happy new year
I had a little crisis this evening– sixish hours of sleep, lots of wine-and-seven up in our longish but wonderful (or wonderful but longish) evening last night, suffered the inferiority complex I inevitably suffer when I go to a birthday party for one of my child’s classmates, watched Midnight Cowboy which is probably a mistake on the afternoon of New Year’s Eve… I was tired, and I was much more excited about having friends over this weekend, no matter how hard I vowed that it was completely informal and relaxed, than I admitted to myself. I just go and go and go and then I’m exhausted. One New Year’s resolution has to be– f*cking rest sometimes, for Chrissakes.
I sat down, in tears, and read a meditation one of my Indigo friends had emailed me on Actively Creating Peace. It talked about patience, discipline, exertion, generosity, and meditation. What it comes down to, in every case, is not some distasteful and herculean effort, but just being in each moment– observing, allowing, acknowledging, reaching out, compassion, letting go, opening your heart.
So what came out of that, besides some tears, was that my greatest resolution is just to be present. Review of this past year? You know what? Go me. We bought a house, busted our asses in the work of getting it comfortable and livable, made it through another year, are still married and unless something changes will have made it through to 2007 without fighting– not since three weeks ago anyway… paid off all our consumer debt, ran it right back up again [although it's only about a quarter of what it was when we hooked up after being laid off from our wonderful jobs five years ago]… so many good things. And resolution for next year? Sure, we’d like to finish painting, pay down that consumer debt again, take a vacation, finally get me quit smoking— what EVER.
But all that, in fact most of my thoughts in any given day, is sort of extraneous narrative. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, in the context of, say, a time capsule to look back at next year at this time.
But the main resolution is to continue just… stretching, being less afraid– no, not necessarily being less afraid but being afraid and being willing to just show up anyway, emotionally. Extraneous narrative is kind of cool. In fact I hope it will someday make me a rich novelist. But for real life, for emotional growth and for my responsibility on this earth, everything I believe in and desire will follow from that compassionate, allowing presence in my life, even when I’m pissed off, even when I’m acting less than mature, even when I’m drowning in feeling sorry for myself or pushing myself to accomplish something or thinking I simply must have something related to the extraneous narrative.
So if I have a chance I ‘ll do a quick inventory after a bit… but friends are on their way over, and fast away the old year passes. And I have my marching orders.
And my Best Old Friend called, sounding luminous and entire, to tell me about her successful and joyful c-section this morning. For someone who had her uterus cut open and her almost nine pound baby vacuumed out, she sounded so– so whole. It made my night. What a joy. Happy, happy new year!
what do you buy a girl turning four? and how I worked that out, with some goodies for me and parenting philosophy on the side
I know what I want to give my child, when she turns four in March.
But what for the little girls in her classroom who are turning four and giving parties this week?
The ridiculous and ugly stuff marketed to little girls these days reinforces so many things I don’t want to encourage– traditional female roles, consumer culture, ugly plastic aesthetic, low to fleeting imagination or creativity value… but I can’t impose my snobberies on others’ children. And I can’t afford Magic Cabin for everyone. I can’t even afford it for her. And plus it’s too late to order Magic Cabin.
I know if I called these parents they would say please don’t bring anything, just come. I know that’s what I would say. And I would mean it, too. But I have a feeling it would be a serious violation of Expensive Montessori School Social Code not to bring something. You play, you pay. One little girl is my child’s especial playmate, and I would really like to get to know the other’s mom…
[The next day]
I enlisted the help of my mom’s group friends, who had wonderful helpful ideas… and then wouldn’t you know, I had a Barnes and Noble gift card to spend on myself and my husband, so I walked into the book store and did the librarian birthday gift after all.
I purchased a Moongirl DVD/Book set for each girl. Ah, now it is done! But of course I don’t have any wrapping paper except Christmas. Too bad. I guess I better hit the Dollar General. Anyhoo, this is a wonderful story, with wonderful edgy art and a fabulous soundtrack for the DVD featuring the ever versatile and hardworking They Might Be Giants.
At first I wanted to give Robert Sabuda’s popup Alice in Wonderland, which is a truly complex and beautiful work of art. But there were two copies of Moongirl, and only one copy of the Sabuda… so guess who gets the Sabuda? That’s right. Moi.
