It was Christmas Eve, and I was cooking a special meal for the family. Outside, a blizzard had just quieted to a few wandering flakes. A thick blanket of snow hushed all the early evening sounds. I checked the turkey in the oven and then went outside to marvel at how beautiful and peaceful it all was. Stars. Snow. I walked down the steps of our porch, across the yard. Then suddenly, I allowed myself to fall backward and make a snow angel. I wondered how old I was the last time I made one. Probably eight or ten. Then one of my kids peeked out the front door. A look of astonishment and then delight crossed her face. “Mommy…what are you doing?”
The kids started putting on their snow gear and soon were boot-surfing down the driveway and throwing snowballs. I’d started a full-blown snow party. They reached to pull me out of the angel without ruining it. After a while, I stomped off my boots and went back inside to check the turkey, which smelled delicious. With the kids’ laughter going on outside, I pondered a dilemma which I’d been avoiding. It was a profound one: Should I use the china, the regular dishes, or paper plates? Decisions, decisions.
Now, paper plates would be an easy clean-up, and with a family of nine that’s always a good thing. Yet maybe paper was just too cheap for Christmas Eve dinner. How about using our regular plates and glasses? That would be a little nicer, but we’d still have dishes to do. And yet…did I dare set the table with my mother’s fine china?
I had inherited my mother’s china only a few months earlier. My stepmother reminded me that my siblings had divided up her things, and I’d requested the china. So five boxes were delivered to me, which was quite a surprise. I had forgotten I’d ever made such a request, but it made sense. I’d never owned any china in my life.
When I opened the boxes, I was shocked at how beautiful the pieces were and how much of it my mother had: teapots, teacups, saucers, flatware, stemware, pitchers, serving trays, crystal, platters, candy dishes. Why didn’t I recognize any of it? Then I realized something. The reason I didn’t recognize it was because my mother had never, not even once, used her fine china with her seven children.
Of course not. Does anybody in their right mind set the table for seven children ages 16 to 4 with fine China? But it bothered me, somehow. Not only had us kids not used the china, but I couldn’t recall my mother EVER using it, on any other occasion, either. Pondering all this, I made the decision. I would use the China with my seven.
I took the felt protectors off our dining room table, exposing the wood, and started to set the table with all the glittering finery. I even used silk napkins and lit candles. Soon the kids came in, rosy-cheeked and chattering, shedding their winter clothes. “Whoa,” they said. “Holy cow!” “Is this for us?”
We drank Martinellis and ate turkey and potatoes. The kids asked questions about etiquette and ate their meal with a sort of reverent awe. I’ve never seen them so well-behaved, and some of my children have difficulty with hyperactivity and impulsivity. One of my sons said, “Mom, this is even better than a restaurant. This is the best meal we’ve ever had—the best Christmas Eve we’ve ever had.” I knew it wasn’t my cooking, or even the china, but the fact that I’d trusted my kids. They—and the event—were important enough for the best I had to offer.
As we were cleaning up the meal, I noticed a large chip in one of the plates. It hadn’t been there when I set the table—a definite scar from the evening. Yet somehow it just didn’t matter. I’d soon forget about the chip. But my kids would remember eating Christmas Eve dinner on my mother’s china for a very long time.
Kristyn Crow is the author of this blog. Visit her website by clicking here. Some links on this blog may have been generated by outside sources are not necessarily endorsed by Kristyn Crow.
More Family Memories from Kristyn Crow:
My Thoughts on Mothering Special Kids
Trusting My Instincts: My Son’s Early Symptoms of Autism