Well i've made it to Christmas Eve, dear readers. Presents are bought and wrapped, cookies have been made, even the goddamn Elf has been moved every single night. Of course, the kids had to up the ante and start trying to give him a snack each night. In an attempt to prevent my finding moldy cheese sticks everywhere, I wrote the kids a note from him, in an elf-esque curly handwriting that took as long as calligraphy, explaining he can't eat human food. Well this began a letter writing campaign from the kids that require I eventually have the elf break into our computer and learn to type using the Curlz font. But even with all that I have not missed a night - yet.
We are preparing for Christmas Eve dinner - The Night of Seven Fishes. This includes H taking two days off from work to cook, and bringing enough seafood into the house that we could open or own Red Lobster, including a five pound whole octopus that he likes to randomly snatch from the refrigerator to terrify the kids. Today we will enjoy the fruits of his labor for four hours, after which we will stagger away from the table drunk and stuffed to the gills (no pun intended).
I love that I have married into this tradition. And it's not just the fact that we eat and drink for hours, or the fact that I am wearing my new Christmas shoes, which H is now making a holiday tradition. No, I love it because, in addition to pizza, celebrating the night before Christmas is one of the best ideas Italians have ever had. What's better than having a party on the most excitement-filled night of the year? Growing up, our celebration took place Christmas Day with a table of over-cooked vegetables and some giant, equally over-cooked hunk of meat. It was fun, but it was tinged with sadness at the end of the night as Christmas was over for a whole nother year. At Christmas Eve dinner, the kids are out of their minds with anticipation and there's an energy zipping through the house.
One of my favorite moments of the year is when H and I stand up to make the toast. Thinking about it this year, I realize we are pretty much at the zenith of our lives. Sure, there many more good times to come, but right now, all my kids are young and sweet and believe in Santa. Our extended family is growing via marriages and babies. Our parents are all healthy and active. H and I are even still reasonably young. Right now, is the time of abundance which, like Christmas Eve, has so many good things to follow. So we will raise a glass to that tonight. To abundance and happiness and the the good things that are to come.
I wish you and yours Happy Holidays, whatever they may be and that you go to bed tonight filled with excitement, not about gifts, but about your life.
XO,
M
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Have a seat on my couch...
“I have a number if you want to talk to someone.”
This is what I said to a friend the other day when the subject of therapy came up. Yes, I am “in therapy” and, no, I’m not afraid to admit it, which apparently, I should be as evidenced by some of the surprised looks I get form people when I tell them I am. But I don’t see it that way. I think admitting I talk to someone is like telling someone I get my hair colored. Am I going to tell a perfect stranger? No, but if we get to know each other well enough, the topic will probably come up. And just like hair color, therapy is something I do for myself to make myself feel good.
So how did all of this begin? When I had #2, I’d say I dabbled in post-partum depression, which was nicely coupled with an undiagnosed, hyperactive thyroid, which resulted in my alternately crying and flying into fits of rage – all of which I contained to the hours the girls were asleep, which was SUPER fun for H. Thyroid surgery and the stabilization of my reproductive hormones finally ended these dark days, but when I became pregnant with Little Man I was terrified they might return. I was determined to prevent that, so I got a list of therapists from my insurance company in an attempt to find and develop a relationship with a therapist before his birth. It’s interesting the very nice people they put on the mental health phone lines. Guess they don’t want to drive anybody to suicide with bad customer service.
This was not my first time at the Therapy Rodeo (where all the clowns are crying, or manic-depressive). No, that was way back in 1993, after my mom died. Suffering from crippling stomach problems, the school doctor recommended “counseling”, which I began. In this particular circumstance, I had no choice of providers, so the middle-aged man who stared blankly at me while I cried, was not, perhaps, the best match. It beat annoying the shit out of my roommate though, locking her out of our room so I could sob in private. So this time around, I was going to find someone who I felt I really connected with. Someone I could tell all my deepest, darkest thoughts and fears without feeling judged, and who would have some helpful insight.
