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The Big, Fat Turkey Lie OR Why I Have Always Hated Thanksgiving

First thing I heard this morning was my husband chuckling as he climbed back in bed.

“Go check out the kids,” he said. “They are snuggling for Thanksgiving.”

I tiptoed down the hall and peeked into my daughter’s room. They were, indeed, snuggled up in her bed but it wasn’t all cuteness. I know when those two are plotting something and I smelled a rat…two mice actually.

“Hi guys,” I said entering the room. “What are you planning?”

An eruption of giggles told me that I was right.

A mass of messy hair pops up and screeches, “I don’t want to tell you” and then darts back under the covers in hysterics. The blankets wiggle all around as they whisper conference about what to do. Both heads pop out with wide grins.

“We are mice,” my boy says. “We have underwear under the bed that we were about to put on our heads.”

“Socks for our hands too,” added his sister. “We were planning on sneaking cheese from the fridge.”

“I guess you aren’t interested in trying my homemade cinnamon rolls,” I say and walk away as they quickly converse and decide that sounds a bit better than sneaking cheese.

This is my family. We are silly, quirky and sometimes ridiculous. I love my family more than anything in the world, but this is the first Thanksgiving that I have not hated.

Thanksgiving has always felt like a big, fat lie. It has always left me feeling disappointed and sad.

Growing up I didn’t understand why we couldn’t have the Thanksgiving of the movies. You know the one, right? It starts with a long drive as the family happily sings “over the river and through the woods to grandmothers house we go.” Or maybe it’s a long plane ride to some beautiful city that is blanketed in snow. Once there, you are greeted by smiling family that remark on how much you’ve grown and how much they miss you.

The dining room is set with a large rectangular table with an elegant tablecloth, matching napkins with real silverware, platinum turkey place card holders with names written in calligraphy, gorgeous dishes in an assortment of fall colors and the centerpiece is a real cornucopia spilling out the most splendid fall produce. It would all make a Pottery Barn catalog jealous.

A large assortment of friends and family would arrive bringing homemade goodies for all. Everyone would look beautiful and would be so excited to see each other. The head of the family would carve the turkey and make a speech about being thankful and everyone would be filled with the Thanksgiving spirit. Then the family would all do the dishes together and head outdoors for a family game of football.

This is the Thanksgiving I’ve always been promised. This is what I’ve always imagined. But, for me, it’s a big lie.

Growing up it went like this: drive 20 minutes to my grandparents’ house, hear how we never visit and how much they are disappointed in us, enjoy a slightly awkward meal and then watch TV.

I thought that it would be like “Father of the Bride” and I’d marry into this amazing family that would host an elaborate Thanksgiving. It would be great.

Nope. Didn’t happen. No big family Thanksgiving.

After our wedding my parents divorced and my grandparents both died. Any hope I had of at least having a multi-generational Thanksgiving died with them.

The last 14 years I have spent silently hating Thanksgiving. I fake it pretty good. I always smile, cook, do all the dishes and even try to focus on being grateful. It’s been interesting:

*Our first Thanksgiving in our tiny studio apartment included a turkey that only halfway cooked because the oven only halfway worked. Served bloody turkey and stuffing. Yum.

*We were married Nov. 20, so we spent our first married Thanksgiving on honeymoon at Disneyland. We ended up getting room service because the crowds were terrible. Food was actually pretty good but cost like a million dollars.

*When our boy was four-years-old, we spent the entire day fussing over him as he ran an increasingly higher fever. Debated about going to the E.R. Did not go, but then found out days later he had strep. Poor kid.

Thanksgiving has never been horrible. Not even close. We have our little family and our health. I should be grateful. I should not be comparing and feeling sorry for myself. But I have spent so much time dreaming of that “perfect Thanksgiving” that real gratitude has eluded me.

It’s the EXPECTATION that has been killing the day for me.

After spending time last weekend at dance class dealing with letting go of expectations, I decided to put that into practice and let it ALL GO. I decided that I was going to embrace the day in whatever form it came. I didn’t even know when we would eat. Just figured when it was done we would eat.

Guess what? Today was great. Really, really great.

thanks1*The homemade cinnamon rolls and cranberry sauce (both firsts for me) turned out fabulous.

*Ended up riding bikes with both kids in the street followed by a surprise visit from my mom. There is nothing like your mommas hug to brighten your day.

*Watched the parade on my bed with some yummy cheese and salami. I was beaming with pride that my kids love the Broadway dances as much as I do.

*Took another, longer bike ride with my boy to see the neighbors on “Christmas Street” putting up their decorations. We rode and yelled, “would you look at that” to each other.

*Watched the national dog show and laughed my head off at how many times my kids said “he is soooo cute!”

*A family hike that was highlighted by holding my husbands hand and seeing three frolicking deer.

