Growing up my mom had one pretty big rule: If you use the word “bored” you will be scrubbing toilets.

That pretty much cured me of using the “B” word and subsequently made me dread ever having to be the one to clean toilets.

My life is pretty much filled with toilet cleaning now.

Not really.

But I do find myself acting the brat and complaining about how bored my life is quite often.

I am not walking around like a spoiled teenager hanging my head and proclaiming in a whine, “I’am booooorrrred.”

But it has been something I talk to myself a lot about. It is one of the reasons I eat too much, drink too much coffee and sink into depression.

I AM bored. (Sorry mom. I will be over to scrub your toilets later.)

Dishes, laundry, cooking, driving, driving, driving…

Bored. Bored. Bored.

But recently there has been a lot of pain and turmoil in the lives around me. It has caused me to look inside and examine a lot about myself. Even more than that…it has given me a new perspective.

Boring is not a bad thing.

It’s more like I am CONTENT.

Not happy. Not blissful. But CONTENT.

Last summer I gave up routine and boredom and it did not serve me well. Not at all. I spent the summer in a state of uneasiness and selfishness. It was certainly not my finest hour.

What I need is the very thing I was fighting against, routine.

Since having children, I have learned how much they need routine. They thrive on knowing what is to come. They also need time to do “nothing.” They like being bored. A lot of creativity comes out of doing nothing.

When I worked as a preschool teacher, routine was often the only thing that saved us. Just keep moving forward and they will eventually join you.

I am great at routine for my children. Bedtimes are a breeze at our house because we have stuck to the same routine for so long it’s like second nature to all of us.

Where I am NOT consistent is my own time. After I drop off the kids I often feel lost and unclear. That freedom I have whined about for years is actually a bit unsettling for me. I need structure.

I also need to relax and stop being so hard on myself.

Not sure how to do any of that.

Next year my kids will both be gone all day. There is a part of me that screams “Freedom!” at that thought. Another part is scared out of her wits.

I want to take that year to write and work on myself, but I need to have a plan. A consistent routine that becomes second nature in no time. I’ll get there.

Part of my journey involves finding joy and gratitude in the daily routine. Not fighting it and always wishing I was somewhere else.

I am making some progress.

Since the first of the year, I have been taking daily pictures as part of Project 365. Basically, I have committed to taking a picture of something that makes me happy or grateful for the entire year.

Its been 43 days and I have noticed a big shift. I have found that mindfully looking for something to be grateful for each day makes me aware of so many amazing things in my life. It frames the way I look at my day.

I have gotten into the habit of reviewing my pictures every night before bed. Although so much is going on, this little act grounds me and makes me feel peaceful.

Content.

My “boring” life is actually filled with so, so much.

I am putting the focus where it needs to be and banishing “bored” from my vocabulary again.

Too bad I still have to clean toilets.

As we walked to the car both kids were singing and skipping with huge smiles.

“Mom,” my daughter says climbing into her booster seat. “I think that is the best movie ever.”

“Really?” I ask.

“I agree,” my boy says as he climbs in next to her.

“Really?” I ask again.

“I think it had a great message,” my daughter says while buckling up. “About opening your heart and letting people in.”

“Yeah,” her brother says. “You know…some people are kind of frozen.”

“Yeah,” his sister adds getting excited. “It was like frozen in both ways.”

We talked all the way home about the film. About the silly snowman, the great music, how beautiful the snow looked, the amazing ice castle and even more about the message.

This is the first time my kids, ages 6 and 9, have analyzed a film at great length. We talked about the important role music plays in a film, the characters motivations both good and bad, how fear can cause someone to shut others out, the bond between siblings and the notion of “true love.”

Thank you Disney.

If you haven’t taken your kids to see Disney’s new film “Frozen,” you should. I don’t say this lightly. I am VERY protective about what my kids watch and in general find “Princess” movies to be a bit offensive and possibly damaging to girls. But Disney got this one right in so many ways.

We have now seen the film twice (three times for my daughter) and purchased the soundtrack. This is something I simply never do.

It is that good.