I am a Tenniel Snob. Two brown ‘leather’ bound volumes, dated 1974 inside the front cover in my father’s handwriting, containing the entire unabridged stories and the original Tenniel illustrations, still sit on my shelf. They may be the two most important works to my inner and imaginative landscape, as well as my literary aesthetic, of my entire childhood. I remember being about four and having a pair of brown wing tipped mary janes (oh to have those shoes again, some for me and some for my girls!) that I called my Alice in Wonderland shoes.
I have raised my little girl to be sort of a rough-and-tumble consumer of all media, pedestrian and ugly as well as beautiful and original. Our home is a far cry from the dark, quiet, rarefied, nearly tv free space that characterized my childhood. Sometimes I wish I’d been more careful with her, but… ever since she walked at nine months I have sort of thrown my hands up regarding forcing her to conform to my expectations and decided to pick my battles and let her make (the less harmful of) her own choices. I scour my friends’ libraries for truly beautiful and rich works of art for kids– M and W have put me on to the awesome Miyazaki anime films, for example, although I am disappointed that I get them dubbed in English rather than in the original Japanese– and hope that I am giving her a balanced smorgasbord of choices of theme, culture, and artistic style.
But I digress.
Every once in a while I run across a work of children’s literature that restores my faith in the children’s publishing industry and in the media world’s power in general to produce something truly beautiful and worthwhile.
The Sabuda is sort of the Tenniel work on acid (as if the original Tenniel illustrations weren’t acidic enough!!). [And let me clarify that I have never done acid. Never. I did chew up a tiny shroom one time but it did nothing for me and it was too nasty to attempt to eat any more. But I think I know it, or what our society characterizes as it, when I see it.] The 3-dimensional popups are huge, intricately detailed, beautifully colored, and give delightful views for the story from many angles– look down the accordion-pleated rabbit hole, or through cellophane windows into the house where the giant Alice is trapped! I haven’t read it through, so I’ll weigh in on how well the abridgment of the story works soon. But since it makes me so happy artistically, I’ll love it no matter what. I’m such a hoarder I believe I may purchase another copy or two today off of Amazon…
along with a copy of Skinny Bitch. The title and cover illustration are a clever marketing trick which, I am ashamed to say, worked on me, but I cracked it and read a few pages in the store, and just now read the customer reviews on Amazon. You know I just quit eating meat (except last night I had a few bites of delectable lasagne that I made myself, with meat, because we forgot to make me a little meat free one on the side), and I gather this book gives a lot of information about nutrition and the food industry that everyone needs to make informed choices about what we eat. If it’s in a no holds barred, listen here girlfriend while I tell you straight so you can take responsibility and live a happier healthier life format, so much the better.
We just lost power here for several minutes. Our infrastructure in this community is such that the slightest variation in weather– today, heavy but not exactly monsoon rain– throws our power grid into a tizzy. Anyway, I adore wordpress.com because it saves posts constantly. I lost very little work.
So. It’s New Year’s Eve.
I have lots to do including all my housecleaning so that I don’t have to wash my good luck away tomorrow, soaking black eyed peas and cooking sweet potatoes for sweet potato pie, taking shaky baby to that party at about 12.30 which involves getting us both showered and dressed, and taking a fearless and searching inventory (to quote Lindsay Lohan) of last year’s accomplishments and my hopes for next year. I’d better run along.
my worst (literary) fears realized
My brother and sister in law sent me a wonderful book of fairy tales in their original, dark and depressing forms, with wonderful dark (mostly) illustrations by some awesome artists. I am a huge fan of dark and depressing fairy tales and dark and moody artwork.
I sat down to read Sleeping Beauty to shaky baby. She said, ‘I want to read about the REAL princess!’
I knew I’d live to regret that Disneyland trip.
I am so f-ing tired
It’s Thursday, that’s probably why. I know, it’s only Tuesday in terms of how many days I have worked this week, but I am sure my circadian rhythms are attuned to feel like shit by Thursday.
I came across another mommy blog today. She used the f word. I love mommies who are articulate and thinking, and also use the f word. I forget what hip thinking mom I was talking to recently who was, to my surprise, extolling the virtues of the f word [Jeez, was it actually my stepkids' mother? yikes!! surely not!]. Plus the content of her blog somewhat reassured me about the content of mine. But I digress.
I was bitching about working to my husband. I realize that many, many, *many* people work eight to five just like I do, and they are just fine. I don’t know why this is so hard for me, particularly, when millions of others manage it and manage to be happy.