I had so many moments today that I just felt happy. I felt lightened of the burden that I’ve carried for so long. Today we had Thanksgiving our way and it was perfect.

Here’s to letting more expectations go and just living my life.

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I need a new mission statement because this one sucks

To be a good person that others love, respect and can count on.

This has always been my mission statement of sorts. I’ve never written it down before, but its been part of my identity for as long as I can remember. Its been the marker by which I have made so many decisions in my life.

It is total and complete crap.

Good person. What is a good person? What are the standards by which to measure my goodness? Good compared to how I perceive others? Good like everyone pretends to be on Facebook? It’s subjective and exhausting. Trying to be good is wearing me out.

Loved. That sounds good, but I cannot make EVERYONE love me. Some people are going to hate me. Some people are going to think I am self-centered, stupid, judgmental or whatever. Love is a good thing, but focusing on making others love me is not. Trying to be loved by everyone is wearing me out.

Respected. To respect someone is to admire (someone or something) deeply, as a result of their abilities, qualities or achievements. This is all about me feeling good about myself because SOMEONE else thinks I’m all that. Am I doing things because they are right, or because I want someone to think I am great? Trying to earn respect is wearing me out.

Counted on. I want to be the person you can turn to in a crisis. I try to take on others pain and make it my own. Why? Because I am uncomfortable with pain and don’t want anyone to be suffering. I try to help and sometimes make things even worse. I step in because I think I can help. How conceited is that? I do not know better your problems or your life. I cannot fix you. Trying to be someone you can count on is all about me and not you AND it is wearing me out.

Clearly I need a new mission statement and a new way to look at how I live my life. No longer do I want to live for that judgment and praise of others. I need to stop that right now. It no longer serves me and I don’t want my children constantly measuring themselves.

Last weekend I tried to help a family member that is in immense pain and turmoil. I tried and failed miserably. It’s OK. She is in terrible pain and conflict, but it is hers. All hers. It is not for me to fix, understand or endure. I need to back off. It has nothing to do with me. She is the center of her universe. Not me. Loving from afar and praying for her is all I CAN do. All I SHOULD do. That might seem like a no-brainer to you, but it’s not to me.

Seeing pain and recognizing it is not a bad thing. It means I have empathy and that I do indeed have a kind heart. But trying to fix someone is egocentric and wrong.

As I write all this I realize that I am judging myself harsh AND this is all pretty self-centered. But I need to call myself out on my intentions. I need to question my motives so I can get to a place where my decisions are NOT based on how I look to others.

What will I base my decisions on then? If I am no longer focusing on what others will think, then what DO I focus on?

Maybe it’s as simple are reframing the mission statement. Instead of throwing it out, what if the focus of judgment and others was replaced with purpose:

I will live my life as a loving, respectful and responsible person.

This acknowledges the virtues I wish to embody, but takes away the burden of relying on others to provide judgment of my worth. It becomes about who I want to be, not whom others THINK I am.

My family, friends and community are important to me. I genuinely want happiness for everyone I know. That is why I am shining a light on this ugly side of me. Working on this will help me in all my relationships. I want to be a better wife, mother, daughter, friend, niece, aunt, class parent, etc.

I have hope that I can let go of all the judgment I impose on myself and just try to be the person I want to be. It will not be easy and that’s OK. I’m actually starting to like the hard stuff. Bring it on!

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Little drops of water one by one

fingerknittingToday I’m filled with the joy that is the Waldorf Kindergarten. If you’ve never experienced it, allow me to give you a small glimpse into the wonder that is my daughter’s norm.

Let me walk you through our afternoon. We arrive at the classroom and my daughter skips inside to grab her sun hat. She lines up behind her friends and waits her turn to greet her teacher. The teacher is seated outside of the classroom with a soft pink apron on, her grey hair in two long braids, her eyes bright and shining. She hugs each one and sings “good morning, good morning, good morning to you.” She listens as they tell about a treasure they brought from home or show off what they are wearing. She looks so deeply at them that you can actually feel the love pouring off her.

Then we walk to teacher number two. She is waiting on the playground to greet them. She wears a soft green apron, her beautiful long, brown hair is peeking out from beneath her big sun hat and her face is glowing with love and anticipation. She hugs so big and chats with each child.

The children spend about 10 minutes swinging, climbing and running around. Then, prompted by song, we gather in a circle and welcome the day together. “Windows open wide, let light come inside” we sing as our hands reach toward the sky.

plantsThen we go on a walk. It’s only around the block, but the children walk slow and explore. They pick wildflowers, see ladybugs, make fairy scissors and say hi to passing dogs and cats. A man is working in his yard and we stop to chat with him. He tells the kids about black widow spiders and how many bites he has had.

Arriving back, we take a moment to use the bathroom before heading into the classroom. Then, slowly, the children enter. “Little drops of water, one by one,” the teacher sings as they take off hats/sweaters and put on slippers.