The story is about two sisters, Anna and Elsa. The eldest, Elsa, is born with the ability to magically create snow and ice, but she can’t control it and almost kills her little sister. Her father tells her to “conceal, don’t feel, don’t let them know.”

Fear runs her life and she hides away from the world. When she comes of age she must face everyone at her coronation as queen. Things get out of control and she accidentally shows her powers. Fear and shame cause her to run away into the mountains.

As she runs away, she sings the song “Let it Go,” which recently received an Oscar nomination for Best Original Song.

Let it go, let it go.
And I’ll rise like the break of dawn.
Let it go, let it go
That perfect girl is gone
Here I stand, in the light of day.
Let the storm rage on!
The cold never bothered me anyway.

I have never heard of Idina Menzel before, but her voice is so strong and powerful that I’m not ashamed to admit, I sobbed like a baby listening to the CD alone in my car.

So much of the imagery and messages from this film hit home for me in ways that are a bit uncomfortable. I know many people who put up closed doors and can’t imagine letting others see them for who they are. There is so much fear in being vulnerable. There is also so much freedom to be gained…and so much love.

I know that I am gushing about a kid’s movie, but I can’t seem to help myself. I am swept up in the Disney magic of this film more than I have ever before.

We can’t get enough.

“I could totally see this on Broadway.”

“Yes! The trolls need another song for sure. That would be awesome!”

“I think they could make a whole movie just about the trolls.”

“What if they made that ice palace at Disneyland?”

“Awwwwsome!”

“It could snow in the castle and they could have Olaf there?”

“Yes! That would be so cool!”

So it goes. We are in deep here folks.

Part of me, the skeptical “hippy” side, is all analytical and keeps screaming that Disney has brainwashed me and that I’m being sucked into their marketing machine.

Oh, shut it. I just like it OK. Geez.

If you need me, I’ll be in my car singing along with the “love expert” trolls and smiling.

Everyone’s a bit of a fixer upper
That’s what it’s all about
Father! Sister! Brother!
We all need each other
To raise us up and round us out!

I was about 17 and had only had my driver’s license for a few weeks. It was dinnertime, but it must have been winter because it was dark outside. The road was poorly lit and twisty. I was driving the speed limit and singing along to the radio. I remember being excited to see my friends and happy that I now had the freedom to drive myself somewhere.

All of a sudden a blur went across the road. I tried to stop, but there was not time. I hit whatever it was. I came to an immediate stop. My heart was beating so fast in my chest and I immediately started shaking all over. I remember just sitting there. Helpless. What am I supposed to do?

I got out and walked behind my car. I saw it about 20 feet away and didn’t want to believe it. Even in the dark I could tell it was a cat. The tears flowed as I got closer and I silently prayed he was all right. He was not.

I sat next to its little tabby colored body and sobbed. I had never felt so unsure of what to do. I kept picturing a little girl standing at her doorway calling her kitty to come eat. She would go to bed that night wondering, “Where did that silly cat get off to?”

I imagined her walking to school the next day and finding her cat’s body on the side of the road.

“What kind of monster would kill my cat?” she would cry. “Why would they leave her out here? What is wrong with that person?”

But I didn’t know what to do. I just sat there and sobbed. Should I knock on people’s doors? Should I bury it?

In the end, I left the cat there. I wish I had left a note, but I didn’t. I was scared, sad and felt overwhelmed with what had happened.

That feeling is one that I have come to know all too well.

I have friends and family that have been dealing with some heavy stuff – loss of close family members, house flooded with sewage, cancer everywhere, surgery, comas, divorce, mental illness and sick children. I am surrounded with this and I feel the exact same way I did that night at 17.

Helpless.

Frozen.

I talk to myself a lot about what I could do.

I could just show up with coffee…but what if they don’t want company?

I could send a card…but what would I say?

I could offer to help…but what do I really have to offer?

Despite my self-doubt and fear, I do a lot of those things. Sometimes I do all of them. Sometimes I freeze and do nothing. Whatever the case, I never feel like it is enough.