Finding a new therapist is a lot like finding a mate. Your first appointment is a one-sided first date – if your date was scribbling on a legal pad while you talked. You tell them your personal history and they ask probing questions – but no alcohol or awkward kiss goodnight. The first woman was a dud. Rail thin, prim and cold, she insisted we begin our “work” together by delving into my “unfinished” relationship with my mother with weekly appointments. First of all, the word “work” was not what I was looking for. I wanted to chat and kvetch. I have enough “work” in my regular life. As for my mother, I refuse to believe every issue in my life stems from the fact that my mother died when I was young. Sure, it affected me, and still does at times, but at some point you need to get over it. I have accepted what this loss has done to me mentally (control issues, difficulty allowing others to help me), so let’s just deal with the practical ways of managing that goody bag of neuroses, huh? And WEEKLY appointments? That is not going to happen. I’m looking for a tune-up when I’m having a tough week. I have three kids to raise, lady. She got the “it’s not you, its me” letter explaining I didn’t think we were a “good fit”.
The next woman, SV, was just what I was looking for. Soft and motherly, in appearance and personality, she suggested we make a list of the behaviors I wanted to change and move forward from there. She suggested we start out meeting weekly for four weeks, so she could really get to know me, and then we could taper down to fit my needs. I had found my perfect match!
My talks with SV are like having coffee with a friend, except I’m the only one who brings coffee and the only one who talks. I have almost suggested we meet at a Starbucks since I’m not dealing with scary issues, but there have been times tears have taken me by surprise, so maybe that’s not the best idea. Sure, I talk about big things like my mom (OK, it comes up more than I thought), what I’m doing with my life, etc., but I also do mundane bitching about the kids, the house, and H. I bounce ideas off her about how to deal with difficult situations with the kids and she offers advice, occasionally telling stories about when her boys were little. Sometimes just one sentence from her can alter my thinking. I was crying one time about some bad decision I felt I have made with #2, scarring her for life, when SV asked me, “Mary, do you think you are a good mother?” I started to deflect and she asked me again, forcing me to answer and, just saying out loud, “Yes, I am a good mother” shifted my thinking. Now any time I doubt myself I remember that feeling. We mothers say so many negative things about ourselves, that saying something positive out loud, without worry about feeling like a braggart, is very powerful stuff. She also tells me how, in the grand scheme of things, I am so mentally healthy, which, coming from a professional, who sees it all, is very reassuring. I leave her office feeling like I’m doing pretty good, and my life is pretty great. H LOVES me after I come home from therapy. Why wouldn’t I suggest this to all my friends?
So this is why I bang the therapy drum. It’s something I do for my well being and is just for me and about me. Like getting a massage for your psyche. Some people say, “My friends are my therapists.” No, not really. You can unload on your friends, but then you have to reciprocate which, maybe you don't have the energy to do that at the moment, so you don't talk to anyone. Sometimes, we all just need to emotionally vomit on someone who isn’t involved in your relationships and won’t judge you for saying, “Sometimes I hate (insert person or situation here)” and doesn't require you asking, "So what's going on with you" after you're done crying. Leaving a lot of my stuff SV’s* office means less time spinning in my own head and more time enjoying my life.
Isn't that worth a twenty dollar co-pay?
*email me if you want her number, Bergen County residents!
This is what I said to a friend the other day when the subject of therapy came up. Yes, I am “in therapy” and, no, I’m not afraid to admit it, which apparently, I should be as evidenced by some of the surprised looks I get form people when I tell them I am. But I don’t see it that way. I think admitting I talk to someone is like telling someone I get my hair colored. Am I going to tell a perfect stranger? No, but if we get to know each other well enough, the topic will probably come up. And just like hair color, therapy is something I do for myself to make myself feel good.
So how did all of this begin? When I had #2, I’d say I dabbled in post-partum depression, which was nicely coupled with an undiagnosed, hyperactive thyroid, which resulted in my alternately crying and flying into fits of rage – all of which I contained to the hours the girls were asleep, which was SUPER fun for H. Thyroid surgery and the stabilization of my reproductive hormones finally ended these dark days, but when I became pregnant with Little Man I was terrified they might return. I was determined to prevent that, so I got a list of therapists from my insurance company in an attempt to find and develop a relationship with a therapist before his birth. It’s interesting the very nice people they put on the mental health phone lines. Guess they don’t want to drive anybody to suicide with bad customer service.
This was not my first time at the Therapy Rodeo (where all the clowns are crying, or manic-depressive). No, that was way back in 1993, after my mom died. Suffering from crippling stomach problems, the school doctor recommended “counseling”, which I began. In this particular circumstance, I had no choice of providers, so the middle-aged man who stared blankly at me while I cried, was not, perhaps, the best match. It beat annoying the shit out of my roommate though, locking her out of our room so I could sob in private. So this time around, I was going to find someone who I felt I really connected with. Someone I could tell all my deepest, darkest thoughts and fears without feeling judged, and who would have some helpful insight.
