It’s another year, and the warm glow of the holidays is fading once again.
Surrounded by my grown children, I kept reflecting on how I’ve morphed into one of those people I often met in grocery stores and pharmacy lines two decades ago.
Now, I’m the one smiling at youngsters seated in carts (or trying to clamber out of them) and reminding their parents to treasure these moments because they pass quickly.
Indeed they do.
While racing from ballet classes to piano lessons, soccer or baseball practice, it’s easy to feel overwhelmed with responsibilities as a parent, especially if you’re juggling a paying job too. Too much to do, too little time. Yet looking back, it’s those moments I treasure, time spent loving and cherishing my children, guiding their growth, thanking God for the blessings of these precious little ones in my life.
Perhaps my struggle with infertility spawned a greater appreciation for the miracle of their lives. Maybe the perspective of life as an older parent showed me how quickly time passes. I know I appreciated my time with them in our home before they left for college and launched into careers of their own.
And launch they did — sometimes far afield. As far as Helsinki, Finland, where my son has lived for the past eight years. And Vancouver, which is much closer than Pullman, where my daughter attended college. The geographic distance makes it even more precious when they return “home,” even though they have homes of their own elsewhere.
Over the Christmas holidays, I thought we’d spend a few days in Packwood, skiing at White Pass and snuggling around a fire in a rented cabin. I booked a couple of places while trying to find dates that worked best. But as Thanksgiving passed and atmospheric rivers swept warm rains through the region, melting what little snow the ski resort had accumulated, we reconsidered our plans, which in hindsight was probably a good idea. When I mentioned to my son that snow in the mountains was sparse to nonexistent, he responded, “I’m OK not injuring myself.” That’s probably true for me and my husband, too. My mind often forgets my body is older and far more breakable than it was during my 20s when I skied (and even raced) nearly every weekend.
My son developed an alternate plan — visiting the last Portland Saturday Market of 2025, enjoying the Winter Market inside Lloyd Center Mall, and spending a night in a waterfront hotel on the Willamette River where we could watch the Christmas Ships Parade, which first began in 1954. He booked a suite with a table where we played pinochle for hours, laughing and joking, creating new memories while revisiting old times.
After Christmas Eve at my sister’s in Woodland, we gathered at our house on Christmas Day for dinner and games. On Sunday, we drove to the Juice Box in Centralia, where artist Sue Wachter of By My Design guided 15 of us — one of my sisters and me, my children and their spouses, my stepdaughter and her daughter, a niece and a nephew with their significant others, and friends Edna Fund, Linda Tennant-May and her daughter, Julie — in painting pictures to take home.
I’m no artist, but it’s fun to try my hand at painting. In short order, I was wearing paint on my hands and arms, drawing me back to kindergarten days, when the fun lay in creating, not worrying about the results. My polar bear hatched alien white blobs, but it didn’t matter. I loved taking photos of everyone with their creations. It’s a fun way to create family memories. The Juice Box also offered us the opportunity to buy great food and beverages.
On New Year’s Day after dinner at Jeremy’s Farm to Table, we gathered around our dining room table for more fun and games. My husband and I stood a chance in Trivial Pursuit, only because my son grabbed the 1981 version instead of the newer one they purchased a few years ago. We played Wingspan, Jeopardy and Codenames, although everyone agreed I’d make a terrible spy as I have no poker face.
When my sister made the mistake of calling me a ding-a-ling, of course I broke into an off-key rendition of Chuck Berry’s song of the same name. Then I pulled it up on my phone to show the younger generation there truly was a song of that name.
But cross-generational cultural exchanges flowed both ways. My son and I watched new episodes of “Fallout,” based on a video game he plays, and my daughter and I saw the final season of “Stranger Things.”
A few years ago, when someone responded to a question with “Who, me?,” I taught the kids all about “Who Stole the Cookie from the Cookie Jar?” They groaned when the lyrical children’s chant stuck in their minds. (But they still sing the song when they’re together.)
And while playing pinochle, I often sing of playing with the “Queen of Hearts,” Juice Newton’s 1981 hit, and for some reason the refrain from “Witch Doctor” with its “ooh eeh, ooh aah aah, ting tang wallawalla bang bang.”
Yes, my kids are super patient with me.
And they well know — I said it often enough last month — when I’m surrounded by my grown children, I drop everything because “I’m in my happy place.”
I hope you all enjoyed spending time in a happy place during the holidays.
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Julie McDonald, a personal historian from Toledo, may be reached at memoirs@chaptersoflife.com.