What I really want to do is take away people’s pain. I want everyone to be happy. You know, sunshine and rainbows and kittens frolicking in a meadow of flowers.

However, pain is a part of life that just isn’t going away. How we react to and deal with pain says a lot about us.

This week I was forced to face some truth that I am not very proud of.

That helpless feeling provokes such strong urges in me to DO SOMETHING. And sometimes that “something” is pretty deplorable.

I judge.

Then I do something even worse.

I talk.

I find myself talking about the situation, often going in circles, with friends and family. It’s like if I keep talking maybe I could somehow break the code and solve their problems.

This is something I don’t want to do anymore.

In the past, if someone had confronted me and asked me about things I’d said, judgments I’d made, I might have ran away. Not literally, but I would distance myself from them. I’d feel shame and move on.

Not anymore.

This week I had to own up for something I said. I didn’t run away. I didn’t lie. I told the truth. I faced my words and judgments. I owned it.

It’s a baby step, I know, but it’s movement forward.

That family member forgave me and I am humbled more than I can express by that.

But I have a long ways to go.

Just this week at karate, I saw a dad with three young children. I have seen this dad many times before and I always leave being irritated and judging the crap out of him. He sits on his phone and yells, very loudly, at his children to just “sit there and be quiet.” I try to read my book, but inside I am lecturing him.

“Really? You expect your LITTLE kids at 5 and 3 years of age to just sit there and be quiet? You, a grown man, are not doing that. You are playing a game on your phone and voicing your annoyance at your children for all to hear. It is inappropriate for you to expect that of those kids you jerk. How about I yell at you to ‘be quiet’ and ‘sit still’ for an hour and see how happy you are? Shut up and bring something for them to do next time.”

I try to stop myself, but I just can’t. I don’t know this man or his situation. I could make all kinds of assumptions about him, and I do, but really I have no clue.

Someone posted this on Facebook this week:

I love this. I have done way too much assuming, judging, hurting and speaking.

A family member said something very poignant to me this week. Often we get judged on ONE moment of our life. One time when things are at their worst and we might be at our absolute lowest. It is unfair to judge. We are so much more than just the one moment and one choice we are in.

I am 36 years old and I have lived so many moments. I would not want anyone picking just one to judge my entire life upon, good or bad.

I don’t know how to stop judging, but I can be responsible for what I say. I need to learn to stop talking about people’s problems and making my sweeping judgments.

That includes judgments on myself.

I might still feel helpless and frozen at times. But that is OK.

So I take another humbling step forward.

He sat with his back against the rocky wall. His glasses were off and cast to the side and I could really see how puffy and swollen his eyes were. With no tissues around, I offered my scarf for his runny nose.

“Mommy,” he said as his eyes filled with tears. “I want to go home.”

His legs were pulled up and he took a small sip from the brown mug that someone had given us. I could see the embarrassment, fear and pain in his face.

I wanted to erase it all. I wanted to sweep him up in my arms and cradle him like a baby. I wanted to say that he could just go home and forget all about coming back tonight.

But I didn’t do any of that.

Wiping his eyes I kissed his not-so-little nose and gave him a hug. Then I sat next to him and just breathed. Through sniffles I could hear his breath calm and feel him relax next to me.

“I want to go see my friends,” he said after a few minutes. “I think they are worried about me.”

“Good idea,” I said.

He stood up, brushed off his pants and started the walk to class.

Parents. Teachers. Students. All wanted to talk to him. All wanted to relive the moment. All needed reassurance.

“I am OK,” he kept repeating with a smile on his face.

Once we made it to his classroom, all his friends greeted him with hugs and smiles. He made jokes. He smiled. He reassured everyone around him.

After changing out of his costume, I thought it best we go home and rest. We got sister out of class and headed home.

On the drive he told her the story of how he was onstage in front of the school when everything went purple and sparkly.

“Then it was like my eyes were closed, but they were open,” he explained. “I continued to say my lines. ‘Scamper, scatter’ and then thump. I fell back like a bowling pin.”

She laughed. He laughed.