Finding a new therapist is a lot like finding a mate. Your first appointment is a one-sided first date – if your date was scribbling on a legal pad while you talked. You tell them your personal history and they ask probing questions – but no alcohol or awkward kiss goodnight. The first woman was a dud. Rail thin, prim and cold, she insisted we begin our “work” together by delving into my “unfinished” relationship with my mother with weekly appointments. First of all, the word “work” was not what I was looking for. I wanted to chat and kvetch. I have enough “work” in my regular life. As for my mother, I refuse to believe every issue in my life stems from the fact that my mother died when I was young. Sure, it affected me, and still does at times, but at some point you need to get over it. I have accepted what this loss has done to me mentally (control issues, difficulty allowing others to help me), so let’s just deal with the practical ways of managing that goody bag of neuroses, huh? And WEEKLY appointments? That is not going to happen. I’m looking for a tune-up when I’m having a tough week. I have three kids to raise, lady. She got the “it’s not you, its me” letter explaining I didn’t think we were a “good fit”.
The next woman, SV, was just what I was looking for. Soft and motherly, in appearance and personality, she suggested we make a list of the behaviors I wanted to change and move forward from there. She suggested we start out meeting weekly for four weeks, so she could really get to know me, and then we could taper down to fit my needs. I had found my perfect match!
My talks with SV are like having coffee with a friend, except I’m the only one who brings coffee and the only one who talks. I have almost suggested we meet at a Starbucks since I’m not dealing with scary issues, but there have been times tears have taken me by surprise, so maybe that’s not the best idea. Sure, I talk about big things like my mom (OK, it comes up more than I thought), what I’m doing with my life, etc., but I also do mundane bitching about the kids, the house, and H. I bounce ideas off her about how to deal with difficult situations with the kids and she offers advice, occasionally telling stories about when her boys were little. Sometimes just one sentence from her can alter my thinking. I was crying one time about some bad decision I felt I have made with #2, scarring her for life, when SV asked me, “Mary, do you think you are a good mother?” I started to deflect and she asked me again, forcing me to answer and, just saying out loud, “Yes, I am a good mother” shifted my thinking. Now any time I doubt myself I remember that feeling. We mothers say so many negative things about ourselves, that saying something positive out loud, without worry about feeling like a braggart, is very powerful stuff. She also tells me how, in the grand scheme of things, I am so mentally healthy, which, coming from a professional, who sees it all, is very reassuring. I leave her office feeling like I’m doing pretty good, and my life is pretty great. H LOVES me after I come home from therapy. Why wouldn’t I suggest this to all my friends?
So this is why I bang the therapy drum. It’s something I do for my well being and is just for me and about me. Like getting a massage for your psyche. Some people say, “My friends are my therapists.” No, not really. You can unload on your friends, but then you have to reciprocate which, maybe you don't have the energy to do that at the moment, so you don't talk to anyone. Sometimes, we all just need to emotionally vomit on someone who isn’t involved in your relationships and won’t judge you for saying, “Sometimes I hate (insert person or situation here)” and doesn't require you asking, "So what's going on with you" after you're done crying. Leaving a lot of my stuff SV’s* office means less time spinning in my own head and more time enjoying my life.
Isn't that worth a twenty dollar co-pay?
*email me if you want her number, Bergen County residents!
Monday, December 12, 2011
Don't look back, look forward
Earlier in the fall I was at the park with Little Man on a beautiful day, doing our usual thing of taking one lap around the bike path, where I, bicycle-less, chase after him on foot*, followed by us throwing stones in the pond and eventually falling in. Wet shoes necessitating our departure, we made our way back to the van, when a red convertible pulled into the spot next to us. Watching the couple in it get out in their biking gear, and start unloading the two mountain bikes on the car's rack, I was so jealous. "Ugh, how nice would it be to be them?", I thought. The woman tied back her gray hair into a pony tail and they took off. That's right. This couple was about fifty-five.
