Love

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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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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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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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Just a glimpse out the car window

He was sitting on the top step of the porch. He had no shirt on and his tan skin stood out in contrast to the stark white house. His jeans were dirty and he held a cigarette in one hand. His arms were crossed and he was leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. His blonde hair was sticking up in spots. His bare feet were on the step below him.

The light turned green and I stepped on the gas pedal. I took one last look at him and he lifted his face. Our eyes locked. It was just a second. Just one breath. I could feel tears in my eyes and I suddenly found it hard to breathe. The intensity and sadness of those blue eyes. The pain. The distress. I fought the urge to turn around and go to him.

“Mommy,” my girl said from the backseat.

“What?” I said swallowing hard and trying to concentrate on driving. Just a few more blocks and we would be to school.

“Did you see that man?” she said.

It was then that I looked back at her in the rearview mirror. She was clutching Panda, her protector bear, very tight. Her knees were drawn up and her eyes were wide.

“I did,” I replied trying to sound calm.

“That was so sad,” she said. I could hear the tears threatening to come.

“What man?” my son chimed up cheerfully. He had a bag of his sisters hair bands on his lap and was busy making bracelets for his friends.

“The sad man with no shirt,” my girl answered. “I hope he will be OK.”

“He will,” I told her.

“Good,” she said loosening her grip on Panda. Her head slumped to the side of her car seat.

“I’m tired now,” she said and yawned.

“Me too,” I said and reached for my coffee cup.

“What man?” my son said again and strained his neck to try to look behind us. Of course we were several blocks away now and almost to school.

“He’s gone,” my daughter replied. “But he will be OK.”

The rest of the ride to school was silent. We parked on the street and walked brother to class. After saying our good-byes and giving kisses we walked back to the car. Her kindergarten is at another school a few minutes drive away.

“Why do you think that man was sad?” my daughter asked as I started to drive.

“I have no idea,” I said.

“I think someone died,” she said. “But it will be OK. That person is in heaven and he will see them again.”

“Yes, that’s true,” I said.

“I love you mommy,” she said.

“I love you.”

We parked at her school and held hands as we walked to the play structure. She ran around happily showing Panda all the things she can do now.

Her teacher played the flute and she ran off. Panda and I both waved good-bye.

She is going to be OK.

I’m going to be OK.

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Stupid, bad mommy

Holding her hands back as she attempts to punch me, I forget about her feet and one connects with my side. Hard. All of her limbs are in motion with the intent on doing damage. She is still small and I can handle her blows.

It’s what is coming out of her mouth that feels like I’m being repeatedly stabbed with a rusty knife blade soaked in poison.

“I hate you!”

“Your a bad mommy!”

“I wish I’d never been born because your so bad!”

“Your a stupid, ugly mommy!”

Each hurtful phrase is followed by a scream that comes from deep inside. It shakes her whole body and seems painful. I hold back my tears and try to remember…she is only 6. She is in pain.

But it hurts.

It feels like I’ve failed at the most important job in the world, being her mother. I’ve failed to give her the tools to handle things.

My poor sweet, sensitive girl.

From the time she started talking it was clear she has strong feelings and emotions. She thinks about things little ones should not and comes up with phrases that often leave me speechless. She is always concerned with how people feel and is often brought to tears when hearing a story about someone sad.

For those reasons, and many others, I have to be careful of what she is exposed to. We limit media and she attends a Waldorf school. But I can’t shield her from every hurt and, truthfully, I don’t want to.

This “I hate you” stuff is new. This is the first full week of school and 3 out of the 4 evenings have ended with an outburst (each getting progressively longer and meaner). After the rage comes the real tears and we get to the hurt and pain. Then, most horribly, it ends with guilt.

“I’m a bad kid.”

“Your a good mommy and I’m just awful to you.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Those words twist the knife and I want to run out of the room sobbing.

The truth behind all this pain is that my girl wants a best friend. She is obsessed with the idea of having someone she can count on. Someone she can trust. I’ve explained that it takes time to build friendships and that she just needs to play with everyone right now.

“Time is all you need.”

“Just keep being yourself and people will line up to be your friend.”

