Ritual

Nearly every year at Christmastime since I was, oh, maybe 15 I have read a book called "Daddy Long Legs" by Jean Webster. It's certainly a younger person's novel. But I continue to read it nonetheless. I think I received it for Christmas, and now it is part of the delights of the Season. It was first published in 1912 so I always feel old-fashioned and cozy when I read it. It is essentially a love story about an orphan that is sent to college by a mysterious benefactor. I love the descriptions of her college life, her minimal expenses, her clothes, her adventures. It transports me.

This year, however, I had a much different experience with this reading. In all years past, I could collapse into the reading and disregard everything else. Now that I'm a mom, that is not possible, and I found myself begrudging that reality. Then I found myself feeling guilty about begrudging it. Then I felt aged. As with everything in the whole universe that I experience through the new lens of motherhood, I could not have imagined that my beloved yearly ritual would feel so altered. And its not just the lack of feeling carefree as I read it, but how much I feel all the feelings that the story conjures. Oiy, the feelings.

Last night I finished the book. Always bittersweet. Now I return to "The Agony and the Ecstasy" and the drama of the Sistine Chapel. But I might have to wait a couple of days, to let the sweet simplicity of my yearly escapism remain a bit longer.

Loving the magic,
Nellie