True Meaning of Christmas

One of my favorite Christmas movies is the Grinch.  My favorite line in the movie - the one that brings me to well up with tears every.single.time is this one:

"Maybe Christmas, he thought... doesn't come from a store. Maybe Christmas, perhaps... means a little bit more."

By the same token I love watching Linus school those Peanuts kids on the real meaning of Christmas by reciting the Christmas Story, from the bible, by rote.

Oh, I am just a sucker for all the sappy sweet, you-gotta-know-that-Christmas-isn't-about-the-presents things, but the reason my very favorite seasonal movie is Miracle on 34th Street? Is because I, too, believe in Santa.

What, you say?  You don't REALLY believe in Santa?  I mean, honestly?

Yes.  Yes I do.  For real.

You may call Santa something else but whatever he is named, Santa is very, very real.  Oh, I have solid proof.  I've been that parent praying for the same Tickle Me Elmo or Cabbage Patch doll or game console that other parents are trading punches for or camping out for for days outside the loading dock at ToysRUs.  Yet I, unlike the other parents, inevitably walk into the store right as they are unloading the box of the most sought after Gift of the Year and manage to procure one with no stress, strife or bruises.

Dia asks for the most ridiculous things.  Komodo Dragon, discontinued toys (a particular E.T.) and a platypus have all been Santa requests.  Every year, Santa finds these non-existent treasures like they are staples on a grocery store shelf.  Last year - the year of the platypus - he not only found the platypus, he even found a book about platypuses (platypi?) written by an author whose name was "Dia." Not even kidding.  He's found us a Malificent's dragon costume all the way from the U.K., won us auctions on eBay and always ensures I get amazing parking spaces.  He's not messing around, that Santa.  He makes certain that the coveted gift - the one so sacred as to be saved off for Santa - is always, always under that tree.


No, Christmas is not about the toys.  Well, yes it is.  But by toys, I mean the magic.  You have to remember that when you are a child, the magic is real.  It's palpable.  And if you - as the parent - if you are quiet, if you put away the well-intended hard knocks lessons for when life actually hands them out and let the kids be kids for real, you can feel the magic too.

Santa is that - the magic, the belief that there is something bigger than us watching out for us.  He's all the good in people.  He's what makes us open up and forgive, make new friends, love each other through everything and anything.  He's all that's right in this world.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.

Fitted Sheets and Spiders

It was a rare phone call.  It was made even rarer still by the content: He thought he'd come see Dia. 

Being that a visit isn't an every day thing, I suggested he take her ice skating.  "She is taking lessons and I'm not much use for practice time since I don't know how to skate", I explained.

"You can't skate?" he said.
"No"
"Can you rollerblade?"
"No"
"Can you skateboard?"
"No"
"Can you ski?"
"No"
"Can you surf?"
"No"
"What can you do?"

Wow.  I had to think about that one.  I muttered something about how I could run slowly for a very long time and changed the subject.  But after we hung up, it lingered.  What can I do?  I had a weird childhood where I didn't participate in any sports or clubs and everything I dabbled in, I did just that: dabble.  I took piano, sort of took ballet (when I was 6), had some voice lessons...  Sort of. 

So what can I do? 

Last night on the drive home from the O.C., with Dia asleep and her snoring my soundtrack, I took inventory and it went a little something like this:

I can fold a fitted sheet.  Properly.  By myself.
and
I can catch spiders with my bare hands and take them outside.


I got stuck after that. 

Of course there are things I can do - like physically do them - but nothing well enough to be social about it.  I'm a wizard with finances and I write better than the average bear, but those aren't really marketable traits for social situations.  I don't know a lot of people that want to make a budget, balance their checkbook and write a journal entry over cocktails. 

After a few more snores from the backseat, it came to me. 

His ability to do all those things and more (he's an accomplished drummer and painter too) doesn't make up for his inability in the most important role we have.  Without being able to skate, ski, or balance on pretty much anything wobbly - I got this.  I'm her parent and I'm freaking good at it.  She probably wishes I could skate.  After all, she constantly begs me to "get off the wall" when we do go.  But I know for sure she wouldn't trade me for the world.  Skates or not.

So that's what I can do. 

Breaking Up is the Hardest Thing to Do

I'm considering breaking up with Facebook. Again. 