Once home he stripped down to his underwear, grabbed his panda and sat in the big, comfy chair in the living room. He pulled his favorite blanket tightly around him like a cocoon.

“Can we watch Bill Cosby do that Noah joke?” he asked.

Sure. Since being cast as Noah in his class play he was in love with anything Noah’s Ark themed. I scrunched in next to him with the laptop and we listened.

Noah!
Who is that?
It’s the Lord, Noah.
Right! Where are ya? What you want? I’ve been good.
I want you to build an Ark.
Right! What’s an Ark?

We giggled together and I could feel him relax. The big performance was that night and I was honestly petrified for him.

It was decided that he passed out because he locked his knees, but I was worried it was nerves. I tried to push all my stuff aside and just be with him.

He was clearly sick now. His nose was running constantly and he felt a bit feverish. The afternoon ticked by. We ate some lunch, read a book and colored.

“What if it happens again?” he asked with anxiety and fear on his face. “Stupid legs.”

“You will be fine,” I said. “You have worked so hard. It won’t happen again.”

He got out a stick he had found at the river and practiced walking around like an old man with his knees bent.

I could see the battle raging inside his head. He wanted to call it quits. Give up. Let fear win. But at the same time he was excited and really wanted to do it.

“Can we watch the cowardly lion give his speech?” he asked. “You know, about courage?”

What makes the elephant charge his tusk, in the misty mist or the dusky dusk?
What makes the muskrat guard his musk?
Courage! What makes the sphinx the seventh wonder?
Courage! What makes the dawn come up like thunder?
Courage!

Daddy walked in and he told him the story of the afternoon. We ate a quick meal and headed back to school. His anxiety reached its peak about a block from school.

“I think I am sick,” he said between sniffles. He sounded so small and scared.

“Yep”

“But the show must go on, right?”

“Right.”

When we arrived, his friends were excited to see him.

“You OK?” I whispered.

“Yep,” he said. “I can do this.”

I walked to the theater and sat with my family. I couldn’t talk to anyone. My hands were shaking.

When the show began I thought I might throw-up. Please, please let him be OK.

And he was.

Despite the fever. Despite the runny nose. Despite the fear of passing out again. Despite the embarrassment of the day.

He did it.

And he was amazing.

Afterward we went out for ice cream.

“I’m sorry it’s over,” he said with a big smile. “Wish I could do it again.”

My heart soared.

He conquered his fear. He pushed through embarrassment and sickness. He proved to himself that he could do brave things.

I could not be more proud.

“Goodnight you moonlight ladies. Rockabye sweet baby James.”

Her sweet singing fills the room of kindergarteners as they rest around the big, red rug after playtime. She rubs lavender lotion on the feet of one of the helpers. I sit a few children over with my sweet daughters foot in my hand gently rubbing her ankle and inhaling the sweet fragrance. The teachers exchange a look across the circle and I know it must be almost time.

She stops singing and looks around at the children.

“Any minute now,” she says in a calm voice. “We will hear the call and it will be time.”

All the kids know what is coming. They have been preparing and are ready to spring into action.

“Lockdown.” “Lockdown.” “Lockdown.” Lockdown.”

The calm voice of Amy the secretary spills from the intercom box and fills the room.

The kids crawl over to the wall under the windows. Some hide under a little table. It happens quickly and in silence.

My daughter moves into a fetal position next to me with her head on my lap. Her little friend, just barely 5, grabs my arm tightly and curls into a tiny ball next to me. She really is so small I think. Without conscious thought, my arms reach out and pull them both tightly to me. Protectively.

One teacher locks both doors and then joins us along the wall. We sit in complete silence.

I knew this was coming too, but something happens that I did not expect.

My heart races and the reality of what this is hits me.

Hard.

Tears threaten to fall and I make myself calm down.

The kids smile at each other. It is a mix of the silent game and hide-and-seek.

A few minutes pass and we hear the front door rattle. Everyone stays still and silent.

A few more minutes pass and we hear the back door rattle. Everyone stays still and silent.

Another few minutes pass and we hear scratching at the window. Everyone stays still and silent.

