Author: Sarah Herrick

a little bit of magic

Decades ago, my great-grandmother started a tradition of hosting both Christmas Eve and Christmas at her house. Brave woman. Every year since then my family has gathered together for dinner and laughter, taking a few hours out of the busy holiday season to eat good food and just relax before the parents jump back into last minute wrapping and outlasting the kids to stay up and make some magic happen. In the morning we would get together again, open gifts, eat more good food — priorities! — maybe play some Scrabble. We’d take turns napping in Dad’s easy chair, big and squishy and comfy. The unspoken rules were simple. No drama. No arguing. Gift bows must be stuck to someone’s head. And gift wrap must be balled up and thrown at each other. Five generations have participated in this tradition at the same house my great-grandmother built. Where my grandfather lived. And my father. Where I grew up. And where my daughters have spent vacation days and holidays with their grandparents. Last Christmas was my grandmother’s last year with us. This Christmas we celebrate with her held tight in our hearts. And this year we celebrate Christmas Eve at the house my great-grandmother built, carrying forward her memory and tradition, but we celebrate Christmas at our new house. Building a new tradition from the old. Places can act as...

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Dancing with Dogs

Yesterday I left for work half an hour early so that I’d have time to swing by the feed supply store and pick up 50 pounds of chicken feed. I wasn’t planning on doing this. I had my day all mapped out, as I like to do. When I plan my day out and know what to expect, my anxiety is lower. But I have kids. And kids, love them to the moon and back, are scatterbrained. So an hour before leaving for work, I heard, “Moooooooom! We’re out of chicken food!” “Out out? Or out, like we have enough to feed them later today but need some for tomorrow?” “Out out!” ….Sigh. Monday it was dog food. Saturday I hauled home three boxes of compost from work to split between the chickens and the tortoise. And Friday I thawed a dead rat for the snake. Yes, I have five pounds of dead rat in my chest freezer in the basement. Why do I do this to myself?? This morning I woke up with a head cold and dragged myself downstairs to make coffee and dig up a new box of tissues. It was chilly, I was cranky, and everyone else was still sleeping. But as soon as my feet hit the stairs, I acquired a shadow. Step, jingle, claw click, claw click. Step, jingle, claw click, claw click....

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raising confident girls

I took the girls on a nature hike at Bushy Hill Nature Center the other day. A group of people had signed up, most of whom we were meeting for the first time. About halfway through, a man approached me and introduced himself, and he made the observation that it looked like my daughters were homeschoolers. Huh. Some people might take that as an insult, given the stereotypes that are out there, but taken in context with his attitude and demeanor I could see that he was offering a compliment. And it made me think. The hike was on a weekend, so there wasn’t the obvious clue that they weren’t in school. What was it about my daughters that made him think they were homeschooled? Maybe it was their crazy rainbow dyed hair. I’ve observed that many homeschooling parents are a little more free about letting their children choose their styles and experiment with things like hair color at younger ages. That’s a very broad generalization though. So aside from their colorful hair, what made this stranger look at my girls and think, “Homeschoolers!”? I think it was their attitudes. They are confident young ladies at an age when many girls start to lose their native confidence. Social pressures start to weigh heavy and social attitudes about strong, confident women — namely that we’re bitches — start to sink...

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International Women’s Day

I remember, as a kid, being told that girls could do anything. I was told this over and over again. But when I walked into shop class or a computer class in junior high and high school, I was generally the only girl there. I was allowed to take those classes, but it felt so awkward and uncomfortable to see all those eyes turn toward me, clearly wondering, “What is SHE doing here?” It made me wonder the same thing.

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for the holiday…a drug holiday

In the world of the chronically ill, there is a fantastic sounding phrase called “the drug holiday.” To me, this always evokes images of sun-drenched beaches where all the overworked pill bottles and syringe dispensers go to relax and take a break from the demands of their patients. And maybe another sun-drenched beach where those patients go, free from the confines of schedules and side effects and careful meal balancing and the math gymnastics involved in every Daylight Savings Time switch.

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