Okay I do know why. If I were doing work I loved, or work with a particular set of rewards– self direction, authority to manage my time any way I pleased as long as my work was up to snuff, challenge, or, absent those items, a much bigger salary– it would be very different, I think. I’m pretty task oriented. I actually like to work.
What I absolutely am not is bean count oriented. I am also not well for all the game playing and backstabbing and house slaves/field slaves [my husband, ever willing to be politically incorrect, came up with that last, but I asked my coworkers, some of whom are African American, and they say it totally fits] bullshit that goes on at my office. I am trying so hard to have a good attitude, to remember that every moment is precious, that the dignity and value of the work are solely a reflection of the dignity and value of the person doing it (eek!).
Having learned through healing school that the things that rub us the worst wrong way are the things that will most illuminate our issues or illuminate what we need to integrate or heal, I am trying to be a good little soldier and show up with an attitude of gentle compassion, inquiry, and remaining present instead of f*cking hating every minute.
Hating every minute is a ‘defense’. I *think* it’s because my workplace f*king sucks, but it really has *nothing* to do with the external situation. It’s *really* something within me that I need to resolve because it is blocking me from experiencing my limitless, joyful, true essence. When we are in our essence, as our external environment changes, we simply experience a different kind of happiness.
Sheeeeit.
This is more of the same bitching that readers of my blog have heard time and time again. I just feel it’s worth saying again, since, well, that’s how I feel. And that’s part of the experience of being a mother, and a working mother, which is what I am, and what this blog is pretty much about. The blog’s seeming lack of direction is really, little did you know, a completely accurate and true reflection (except, of course, where the honesty I long to write with would unfortunately violate privacy or harm friendships and so I am muzzled from unleashing what would probably be some of my funniest, certainly my most savage, work, and isn’t savage what sells? Look at Lewis Black, right?) of the disjointed and sometimes discouraging (other times transcendent, I won’t deny it, but right now it’s discouraging, dammit) existence of a Gen X former hipster (in a nerdy kind of way) smart exhausted dingy [blonde in spite of the dye job] mom malcontent culture maven feminist addictive therapy junkie attachment parent government worker underemployed frustrated writer and rock star.
I am getting a slight goose for the better from AH Almaas’ Diamond Heart Series Book One, and an even bigger goose from Sera Beak’s Red Book. Because of M and W’s diligence, thought and generosity in picking it up for me [they had to chase down my wish list from my old blog-- now that is devotion!!! I'm as, or more, impressed by the hard work as I am by the gift!], I have decided to buy three more copies for three more dear friends who might enjoy it.
Earlier today I even considered that the Universe will certainly provide, just at the right time, just the space I need to pursue my healing career.
But now I’m just f*cking tired.
So… instead of being in bed reading, either smut or Red Book… instead of just catching the tail of the falling stars of my inspirations (as opposed to deciding almost reflexively that this is an absolutely stupid premise for a story and forgetting the thought almost immediately, which is what I usually do, and I am so mad at myself for that!) , instead of sleeping, I am, you guessed it! Blogging. Jeez!
I’ll go write a little on my neglected serialized novel blog. I had an idea today that I actually managed to bring home. I have *got* to get that f*cking voice recorder working, and more importantly, remember to use it.
So tired! Did I mention that? I can still get in bed by eight, if I want…
you know who’s hot?
This guy. Yes, the one with his hands over his face, exhausted, or just worn out emotionally maybe.
I am a sucker for the Ali G look but that’s not it.
Hot’s not the right word. There is something viscerally and deeply attractive about a guy acting quickly to help get little children out of a dangerous situation.
Most of the guys I know would jump immediately if not sooner to rescue small children. My husband would probably be so quick that you couldn’t even see him.
But this guy happened to be there to help. My heart goes out to him in his expression of exhaustion. How frightening that must have been, to wonder what happened to those kids, and have to just act to try to help as many as possible.
He’s probably over it. He probably walked away, took a shower, and forgot about it. I’ve never seen mention of his name anywhere else in the news. And I know there were many heroes that day who did not get recognition. It took coordinated and brave effort to do what it took. It could have been so much worse.
Anyway, this is purely about me. Something at the gut level is tripped by this picture. Because of this accident of timing and nature, he looks like a wonderful human being to me, and it has little do do with any sort of facts or reality. And I can pretty much figure that nobody, nobody, wants children and families to go through a situation like this just so they can attract chicks, much less aging hipster mommies.