I have realized, dear readers, that while I enjoy my life currently, when I do fantasize about a different time in my life, it is not my twenties I miss, but my fifties I dream of. When we first had kids, H and I would look back longingly at the child-free days early in our marriage. Sleeping in, going out to dinner, our clutter-free existence, all seemed pretty enticing to two sleep-deprived new parents. But when I really look at the details, what do my twenties have to offer me now? I drink, but not to excess, so the bar scene holds little charm. OK, I so miss the ability to dance in a public space, that is not a wedding venue without looking like an ad for Cougar Life**, but being married, bars are not the source of fun they once were. Career. In your twenties, you are still trying to prove yourself and are riddled with insecurities, while probably not getting paid all that much. Yes, my current career pays nothing, but I at least feel I have mastered it and have gained a confidence in my abilities that will make any future endeavors easier. And speaking of getting paid little, in your twenties you are probably living in some adorably shabby apartment, barely big enough for you and your spouse. H and my first bedroom was ten feet by seven feet. We had a full-sized bed, one Ikea end table and dresser in it and nothing else. Poor H had to put his alarm clock under the bed on his side, with mere inches of space to get his hand under the bed to run it off. Why do I want to go back to that exactly?
Your fifties on the other hand, are perfect. THink about it. I chose the age fifty-five specifically because that is the age I will be when Little Man goes off to college. While I do expect some boomerang years when the kids return home for brief, let me say it again, brief, periods of time, the house will be empty for the first time in twenty-three years. Sure, they'll be some tears shed, but nothing a spur-of-the-moment road trip can't cure. H will be riding out the end of a successful career and be able to spend more time away form the office (or so is his plan), and having sent my children off into the world, my life will be a little less frantic as well***. In your fifties, you have time and, hopefully, good health and a little money. You have developed tastes and interests over the years that you now have the means and ability to pursue. That couple at the park, for example, I can see H and I doing that. Going for a long bike ride on a lovely fall afternoon and then having a late lunch at an outdoor cafe, and having a a glass of wine because I can take a nap after lunch. Maybe we'd even see a movie after. Weekend away? Sure! We don't need a sitter and no one has a hockey game for us to freeze our asses of at on Saturday morning. Lets' go! New exhibit at The Met? Wait out the rush hour traffic and we're there! Stayed too long and now it's rush hour again? Aw, too bad, looks like dinner in the city.
The fifth decade seems like heaven, doesn't it? Ok, so maybe you're a little wrinkly, and you have to start (or continue) dying your hair. but if you feel good, who cares? This time is payback for all the hard work you've put in raising your kids, and is probably before the grandkids start arriving, necessitating returning the good karma and babysitting - which, apparently is fun after you have forgotten how hard it was to raise your own kids. I'm doubting that, but it's what I'm told.
So you won't see me passing the young chippies in the city, wishing I were on my way to some hot club, in a short skirt I bought at Forever 21, looking for love. Instead, I will look with longing at the stately woman, in the Burberry sheath, on her way to dinner at Le Bernardin with her husband. I bet they'll dance at home later.****
*Bikes for the parents have moved high on the to-buy list, as I am going yo drop dead of exhaustion one day at the park
** I saw a commercial for his service while I Houston and almost died. Sadly, I qualify age-wise, but not looks wise, unless there's a category for "haggard".
*** But perhaps I will be on a book tour...
****Kitchen dance party. Try it. You'll like it.
I have realized, dear readers, that while I enjoy my life currently, when I do fantasize about a different time in my life, it is not my twenties I miss, but my fifties I dream of. When we first had kids, H and I would look back longingly at the child-free days early in our marriage. Sleeping in, going out to dinner, our clutter-free existence, all seemed pretty enticing to two sleep-deprived new parents. But when I really look at the details, what do my twenties have to offer me now? I drink, but not to excess, so the bar scene holds little charm. OK, I so miss the ability to dance in a public space, that is not a wedding venue without looking like an ad for Cougar Life**, but being married, bars are not the source of fun they once were. Career. In your twenties, you are still trying to prove yourself and are riddled with insecurities, while probably not getting paid all that much. Yes, my current career pays nothing, but I at least feel I have mastered it and have gained a confidence in my abilities that will make any future endeavors easier. And speaking of getting paid little, in your twenties you are probably living in some adorably shabby apartment, barely big enough for you and your spouse. H and my first bedroom was ten feet by seven feet. We had a full-sized bed, one Ikea end table and dresser in it and nothing else. Poor H had to put his alarm clock under the bed on his side, with mere inches of space to get his hand under the bed to run it off. Why do I want to go back to that exactly?