“You are awesome. You are amazing. Give people time to see that.”

I even brought out the old Girl Scout song:

“Make new friends

But keep the old

One is silver

And the others gold”

She wants it so bad that every interaction becomes “is she my best friend or not?” Then she decides the answer is no and is as heartbroken as she will be when her first boyfriend dumps her.

I’m not stupid and can see the correlation between her pain and my own. I know that even at age 6 she can feel her mothers depression. I am not whole right now. I’m broken and I can’t help but feel that she senses it.

How can I expect her to be strong, resilient and confident when I am not?

I hate this.

I want to give her skills that help her find meaning and love.

I want her to feel whole and confident.

I want her to stop freaking out and saying mean things, because this mom can’t take much more. Words freaking hurt.

How can I do all that? I have no clue.

I know some of the answers can be found by seeking Gods help. It keeps coming back to that. We read her book about guardian angels last night and she found some comfort in that. I’m talking to her more about prayer and we are going to start praying together.

My daughter is amazing. I am certain she is destined to do something great with her life.

I only wish I could fast forward through this hard stuff. But, of course, this is the stuff parenting is made of. The hard stuff.

I just hope I survive.

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Bowie, friends and finding order

I am in love with the Goblin King.

If you have no idea what I’m talking about, then we can’t be friends. Sorry.

The Goblin King, aka Jareth (which I would have named my son if my husband hadn’t vetoed it), aka David Bowie is from the 1986 movie “Labyrinth.” I can’t explain my love. Maybe it’s his voice, or that crystal ball, or the idea that there is this magical King out there waiting to whisk me away when the world gets too hard. I don’t know. I just know that I love him and he makes me happy.

This week I’m clinging to things that I love. I’m holding on tight to family and saying yes to friends. I’m letting life happen and happiness in. I’m telling depression to take a freaking hike already. I’m sick of your face.

I went to karaoke with two of my dearest friends from high school. One of them just drove her daughter to college. The other just lost her mother. We clung to each other and it was like no time had passed. We song/screamed/laughed our way through “Love Shack” and all seemed right with the world.IMAG2138

I went to a throwback 80s concert and danced like a crazy person. We moved from our cramped seat on the floor to the open bleachers. With space on both sides and the air whipping through my hair, I danced so hard that my legs are still sore two days later. “The Safety Dance,” “Pop Goes the World,” “The Metro,” “Take My Breath Away,” “A Little Respect” and “What is Love.” Yep. Even rocked a pink side ponytail and jelly bracelets.

The summer was filled with last minute play dates, spontaneous road trips and way too much eating out. It was everything summer should be. But I’m lost. I’m realizing that I need order. Predictability. Rhythm. Whatever you call it, I do better with it. So, I made a family menu and schedule. Even posted it on the fridge. Just that act made me feel a bit more in control (a topic I’ll tackle at some point).

A new book always does wonders for me.  I started reading “Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children” by Ransom Riggs. Not something I would normally read, but it’s good.  Scary, intriguing and hard to put down.

This is the kids first whole week of school. We made it through the morning with nobody yelling or crying (not even me!) We were on time and the kids skipped off to their friends without looking back. Success.

As I head into this week, I will hold tight to my dear friends, dance every chance I get (sorry kids) and make sure to get a daily dose of my dear Goblin King. I hope you find a little peace and love today (just hands off my Goblin King!)

“There’s such a fooled heart
Beating so fast in search of new dreams
A love that will last within your heart
I’ll place the moon within your heart”

–David Bowie, “As the World Falls Down”

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Waving the white flag

I want off.

This summer has been the craziest of my life. Up. Down. Up. Down. Happy. Sad. Love. Death.

I want off.

Yesterday I almost gave up. As I curled up and cried I wished for an escape pod. Just push the button and it all ends. I surrender. Stop the pain. I’m done.

Even my beautiful children’s faces were not enough. I still wanted out.

As I type those words my gut clenches at the ugly reality of that. I’m weak and broken. It’s embarrassing, self-imposed and a result of choices I’ve made.

I am a free person. Every choice I have made in my life has been my own. That is something that I’m ungrateful for. Not worthy of.