I’m just sayin.’
cosleeping, and a memory
When my little one turned one, she’d already been walking for several months. She barely had a hair on her head or a tooth in her mouth, but she ran like the wind.
My brother and his wife came to visit us around that time and we took her to the local park with duck ponds and whatnot. She had this adorable pink bubble outfit– gathered wrists and ankles, a little white collar– and a pair of beautiful red Mary Janes– how I wish I’d saved those. I don’t know where they are now. It may be that she just wore them out. I thrifted the pink outfit, andI think my mom thrifted the red shoes. I think I tossed the pink outfit because we wore it so much it was just stained and awful. I have pictures of her in it though, at the beach in Biloxi when it was cold, cold.
We were trying to have a picnic. Every time we got distracted for even one second she was off. She sailed across the grass, that little bubble billowing out behind her, those little red mary janes just scrambling. It was amazing. She headed for the water and one of us had to catch her. Over, and over, and over.
So that’s the memory– that little baby, too small to even walk, really, dashing across the grass, her lovely pink clothes streaming in the wind, making for the open water, arms and legs every which way.
So, my child fell asleep at the dinner table tonight. My friend took her to the park and wore her ass out. We went to the park yesterday too, and it was so cold, and she fell asleep early yesterday too. Gave me time to finish embroidering initials and the date on my friend’s baby’s baby quilt. B2, I’m afraid I’m going to have to call him. His initials are the same as his older brother’s.
I put her to bed and took off most of her clothes and put on her pullup and tucked her in. She woke just enough to say I was tired!
I have been wandering around the house putting things away and getting ready for bed. I’ve been in to check on my little bug, snug in her big girl bed, twice.
I physically miss her. It’s awful. There’s this empty spot.
I get terrible sleep when she sleeps with me. She snores. She kicks. She bores her head into one parent while simultaneously boring her feet into the other parent. She and her daddy snore in concert. It is just a misery.
My goodness. I’m so proud of her.
But that night time with her is so healing for me, so reassuring. And she is the cutest, warmest little pullup butt in the whole world.
And I miss her. I don’t know what to do with myself when she sleeps in her big girl bed. And she loves that big girl bed. The other evening I asked her if she wanted to sleep with me and she nearly started crying– “but I have a big girl bed!”
What a kid.
a big kid Christmas
It’s Christmas Eve. The husband and stepkids are slaving away in the kitchen to make our Christmas Eve dinner- chicken burritos. That is, for me, bean burritos, and chicken burritos for everyone else. My husband makes the chicken with sour cream and taco seasoning and man! is it good, even if I don’t eat it. It’s a sweatshop in there. I am sipping a Makers Mark and Coke and blogging.
We took an intermission from — not a Charlie Brown Christmas, not Emmet Otter’s Jug Band Christmas, but Pirates of the Caribbean. I can’t believe I’m even watching this movie. I’ve never seen it and had no desire to. But the kids love it and my husband wanted to see it, and, well, we rode the ride at Disneyland several times this summer, and for some reason, I’m interested. And it’s not bad. Except I’m a bit frustrated about how long it takes for the key players to get together. Shouldn’t Keira Knightley and Johnny Depp just run off into the sunset and do it immediately? I mean, come on. Maybe I need to rewrite this baby to contain lots more sex with lots more partners and lots more adventure before things finally sort out.
Yes, we opened all our presents a week ago, resulting in a sad disorientation that comes of having one less week to anticipate. Such is Christmas when your little ones come and go each year in alternating halves of the Christmas holiday. Isn’t there a Maeve Binchy story entitled Next Year Will be Different?
I spent a few hours yesterday chasing all over town for the last copy of the Pokemon Mystery Dungeon Red Rescue Team game for Gameboy Advance, and trying in vain, like Barbossa and his crew, to slake my thirst for Christmas. We are doing a few small presents tomorrow morning before my husband and boy leave to take my girl home. I knew even as I spent that there wasn’t enough money in the world to buy Christmas like I want it. I had this vague thought that if I could just buy enough of the right kind of chocolate, perhaps it would all be okay… I didn’t even bother with chocolate. They got chocolate gold coins in the toes of their stockings on the last round. There isn’t enough chocolate in the world.
Still, after we send the kids to bed I’ll be re stuffing our stockings.