Today is baking day. The children have a choice. They can play, bake or craft. I get a few bakers at the table with me. I sprinkle flour for them and they help me shape the bread into buns. We talk about all the ladybugs we saw and make some out of dough.

As I look around the room, I’m stuck by the peacefulness. The warmth of the soft-pink walls. The smell of lavender and bread.

Some kids are sitting with one teacher finger knitting or sewing. Another teacher is playing veterinarian with a group of children. They line up as hurt cats, dogs or guinea pigs. She uses pieces of wood to doctor them and gives little massages to help them heal. Another parent is slicing bagels and spreading sunflower seed butter on them, with the help of a few children, to prepare for their weekly journey to the river tomorrow.

The kids have built all kinds of homes around the classroom from long silk cloths, pieces of wood, rocks and seashells. Creativity is everywhere you look. Some have built a boat and are sailing the ocean. Another group has built a house with a mom, dad and two sheep.

Once the bread is in the oven, I set the table. Little square napkins. Red tin cups. Butter and honey ready. Water pitchers full for refills.

Then it’s time to clean up and get ready for snack. “The gnomes are working happily” the teacher sings as the children put everything away. Each child knows their task and sets to work. Before long they are all seated around the round, red rug and ready to wash hands for snack.

One by one they are excused. One teacher stands at the sink. She pours water that has lavender oil and soap in it from a bright, red watering can.

Everyone arrives at the table. There are little discussions and it takes a few minutes for everyone to decide where they would like to sit. Then, as a group, we say a little blessing thanking the earth for the food we are about to eat. Then, this is my favorite part, it is quiet. Only whispers until everyone is served.

breadMy daughter was the sever and she walked around happily handing out the bread rolls with butter and honey on them.  Then, after all are served, it’s time for conversation. It’s so fun to talk to 5 and 6 year olds. They are funny, honest and open.

After snack, the children are excused to wash their cups, scrape any leftovers into the compost bucket and then arrive back at the round, red rug for a puppet play. Again, I’m struck by the quiet. The kids are so into the story. They snuggle next to each other and some even hold hands. Some lie on their tummies.

After story it is rest time. The servers get a little foot massage with lavender lotion to thank them for their work. One teacher sings a beautiful lullaby and everyone rests. Many squirm and struggle, but they are silent and try hard.

Then it’s time to go outside. Shoes back on. Sun hats on. Time for jump rope, tire swing, hammock, sand play, climbing and running. Goodbye verse is outside under the big tree filled with white blossoms.

No books. No homework. No learning letters. And, no, I’m not worried my child is going to be behind.

Each day has a rhythm and snack attached to it. They paint, color, craft, garden, bake and play. Play is the essence of their day. They are learning to play with others and what it means to be a friend. They are learning virtues like patience, kindness and honesty. These virtues are far harder for people to learn then reading and writing.

I wish every child could start their education in such a peaceful, loving way.

I wrote this piece last year and just found it again. My daughter is in her second year of Kindergarten now and my love for the program has not diminished in the slightest. If you want more information on the beautiful, public Waldorf school my children attend, visit http://www.goldenvalleycharter.org

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Fairies and magic vs. blood and gore

We can finally go to the grocery store again.

For the past month my daughter has been petrified to enter any store. She hates all the skeletons, witches and ghosts that show up this time of year. She would cover her eyes or cower behind me.

Although I understood, I started to get angry and resentful of her behavior. Get over it already. It’s just a silly decoration. You’re being ridiculous.

Then Halloween hit and I’ve changed my attitude.

Every year since they were very small we make the 30 minute drive up the hill to the Live Oak Waldorf School to celebrate Halloween by walking the Pumpkin Path. In case you’ve never heard of such a thing, I’ll give you a brief rundown.

You buy tickets for a certain time slot. When you arrive you wait by a fire pit surrounded by beautifully carved pumpkins. When it’s your turn, you are greeted by your Angel Guide who carries a lantern and leads you on a story through the campus.

This year it started with meeting the King and Queen and hearing that their children, the prince and princess, were turning 16. They needed our help to spread the word that the party was changed from the vineyard to the oak garden. The children were given golden/chocolate coins in return for agreeing to be royal messengers.

We traveled around spreading the news. The path is lined by Jack-O-Lanterns carved and burning bright. During the journey the children met an Apple Blossom Fairy that sang to them from up in the tree and gave them an apple. We met some gnomes doing metal work who gave the children each a gem like the ones they were adding to the crowns. A wooden castle from the toymaker, delicious caramel from the candymakers and a felt pouch from the shepherds all filled their baskets. Our journey ended at the birthday party with cookies, hot cider and pictures with the prince and princess (see my happy elf posing with them below).