That’s the gift of God right? Free will. The ability to walk our own path. And I live in a country where I have that right afforded to me by law. Nobody is forcing anything on me. It’s all me.

My faith is shaken so much that I have been doubting that God is even real. I’ve been feeling ignored, unloved and forgotten.

How can we all just keep doing this? How can we walk around in pain with our fake smiles? What am I missing?

I keep having moments of clarity where I think I’ve made progress. I find the puzzle piece that will make it all fit together. These moments are happening more and more. Its like God is gently whispering truth into my ear, but I’m not listening.

I’m making the choice to be unhappy.

It keeps coming back to my core belief that I am unworthy of happiness and not deserving of love.

I’ve been combating that belief, but it’s still holding on. It’s controlling my behavior and thoughts.

I am craving attention. I’m like a toddler begging for everyone to hold me. I want to be looked at, touched, admired and loved. I want to be thought of as someone fun to be around. I want to make others smile. I want to take all my friends pain away and make them happy.

My cup has giant holes in it and it’s never going to be filled up.

It has to come back to faith. To God. To surrendering and allowing myself to believe again. I don’t have the answers and never will. Happiness is not something I can get or understand. There is no magic formula.

All summer I have been dancing on the rim of a cliff. I teeter and then catch myself. Yesterday I fell. Hard. It’s time to surrender and put things in His hands. Stop trying to make my own choices or even understand.

So I will pray. I will be silent and sit still. I will listen and stop questioning.

I have no illusions of it being easy. Rebuilding faith, one that was never really strong, is not going to be easy. But it is the only way for me.

I need love. Please be generous with it when you see me and I will repay you with all I have. I will pray for us all.

May God help me, for I cannot do this alone anymore.

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Shards of life

I am a beautiful glass vase that keeps being filled with flowers that then rot and die.

Beauty.
Rot.
Repeat.

Now the vase has been dropped and broken into shards of glass. The pieces are uneven and sharp. Some are beautiful. Many are ugly. It might not ever fit back the way it was before. But that’s a good thing.

It’s a crazy mess and I want to share some shards with you.

*Floating down the Truckee River with my crazy mom, the beautiful Liz and all the kids. Water fights with strangers. Laughing so hard as we crashed into things like rocks, rafts and bridges.

*Watching my daughter lose it. Completely. Screaming and calling me the worst mom in the world while people floated by on their rafts. I may or may not have wished to drown at that point.

*Getting a text that one of my oldest, dearest friends, my dear Angy, her mom Gloria was in the hospital. My arms literally ached to hold her and be there for her.

*Finally being with Angy as she had to see her mom like that. Hearing words that nobody wants to hear. Feeling like the most important thing in the world was being there.

*Knowing I could trust my mother and my friend Liz with my children, so I could release that and be present.

*Seeing the strength, courage and poise with which Angy handled things. She has been and always will be a beacon of light in my life. She is a truly amazing person.

*Seeing her father Earl broken as he couldn’t bear to see his love like that. The love they shared was so intense and present that I felt it was a physical thing I could see.

*Sitting with Earl as he told me story after story about Gloria – how they met, courted, fragments of memories they shared. “I was never nothin’, but she made me feel like somethin’.” Those words are some of the most beautiful I’ve ever heard in my life.

*Holding my friend as her mother died. Feeling that intense pain like a physical stab. A pain we all have to endure over and over. Knowing that just being with her, holding her, crying with her, was some comfort. Feeling our humanity and fragility together.

*Watching my son learn to shoot a BB gun with Earl. As they knocked down cans in the backyard, it was like time was stopped. I was a kid again, but I had my boy with me.

*Trying to understand my husbands’ reaction and realizing that some pain never goes away. Some things can’t be fixed.

*Knowing my grandfather is battling cancer and that I won’t be able to be there with him. Hurting that I can’t see his beautiful eyes in person again or hear him play his guitar and sing.

*Making the decision to send my mom to see her dad. Makes no sense financially, but seeing the tears in her eyes as I told her to pack and that she was going…worth everything.

