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Just another lockdown, move along now

“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.

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What makes you happy?

I can remember the conversation very clearly.

“What makes you happy?” a friend asked me.

“My family” I responded automatically.

“What else?” she asked with a smile.

I had nothing. My mind was completely blank. I tried to change the subject, but she wasn’t letting it go so easily.

“What do you like to do?” she asked. “When the kids are not with you, what is it that brings you joy?”

I felt cornered and my defenses went up. What was she getting at? Was my life terrible or something? Isn’t being a mom enough?

“I don’t know,” I said.

The words hung in the air and I started to marvel at them.

I really DID NOT know. I had lost myself and I had no idea it had even happened. I remember feeling a sense of complete awe at the notion that I had nothing separate from my children. How had I let motherhood be everything? How could I have not?

That was a year ago. Since that time I have found some answers.

What makes me happy?

Family. My children continue to be a huge source of my happiness. They make things interesting, fun and challenging. They constantly test my patience, tug at my heart and show me things that I would never have seen without them. They are my inspiration.

Writing. The very act of sitting down and composing my thoughts fills me with indescribable joy. This blog has allowed me an outlet for working things out and just expressing the things I hold inside so tightly. It’s like a coil has been unwound and the words often pour out quicker than I can type.

Friends. Being open has allowed me to really meet some amazing people over the last year. I have been given permission to be myself and it has created space for some incredible connections. The feeling that I am alone is slowing being replaced by that of community, love and support.

Dance. How had I ever forgotten how wonderful it feels to just let your body move to music? There is nothing like letting my entire being be moved by a beating drum. Forgetting everything and just swaying, jumping, prancing and feeling. I can’t live without it again.

Service. I had the opportunity this year to help several friends in times of crisis. I allowed myself to be in a forgiving, open and vulnerable position. What I received was a feeling of self-worth and love that I had forgotten about. “Only a life lived for others is a life worthwhile.” — Albert Einstein

It is a New Year. I told myself that I would not write a resolution or reflection blog.

Shit.

Looks like I just did.

I guess pulling out that new calendar makes us reflect, even if we don’t want to.

My kids are obsessed with looking at pictures of the past year and talking about the year to come.

Did you know I will be 10 this year mom? Yes, son. I hate it.

Did you know I will start first grade this year mom? Yes, daughter. I hate it.

So, following in the footsteps of the brilliant Renegade Mothering, I will make an Honest Resolution.

I will not forget what makes me happy.

That’s it.

I think I can do it.

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The Christmas That Was

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.

neck

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Even at Christmas, you can’t always get what you want

Putting away the laundry I noticed a note on my husband’s nightstand. It was addressed to him and included our full address and a drawn picture of a little dog next to a tree. I opened it up and this is what I saw:

dog

My heart dropped and I sat down and cried. Just a few quick tears. Then I wiped my eyes and finished the laundry.

Sometimes you have to break your kids heart and it hurts.

For years he has been asking for a dog. Lilly was our neighbors dog. She is an adorable white mutt who is in love with my boy. She used to dig under the fence and come into our yard anytime he was outside. She would cry at our door for him to come play with her. Then the neighbors had to move. They could not take Lilly with them and noticed the bond between boy and dog. They gave him Lilly.

Dad said no. He does not want a dog. Trust me, he will not budge on the subject.

So Lilly went to live with grandma. My boy loves staying at her house and seeing his dog. Almost every time he comes home from a night with his dog, he cries and tells me how much it hurts that he can’t have Lilly. The dog also seems to cry and grandma says she mopes for days after he leaves.

I have had more conversations/arguments about this dog situation with my husband than I care to admit. He is very set in his decision. It is hard and heartbreaking. He is a loving and kind man, but his inability to see how much pain this causes his boy drives me to no end.

My boy never tells daddy how he feels. He rages and cries at me about the dog situation, but never his dad.

This letter was the first time he really tried to tell daddy how he feels. I was sad and proud at the same time.

He wrote to Santa too and said all he wants for Christmas is for his dog to come home to him.

It is not happening and Christmas morning he will be sad.

But he won’t be alone.

Although this seems like a huge deal in my heart, I know there are kids out there asking for things far more precious than a dog. There are kids that ask Santa for a mom or a dad, work for their parents, food to eat or a home. Other kids ask for peace in their lives or for a family to be whole again after divorce.

All of these things break my heart. I wish I had the power to take pain away from all children.