This year, like every, my children delighted at the adventure. They laughed, interacted with the characters and really got into the story. It’s so magical for them. It is everything that Halloween is designed to be. A night of magic, wonder and delight. I always leave feeling happy and filled up.

pumpkinpath

This year, as has been the case the last few years, my son wants to trick-or-treat when we get home. Our neighborhood gores it up big time. In the course of five houses we saw a life-size version of the girl from Exorcist (whose eyes lit up green and head spun around), spikes with bloody hands and heads hanging from them, a frightening looking clown with bloody fangs and an enormous spider that jumped out at us.

The contrast between our two Halloween experiences struck me as outrageous and obscene. What is wrong with our society? Where is the magic and wonder? Certainly not in my neighborhood.

I saw so many very small children just walking right past these horrific images without even blinking.

My boy is almost 9 and he begged me to take him to a Halloween store this year. He was so curious and he really wanted to test his bravery. So I did. I can’t even tell you how disgusted and appalled I was. Not only by what we saw, but by the babies in the store seeing it too. It was so much worse than I had imagined. We talked about what we saw and how we both felt about it.

“It makes my stomach feel funny,” he said. “Like it’s not right.”

People think they are doing their children a favor by showing them these things. They seem proud that their children are unaffected by these images.  It makes me sad. Your stomach should feel funny. It is sickening. Gore and death should evoke feeling. It’s our humanity.  Just because your kid isn’t crying at seeing a bloody head doesn’t mean he isn’t affected, he just isn’t allowed to share those concerns with you.

So it is MORE than OK my dear daughter if you don’t want to see that stuff. I don’t either. Images stay in your head. You go ahead and hide behind me and I’ll protect you.

As we walked around our neighborhood seeing all this craziness, I could tell my boy was uneasy. I grabbed his hand and told him I was scared.

“I know it’s not real mom,” he said. “I just tell myself everything is going to jump out and then I’m not as scared.”

We only did our block and that was enough for us both. I was sad that those were the images he would go to sleep with, not the magical story we had lived earlier in the evening.

So as he got ready for bed we talked all about the Pumpkin Path and he found special places of honor for the treasures he had received there.

When I kissed him good-night and told him to sleep quick so the Candy Fairy could come, he smiled.

“You know my favorite part of Halloween?” he asked.

“Candy?” I said and he giggled.

“No mom,” he smiled, “knowing a fairy is coming into my room while I sleep tonight. I can’t wait to see what she brings me.”

Magic and wonder are alive in my home and it makes me proud.

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One hand and then the next

“Mommy,” she whispers as she gently taps my nose with hers. “Wake up. I need my Pippi braids.”

I open my eyes and look at the clock. 5:30 a.m.

“Go back to sleep,” I say in the nicest way I can muster.

“Mommy,” she whispers again gently running her fingers through my hair. “I need my Pippi braids right now. It’s important.”

I open my eyes and look at her. She is dressed in her new favorite Pippi Longstocking outfit and is holding the hairbrush and four rubber bands in different colors.

“I need more sleep,” I manage. “Just 30 more minutes.”

“OK,” she says with a sigh. I hear the disappointment, but it’s 5:30 a.m.

Thirty minutes later my alarm goes off and she is standing right next to the bed waiting. She is still holding the hairbrush and rubber bands. I’m sure she did not just stand there for 30 minutes waiting. Right? I’m sure she played or something.

I sit up and try to be as pleasant as I can. I spray her hair with detangler, which she had thoughtfully placed next to me in bed. I brush her hair carefully making sure that I don’t pull or hurt her. I use her favorite parting comb, the pink one with the sparkly handle, to gently part her hair into two. I use the pink rubber band on one side and the yellow on the other for pigtails. Then I braid each one.

“Blue rubber band on the pink side and red one on the yellow side,” she says.

When I’m done she skips off and puts all the brushes and spray away.

“Thanks mom,” she says. “See you downstairs.”

After dragging myself through my morning ritual of shower, picking out the lest objectionable of my clothes and running a brush through my hair, I head downstairs.

My girl has made us all breakfast of cereal, toast and juice. Brother is there and dressed too. I think I might be dreaming. They both smile.

“What did you do with my children?” I ask.

They giggle and we eat.

“Today’s the day,” she says.

“For what?” I ask.

“You’ll see,” she says.

I pack lunches and do the morning dishes as they pretend that their bouncy balls are pigs. The pig race gets a little out of hand, but we make it out the door on time.

The ride to school is filled with talk about the pig race and plans for building a more elaborate race track and making prize ribbons when we get home. I tune in and out as I sip my coffee. We drop brother off and head to her school. I look back at her in the mirror and she is beaming.

“What is going on?” I ask her.

“You’ll see,” she says again.

We pull into the school and she is literally bouncing in her seat. She bolts out of the car, grabs my hand and we head straight for the monkey bars.

monkeyShe has been dreaming of making it across the monkey bars for over a year. It was only in the last week that she started really trying. Every day she would just hang on the first bar and then drop. Over and over and over. She never seemed to get tired of it.

