. It is a short story with only a few words per page, but it is has the ability to make me teary every time I read it. It touches me in a way that a book about a dog should not. My mom still keeps a copy (the same copy?) on her shelf and I read it to my kids each Christmas. I really need to get one of my own! 
by Ezra Jack Keats. In fact, we read it so much that the pages were falling out and we had to order a second one. My first memories of this treasure are of singing the words to this book when I was a mama of only two children. Gavin would sit at my side, rubbing my arm, and Maddie would sit on my lap. Before they even knew all the words, they could sing along, "Pa rum pum pum pum." They loved it so much I would sing the words to them as I rocked Maddie to sleep at night. What a joy to sing gentle carols with my children. Though it is not nearly as beloved, we discovered a copy of 
last year with stunning illustrations by Mike Jaroszko.
by Karma Wilson until I had three children and we didn't add it to our favorites list until last year when I had four children. Each time I would ask for a book to be brought to me from our book basket, Owen would bring this one. One by one, other books were returned to the library while this one hung around week after week, and yet somehow, we never grew tired of listening to and reading the story of the little mouse who discovers the meaning of Christmas in a unique way. It is cute, but not silly at all! We also love 
by Karma Wilson, though this one is more sweet sentiment and less profound message. 
by Susan Jeffers, the best re-telling I have read 
by Will Moses in the floor together while waiting for Gavin's December birthday party to begin, and finishing the last few lines as Grandma walks in the door. There is 
by Cynthia Rylant and 
by Trinka Hakes Noble and 
by Holly Hobbie and 
by Jeanette Winter 
