I Wanted Chili to be our "Thing."

I really wanted eating chili on Halloween to be our “thing.” I wanted my kids to grow old and proudly tell their babies “When I was little, we had chili every Halloween. My mom would cut our cornbread into tiny little ghost shapes.” And then all of their children (my grandchildren, I suppose) would feel all warm and fuzzy, nestled safely inside a cocoon of generational tradition.. and naturally they would age to become brilliant humanitarians and doctors because reliable chili is the key to all of that, I think.

And so it’s been years and years of me trying to make this a tradition. Most likely six years, since I think I vaguely remember, as a single mom, eating a bowl of chili in front of my 9-month-old who was dressed as a chicken, wondering if I was doing this right.

This year though, after many years of watching my kids and husband pushing their kidney beans around in their bowls with their spoons, stirring in fistfuls of crushed saltines and sprinkling it with spoonfuls of shredded cheese, I had to swallow the thought that chili isn’t going to be our thing. And worse than that, we may never have “a thing.”

Chances are I’ll find a way to mess up most traditions. Knowing that my intentions are good, I hope they forgive me for forgetting that we were going to mark their height on the door jamb each birthday and that those well-meaning baby pictures taken each month for their first year of life are missing months 3, 4, 5 and all the ones after that.

I’m open to the idea that the only things that are going to consistently be “things” for us are the ways we handle every-day life. It’s all I have time for. This crazy bob and weave of struggle and success; problem-solving and maneuvering. The way we’ve woven God and faith into the fabric of our daily being and we’ve built our own safety net out of our thick ties to those we love.

I  hope “a thing” for us is that when we see garbage on the ground, we continue to feel shocked and horrified and we safely pick it up.  I hope “our thing” is that we feel deep empathy when we see a homeless man on the street and instead of guessing whether he chose that life or not, we say a prayer and wish him well. I hope “our thing” is that we always eat dinner as a family and we brake for squirrels. That we forgive others as God forgives but we love ourselves enough to draw lines. That we watch football on Sundays and cook things that smell good in the crockpot. I hope that we work hard enough to show our kids that nothing is free and that struggling through a difficult task develops character but asking for help is ok, too. I hope our kids remember the familiar creak of the stairs of our very first home and their mom and dad’s office in total disarray; puppets and flash cards, receipts and hand-scrawled notes.

So, instead of trying to make everything a “thing”, I’m going to give it up. Life will ebb and flow, push and pull. There will be missed traditions.  I think I’ll just sit back, watch the beautiful chaos of our messy lives unfold. We’ll endure boundless stress and google tiny, furry animals when we’re sad. We’ll cry and laugh and yell. We’ll snuggle under blankets and watch Project Runway and spend whole weekends in our pajamas. We’ll eat taquitos for breakfast sometimes and chase each other’s shadows on the sidewalks. Maybe that will be our “thing.” That’s enough for us.