We spent hours the previous weekend and several more after school all week with her reaching across a few bars. She could make it about halfway now.

After a few attempts, we developed a cheering agreement. I was not allowed to say anything until she dropped. No clapping or encouragement.

“It makes me nervous when you say something,” she told me.

So I would just watch and nod. When she made it farther than before she would come over and say, “you can cheer now” and I would.

I take my normal standing place at the end of the monkey bars and watch her face. The look of determination was fierce. I was silently beaming with pride. When this girl wants something, she will get it.

Then she took off. It was slow and deliberate. One hand then the next. Her face was filled with concentration. She made it past the halfway part and I had to bite my tongue to not scream out with happiness for her. She kept going. Slow and deliberate. One hand over the next. Finally she made it to the last bar and dropped.

“I did it!” she screamed and ran so fast to me that I almost fell over. The look of pride, excitement and joy was so wonderful that I almost cried. “I knew it would happen today. I just knew it! You can cheer now mom.”

I did. I cheered for this accomplishment and for all those that will come her way. Look out world.

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Question everything and then make rice crispy treats

I am not sure where it came from, but my parenting style is basically an obsessive quest to question everything.

My mother wasn’t that way. Her parenting was pretty instinctual. She spanked us when she thought we needed it, gave us plenty of kisses, encouraged us to play outside and rejected the abusive way she was raised.

My dad was very hands-off. He did try to teach us to be civil, not use profanity, and to have an appreciation for art and theater. However, I don’t think he gave parenting much thought.

So although I can’t trace the origin, I have been on an information quest from almost the second of conception of my boy. It started with pregnancy nutrition and growing a healthy baby. I’m embarrassed to admit that I actually played classical musical through headphones on my stomach, just in case that actually would help my baby be smarter.

I even created a website in which I updated WEEKLY, sometimes DAILY, my pregnancy symptoms and the growth of my boy. How obnoxious. Wow.

I then moved onto researching labor and delivery. I read everything I could. I was like a crazed maniac trying to solve some complicated mystery. I don’t know how many books, articles, websites I read, but it was too many. Far too many.

After he was born it didn’t stop. I subscribed to a newsletter that told me every milestone my baby should be on, and then flatly rejected it. I read book after book to try to establish what felt right to me. I questioned EVERYTHING. I took nothing for granted.

Why did I do all this you ask? It’s not because I love my children more than anyone else. Nope. It’s not that I wanted to “one-up” my mom or anyone else. No way. It was because I wanted to be good at something. Really good at it. I wanted to rock this motherhood thing. I wanted to be perfect.

Perfection is a tall order. It will come as no surprise that I was constantly disappointing myself.

I remember when my little girl was just a few days old I got sick. Nursing had been a nightmare. I was confused because I’d had this beautiful home birth and now things were awful. I remember crying, shaking from a high fever, digging my toes into the carpet in immense pain and still feeling guilt that my 2-year-old was watching a cartoon.

What the hell was wrong with me?

When I finally got help the lactation consultant actually yelled at me. It was just what I needed.

“You have nothing to prove,” she said. “We all need help.”

I accepted that because I had no choice. I did not like it. Not one bit.

Over the last six years I have had to learn that lesson over and over. Needing help does not make you weak, it makes you human.

I am still learning to trust my instincts and do what feels right, even when others look at me like I am crazy. I wish I could get there quicker and that I could just relax and stop questioning so much.

This leads me to rice crispy treats.

I have so many food issues that I could write 50 blogs about those and not even scratch the surface. So let’s just say, I’m crazy when it comes to food.

I have consciously tried not to pass those issues onto my kids. I nursed both kiddos until almost 3. I made homemade baby food and didn’t let them taste sugar for as long as I could.

I try, REALLY I DO, to not use food as reward. My kids know what GMOs are and about organic food. They know why I’m picky about the animals we eat and have seen images of what commercial chicken farms look like.

I want my kids to be informed consumers in every aspect, particularly about food. However, I do think that sometimes I am robbing them of simple pleasures that other kids have.

That brings us back to rice crispy treats.

My kids have seen them and tasted them at a friend’s house. I have casually called them “chemically laden poison.” Yep.

That’s not giving them food issues at all. Sigh.

So this week, as I’m busy healing and digging myself out of depression, I decided to just do something crazy. What if we just made rice crispy treats? No reason. No questions.

My first instinct was to buy organic everything and modify the recipe (which is what I normally do.) But I fought that urge. Not this time.

I bought the Kellogg brand cereal and the Kraft marshmallows. We tied on our aprons and prepared to follow the recipe on the box.

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Look at those happy faces. They were very excited, but they had some questions for me:

“But don’t these have GMOs?”