We got somewhat spoiled to having them the day after Christmas, which has happened the last three years in a row. We get to shiver with happy anticipation (okay, and sweat the money, and worry whether we’ve gotten them enough, and worry about our credit card debt) all the way through the season.
Along with that, in those years we also get them the whole week of Thanksgiving. It’s heaven. We get to put the tree up the day after Thanksgiving, together, and start watching Christmas specials, instead of having to wait til the Friday they get here, which also happens to be two days before we open presents. And that’s how it will be next year. Right?
Next year I’ll remember to tape Rudolph and The Grinch. Next year I’ll actually be able to find A Charlie Brown Christmas. Next year I will not be sitting by myself on Christmas day while my husband drives ten hours one way to get her home and ten hours to get back. Next year, with any luck, on Christmas I will be joyfully anticipating my stepkid or kids’ arrival, curled up in fuzzy pajamas, quilting or eating home made goodies, drinking I hope, all excited about their arrival and the presents we haven’t opened yet. Maybe my husband and I will even be able to plan such that we can get things for each other.
I just got so disoriented. That’s all. I hate having my expectations forced to update to reality.
Why is Christmas so important to me? My reverence for the religious import of the holiday, at least the mainstream or Bible Belt interpretation, has long since worn away– although, I hear that the Episcopalian church around the corner (so to speak– about five minutes away) is integrated and therefore I might not mind going there, so perhaps a church Christmas is on the books for next year. Although I hear from the same source that the liturgy is somewhat, um, updated. Eew! We’ll see. The goodness of white and black attending together probably outweighs the outraged sensibilities that would come with a ‘modern’ service.
I don’t think it’s external reality that is the problem. I think I am just lacking some internal reverence. That’s what happens when you go to a new agey, secular, strip-off-every-bit-of-the-cultural, religious, and family of origin-illusions-so-that-it’s-just-you-and-your-inner-divinity healing school.
And why am I so attached to having things, like Hank Hill, a ’set special way?’ Our families are so nontraditional, and/or dysfunctional, in so many ways, not to mention hundreds and hundreds of miles away, that the fantasy of loving family getting together and having a wonderful time is, well, truly just that. And going to get the kids and taking them home each holiday puts a real crimp in the magical travel we sometimes consider for Christmas– skiing, or a return to the cabins at Station Camp where we stayed when we got married, for example. Although, with the kids big enough to fly as unaccompanied minors, maybe it’s not impossible after all.
My baby is wallering under my chair as I type, singing over and over, ‘happy holiday. happy holl-a-day. happy holiday. happy hol-a-daaaaayyyy [touchingly sweet vibrato]. The burritos are ready, and after all, we are so fortunate to even be together. Maybe next year we’ll have a Christmas especially engineered for the biggest baby in the family, meaning, me. The kids have a pretty strong grip on the fact that just being together is something special. I get it. I really do. But next year…
screw it, it’s Christmas
That’s what I was thinking last night, anyway.
I have not managed to really dig in and enjoy this season. I LOVE this time of year. I love to plan, hoard, wrap, scheme, budget, shop, mail, find a bargain. But between working, and budget hassles from slow reimbursement of work travel expenses, and getting my stepkids ten days before Christmas and sending one of them home the day after… we decided to do Christmas early and it messed me ALL up.
No it didn’t! We have each other, and our health (except for a little ear infection, but at least it’s not asthma or strep) and our home, and our stretched budget is still a generous budget. It’s a nontraditional Christmas and we handle it with love and grace and land on our feet. That’s how we roll.
Isn’t it?
We’ve already opened presents, and I am feeling a little sick that there won’t be a second, huge drift of presents under the tree on Christmas. Even though my ten year old stepson takes great pride in telling us there’s no Santa… it’s so weird hearing the exciting words x days til Christmas!
Never mind that we’ve already spent hundreds of dollars on these kids. I long to buy more and surprise them. But that’s crazy talk! Why must the magic of Christmas be tied to spending, and stuff, when we love them so much and have already worked so hard to give them things they’ll love, early no less.
Heck I could spend the Christmas checks my parents and grandmother sent us, the parents, who so far have gotten bubkes from each other– okay, I got silky red jammies from wal mart and he got a rubik’s 5×5. But the money we’ve worked hard to save and spend goes straight to those kids. Except for the Solstice book and the Roches We Three Kings, that is. Anyhoo, we could do without even more to swamp the kids with even more crap they’ll use for a time and put away.