On one hand, I feel socially connected there.  I know what's going on in the lives of my friends near and (most especially) far away.  I've reconnected with childhood friends and distant family.  I see photos of them, their family and the places they go.  It's kind of awesome that way - like a Christmas photo card with the update letter enclosed 365 days a year.

Then there's the flipside. I admit I don't especially care about what people eat and I'm not really interested in their workout progress (though I totally get the motivation behind those posts).  I've had to eliminate certain people from my newsfeed just because they post every.single.thing.they do and, between that and the new super-annoying 'news' content (ads) Facebook interjects into the feed, I can't ever trudge through all that.  Plus I can get weary of the overly zealous sides of fences people stand on, and certainly my heart has broken on the occasions when I learn that someone has hateful feelings toward another entire group of people.  I'm still a little kid that way, and I wish everybody could just be nice.

But funny enough, those annoyances aren't what make me want to break up with Facebook.  It's the part where everyone's life looks so damn happy and shiny.  Kids going to their first day of the new school year with Mom AND Dad in tow.  Couples out on dates smiling into their phones for selfies.  A close-knit, cut-out-of-cream-cheese looking group of friends posting yet another FABulous night out.  Super moms posting their latest success in business, followed by an outing with the family, followed by a fabulous workout report, followed by a 'date night' photo with the hubby - all in one day.

It's that part of Facebook that makes me feel socially disconnected.  We don't have any of that, me and D.  We're not like everybody else!  Once more, I'm the weird kid...  just like in Jr. High School.  Why can't I just be like everyone else?

We don't have the Dad in tow for ANYthing.  He's never come to Dia's school - or anything of Dia's for that matter.  So that's out.  My selfies are just the 'self' part.  I don't have that plus one to take a selfie with.  So THAT's out..  I don't belong to a group of friends and regardless I can't afford regular babysitting if I did.  So nothing there.  AND I'm the furthest thing from a super mom.  Even if I do 'do it all,' the rub is I don't do it all well.  I mean, it's a good day when I manage to get Dia to school on time.

It's that old Green-Eyed Monster... No, I'm not talking about me - and my eyes are gray anyway...  No, I mean jealousy of course.  Or envy (is there a difference?).  Or just a mean case of IwishIhadthatitis. 

Truth is I don't wish anything BUT happiness and success and a wonderful, loving family for my friends.  When my friends suffer a loss or aren't leading fulfilling lives, I feel it too and my instinct is to fix it for them.  I don't secretly revel in the fact that, for now, I have it better.  Nor am I ever trying to win the 'whose life is worse' challenge.  I never want to win that and I don't like pity.  It's just that there IS this big void in me. And I do feel like I'm an outsider.  Like I don't fit in.  Plus there's this part that wishes that I'd done it better I guess.  That I'd chosen better?  That I could have been sharing the past 20 years with that person that has my back, that loves me as is, that walks hand-in-hand through life with me and wants to take ridiculous selfies in restaurants.   Most especially I wish that Dia could have had that - that which Tim and Chey lost early on as well.  Ah, guilt.  Regret.  Such glorious feelings.

It's not ALL Facebook's fault.  It's not that those feelings aren't always there and it's not that I can't have down days and mini pity parties all by myself without Facebook's help.  It's just that Facebook puts a magnifying glass on it.  It gives a weird rose-colored lens to everyone's life.  And though I'm old and wise enough to call bullshit on half of it... (we don't exactly air how pissed we are at our significant others, or how we just lost our shit on our kids for no reason, or how bad work sucks today (That's what blogs are for, huh?)) ... it's a little like watching a romantic comedy.  You know, logically, nothing ever happens like that.  Nothing's so black and white, so perfect-in-the-end, so shiny and happy.  Yet there's a part of you that allows yourself to believe in the perfection, if only for a moment, and that's what catches me up.

Oh, Facebook.  Perhaps you'll ruin yourself with all the ads (oh, I mean 'news') and we'll all have to resort to SnapChat or Vine or Instagram or (God forbid) calling each other.   Besides I just read one of your articles and it said  how wonderful being over-40 is, what with all the confidence we have in ourselves at this age.  So I got that goin' for me, which is nice.

