holding hands

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By: Dawn Klinge Holding Hands: essays on love and family www.dawnklinge.com www.dawnklinge.com

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a collection of essays about love and family

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Page 1: Holding hands

By: Dawn Klinge

Holding Hands: essays on love and family

www.dawnklinge.com

w w w . d a w n k l i n g e . c o m

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Holding Hands: essays on love and family By Dawn Klinge www.dawnklinge.com

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Dedicated in love to Derek, Grace, and Trent

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Table of Contents

Forward ....................................................................................... 6

Holding Hands ............................................................................... 8

The Sign ..................................................................................... 11

Laughter ..................................................................................... 14

Her Smile .................................................................................... 16

Writing, in a Coffee Shop, on a Saturday Afternoon ............................ 19

Ballet Mom ................................................................................. 21

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Forward This collection of essays may look familiar to those of you who used to read

Renaissance Mama, later changed to Postcards from Seattle, my family blog of

seven years. These are my favorites. They are a celebration of family love. I

hope you enjoy them.

Since some of what you are about to read was written some time ago, I’ll give

you a few updates.

Holding Hands: This was one of the first essays I ever wrote on my blog. At

the time that I wrote it, I had maybe three readers. Somehow it caught the

attention of the pastor of the church where it takes place, and he liked it, and

shared it with the seniors our church, including the couple it’s about. I did get

to find out their story, and it was just as beautiful as I’d imagined. They were,

in fact, relatively newlywed. I’m glad that they liked this essay. Seven years

later, the man that I wrote about died. I was incredibly honored that this little

piece was read at his funeral service.

Writing in a coffee shop:

Let me just say, I have nothing against tattoos. It’s been three years since I

wrote this, and since then, my daughter has started asking for a tattoo. I’ll

probably say yes. My husband, he might be a little harder to convince.

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Ballet Mom:

I’m no longer a ballet mom. Christmas of 2014 was the last time I saw my

daughter dance in the Nutcracker. I didn’t know it when I watched her that it

would be the last time I would see her dance. Shortly after, a combination of

injury and her just being ready to move on meant that it was time for her to

retire from dancing. She took it a long ways, farther than most. I’m proud of

her and I’m grateful for all the wonderful memories and the valuable lessons.

They extend far beyond the ballet studio.

Copyright: the book author retains sole copyright to the writing and photography in this book. Unless otherwise noted, all photography is by Dawn Klinge.

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Holding Hands

They walk very slowly up the aisle of the church, wrinkled hands clasped, and

take their places together every week, front and center. Always together,

softly swaying to the music, lifting hands in prayer, never letting go with the

other set of hands. They are one. When the music turns lively, their hands

swing together to the beat and the man’s feet start a little jig.

I’m mesmerized and I study every detail of this couple from where I stand.

They are very old. I wonder how many years they have been together. Sixty?

Seventy? Or perhaps they’re newlyweds? Yet I can’t possibly imagine one

without the other. Their love still seems so vibrant, fresh.

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The woman is beautiful in her pristine white fur coat and white wool skirt. Her

outfit looks like something from the era of Coco Chanel, maybe it is, but if so,

it has been well cared for. I notice the attention put into every detail of her

appearance, from her shiny neat hair, to her dainty healed white boots. . I

promise to myself to always look my best for my husband, even when I’m

ancient and wrinkled, not out of vanity, not because he would say anything,

but because I love him.

Her husband stands handsome in his tailored gray suit, white hair always

topped by a black sun visor- rather out of place, which fires my imagination

further, as to the reason for it.

They’re either hard of hearing, or they’re just so absorbed in the service that

they never notice when the rest of the congregation sits. They remain

standing until the pastor personally invites them to be seated, the two of them

so small in stature that it would hardly be noticeable were it not for the fact

that they are front and center of the church. They’re a little quirky, a sense of

humor, and a deep love for God and for each other is what I see as I watch

them. I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting this couple but I feel like I know

them. The love I have for my own quirky, humorous, loving grandparents,

who died within months of each other, is what gives this couple in the front of

the church a special place in my heart.

Their example inspires me more than the longest, most eloquent sermon on

love ever could. I wish my kids could have met my grandparents and learned

from their example, but their example lives on through their son, my dad,

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along with my mom. I’m blessed to have parents who are still together, since

the beginning. It’s so rare these days, and I’m grateful my kids can look to

them as an example of what love is. I have hope, determination, and I have an

example, and I pray that my husband and I will someday be that couple in the

front of the church, holding hands after many decades together, our love so

strong and evident to others that it brings tears to the eyes of those watching-

the way those tears came to my eyes today.

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The Sign The walk to school each morning isn’t long enough. I understand better now,

why my son has a million and one stall tactics for bedtime each night. One

more drink, a sudden episode of utter starvation, a missing stuffed animal that

he simply cannot sleep without, a request for more snuggles…the list goes on

and on. He loves life and he doesn’t want to miss out on anything. If he hears

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laughter after he’s been tucked into bed, he’ll come running, footed pajamas

shuffling along the wood floors, to the living room.