Your fifties on the other hand, are perfect. THink about it. I chose the age fifty-five specifically because that is the age I will be when Little Man goes off to college. While I do expect some boomerang years when the kids return home for brief, let me say it again, brief, periods of time, the house will be empty for the first time in twenty-three years. Sure, they'll be some tears shed, but nothing a spur-of-the-moment road trip can't cure. H will be riding out the end of a successful career and be able to spend more time away form the office (or so is his plan), and having sent my children off into the world, my life will be a little less frantic as well***. In your fifties, you have time and, hopefully, good health and a little money. You have developed tastes and interests over the years that you now have the means and ability to pursue. That couple at the park, for example, I can see H and I doing that. Going for a long bike ride on a lovely fall afternoon and then having a late lunch at an outdoor cafe, and having a a glass of wine because I can take a nap after lunch. Maybe we'd even see a movie after. Weekend away? Sure! We don't need a sitter and no one has a hockey game for us to freeze our asses of at on Saturday morning. Lets' go! New exhibit at The Met? Wait out the rush hour traffic and we're there! Stayed too long and now it's rush hour again? Aw, too bad, looks like dinner in the city.
The fifth decade seems like heaven, doesn't it? Ok, so maybe you're a little wrinkly, and you have to start (or continue) dying your hair. but if you feel good, who cares? This time is payback for all the hard work you've put in raising your kids, and is probably before the grandkids start arriving, necessitating returning the good karma and babysitting - which, apparently is fun after you have forgotten how hard it was to raise your own kids. I'm doubting that, but it's what I'm told.
So you won't see me passing the young chippies in the city, wishing I were on my way to some hot club, in a short skirt I bought at Forever 21, looking for love. Instead, I will look with longing at the stately woman, in the Burberry sheath, on her way to dinner at Le Bernardin with her husband. I bet they'll dance at home later.****
*Bikes for the parents have moved high on the to-buy list, as I am going yo drop dead of exhaustion one day at the park
** I saw a commercial for his service while I Houston and almost died. Sadly, I qualify age-wise, but not looks wise, unless there's a category for "haggard".
*** But perhaps I will be on a book tour...
****Kitchen dance party. Try it. You'll like it.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
My letter to God, and his response, circa 1991
Dear God,
Hey there. College is going pretty well. Even though I'm not so psyched about the cute, blonde roommate you sent me. Not so fun answering the door a thousand times for Sigma Chi guys who are so not there to see me.
So speaking of guys, I've sort of been thinking about the kind of guy I need you to send my way. I finally broke up with the last dud you threw across my path. Very religious parents and a speech impediment? Even if he did go to Cornell, come on.
I've put together a list of the attributes I'm looking for, so if you could find this guy and have him be single, I'd really appreciate it.
1. Cute. Preferably very tall. You made me tall, and, granted, I only wear bucks currently, but what if some day I have to wear high shoes? Also, red hair is a plus.
2. Very gregarious and funny. I am a big personality, so I need someone who can match my volume and intensity. But not a drunk, OK? No one wants to marry that guy.
3. Smart. Maybe if he was into science too that would be cool. Then we could go to the lab together. Yeah, yeah, I know I have to actually leave the lab to meet a guy.
4. Not that close with his family. Again, that last guy was a nightmare. Dinner with your parents where they quiz me about how often I go to mass? No thank you. I don't need all that hassles.
5. Expressive. You know, flowers, poetry, all that jazz. The last guy was pretty good, but did he have to be so lame about it? Also, the new guy can not have a penchant for nick names. That last one loved the word "Angel" and I had to get used to the taste of my own vomit at the back of my throat.
Um, that pretty much sums is up. Any time before winter break would be great.
XOXO,
Mary
Mary,
I received your list. No, I'm not busy at all with war and famine and such. Your dating life is really at the top of my list. Regardless, I do have a response. Here's what I'm sending you:
1. He is cute. Very much so. He is, however, only slightly taller than you. Do you really think, with your personality, you'd like to feel small? I don't think so. He doesn't have issues with height though, so your future obsession with heels (trust me on this) will not be a problem. The red hair is not going to happen. Do you want to look like you're dating your brother? He will be dark complected. Think of it this way, less sunscreen at the beach and the children you have might have a chance of safely existing in the sun.