Vanity

Today I saw a boy who was missing most of his right arm.  He was helping his mom load groceries into the trunk outside of the store.  When he was all finished he returned his cart to the store like a good citizen, walked back, got in the car and they drove away.  From my window at work, I could observe his struggles without gawking or making him feel uneasy.  I noticed his compensations –the way what was left of his arm was in a permanent bend and sometimes got in his way; the way he had to reach over himself to close the car door with his left arm; the off kilter lean he had to employ to use his short arm to straighten the cart on a downhill.  I noticed, too, after they drove away, that there were tears in my eyes.  

That was unexpected.  Why had I reacted so emotionally? 

Could it be that I was in awe of how in stride he seemed to take life?  No, I couldn’t be presumptuous enough to know anything of how well or badly he handled life, except to say that I’ve always held people who return their grocery carts in high esteem.   No, that wasn’t it though. 

Could it be that I’ve had too many pep talks with Dia lately trying to cheer her and help her understand her disease isn’t as bad a diagnosis as it could have been?  Perhaps because I’ve been thinking in terms of kids with challenges, having this kid with an obvious challenge just tweaked my already empathetic state?  No, that didn’t resonate either. I see kids with challenges every day.

I was about to chalk the tears up to hormones when it came to me.  Arms.  It was the arms.  

I’d just gone on a walk not an hour before this and as I passed reflective windows I caught a glimpse of my mirrored self in full profile... much to my disappointment.  “Those arms…” I had thought, “I hate those arms.”

I’ve been at war with my arms since I can remember.  I think it started when my modeling friend pointed out how we were the same size everywhere except that my arms were the size of her legs.  My legs were the size of her arms too, which kind of made it worse: skinny legs, big arms…  She had a good laugh about it, but I wasn’t amused.  I’m pretty sure that since that moment, no matter how much I work out or lose weight or tan, my arms are the part of me I hate most.

Yet here’s this kid with just one.  Me?  I have two of them.  They are functional and they are strong.  I can pick Dia up with just one, but I have the other handy in case I need to carry her for awhile.  My fingers can fly on this keyboard using both hands.  I can swim and dance and run without compromise.  Most importantly I can put both of them all the way around my kids and hold them tight. 

That little boy didn’t look like he was hating his life.  His mom wasn’t doting on him.  So I would guess he’s probably pretty well adjusted and would most likely be irritated at me for feeling badly for him (and maybe creeped out a little if he knew I watched from the window like that… sheesh).  Still, he’s never going to know what it feels like to put both his arms around someone he loves. 

Flabby or not, I do.  And for that gift, I really love them.

Happy Father's Day!

So, yeah, I hate Father's Day... (see Happy Father's Day? for reference) ... BUT

For real:

I am honored to know some of the best dads in the world.

At a recent crawfish boil held on another parental holiday (the one for Moms), I watched fathers interact with their kids on a loving level that is unparalleled.  I know they don't realize it - that's part of the beauty - but they are exceptional fathers.  That day and every day since, I am reminded that I am seriously blessed to be in their circle.

In fact, and in truth, my friends and Dia's friends' fathers are uncommonly wonderful.  We have in our midst a tremendous example of what it's like to be a hands-on and, more importantly, hearts-open type of dad.

I hesitate to call you out - I fear I may forget one or two and that would be tragic - but off the top of my head, there's a Twigg, a Bowen, a Murphy.... a Cullen, a Szerman, a Netterstrom (or 2) ... a Burke, a Ballentine, a Harper ... a Butler, a Wright, a Rice ... a Way, a Stacey, a Stetson ... a Sanchez, a Ruys, an Aquilano and a Ridenour.  You are each a beautiful, shining example of fatherhood.

And to Tim Brown, a certain favorite man of mine... I know you aren't a father, but you are the absolute best big brother any one could ever ask for.  What Dia is lacking in fatherdom, you have more than made up for in brotherhood.  I love you.

So Happy Father's Day everyone.  For real.

- KeC

Happy Father's Day?

I abhor Father's Day.

I hate it.

I can't freaking stand it.

If I see one more happy daddy with his happy kid frolicking through another happy field of happy flowers I'm going to vomit up my happy lunch.

If I have to view one more touching video mash-up of dads and their special kid moments I swear I'm going to smash-up my screen.