Throughout the whole time I smile at the kids reassuringly, just as the teachers do. My hands stroke the girls clutched at my sides. I focus on calming my breath. Although they think it’s just a game, I know the reality and it makes my stomach clench uncomfortably.

“All clear.” “All clear.” “All clear.” “All clear.”

The kids smile and are visibly proud that nobody found us. We won the game.

“You can either be a vegetable cutter, rice cake maker or go play” the teacher says and we move forward.

As I make rice cakes with a few children, I realize just how attached I am to these little ones. These are not just the kids my daughter plays with at school. These are the precious, innocent, beautiful centers of their parents’ lives. In that instant I know that I would do anything to protect them. All of them.

I look over at the wonderful women who I trust my daughter with every day and I am hit with such a rush of love and gratitude. I know, without a shred of doubt, these beautiful teachers would do anything to protect my daughter. They, like all teachers, would give their life for these kids.

It is a sad reality that these drills are part of the world we live in. I will never understand how someone could feel so alone, desperate and be that deranged as to shoot kids? But it happens.

Fire drills. Earthquake drills. Lockdowns. “Duck and Cover” drills of decades past. All of these aim at one thing: making us feel like we are doing something.

But, really, we have no control.

No matter how hard we try, horrible things happen every day to nice people who plan ahead and do everything right.

It is not fair and I hate it.

All life is so fragile, yet we spend all our time moving through tasks and stressing about things that are so insignificant.

Of course we do. It’s impossible not to without becoming desperate and deranged ourselves.

So we have to surrender to something outside ourselves.

We have to cling to things like love, hope and prayer.

We have to.

I dump the hot rice into the bowl. My helpers add butter, flour and cheese and take turns mixing up the gooey goodness. We roll out the balls and add them to the pan. Then we eat the sticky pieces off our fingers and giggle.

We move forward.

School let out on Friday. The Christmas Spirit, if one believes in such things, was very much eluding me. I was ready for the fun to begin.

We started by visiting my lovely friend’s father. We brought him a present and sat and talked with him. He had just lost his wife. I was filled with sadness for him and guilt that I hadn’t been visiting. He is selling his home and seeing everything boxed up was a lot to take in. My son played the guitar and sang Jingle Bells for him by the Christmas tree. He smiled at my boy and a tear ran down his cheek. It was a moment I won’t soon forget.

That night I made out my To-Do list. Everything was planned out. I was going to pull it off another year. I went to bed patting myself on the back and hoping to wake up filled with Christmas cheer.

All Saturday we busied ourselves as we counted down the minutes until our slumber party with my dear childhood friend and her kids. We all were very excited to kick off the holiday right.

“Mommy, my tummy hurts,” my boy says on the drive.

“Really?” I say. He moans and shifts in his seat. Shit! No! Maybe it’s nothing.

“I think it’s just that stupid Taco Bell,” he says.

I agree. We rarely eat fast food and I am sure that is it. By the time we reach her house he says he is fine. He heads for the bathroom and then off to play. All is well. Let the party begin!

Sitting and chatting with my friend I realize how much I have missed her. We have known each other since she was born and I was 2. We have such a connection and I always feel loved and at home with her.

“Mommy,” her boy yells from his room. “Come get me out of my room!”

“What?” we both yell.

“I threw up,” my boy musters from the bathroom. NO!!!

We dash up the stairs to find the mess. Ugh. She rescues her boy and I comfort mine. She cleans the carpet and I clean him up.

“We have to go,” I say.

“It’s OK,” my friend says. “We are already exposed, don’t leave yet.”

So we set the kids up with a movie and my boy up with a bucket. At the end of the film, and many bucket empties later, it was clearly time to get my sick babe home. My daughter lost it.

“I don’t want to go!!!” she screamed.

“You did this on purpose!” she yells at her brother followed by trying to punch me.

Seriously girl? You are going to choose now to totally lose your shit. OK. Go for it.

She yelled for about 5 minutes and then switched to “I am sorry” and “I am a terrible sister.”

We make it home. I settle my boy in his bed and calm my daughter.