“You said they are bad.”

“Are you sure about this mom?”

“It’s OK to have them once in a while, ” I said. “We don’t eat them all the time and I thought it would be fun.”

I was proud that they questioned it, but also sad. Maybe they should not know about such things as small kids. Maybe I’m wrong in teaching them about our polluted food supply.

No. Stop analyzing and questioning. It’s just rice crispy treats. Move on.

two

We added the butter and marshmallows. The kids took turns stirring them on the stove top and watching it all melt into goo.

“That’s cool,” my boy said.

three

I honestly can’t remember ever making these and was shocked at how easy they are to make. In just a few minutes we were done.

They decided to use the pumpkin cookie cutter to make them more seasonal. We all wished we had some M&Ms to make a face on them. Maybe next time.

We ate all four for dessert that night and they were unquestionably delicious.

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Battling giants and stomping the floor

10274147753_73b9312e43_cThe children were playing on the edge of the woods when then heard loud sobbing. Although frightened by the sound, the children gathered their courage and found a lonely dragon crying. Each tear turned into a precious stone as it hit the ground. The children befriended the dragon and he no longer was lonely.

For years the children would return each Autumn to the woods and visit the dragon. He would give them one of his tears to keep. As the children entered the darkness of winter, these precious stones would serve to remind them of the love, light and friendship they share.

But this year something dreadful happened. A horrible, mean giant stole all the tears. This giant prefers darkness, fear and loneliness and he loves to scare little children. You must sneak into the giants home while he sleeps and steal back the dragon tears one by one. You will need to gather your inner-strength, courage and light to lead you through the task. Good luck.

This is the story that I and others read to the children on Saturday at our school’s annual Harvest Festival. The children would then sneak into the giant’s house and grab a stone.

I watched as one by one they did, indeed, gather their courage and enter the house. The giant was making sounds and shifting in his sleep. He would occasionally wake or say something scary. The children did it. They loved it. Some came back multiple times to conquer their fear.

As I watched this play out over and over, I realized how much I am running from my own fears. My giant is my fear of rejection. My fear that when people get to know me they will leave. My fear that when I speak my truth I will be laughed at. My fear that allowing myself this space and time to heal is selfish. My fear that I will never be happy because I don’t really deserve it.

So I’m facing these fears. I’m walking right up to them. The giant is making lots of sounds but I’m moving forward anyway. Inner-strength, love and light are my weapons.

Sunday was another dancing morning for me and I went thinking about fear. I went with the intention of releasing some of it. What came out was anger. Lots and lots of anger.

At times I stomped the floor so hard that my feet hurt. My hands kept clenching into fists. I realized that I was holding so much anger and resentment. After several hours it started to release its hold. I could feel the anger melting off. By the end of the session I was smiling. Really smiling.

There is still so much work to be done, but I’m feeling lighter.

I spent the rest of the day yesterday with my family. We went to the park. I played catch with my husband. I’m so afraid of baseballs. I saw my mom get her lip split open as a kid and the balls scare me. But I got to the point of actually catching some with my eyes open.

“You are not rooted to one spot,” my husband said. “You can move your feet to meet the ball.”

I watched my daughter try over and over to conquer the monkey bars. Her determination is wonderful to see. She is no longer afraid of falling and can make it halfway before losing her grip. No frustration or tears. I’m in awe of her.

My boy spent his time building with sticks and leaves and floating his creations down the creek. He would throw it off one side of the bridge and then watch it come out the other side. Over and over.

After the park, we all went bowling and then out to dinner. Laughter. Silliness. Balloon animals. Ice cream. Kisses.

Best of all, I was there. Really there.

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Excuse me while I do nothing

I used to wake each morning ready to go at 5 a.m. I would kiss my husband goodbye, take my shower and then move through my routine like a professional mother and wife. Everyone up. Check. Everyone dressed. Check. Breakfast cooked and served. Check. Lunches packed. Check. Everyone has what they need for the day. Check. Load of laundry done. Check. Dishes done. Check. Coffee. Check. Let’s do this.

Lately I’ve been hitting the snooze button until I’m in panic mode. Rush around. Check. Yell at the kids. Check. Forget all kinds of shit. Check.

The responsibilities of life are the same. I have not started a new job. I did not have another baby. I’m not taking college courses. Nope. Things are the same as they have been for years. Everything is the same. Except for me. I’m different. I’m broken and doing everything wrong.

I can barely keep groceries in the house. My yard has not been mowed in over a month. The kids haven’t been to karate in several months. I’m forgetting to call friends. I am not volunteering at the school much because I don’t want to.

So what AM I doing?

The answer is something I’m just now ready to admit.

I’m healing.

We all carry around so much hurt and pain. Not just our own, but others as well. It just sits in us. Some are better at coping, masking or even releasing that pain. Others, like me, just let it fester and eat away at us.