*The kids and I drove her to San Francisco for her flight. It was stressful, the kids had to pee, their was traffic and we almost didn’t make it. But she did. She is there. She is probably hugging her dad right now as I type this. That makes my heart sing.

*Realizing it was 3:30 p.m. in San Francisco and that there was no way I wanted to sit in traffic for hours. So, with tank tops and not much of a plan, we parked at Fisherman’s Wharf. We walked around and froze. Ended up on an amphibious vehicle. It drove around S.F. then drove into the bay. Kids got to steer. Talked with the sweetest couple from Denmark celebrating their 10th anniversary. Love was pouring out of them.

*Sitting in my friend Sondra’s backyard drinking coffee and hearing our kids play together. Knowing she will be by my side always. She loves all of my pieces..and I hers.

*Coming to terms with my own unhappiness and realizing that I can’t fix everything. Breaking down and discovering that I try to make everyone happy, but that I cannot. I can only really make me happy and I’m failing. I’m not responsible for others happiness. Still not sure I believe that.

*Seeing how many people care for me. They are coming out of the woodwork and they are all saying the same thing, “so glad you are back, we missed you.”

*Making a plan to work on my strength. I need to get strong, physically and mentally. It’s the path I need to be on. It’s the hard work I need to do.

*Playing babies with my daughter, seeing her love and care for my old doll Nathaniel wearing clothes and diapers from Cooper’s baby wardrobe. She can be so gentle and kind.

*Ironing my beautiful, white tablecloth for Gloria’s celebration of life tonight. Spraying it with starch and fighting all the wrinkles. It will be filled with flowers and pictures. Nobody will see the imperfections. They will see the beauty of the cloth. The beauty of life. The beauty of Gloria and the love she inspired.

So, those are the shards – glorious, sharp, jagged and uneven. I’m fitting them back together. It’s going to be a beautiful, strong vase that you can count on. It will just take time.

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My boy

The events in Boston are still on my mind. As I wrote this post about my boy, the significance of the 8-year-old that was killed was present with me. I had a hard parenting day and needed to write about it, but I realize that I’m very lucky to have this problem. Damn lucky.

I’m losing it. I’m losing him.

He just won’t listen to me.

Although he is now getting out of bed in the morning, thanks to an alarm clock, he is still not getting dressed or coming down to breakfast without repeated pleas that end in yelling and me threatening to send him to school without food.

No carpool this week because he has created a story of Teddy and Mousey, two of his stuffed animals, that has taken on a life of its own. It involves lots of exploding cakes and moldy cheese. Its been going on since September, but we’ve all had enough. Really. ENOUGH.

In class today I witnessed him ignoring his handwork teacher. Then he was making sounds during the quiet moment she asked for. Cat sounds. Loudly. Followed by giggles.

His karate teacher had to tell him repeatedly to stop daydreaming and to pay attention. When he comes out of class he says, “I had the best chamber kick recoil.”

He was supposed to be brushing his teeth, but instead I find him banging two toothbrushes on the counter, shaking his butt, singing to himself and watching all this in the mirror.

Annoyance.
Anger.
Fear.
Embarrassment.
Disappointment.

I’m not supposed to feel that way. His behavior is not supposed to reflect on me. I try to stop the tirade against myself that I know is coming, but I can’t.

Am I failing him? What could I have done differently? I wasn’t present enough. He didn’t get enough protein. I should have been more patient. Did he get enough sleep? I should laugh more. Give more hugs. He is only 8. Lighten up! He is just a kid. But is he turning into a brat? Is he becoming that kid you don’t want your kid around? Am I that mom? I don’t know what I’m doing. Panic.

Then it’s bedtime. We read two chapters of book eight in the Lemony Snicket series. He begs for one more, but I say it’s late. I’m tired.

He pulls my face toward him. He gives me my kisses. Forehead, both eyes, cheeks and chin. Nose rubs followed by eight kisses on the nose and one big smooch on the lips. I return them in the exact order. He looks at me with his glasses off. His eyes red and tired.

“I love you mommy.”
“I love you too.”
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes.”
He grabs my face.
“I love you mommy,” he says again.

Melted. Renewed. Reassured. Everything is going to be OK. We have another day together and it’s everything.