But I can’t. I cannot even give my boy what he wants most.

dog2

But I do have the power to be positive and to not make him resent his father for his choice. I can make his Christmas special by focusing on love, togetherness and family. We are blessed in ways that my boy can’t even comprehend.

My dearest friend is facing her first Christmas since losing her mother. My grandfather is suffering from terminal cancer and is facing the reality of this being his last Christmas. A close family member is fighting to keep her family together and struggling with mental health issues. So much sadness.

Not getting a dog seems pretty small compared to all that.

So I will choose happiness and joy for Christmas. I will focus on all that is good. I will surround myself with friends and family and love up everyone I can.

It might just turn out to be a Merry Christmas after all.

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Ever have that feeling?

We are seated in the dark theater listening to someone introduce the play. My boy is on my right. His nice button-up shirt and tie are hidden under the slightly stained sweatshirt he refuses to take off right now. I pull his hood off his head and he gives me a little smile. My daughter sits to my left with a rather sparkly dress on and a stuffed puppy on her lap. As the stage goes dark they both grab my hands and I feel it.

The actors take their marks and the lights come on. The harmony of voices, the costumes, the decorations and my two children’s faces proves too much for me again. The feeling starts low and creeps up into my chest. My heart beats faster and before I know it I’m slightly gasping. Then the tears start forming. I quickly let go of their hands.

“Get it together,” I tell myself. I focus on breath and push the feeling down. I am successful for the moment and watch the story unfold in front of me.

Ever since I was a little girl the theater has done this to me. I can remember seeing my first play. It was outdoors and was Shakespeare’s “Midsummer Night’s Dream.” I remember having that feeling and not understanding it. I thought maybe I was scared. My heart beat quickly and the tears came. I hid my face in embarrassment. At the end of the play I silently cried happy tears and knew I was hooked.

Since then I see theater as much as I can. I have taken my kids to see productions since they could walk. The magic of the theater is so real and powerful to me. I have seen a few productions that were, to put it kindly, unfortunate. But the majority of time I am so transfixed and emotionally invested that I leave the theater changed.

The first Broadway show I saw was the traveling cast of “Aida.” I was an adult and had taken my mother-in-law for her birthday. I didn’t know what I was in for. The power of that show blew me away. I literally could not talk afterward.

Since then I have been to New York twice and seen four shows. The first show I saw was “42nd Street.” It opens with the curtain pulled up to revel only the dancers feet. I can still feel the rush of excitement at the sight and sound of that line of dancers tapping away.

For years I have tried to figure out why theater creates this feeling of “losing it” within me. Even silly plays, like “Urinetown” (which is one of my favorites), creates a swelling of emotion that I find challenging to control.

For me, I think it’s a combination of lots of things. First, not having many opportunities to just let loose and feel things fully. A dark theater is a perfect place to think and feel. Secondly, a complete awe of the talent that God has given these actors, dancers, singers, writers, costume designers and musicians. All that goes into a production is not lost on me.

This leads me back to the theater last weekend. My father and stepmother had bought our family tickets to see “It’s a Wonderful Life” at the Sacramento Theater Company. The movie is a classic that many are familiar with. I had not seen it in years and had forgotten most of the storyline. My children had never seen it. So we were able to experience it without comparison or expectations – the best way in my opinion.

The production is amazing. The two leads have incredible voices and the story is just perfect for this time of year. When George Bailey yells at his family, I was shaking and had to swallow lots to calm myself. When he lost all hope on the bridge, I swear he looked right at me as he belted out the most amazing song. The tears flowed freely down my face off and on the entire play. At the finale, I sneaked a glance at my kids and was not surprised to see tears in both their eyes as well.

When we left the theater my daughter pulled me down to her. Her eyes sparkled and she smiled wide.

“The moral of that story is that you should be happy with what you have,” she says very cheerfully. “I am.”

Holding both my children’s hands we walk outside together.

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Round and round we go

Snuggled in my blankets I hear him enter the room sobbing.

“Mommy,” he says and wiggles right in next to me. “Sister called me stupid.”

Seconds later, my daughter enters also in sobs.

“Mommy,” she says and snuggles up to me on the other side. “Brother kicked me.”

I say nothing. They try to grab more of me than the other one and sob harder. I keep them apart. I cradle one in each arm and just breath.

My eyes have not even opened yet and here we are again. This fight is so familiar that I could almost script the entire rest of the conversation. I wait for it to come. Two minutes pass.

“She never lets me teach her anything. I am supposed to be the big brother and she won’t let me do my job.” Sobs.

Silence. Two minutes pass.

