The Giving Pot

The Longer Story

When you walk into our living room, you can't miss it—it's big and bold sitting on our hearth, impossible to ignore. It's front and center, flashy, and for the first time in our family's history, this kid-made creation has stayed in clear public view, which isn't the norm in our house.

I was never really the mom who filled the home with kid art. I treasure the girls' work and I'm a saver, but most drawings live in big art portfolios and random clay creatures are put in cabinets, placed strategically behind picture frames, or end up going to work with me—finding a home in a desk drawer or my locker. We saved every Christmas ornament—and for one Christmas season, we had a 'kids' tree,' a tradition embraced fully, once. Though, every year, we open the box of handmade ornaments rehashing who made what, how old they were, and how exciting it'll be when they get to put them on their own tree.

Five years ago, all that changed. Our middle daughter, Maleah, was a sophomore in high school, taking ceramics as an elective. The school was closed during Covid, and the students were required to go to school, give their name, turn in their books, and pick up their personal property. So, she and my husband drove over and waited in the line of cars. When they pulled up, staff asked for her name, and she said, "Hi, I'm Maleah, and I am here to pick up my pot." The bewildered teacher just stood there, staring at her until Maleah clarified, "My pot, the one I made in ceramics," she said, grinning.

They arrived home, and I expected a small coil mug or the typical caterpillar made of clay balls, something small to cherish and then tuck away to ensure its safety (wink). Instead, what came through our door was a foot-and-a-half tall, shockingly heavy pot. We would later learn she had one mission—to use more clay than anyone else. I'd describe it as a thick-rimmed, short-neck, wide-belly piece, tapered at the base, with the full piece glazed in an eye-popping, high-gloss bright turquoise. Yes... turquoise. You could tell where Maleah's hands had pressed and joined the clay—peaks and valleys smoothed but not hidden. It was so big I'd never be able to hide it under a bed or shove it behind a book or even in a cabinet. My inside voice whispered: this could make a great laundry hamper in her bedroom... or maybe be half-buried in the ground under the tree out back with flowers planted in it. That sounded most reasonable.

But Maleah knew exactly where she wanted it. She marched right up to the hearth, set it down—front and center—and said, "This is perfect!" I almost let out a laugh. I was about to say, "Um... nice try," but before I could, she turned with wide eyes and declared, "Happy Mother's Day, Mom!" Mother's Day had been a few weeks back. This was a gift I knew I couldn't return. My immediate thought was this turquoise will never grow on me—and then ... maybe the pot would "migrate" to the downstairs family room under Grandma's table. As this definitely wouldn't work into our beautiful living room filled with antiques.

A short two weeks later was Father's Day, and before John finished his first cup of coffee, Maleah had already hefted the vase onto his lap with a big, "Happy Father's Day, Dad!" And, before we knew it, there were more birthdays, Halloween, Thanksgiving, birthdays, every holidays, the pot was handed off, repositioned, regifted with a new claim, always announced by Maleah with absolute joy. That Christmas, she picked it up and set it down between us and said, "Merry Christmas, Mom and Dad!" That's when I laughed out loud and admitted, "This is truly the gift that keeps giving." And the name stuck. We call it The Giving Pot.

But what makes it special is what started to go inside. Every time we gave each other cards—holiday, birthday, anniversary, specifically the handmade ones or personalized notes—we slipped them into the Giving Pot. Over time, stuffing the latest card or note into the Pot became the new family ritual. Eventually, you couldn't see the bottom; it's stuffed, packed full of five years of memories. Sometimes John and I will pick out a card at random—little time capsules of celebrations or moments from years past.

Ownership of the giving pot is still up for debate, as we've lost track of who was given it last. Sometimes I tell friends it's mine. Sometimes John says it's his. Often, we both claim it, or Maleah pipes up that she made it, so really, it belongs to her. The truth is, it belongs to our whole family.

And the Giving Pot even has a fan club. Our black cat, Ox, is obsessed. He tries to leap headfirst into the mountain of cards and usually tips the pot over. No worries—it doesn't break. Too thick, too much clay. We tease him and say, "Ox in the pot," and every day is like the first day he sees it.

Five years in, when I look at the Pot—overflowing, refusing to blend in—even after redecorating our living room, it still sits on the hearth. I feel genuine pride, joy, and gratitude. I didn't ask for it or choose it. I never planned to display anything like it, but now, I can't imagine our family story, our traditions, or our living room without it.

Traditions happen when we say yes—even when it's uncomfortable, unexpected, or takes up too much space, or doesn't work with the current décor. You know... What fills a house is stuff; what fills a home are the memories, the moments, and all the love we're willing to make space for—again and again, no matter how big the pot. It's here to stay, and it truly is a pot that keeps giving.