2. Personality - again, your request is denied. You take up all the oxygen in the room, you don't need competition. The guy I'm sending you is quiet at first, but really very funny. He's confident enough that he doesn't need everyone knowing his business or thinking he's awesome, which they do any way after talking to him, rather than listening to him drunkenly shout the lyrics to "Welcome to the Jungle". He's happy to have a real conversation at a party, not make a spectacle of himself on the dance floor. You can, and will, learn from him the benefit of taking it down a notch once in a while.
3. Yes, he's smart, but he's into foreign affairs and history. A fellow science nerd? Why are you trying to date yourself? Jesus! (Ooops). No, you can't have a guy whose into science. You'd be the most boring couple ever and not learn anything from each other. He might even be able to teach you where China is on a map, you dunce. You will, however, be the best Trivial Pursuit team in history.
4. And the family? Listen, sister, you have some hard times coming your way and these people are going to have your back. You will thank me for them later. Plus, they babysit the kids (again, trust me on this) .
5. Expressive guy? You don't want this, really, you don't. This guy is expressive when it counts. He will take your breath away with his sincerity when he does express his emotions. You will know how he feels by the way he cares for and respects you, and works hard for you and your children (OK, you have three, but I'm not telling you what gender). He doesn't need Hallmark to do this for him. I sort of wish I hadn't let that place get invented, btw. Created so much drama.
So to sum up. This boy will make you a better person and help shape you into the woman and mother you will become. He will be your rock and your court jester, all at the same time. He will be an attentive husband and a caring father. I am sending you, not what you want, but what, as the Rolling Stones so aptly put it, you need.
So go to the basement of the dorm tonight. There's a party. That's all I'm going to say.
Oh, and don't fuck it up.
-G
Dear readers, I did go to the party and met H. Twenty years ago today was our first date. Obviously, I didn't fuck it up.
Hey there. College is going pretty well. Even though I'm not so psyched about the cute, blonde roommate you sent me. Not so fun answering the door a thousand times for Sigma Chi guys who are so not there to see me.
So speaking of guys, I've sort of been thinking about the kind of guy I need you to send my way. I finally broke up with the last dud you threw across my path. Very religious parents and a speech impediment? Even if he did go to Cornell, come on.
I've put together a list of the attributes I'm looking for, so if you could find this guy and have him be single, I'd really appreciate it.
1. Cute. Preferably very tall. You made me tall, and, granted, I only wear bucks currently, but what if some day I have to wear high shoes? Also, red hair is a plus.
2. Very gregarious and funny. I am a big personality, so I need someone who can match my volume and intensity. But not a drunk, OK? No one wants to marry that guy.
3. Smart. Maybe if he was into science too that would be cool. Then we could go to the lab together. Yeah, yeah, I know I have to actually leave the lab to meet a guy.
4. Not that close with his family. Again, that last guy was a nightmare. Dinner with your parents where they quiz me about how often I go to mass? No thank you. I don't need all that hassles.
5. Expressive. You know, flowers, poetry, all that jazz. The last guy was pretty good, but did he have to be so lame about it? Also, the new guy can not have a penchant for nick names. That last one loved the word "Angel" and I had to get used to the taste of my own vomit at the back of my throat.
Um, that pretty much sums is up. Any time before winter break would be great.
XOXO,
Mary
Mary,
I received your list. No, I'm not busy at all with war and famine and such. Your dating life is really at the top of my list. Regardless, I do have a response. Here's what I'm sending you:
1. He is cute. Very much so. He is, however, only slightly taller than you. Do you really think, with your personality, you'd like to feel small? I don't think so. He doesn't have issues with height though, so your future obsession with heels (trust me on this) will not be a problem. The red hair is not going to happen. Do you want to look like you're dating your brother? He will be dark complected. Think of it this way, less sunscreen at the beach and the children you have might have a chance of safely existing in the sun.
2. Personality - again, your request is denied. You take up all the oxygen in the room, you don't need competition. The guy I'm sending you is quiet at first, but really very funny. He's confident enough that he doesn't need everyone knowing his business or thinking he's awesome, which they do any way after talking to him, rather than listening to him drunkenly shout the lyrics to "Welcome to the Jungle". He's happy to have a real conversation at a party, not make a spectacle of himself on the dance floor. You can, and will, learn from him the benefit of taking it down a notch once in a while.