I eat and drink my pain all day. I mask it with sugar, caffeine and alcohol. I drown it out by blaring music in my car and singing at the top of my lungs. I try to chase it away with “fun” things, like shopping, festivals and movies.

But the truth is, it needs to be acknowledged if I want to heal.

My mom has had some tremendous pain in her life. She had to put a baby up for adoption against her will as a teen. Her mother treated her like an emotional punching bag, giving her blow after blow of anger and pain. That woman, my grandmother, was/is so damaged. She has been in treatment off and on her entire life, but she still continues to spew forth anger and resentment toward everyone. I have no idea the horror story of her life, but I can imagine.

My mom married young to get away from all that. Her husband, my father, was not mean. He did not beat her or yell at her. He did, however, stay emotionally closed off. Checked out. So she poured herself into my brother and me. She wanted to shield us from all the pain she has endured. She wanted to heal our wounds before they even formed. She would gladly keep it all for herself.

It didn’t work.

My brother and I both carry lots of sadness and depression. We both are dealing in different ways, but it’s clear we both have this load on our shoulders that she could not help but pass along.

A new friend told me yesterday about something she called “ancestral pain.” It’s a concept I had not thought about before. It makes so much sense to me. The pain that is in me is so much deeper than just me. It goes back generations.

I believe it’s time to stop the pain. To acknowledge the depths of it and allow myself this time to cry, rage and release it all. This process is slow. Oh, so slow. The dancing is helping. Writing is helping. Crying is helping. It’s all part of it.

But I will not mask it any longer. I want it out there. I want to see all the angles of it. Examine every inch of this pain. Tear it apart and look at it. Then I want to let it go and move forward.

I know my mom will read this and immediately feel guilt. Please, mom, DO NOT! There is no place for that. You are a wonderful, beautiful, amazing spirit that deserves happiness. You did not choose this pain that has been passed down to you. You did nothing wrong. NOTHING.

I don’t have answers. I have no timeline or plan. All of that is hard for me. I like to make check lists and just get shit done. Deal with emotions. Check. Heal. Check. Be happy. Check.

But that isn’t how this works.

So, here I go. Deeper and deeper into this pain. I’m going to try to give up some of those ways that I cover it up and just let it be felt. It’s gonna suck, but I have to do it. I have no choice.

As I left the house this morning I looked at my yard and felt the guilt and shame of all the weeds growing. Here is the physical manifestation of my pain right out for all my neighbors to see. But then a little purple weed caught my eye and I quickly snapped this picture of it:

yard

There is beauty in the pain and weeds. I will find it and things are going to be better. They are.

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Scattered musings of an ungrateful person

I don’t know what to do with myself right now. I’m unhappy with the way things are going. I feel like my life is a series of chores with a little fun sprinkled in.

I think I’m a “fun-junkie” who is craving that next high of happiness. As a result I am not finding joy in anything I do. I begrudge cooking, cleaning, driving, grocery shopping and even showering. Everything feels like a “task” that I have no choice but to do. I feel grumpy, selfish and angry.

A few weeks ago, I left my family for an entire weekend to attend a scrapbooking retreat in Bodega. This might not seem big to you, but it was for me. My kids are 8 and 6. This is the first time I’ve done something like this. It was huge really.

Finally I had the time for me that I was always bitching about. Time to do what I want. Time away from my chores and family. Yet…there I was not enjoying it. Not appreciating the time I had. I went for a beautiful almost 6 mile hike by the ocean and I complained. I whined about the hills and my tired feet.

Here I was with time to do WHATEVER I wanted, and I didn’t know what to do with myself. I found myself feeling lonely, sad and even a bit grumpy. Really, Bridgette? What the hell do you want?

There it is. What do I want? I have no clue. None.

Last weekend I attended the Little Houses Festival with my mom, kids and several friends. It is one of my favorite things and I look forward to it all year. I had some amazing moments that I want to capture forever in my mind.

* Cuddling with my boy and watching a movie out under the stars

* Seeing both of my children running around creating and feeling free

* Laying on the grass listening to beautiful musicians while lifting my daughter high into the air on my legs and giggling

* Playing with a beautiful baby whose smile made my heart sing

* Reconnecting with an old friend

* Climbing across rocks out onto the river to retrieve a bottle that might have a note in it

* Realizing the dam had released and I had to get my kids, and the 3 extras I had with me, back on shore quickly before we were stranded in the water

* Making it back on shore and hearing the now soaking kids retell the story over and over of their “daring adventure to rock planet”

But even with all those wonderful, beautiful, amazing moments, there was still so much regret. I should have been more present. I should have talked to my friends more. I didn’t get to read my book by the river. I wasn’t there for my mom enough when she wasn’t feeling well. A friend was not having fun and I did nothing to help her. I wanted to dance. I camped on the wrong side of the festival and felt guilty about that choice. I felt sad that my husband will never come with me and spent too much time feeling sorry for myself about that. On and on and on…

Why can I not keep my mind on the happy? Why do I seek out “fun” and find everything else to be drudgery? Why am I so hard on myself?