I am trying to hard to stay centered on being present with the kids, but buying things is such an easy way out. I’m going to have to sort something special out for Christmas day, and it doesn’t have to cost money, for Christ’s sake (so to speak)! But that’s the thing…to my mind, doing wonderful things that don’t cost money requires planning. We seem to have more money than time. Flylady where are you? The same place where my reimbursement for my travel was, I reckon.
I have a head cold, which comes hard on the heels of my chest cold of the last 3 weeks, but I am damned if I am not going to have a great party today!
I want that Amy Sedaris book. If our budget will ever settle out I can decide whether I can have it.
Anyway.
I spent about three hours at the doctor’s office yesterday, which I might’ve spent shopping, although my husband offered to do it all, so maybe not. Anyway it wasn’t strep, and we don’t think she has asthma any more, but with three kids and myself starving for lunch, we managed to drop off the scrip but not to get back out and get it, and then I had a wonderful, needed appointment which should have ended at six but didn’t end til almost seven.
I thought I was on C* Hill but I was really on Fisk– wha? Where the hell is Fisk? And how did I end up down on South B.?
So I missed seven pm, which is when the Bruno’s pharmacy closes, and didn’t get the baby’s antibiotics. She woke up with ear infection pain in the night, which makes me even worse than a bad mom. I hate Bruno’s pharmacy. I knew I should have bit the bullet and gone to a new one, a 24 hour one, yesterday. From now on, I swear, I will.
At TJ Maxx some guy looked me right in the eye, with my two items, and walked in front of me in the checkout line. [I talked to my Latina friend about this later and she said, oooh, no he didn't. I'd have gone Latina on him. She gave me some lessons for next time, including the head/shoulder circle. But shit, it was Christmas, right? I don't want to be just like him, do I? And hell, maybe he was feeling as tired and brain dead as I was. Still, she has a point. Not being so nice all the time would alleviate a lot of issues, both in my home and in my office and in the real world.]
And that very pleasant checkout lady? Slow as molasses, almost aggressively so. She *walked away* to complete some task with several people waiting in line. Far away. And then came back to ring me up and was sooo pleasant.
The checkout lady at Winn Dixie said, I’m waiting on you to give me some cash or slide your card or something… was I supposed to DIVINE that she was done toting up my groceries?
It was raining and I’m not a very good night driver and when it rains I can’t see the lines on the road and someone cut me off so I missed my turn in about three different places.
I aimlessly drove around for a bit. I tried to keep it together and stay happy– it’s Christmas, screw it!
But here’s the topper. At the Fresh Market I mistakenly WALKED OFF WITH SOME OTHER LADY’S CART. WITH HER PURSE IN IT. And you know those dry, entitled, perfectly coiffed women who shop at the Fresh Market, right? Oh man. My own cart was right there. It would have been funny if I wasn’t so tired. I’m lucky she didn’t call the police.
I was pressure shopping for our party today. I have come to two party planning truths.
1. Shop the day BEFORE the day before. Then you can cook the day before, then you can relax the day of.
2. He who’s doing the cooking should also do the shopping. If he or she is not cooking, he or she has no way to mind read exactly what quantity of pecans, or that I really did mean plain Hershey Bars rather than miniature Krackels, Goodbars, etc.
Yes, we’re going to be suburban campers and do microwave s’mores. The kids will love it I hope??
So, it’s time to cook. It’s been time to cook for a bit. But it’s going to be okay. After I cried into the kitchen sink when I found that my husband bought 1/2 cup of pecans instead of the metric assload I needed, meaning no pecan crescents– something about those pecans sent me over the edge, eh? Or was it the fact that it was ten at night, I’d been out for hours ineffectively trying to shop, I have my period AND a cold? But I digress. After I cried into the sink, and then cried into the fridge, I got the brisket loaded and primed with my special secret recipe, made the bacon blue cheese dip, the onion dip and the ranch dip. I’m, like, 1/3 of the way there!
I didn’t get a lot of sleep though, anxious, snoring husband, baby with ear pain, guilt.
So I’m going to find something pleasant and silly on the TV or radio and get to work. I need to tie myself into the outside world for a bit, find some false, consumerist gaiety. Because as crippled as it is, secular, consumerist Christmas culture is, honestly, okay with me, you know? It’s kind of a relief. Or, maybe since I’m so weirded out by the fact that we opened Christmas a week before the rest of the world, I’ll just head on off to pagan land. Yes, that might be better.
