Sometimes people notice the cookie jars right away. Other visitors have likely sat in the kitchen for collective hours and never noticed them at all. They’re high on a shelf, protected from the everyday action of our busy family. At least that’s what we’re hoping.
A few of the cookie jars even outdate my relationship with Dan. I guess most of them are older than each of us, but I started the collection when I found my first jar at an estate sale during college. We stopped collecting when we ran out of space on the shelf and made room for as many as we could in the china cabinet. Our couches are well-worn here. The drywall has been patched multiple times. Dents are pounded out of the garbage can on a regular basis. We have never, however, broken a cookie jar through all the moves, tirades, and unfriendly fire.
Once a year, at best, I take them all down from the shelf. They get a soap-and-vinegar bath before being replaced in the same order. Earlier this month when the youngest guy was gone for a string of days, I took the opportunity to wash the collection. My mind wandered as I thought of the trips I used to take with my mom to the Cookie Jar Museum in Lemont or the times my college roommate and I stopped at random antique shops in search of Fiestaware (for her) and cookie jars (for me). We even gave jars to our friends that stood up in our wedding. Maybe they didn’t really want them; I don’t know. At least they probably ate the Leona’s-style Italian cookies that were tucked inside.
A large crack along the front of the moon man’s forehead on my Hey Diddle Diddle jar took me by surprise. I hadn’t noticed it before. For certain, I would have known if it had been there. Or maybe not, as these days I am often forgetful. With so many things pulling me in so many directions, I just can’t keep track of it all—not that I ever really could, anyway. Poor moon man. He had been my favorite all along. Did he even know that?
As a foster and adoptive parent, I have had to field such questions as, “why do I exist?” and “why did you want me?” from little ones who should never have had reason to need to know the kind of pain that pushed them to ask these things.
Sometimes, I have to turn away, even from the force of nothing, just in case it’s too much to bear. I want them all to feel that they are the favorite (even though there are none).
Maybe it wasn’t just something that happened since the last wash day. Maybe it was an accumulation of a lot of little things. Or maybe the crack had been there all along, before he became part of our prized collection. I’ll never really know what happened to him. That’s something I just don’t get to know. His incessant smile distracted me for all these years, shining brightly enough so I wouldn’t know what pain he held. I guess we’re all a bit like that.
Their smiling, shiny ceramic shells hold their secrets inside. We know we can’t keep them safe from everything. We have made it this far, though, to this new year, with the chips and cracks that we have carried along our way and the painted faces that have earned their places on the shelf.
Happy New Year!
Love and Gratitude,
Patty
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