“He always tells me how to do everything and it makes me feel stupid. I never get to teach anyone anything. I hate being the littlest in the family.” Sobs.

This exact conversation happens about once a month. I never know where. Sometimes it’s in the car on the way home from school. Often it’s at bedtime. Today, 5:30 a.m. in my bed.

They are at that breaking point again with their roles in the family and they push each other to this point of frustration. I have tried many different tactics; lecturing, sending them to their rooms, yelling, storytelling. This morning I just let it be. Let the words hang in the air.

Five minutes pass.

They start reaching across me to each other in a loving manner. Then my boy climbs over me and snuggles right into his sister.

“I wuv you wowa” he coos.

“I wuv you browver” she coos back.

I take another deep breath, get out of bed and head for the shower.

When I come out they are both under the covers singing at the top of their lungs:

“Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat.

Please to put a penny in the old man’s hat.

If you haven’t got a penny, a hay penny will do.

If you haven’t got a hay penny, God please you.”

Peace, silliness and love. Until the next round…

by

Letter to my boy: Tenderness, love and magic

My dearest Cooper,

cooperWhen you came up to me this morning and rubbed your head against my back you may have missed my smile. I know I was busy making breakfast and packing lunches, but I noticed your little purr and the soft way you said “mamma.” I might have barked at you to get ready, but inside my heart was melting at the way you are still so tender and loving.

You are almost 9 years old and that’s huge. All the things I read about that age tell me that you will stop believing in magic and that you are going to change this year. I have been bracing myself for it. I’m going to do my best to be OK with this change. I promise.

But right now, I want to capture the beauty that is you.

Every time I find you snuggled in your stuffy pit talking sweetly to your little friends, I can’t help but swoon. I love the little voices you use and the way you treat them all like living beings in your care.

When we were driving home from school the other day, you started gushing about how much you love stories about fairytale creatures, talking animals and magic. Your love for reading and books is amazing. You are a bit like your mom, son.

I push you to get ready every morning and you get so mad at me. You want to sit and read. You want to cuddle with your stuffed animals and me. It hurts me to literally push you away and make you get ready. It’s the way of the world, my love. We have to do our jobs and yours is to learn. But know that my heart aches for you all day.

Although it may not seem like it, I look forward to our laying in bed reading every night. I’m so filled with joy that you still let me read to you. I love sharing in new stories and love how we both say, “just one more chapter” until daddy tells us we need to go to bed.

Then the kisses. Still the same pattern of kisses you started at age three. Forehead, eyes, cheeks, chin, 8 on the nose (soon to be 9) and then the lips. I sometimes rush through them eager for my time alone, but you always grab my face and slow it down. You make me be in moment with you and I love that about you.

There is a tenderness of spirit about you that draws people to you. I see it at school. All the children in your class love you and it’s much deserved. You do not try to compete or make others feel bad. You share everything you have and rarely ask for anything. Your heart is so big.

This is where my fear for you comes in. The world is not a kind place. You have already learned a little about cancer, death and divorce. You have asked me lots of questions and I always answer them honestly. But you don’t really know about how mean, awful and horrible people can be.

There are people who are going to see your kindness as weakness. They are going to use you. I hope to teach you that these people are not worthy of your attention and love, but I know that you will have to learn some lessons the hard way.

I wish I could shield you from the pain headed your way. But I can’t. You will someday find out that magic is not real in the sense you believe it now. It will make you so sad and upset. It did me. But know this, my love, that some magic is real. I hope you can see it and believe and that the fall isn’t too hard for you.

Someday soon your going to tell me that you hate your yellow room that still has all the decorations I loving put up when I was pregnant with you. When that happens I will try, with all my might, to be gracious and understanding. I will let you design your own space and will be excited to see what you come up with.

Each day you grow more into your own person. Your starting to write now and I love reading your silly stories about Pie Trees and Super Dogs. Then you write something like this: “In my mind, sight does not exist.” Wow.

I love how you can stare for hours at catalogs of toys that you want, but still ask Santa and the Elves for a surprise. “It’s the most important part,” you say. You have such joy and unwavering faith. You never question magic. You just believe.

When you sit and read to your sister I can’t even tell you how proud that makes me. You sound out the words so patiently with her. When she yells at you, which she eventually does, you stop. I can see your hurt and sometimes you are brought to tears by her. But you know that she loves you more than anything else and your quick forgiveness and acceptance of her is one of your greatest strengths.