3. Yes, he's smart, but he's into foreign affairs and history. A fellow science nerd? Why are you trying to date yourself? Jesus! (Ooops). No, you can't have a guy whose into science. You'd be the most boring couple ever and not learn anything from each other. He might even be able to teach you where China is on a map, you dunce. You will, however, be the best Trivial Pursuit team in history.
4. And the family? Listen, sister, you have some hard times coming your way and these people are going to have your back. You will thank me for them later. Plus, they babysit the kids (again, trust me on this) .
5. Expressive guy? You don't want this, really, you don't. This guy is expressive when it counts. He will take your breath away with his sincerity when he does express his emotions. You will know how he feels by the way he cares for and respects you, and works hard for you and your children (OK, you have three, but I'm not telling you what gender). He doesn't need Hallmark to do this for him. I sort of wish I hadn't let that place get invented, btw. Created so much drama.
So to sum up. This boy will make you a better person and help shape you into the woman and mother you will become. He will be your rock and your court jester, all at the same time. He will be an attentive husband and a caring father. I am sending you, not what you want, but what, as the Rolling Stones so aptly put it, you need.
So go to the basement of the dorm tonight. There's a party. That's all I'm going to say.
Oh, and don't fuck it up.
-G
Dear readers, I did go to the party and met H. Twenty years ago today was our first date. Obviously, I didn't fuck it up.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Yes, #1, there is a Santa Claus
Don't hate me, dear readers, but with the exception of one gift, I am done with my Christmas shopping. KA-POW! Take that holiday season!
I ask you not to hate me because of the reason behind my early birdiness. I am going to need all of my energy to focus on Operation Santa is Real.
My eldest has reached the age where many children stop believing in Santa Claus. Jaded hoodlums in her class, tapping Facebook updates into their iPhones, will sneer with derision as she and her equally innocent gang discuss what they included in their letters to Santa. So far, she has not come home with any tales of schoolyard revelations courtesy of the class cool kid (read: asshole) and, for that, I am thankful, but I am afraid this might be our last year.
Santa belongs to that realm of childhood magic also inhabited by the Tooth Fairy and Easter Bunny. Admittedly, both of those characters have come under intense scrutiny over the last year, mostly due to mistakes made by H and me. The Easter Bunny almost met his untimely demise when #1 opened my bedroom door as I was assembling the baskets for the next morning. Had I not dive-bombed across my bed, slamming the baskets to the floor behind, Peter Cottontail would have gone up in smoke. And the Tooth Fairy. Obviously invented before television or the internet, giving parents something to do in the small hours between their children's and their bedtime, other than make more children, she is on the endangered list, as H and have forgotten more times than we have remembered, to put some cash under our offspring's pillows before they arise at the crack of dawn. Cries of, "SHE DIDN'T COME!", have been met with such lame excuses as "maybe she's sick" and the shamefully blame-shifting, "you stayed up too late". But Santa, he gets done right. Even though we are bone tired from The Feast of the Seven Fishes on Christmas Eve, we wait until the kids are dead asleep, doing numerous checks, before the presents are taken out of their hiding places, with one of us standing guard in the family room doorway all the while.
#1 has not ever asked if Santa is real. I think I may have prevented that with my answer when she questioned the Tooth Fairy's existence. "John in my class says your parents leave the money" is what I was faced with one night at dinner.* To which I responded, "He's right." Cue horrified stares. I continued, "Once you stop believing, she stops coming and I will leave the money." I am lucky she is such an innocent and desperately wants to believe. But I have been helping her along with Herculean efforts when it comes to to proving the Big Guy is legit. Last year, thanks to my mother in-law's purchase of a "Santa Kit", we used a boot-shaped template to leave sooty footprints on the crappy family room carpet (the torn pice of his jacket was too much and looked like it had been made in a factory in China, rather than created by Mrs. Claus' deft hands). The carpet having been replaced, and no longer available as a canvas for proof of mythological holiday figures, I went commercial, and bought the Elf on a Shelf my children had been discussing. Cute, concept. The Elf, with his flimsy felt body and creepy, sideways glancing eyes, flies off to Santa each night to give a daily report, returning to a new spot in your home each morning. I am determined not to miss a night. I foresee a lot of middle of the night excursions back downstairs for myself, as H is tapping out of this one, having not been consulted on this purchase, stating, "This is the dumbest thing ever. It's the Tooth Fairy times infinity."