“We love you. Everyone loses it sometimes,” I say while rubbing her head. “I didn’t want to leave either.”

Just try not to act like a complete jerk next time, OK?

We were up all night. The entire next day was a whirlwind of laundry, reading books and trying to get my boy to rest. I wrapped some presents, played dolls and even managed a shower. Go me!

The next day awakes bright and cheery. My boy is finally up and is ready to conquer the world. It is time for our annual Santa picture. Kids are happy to see the big guy, but my heart silently drops when they boy tells Santa he wants his dog for Christmas. Sigh.

We have plans for another Christmas slumber party with our best friends. I tell her we MAY be contagious. We MAY bring germs to your house. It’s OK to cancel.

“Let’s do this!” she says.

Cleary I have friends that are so wonderful that they would risk getting sick to see me. Yep. That’s love.

So we trek over filled with happiness and glee. After a yummy dinner we head out to look at Christmas lights. We walk to this court filled with people and about a million lights. It’s beautiful. We get home, settle the kids with a Christmas movie and we ladies stay up and have a few drinks. Kids fall asleep and all seems right with the world.

Then…I hear rustling in the bedroom. I go look and my girl has thrown up all over herself. It’s everywhere. At this point I have had some drinks so driving home isn’t even an option. I remove her from the kids room, clean her up best I can in my current condition and get her to the living room. Set her up and prepare for the long night of caring for her.

About an hour later it hits me and I almost scream “NOOO!!!!!!”

The rest of the night is a blur. Bathroom trips: 100. Sleep: 0.

I know it’s morning when the other kids come into the room and want to open presents.

Oh, yeah. It’s Christmas Eve.

My dear daughter and I could not open our eyes or sit up. I listen to people open gifts and mutter, “what is it?” every once in awhile. My girl and I finally manage to open our gifts lying down. They are wonderful and I’m overwhelmed with gratitude and love.

Our friends load our car with all our things and I somehow make it home. I don’t remember the drive at all.

It’s Christmas Eve and we have so many traditions and plans. I collapse on the bed and think…I’ll just rest a minute. I’m sure I will feel better soon.

The rest of the day is a complete blur. I have a memory of my husband telling me he and the boy were going shopping and out to eat. I drank water a few times. Other than that…I slept. If I lifted my head it felt as if it might explode. Literally. So I just slept. My little girl was snuggled right next to me just as miserable as me.

We both slept ALL of Christmas Eve. All our plans were gone. No split pea soup, no homemade bread, no looking at lights. The kids opened their Christmas pajamas on my bed. I could not read “The Night Before Christmas” or snuggle them in and see that beautiful look of anticipation on their faces. Nope. I just slept.

At some point my husband came up and got me. It was time to do the parental Santa job and I DID NOT want to miss that. So I mustered all the strength I had, went downstairs, filled the stockings and then collapsed. I don’t even remember making it back upstairs.

Christmas morning came and when I opened my eyes, I prayed that I could move. The kids were up and giggling in their rooms.

“You can do it,” my husband says. “Let’s go.”

So I do. I drag myself out of bed and downstairs. I lay on the couch as they open their gifts vaguely aware that we are not taking pictures. I try to be merry and muster a smile. My mom and brother are usually with us. My mom had the same bug and was home in her own bed. I felt their absence so strongly that it was hard to be happy. But there is nothing like your kids faces on Christmas morning. Seeing the magic and joy all over them…I melted.

This was not the Christmas it was supposed to be. Not even close. But it WAS the Christmas it was meant to be.

I can’t help but feel that God is getting exasperated with me. He has lost his patience with me not learning the lessons that he keeps trying to teach me. He has run out of subtly and decided that he needed to pull out the big guns. Sickness at Christmas is quite a message.

You are not in control.

Sure hope he doesn’t have to get any more drastic. I am trying to get it. I am. I want to let go of expectations. I want to except that I am not in command.

It is just so hard.

My best friend got me the most beautiful necklace for Christmas. I can’t help but feel that it is no coincidence. The message is simple and clear:

All I can be is me.