Am I a tad bitter?  Oh yeah.  Just a tad.

Early this month I made the mistake of asking Dia if she wanted to get her dad a card for Father's Day.  She did - more because she likes looking through the singing cards than because she wanted to brighten his day - but still she liked the idea.  Now I have this card I need to send.  Well, she needs to send.  Fortunately, there's no 'greatest dad' crap in there.  The sad, or truthful (or whatever) fact is that she would have nixed a card that said that anyway.  Still, it wishes him a happy Father's day and sings "Kung Fu Fighting" to him.

We will send it.
On time.
Without any chemical warfare secretly tucked inside.

Oh no - now before you go thinking I'm some psycho ex or some crazed housewife from Texas, let me get serious for a second.  It's not that I dislike him or wish him harm.  In truth, I don't.  It's just that I have this tremendous conflict.  See, there was this holiday some people make a big deal out of - Christmas?  You may have heard of it.  Well, she didn't hear from him at all during that season of joy.  In fact, 26 full weeks after his last visit, he finally delivered her Christmas presents - in March.  She declared them an early birthday present, but he refused that label and insisted that they were, indeed, Christmas presents.

He had that little hint, by the way, in case it had slipped his mind that her birthday was coming up.  Yet, on that special day he sent nothing... did nothing.  And because of that, the petty little childish non-compassionate horrible side of me feels like he doesn't deserve anything on any of his special days either.

Yet I should feel proud of Dia.  She wanted to give him something regardless of what she got in return.  That's pretty awesome and rare these days.  I should feel proud of myself too because somehow I instilled that in her - or at least didn't kill it with bitter words.  Those I swallow (talk about a bitter pill). She knows little of my disappointment in him.  It does her no good to know my opinion and it's not hers anyway.  She has the right and ability to make up her own mind.

And because of that, it is her decision - not mine - to send the card.  I'd rather deliver a big bag of burning manure to his doorstep, but I'm childish that way. 

- kec

Perspective

We'd been gone most of the day.  I walked into the house and immediately recognized the crime that had been committed.  I understood, by the damages, it must have happened soon after we'd left that morning.  The throw rug in front of the door was soaked through.  There were splashes of standing water under the dining table and the table cloth was a dark, wet version of itself.  Flowers were strewn across the floor.  The vase that once contained them, miraculously unbroken, was laying askew near the wine rack.

Starting Young

I knew who had committed it too. Obi's relentless quest for alternative drinking sources has often led him to cram his head into vases, lapping up the water inside.  Foolishly I had left him alone that day with a vase full of flowers (and their water) right out in the open.  (You know - like how they do in normal households where one doesn't hide their fresh flowers in a pantry or a linen closet... )  This tradition of actually displaying flowers was where I went wrong.  I knew better, and I paid for my oversight.

Assessing the water damage on my 1) wood floor and my 2) wooden dining table and my 3) wooden chairs ... was more than I could stand.  I just lost it.  "AAAaarrrggghhhhh!  Feck! Feck! FECK!" I roared out.  Despite frantically pulling up the linens and rugs and sopping up what lay underneath, I knew my efforts to save the floor boards was futile. They were already done-in having been sitting in pooled water for four hours by this time.  It was just one more thing.

That was the thing.  It was one more thing.  Mopping up the mess, I started ranting about how this was so not what I needed.  My poor house already has two broken sliding doors, a leaky garbage disposal, a doorframe that needs to be finished, walls that need touch-ups, others that need re-painting, and carpets that are begging to be replaced.  Oh, and my car has taken to screeching with every cold morning start-up...

My finances do not currently allow me to fix any of these matters. My little company is struggling to survive it's late start-up stage despite all of our constant attention, so salary increases must wait...and wait.

I'm listing off all of these things under and over my breath while Dia was literally cat wrangling to keep him out of my crazed way, assuring him he's "in a heap of trouble and should stay hidden for the rest of the night."  I didn't think she was listening to me.  But she's always listening.

"...and when I DO spend money on extras, it's never a trip, or new clothes, or a night out or something FUN, it's dropping $600 on the rheumatologist!" 

"Am I not WORTH it?"  she interuppted.

I looked up.  She had a grief-stricken look.  "Isn't it worth it to have ME?" she reiterated.