If you compare my schedule to that of others, I do A LOT of fun stuff. Tons really. This week alone I’ve attended a great concert with friends, went to lunch and did some window shopping, watched my daughter do interpretative dance on an outdoor stage while her friend sang loudly, hung out with my beautiful friend visiting from Florida and might even go bowling tonight. Can you say spoiled brat?

No idea what to do with any of this other than to call myself out on it. This is me right now. I’m ungrateful and unhappy. Hoping to be better. Do better. But for now, this is all I got.

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I don’t like it one bit OR the attack of the killer centipede

Without considering the consequences, I hit the snooze button today. Twice. When I finally got up the panic hit me. I not only had extra things to do before leaving, but I needed to leave early today.

I quickly showered, dressed and was about to open my door when I heard the scream. I knew from the volume and pitch that my dearest daughter was not angry or hurt. She was scared. Really scared.

I had heard that same scream at 2 a.m. when she had a bad dream about a creepy doll that was dirty with antennas, yellow eyes and green skin. It was hours before either of us could get that image out of our heads. Yikes.

I opened the door and she leaped into my arms.

“What is it?” I said. She was shaking all over.

“Look!” she proclaimed and pointed at the wall behind me. There was the BIGGEST, MEANEST looking centipede ever. All its little legs and antennae were waving at us. It was crawling up the wall toward the ceiling. We would have to pass this bad boy to get downstairs to breakfast.

It made a quick lurch across the wall and we both shuddered and screamed.

Our complete panic awoke brother who came stumbling out of his bedroom putting on his glasses.

“What’s going on?” he asked and yawned.

“Look!” my daughter and I screech at the same time. At this point it turned the corner and was out of sight.

“Don’t let it get away,” my daughter yells and runs into her room and shuts the door.

I glance at the clock. Brilliant. We have to be out the door in 20 minutes. Both kids are in their underwear and I haven’t made breakfast or packed lunches.

Both children are now barricaded in their rooms and they will not budge until I proclaim the evil centipede dead.

Did I mention it was HUGE? And that I HATE killing things?

So I inch down the stairs keeping my eyes peeled. When I get to the bottom step I see it. It’s too high to kill, but I bend down and grab one of my husband’s shoes in anticipation of its quick movement. When I look back it’s GONE.

“You get it mom?” the kids yell from behind their closed doors.

“It went into the air conditioning vent,” I completely lie. “It will be killed when the air comes on.”

“Turn on the air,” my boy yells.

I head back up and force them both to get dressed. We now have to be out the door in 10 minutes. Neither child will walk down the stairs, so I agree to carry them down one at a time. They are 6 and 8, so carrying them together is too hard now. (Yes, I used to carry them both at the same time. Don’t ask.)

I take my daughter first. We get to the bottom and I set her on the last step. Just then, YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE THIS, the STUPID centipede comes running at us across the carpet. Misses my foot by a centimeter.

You can bet I screamed. My girl dashed back upstairs and slammed her door all the while screaming, “you lied, you lied!!”

My boy also retreats back into his room screeching.

Sigh. I have to kill it and produce a dead body if I want my children to ever leave their rooms. I could freak them out and explain that centipedes hide everywhere and one might be IN their rooms. But, come on. I’m not cruel. Or stupid. And I’d love to sleep again.

So I arm myself with my husband’s enormous shoe and look for it. I figure it’s hiding under the shoe basket. I attempt to call my boy for help, but it’s not happening.

I kick the basket with one foot and prepare to pounce. The creepy thing scurries out and WHACK I get him.

“He’s dead,” I yell. But I’m not 100 percent sure. It’s dark in the hall and maybe he scuttled away. Please let there be a dead bug on the floor. Please.

“You sure,” they both yell opening their doors a bit.

“I think so,” I say not wanting to lie again. “Not positive. Let me turn on the other light and look.”

I’ve never been so happy to see something dead. Curled up it was quite small.

“I’m sure. Come and see.”

Nope. I still had to carry them down. One by one I show them proof of its death. Still refusing to set foot on the floor, I also carry them TO the kitchen table. They both sit with their feet off the floor.

Only 5 minutes to go. As they down bowls of cereal, I quickly pack their lunches and realize I have NO time to make coffee. Did you catch that? NO COFFEE.

I bring their shoes to the table, triple check them for bugs and then carry them out the front door. Because, obviously, they are NOT walking on the carpet ever again.

We make it to school on time and a friend buys me Starbucks. Not bad.

Now let’s just hope they will walk on the carpet after school.

Then again, my arms are getting flabby…