“Hey!” he’ll say, “Why are you having fun without me?” He’ll look at me with

a little half smile, a twinkle in his eye, and crawl onto my lap while his Daddy

tells him to get back to bed. I can’t resist his charm and he knows it. He

usually gets a few extra minutes of snuggles this way.

I understand better now. Just as he loves life to the fullest and wants to make

the day stretch out for as long as possible, I love him. I love my time with him.

I’ve loved these beautiful magical days of his early childhood that are passing

much too quickly. I love my walks to school with him each morning. I want to

stretch out the time as long as possible. Sometimes, when he forgets, he’ll let

me hold his hand. I can actually feel my heart at these times, and I’ll think of

my love, flowing from my heart to my hands, and into his.

“I know the rest of the way.” He says, when we reach the gate at the edge of

the school.

“That’s alright, I’ll walk you a little further.” I answer, and we keep walking.

We reach the playground.

“I can go to the line by myself.”

“Oh, Okay.”

He’s already walking away. I think he’s afraid that I’ll try to hug him in front of

his friends. I don’t. But it takes a tremendous effort on my part. Once again, I

can feel my heart.

“Trent!”

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He turns around…. my youngest, my sweet blue eyed, blonde, freckle faced

boy. I see confidence in his young face and excitement for the day ahead. I

hold up my hand and sign, I love you. He knows the sign because I’ve been

using it with his big sister for years now, whenever I have to drop her off

somewhere. Now it’s his turn. He gives me his impish half smile, eyes

twinkling, and holds up his own small hand in the sign, then runs off to meet

his friends.

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Photo by Christy Cowan Photography

Laughter “Ho, ho, ho! Someone’s pinching Santa!” My husband says loudly as he walks

in the front door. That’s all it takes to get the kids laughing. I wish you could

hear the way he says it. I roll my eyes and pretend I’m not amused. That’s my

role when questionably appropriate jokes are told. But inside, I’m laughing,

and they all know it. The dog seems to get the joke too, or maybe she just

likes the sound of laughter in the house. In any case, she jumps off the couch,

tail wagging, and starts prancing around in that adorable way poodles do

when they’re happy. It’s a moment I cherish, and one that I’m happy to say,

isn’t uncommon, in variations, around my home.

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I laugh most often with my family. We have many of these silly phrases.

Words that mean nothing to anyone else, but can send us into fits of laughter

until our sides ache. They come from shared stories- ones that no longer need

to be told in full. Just the punch line will do.

The Santa joke comes from a story that goes back to high school. My husband

and I were both in the school choir and we went to the mall to carol one

Christmas. The choir posed for a picture around Santa and one joker decided

to give old Santa a little pinch on the botto. *

Why Derek chose to tell that story to our kids, I’ll never know. I would be

horrified if either of them ever tried to pull that stunt on Santa. For some

reason though, it stuck with my family’s shared odd sense of humor, and it still

makes us laugh.

I love silly movies and listening to comedians, but it’s my family that makes

me laugh the most. We have a lot of shared stories because we share a lot of

time together. I’m blessed to have a husband who spends most of his free

time with his family on the weekends. We genuinely enjoy each other’s

company. Of course we get on each other’s nerves at times, but laughter is a

great way to ease the tension. Laughter brings us closer. Laughter is good for

the soul. It’s a good thing to be a in a family that laughs together.

*The word, botto, meaning bottom, comes from Kay Thompson’s Eloise books. My daughter adopted it after reading the books, and it stuck.

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Her Smile That first real smile from a baby is one of those precious gifts that elicit

feelings of pure joy upon the lucky receiver. It’s often followed by the

craziest of antics of the silliest sort of baby talk, regardless of dignified said

receiver is under normal circumstances, all in order to get another smile from

the baby. And the first laugh? That can send many loving caregivers over the

moon with happiness! Of course, a baby’s smile or laugh is adorable, and all

but the grumpiest of people can’t help but smile back when they gaze upon a

happy baby.

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But that smile is even more special to those who have dedicated long

sleepless days and nights caring for, feeding, rocking, changing diapers, and

loving that little person who isn’t yet capable of reciprocating love. Those

first few weeks with a newborn are amazing but they’re also physically

exhausting. A baby’s smile is a sweet reward.

I remember the first time my baby girl smiled at me. I literally could feel my

heart in my chest, skipping a beat or two, my throat tightened, and my eyes

got all blurry with tears. I’m sure that my own smile couldn’t have been any

bigger at that moment. Her smile felt like a gift from heaven, like she was

saying, I love you too. She was a colicky baby who cried a lot. I felt like I was

sleepwalking most of the time, and I often feelings of panic when I thought, I

don’t know what to do! Sometimes there was conflict between my husband

and I, when we disagreed about how we wanted to parent her or on whose

advice to follow. But we loved her like crazy, and that smile was worth it all. I

would do nearly anything to bring a smile to my little girl’s face.