If you have never felt like a complete and total asshole, let me tell you it is unmistakable.  It storms through every vein in your body, courses through your system and seeps out your pores.

"Oh, no! Of course, you are worth it sweetie!"  I dropped the cloth in my hand, scooped her into my arms and held her in the biggest hug of our shared life.  Though the words that followed were reassuring and confessional that I was, indeed, a big jerk and that there was NOTHING more important to spend my money on and so on..., my thoughts were on wishing so much for a time machine.

Whoever believes in 'sticks and stones' and the crap that follows is fooling themselves.  Words do harm us and worse, they don't heal like a bruise.  They stick.  They become part of who we think we are.  That's why - even when your ridiculous rancid-water-drinking kitten ruins your new(ish) wood floors, you just have to count to 20, or 2000, and find your center, consider what's really important and shut the f*#$ up.

Lesson learned.  Again.

-kec

Attack of the Mommy Drones

SIGH!!!

I received this little tidbit in the newsletter from my daughter's school.  It appears we have lost our collective minds.  My comments (in red below):

(From Love and Logic by Dr. Charles Fay)

The "Energy Drain" approach was created to give adults a practical way of creating logical consequences that teach responsibility. Simply stated, the child (or teen) is required to replace energy "drained" from the adult by their misbehavior.
He lost me at "hello."  This is so NOT a logical consequence.  "Oh, John, how do you plan to replace the energy you drained from me when you blew that sale?" said no boss ever.

Deliver a strong dose of sincere empathy. "This is so sad."    
This isn't sad.  Puppies dying is sad.  Back-talking is not sad.  Let's not mix up the kid's emotions.  If we are going to deliver a strong dose of anything here, it should be "I know you didn't just (fill in the blank)." or, if we're going the feeling route, "Now you've gone and pissed me off."  Both are appropriate responses.

 Notify the youngster that their misbehavior drained your energy. "Oh sweetie. When you lie to me (or almost any other misbehavior), it drains energy right out of me."   

Said Scarlett O'Hara.  

Ask how he or she plans to replace the energy. "How are you planning to put that energy back?"  
Seriously?  You are asking a CHILD this?  Children don't know how they are going to put the orange juice back in the fridge half the time. 

If you hear, "I don't know," (You'll be lucky if you hear that much.  You'll probably just get a look like you are some sort of alien.) offer some payback options. "Some kids decide to do some of their mom's chores. How would that work? (Um, are they supposed to answer that honestly?) Some kids decide to hire and pay for a babysitter, so their parents can go out and relax. How would that work?"  
Oh for the love of God... You tell me, Mom.  How does that work? I don't see the kids caring that their hard-earned cash is being spent to get rid of you for an evening of burned-through bedtimes and junk food.

If the child completes the chores, thank them and don't lecture. "Thanks so much! I really appreciate it."  If the child refuses or forgets, don't warn or remind. Remember: Actions speak louder than words!     
Forgive me for being so literal here, but I think what you've said here is that 1) your child is being punished by being made to do your chores 2) your child didn't do said chores 3) you aren't warning them or reminding them of said chores 4) you believe they will eventually get around to it  5) you really haven't done this before, have you?

Oh, but what you want us to do is:

As a last resort, go on strike OR sell a toy to pay for the drain.  "What a bummer. I just don't think I have the energy to take you to Silly Willie's Fun Park this weekend." Or "What a bummer. You forgot to do those chores. No problem. I sold your Mutant Death Squad action figure to pay for a babysitter tonight." 

What kind of ubercrappy mind play is this?  Are we serious?  This is the very kind of back-handed manipulation that makes supertastically awful adults.  Don't you love those people?  You know the ones.  "Oh gee, since you didn't call me back when I texted you 50 times yesterday, I just figured you didn't care about your computer files any more so I deleted them all.  Bummer." 

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DISCLAIMER:  I love my daughter's school.  Seriously love it.  In no way is this a reflection on the school itself.
DISCLAIMER #2:  I do not yell at, spank, or disrespect my children in any way.  I was the original Attachment Parent (see Dr. Sears).
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A Happy Moment (or 26)

In case anyone needs a smile, clickety click below:

Buzzfeed (click here - you won't be sorry)

- Kec