I don't care what it takes, I will fight to keep #1 a believer as long as I can. Once it's over, it will be like a veil has been lifted and she has crossed over from the fairy land of childhood, into the wasteland of adolescence. That wide-eyed wonder Christmas morning is one of the joys of parenthood. It is all the hope in the universe distilled into one moment. It is innocence and joy in its purest form.
I am lucky in that #1 does not want to be enlightened. I know she must have her doubts, but is not willing to speak them aloud. What exactly do I tell her when that time comes? My plan, thus far is to ask, "What do you think?" And if she has her doubts I will tell her, "As long as you need him, Santa, and all his magic, will be there."
Sounds like someone else in her life, doesn't it?
*Again, no warning. Parenting: The Pop Quiz that Never Ends.
I ask you not to hate me because of the reason behind my early birdiness. I am going to need all of my energy to focus on Operation Santa is Real.
My eldest has reached the age where many children stop believing in Santa Claus. Jaded hoodlums in her class, tapping Facebook updates into their iPhones, will sneer with derision as she and her equally innocent gang discuss what they included in their letters to Santa. So far, she has not come home with any tales of schoolyard revelations courtesy of the class cool kid (read: asshole) and, for that, I am thankful, but I am afraid this might be our last year.
Santa belongs to that realm of childhood magic also inhabited by the Tooth Fairy and Easter Bunny. Admittedly, both of those characters have come under intense scrutiny over the last year, mostly due to mistakes made by H and me. The Easter Bunny almost met his untimely demise when #1 opened my bedroom door as I was assembling the baskets for the next morning. Had I not dive-bombed across my bed, slamming the baskets to the floor behind, Peter Cottontail would have gone up in smoke. And the Tooth Fairy. Obviously invented before television or the internet, giving parents something to do in the small hours between their children's and their bedtime, other than make more children, she is on the endangered list, as H and have forgotten more times than we have remembered, to put some cash under our offspring's pillows before they arise at the crack of dawn. Cries of, "SHE DIDN'T COME!", have been met with such lame excuses as "maybe she's sick" and the shamefully blame-shifting, "you stayed up too late". But Santa, he gets done right. Even though we are bone tired from The Feast of the Seven Fishes on Christmas Eve, we wait until the kids are dead asleep, doing numerous checks, before the presents are taken out of their hiding places, with one of us standing guard in the family room doorway all the while.
#1 has not ever asked if Santa is real. I think I may have prevented that with my answer when she questioned the Tooth Fairy's existence. "John in my class says your parents leave the money" is what I was faced with one night at dinner.* To which I responded, "He's right." Cue horrified stares. I continued, "Once you stop believing, she stops coming and I will leave the money." I am lucky she is such an innocent and desperately wants to believe. But I have been helping her along with Herculean efforts when it comes to to proving the Big Guy is legit. Last year, thanks to my mother in-law's purchase of a "Santa Kit", we used a boot-shaped template to leave sooty footprints on the crappy family room carpet (the torn pice of his jacket was too much and looked like it had been made in a factory in China, rather than created by Mrs. Claus' deft hands). The carpet having been replaced, and no longer available as a canvas for proof of mythological holiday figures, I went commercial, and bought the Elf on a Shelf my children had been discussing. Cute, concept. The Elf, with his flimsy felt body and creepy, sideways glancing eyes, flies off to Santa each night to give a daily report, returning to a new spot in your home each morning. I am determined not to miss a night. I foresee a lot of middle of the night excursions back downstairs for myself, as H is tapping out of this one, having not been consulted on this purchase, stating, "This is the dumbest thing ever. It's the Tooth Fairy times infinity."
I don't care what it takes, I will fight to keep #1 a believer as long as I can. Once it's over, it will be like a veil has been lifted and she has crossed over from the fairy land of childhood, into the wasteland of adolescence. That wide-eyed wonder Christmas morning is one of the joys of parenthood. It is all the hope in the universe distilled into one moment. It is innocence and joy in its purest form.
I am lucky in that #1 does not want to be enlightened. I know she must have her doubts, but is not willing to speak them aloud. What exactly do I tell her when that time comes? My plan, thus far is to ask, "What do you think?" And if she has her doubts I will tell her, "As long as you need him, Santa, and all his magic, will be there."
Sounds like someone else in her life, doesn't it?
*Again, no warning. Parenting: The Pop Quiz that Never Ends.
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