I once read somewhere that the hardest years of parenting are the baby years

and the early teen years, but that they’re also most important, in terms of

establishing in the child a sense of being loved and secure with their place in

the world. My daughter is now in her early teen years. My personal

experience is showing that what I read seems to be true. It’s a different kind

of hard, more emotional than physical, but I’m seeing a lot of parallels. She’s

a great kid. She’s normal, or at least she’s very similar to me at that age. I

keep reminding myself of that when I get a little tense. Once again, I find

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myself consulting the parenting books, and thinking to myself, I don’t know

what to do! Parenting conflicts are more frequent again- this time over issues

such as when to grant certain freedoms or how to react to certain attitudes.

She smiles often, but those smiles are usually directed at her friends. Her Dad

and I are more often the recipients of the raised eyebrow, the arms crossed in

front of the chest stance, or the angry scowl. But I love her now, more than

ever. Occasionally, one of her smiles gets directed at me, and it still lights up

my world. I will do nearly anything for one of those smiles. But now the rules

have changed. Baby talk and crazy antis are no longer appreciated. Instead,

I find myself watching the Justin Beiber documentary on a Friday night,

because I know how much she wants to see it. I take her for make up lessons

downtown, even though I think she’s beautiful without it, because if that’s what

it takes for her to feel confident in her own beauty, then okay, we’ll make it

special.

Just as the baby years turned into the golden childhood years, and the

memories of the hard work involved eventually faded into rose tinted

nostalgia, I believe that we’ll move on from these sometimes difficult early

teen years, and when that happens, she’ll still know how much she is loved,

and how one of her smiles can still bring tears of joy to her mama’s eyes.

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Writing, in a Coffee Shop, on a Saturday Afternoon Hot oatmeal with dried cranberries and walnuts, pumpkin spice latte, my

laptop, and couple of hours all to myself at a Starbucks on a sunny Saturday

afternoon is bliss. Nearby a little girl, probably three, a pink flowered dress

and springy chestnut curls, sits with her mother in an oversized plush chair,

looking at a magazine, asking why, why, why. The mother sips her drink,

patiently answering each question.

“Why do they look like that?”

“They’re from a place called Easter Island, where it’s a part of their culture to

get tattoos.”

“Why don’t I have tattoos like that?”

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“Because you live in Bellevue, darling, not Easter Island.”

The questions go on and on, each one answered carefully, with love. At the

next table, and the one after that, a solitary man and a solitary woman sit,

typing on laptops, just like me. The coffee grinder whirs away in the

background, the rich scent of coffee wafting through the air. Jimmi Hendrix,

elevator style, is coming through the speakers. The little girl jumps up and

starts twirling to the music, garnering applause from a grandmotherly type

sitting nearby, bringing smiles to all. Realizing this, the little ballerina shyly

hides her face and runs to her mother’s lap.

My own little girl, not really so little anymore, chestnut hair pulled tightly in a

bun, wearing pink tights and satin pointe shoes, is doing her own ballerina

twirls in a studio down the street while I watch this little scene the coffee shop.

She was also a little girl who liked asking why, why, why. She still does, just

not from me, unless it’s to question the rules. Those constant questions must

have worn on me at times in those early days, but I’m unable to recall them

now with anything but fondness and pride for my curious, smart girl. My girl

also brings smiles and applause with her dancing, but now it’s on a big stage,

in front of hundreds of people. There’s no more running to here mother’s lap

for confidence these days, though she’ll always be welcome. She’s got her

own confidence now. And if she ever asks me if she can get a tattoo, I think I’ll

use a version of that same answer I overheard from the young mother at

Starbucks. No, darling, you live in Kirkland, not on Easter Island.

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Ballet Mom In the life of a ballet mom, there’s a special season each year, set apart from

the rest, a time where normal life ceases, when one is caught up in the

whirlwind of sugar plums, dancing mice, and complicated schedules. It’s

Nutcracker season. For us, it lasts from the beginning of October until a few

days after Christmas.

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My daughter and I go through this season together, spending hours upon

hours in the car, going from regular ballet classes in one city, to rehearsals

and performance in another, most often in the midst of rush hour. The driving

part, I don’t love, but the rest is wonderful. It’s as if life finally gets so busy,

that there’s nothing to do but surrender. There’s no more trying to figure out

how I can juggle more things around, fitting everything I think I need to do

into my schedule. I simply can’t do anymore, so I don’t.

I relax and enjoy myself, probably more so, at this, my busiest time

Sometimes I have my son with me while I wait for my daughter. We use this

time to explore downtown Seattle, riding the monorail, visiting parks, going

out for ice cream, and playing chess at the Seattle Center. I love how it

becomes our special time together.

Other days, it’s just me, and I get to read or write in a little corner of my

favorite coffee shop, or I’ll watch through the studio windows where the

company members are rehearsing. Of course, the most exciting part is when

I get to see my girl dance on stage. I don’t know how many more years my

daughter will perform in the Nutcracker. This could be the last one. That’s

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what we said last year too. We never know. We’ll just enjoy it while it’s here.