When I asked you what part you want in the class play, you responded, “I’m not good at that stuff, so I probably won’t get a big part.” No! I don’t want you to limit yourself. Don’t label yourself as not good at something. I tried, and failed, to convey that to you. Your anger and annoyance at me was a clear sign that I needed to back off, and I did. I just want you to know, and believe, that you can do anything you want. ANYTHING!

Yesterday I started karate class. I had been talking about it for a long time and you kept encouraging me to go. I was panicked and almost didn’t do it. I showed that vulnerability to you and told you how scared I was to try something new. You said, “Just do it mom. You will be great! I was scared at first too, but look how good I am now.”

You were right. It was so fun. Seeing how proud you were of me was BY FAR the best part. I loved how you spent time this morning showing me the correct way to pivot my foot for a round-house kick. It’s so fun to share in something you love so much. I can’t wait to go again and learn more.

I CAN do anything, just like you. We can learn and test that together my boy.

I am headed to your class today to celebrate Chanukah with you. I know you won’t acknowledge I am there, you rarely do. But that’s OK. I will observe you and love you from afar. I always will.

Rarely do I take a moment to really marvel at how wonderful it is to be your mother. Today it hit me hard and brought me to tears. You make everything I do worth it. You are my light and I am so honored to be your mom.

Love you more than anything,

Your mamma

karate

by

Mommy Made: Advent Stars

I am not that mom. You know the one I’m talking about, right? The mom who makes the most beautiful knitted sweaters without a pattern, creates elaborate quilts of their own personal design and makes every Christmas gift by hand. Not me.

I have nothing against those moms at all. In fact, I admire and aspire to be like them. However, my crafts never quite become Pinterest worthy. But I still try. Why? Because I actually love making stuff. There is nothing like using your hands to create something for those that you love. Lucky for me, my kids are super impressed with everything I make.

I have been wanting to make a beautiful advent calendar for years. The time always creeps up. It’s always the same: What’s that? Advent starts tomorrow? Yikes! Guess we are going to use the old snowman calendar again. It’s not a terrible calendar, but the pockets are tiny and putting anything but a penny for each kid is pretty hard. Last year I made scavenger hunts with clues to their gifts each day. It was very time-consuming and really a bit overkill.

This year I wanted to do something different. After spending a very humbling hour searching online, I came to two conclusions:

1) I lack the skills and time to do something amazing

2) Maybe I am over thinking this

1212_xmas_adventstarsI did find something that I fell in love with. Paper stars. Did you know you can sew paper?? I had no clue. So I decided this was the project for me. Looks easy and beautiful.

Not for me. I struggled through this project and almost gave up many times. It took me so much longer than it should have. A crafty mom could complete this in about 20 minutes. For me? About 400 hours.

First, I had no brown postal paper. I thought about getting some, but I really wanted to use what I already had. So I used construction paper. The colors were…umm…not entirely Christmas. But I thought, what the heck? So I set out cutting the stars. After about 50 I began thinking this was a doomed project. I ended up having to do math. Not my favorite.  The total number of stars was 96.

Then my stars were not big enough to sew anything inside them. I almost abandoned the project again, but I decided to make it pouches. I sewed three sides on the sewing machine and left the top open:

sew

After 100 hours, I had 24 star pouches for each kid. No turning back now.

Then it was time to stuff them. I decided to do half the stars as “Christmas Tasks” — little pieces of paper with tasks like “make a card for someone,” “sing Christmas carols loud on the way to school” and “do something kind for someone today.” The other half of the stars would have Legos inside. Sounded easy enough. Nope.

The Legos kept falling out. So I decided I had to string them up first. So I hole-punched the back of each star and strung them up on some leftover yarn I had.

holepunch

I could not fill them yet because the stars would not stay put. So I used tacks to attach them to the kids walls above their beds. It was so much bigger than I had imagined, so I had to bunch them up.

Time to fill them up. I spent a fair amount of time figuring out that the Lego sets needed to be in little bags in order for them to not spill out the top. I tore two of the stars off the string while stuffing, but fixed that with a little tape.

Viola! Easy as…nope. Not easy.

Finally it was time to show the kids why mom had been saying, “don’t come up here I’m making something for you” for days and days.

cooperstars

Here is my boy’s finished Advent Stars. The stuffed animals and my boy both cheered. “Awesome mom!”

lolastars

I added a ribbon in the middle and a little bell on both sides. My daughter hugged me and proclaimed me, “the best mommy in the world.”

Although nobody is going to pin this project, I won. The kids are super excited to have their own advent calendar in their own rooms AND I finished it!

Happy first day of Advent to you all. I’ll be taking a nap now.

by

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.

by

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!