And you know, come noon, when I’m sure there’s no more driving to do, I’ll crack open the Maker’s Mark and have a nice cocktail, and take a bubble bath, and all will be well.
Brisket (I’m not eating meat but for a special occasion I don’t mind preparing it and letting others enjoy it. Don’t underestimate the power of this recipe!), vegetables, Alabama Biscuits, Chips and Dip, pecan wedding cookies, pumpkin brownies, sweet tea, y’all come!
sea change
I’m noticing something about myself. I’m starting to be able to stay centered more of the time.
I do get upset, but I can still notice things that are beautiful and unchanging. I might have, say, several minutes or a few hours of anger or disappointment and tears, but then I fall right back into reality– depending on what’s bothering me I might suddenly remember I have good friends, a beautiful little girl, a paycheck, a good family whose dysfunctions aren’t near as bad as I used to think.
This morning shortly after five I had one of those moments. Amongst discord and hurt, my Christmas tree just sits there sparkling away in the dark, all night long– sparkling when we turn off the last light in the house, sparkling when we wobble in to make coffee at a painfully early hour because we can’t rest… So sweet!
Some of us don’t ever grow up. Our bodies mature. We get educations and jobs and have homes and kids. But it isn’t that we grew up… it’s that we are actually very high functioning twelve year olds, or eight year olds, or whatever age it was that some defining event took place. It’s a kind of mild autism– which in my completely unqualified opinion embraces lots and lots more people than we traditionally think it does. It can be debilitating, or it can just be a nuisance. We are able to manage behaviorally, but the emotional stuff is never really integrated.
I can’t, or at least mustn’t, presume to say who has and who hasn’t matured, or what emotional age most people are. I know for sure about myself– high functioning twelve year old– and I am reasonably sure that my work friend is arrested at a very classy black debutante/sorority girl/southern lady seventeen. She is so cute, because she’s the consummate professional, always courteous and effective, and then a chink opens and the mischievous yet socially graceful, honest to a fault yet still courteous, seventeen year old peeks out. It isn’t that she isn’t genuine, because she is. She’s just very high functioning. And every once in a while, reasonably often actually, she speaks a devastating truth in the sweetest, mildest manner, bats her eyelashes, and we (those of us circling the wagons against the forces of darkness which have taken over my workplace) all just fall out.
I say this because (as I understand it, not being a child development specialist) it is the nature of a child to be swept up in the emotions of a moment and let it color his or her entire perception of a situation. It’s either all good or all bad. The smallest thing is just devastating. And the big things– well.
And it isn’t always possible to determine what a child considers small and what he or she considers big. It could be, say, a mother getting a sanity-saving nap and leaving the baby with a loved one. If mommy doesn’t get the nap, things will be much worse for the baby, but the baby doesn’t know that. It could be finding out that there’s no Santa. It could be seeing one’s parents as human for the first time. Meanwhile, the divorce or the antics of the alcoholic Christmas guest kinda roll off the kid’s back, or the kid is becoming joyfully proficient at some skill such as soccer, reading, or ballet. We touched on this briefly at my last co-ed book club meeting– the complete illogic of what kids remember, and why, and the crystal clarity or defining nature of particular memories.
We have to go back, consciously or unconsciously, and examine as an adult and get perspective on– whatever–, in order to move on. Some things are easier than others. It’s different for everyone, although I’m sure some patterns can be observed. I think that’s why it’s so important for adults to talk to kids and make themselves as available as possible– as awkward and stupid as it sometimes seems in this era of video game, instant messaging, and hurry hurry hurry– to listen. Talking things over is one of the ways we get a healed, adult perspective on events we might not have understood the first time around.
I had a small but painful wound healed — okay I’ve had many wounds healed, but this is just a small example — by becoming a mother. I remember asking my mom if I could sleep with her, and her saying no, you kick. I was so disappointed, and I knew for a fact I didn’t kick and she was just saying that to hurt me.
Guess what. When my baby sleeps with me, she kicks. Guess what. I know my mom was telling the truth. The hurt of that moment, most of it anyway, pops like a bubble when I see it as a tired but loving mom. As does so much unconscious rejection I am sure I felt as a kid– I love my child so much, and I marveled at the painful consuming nature of this love to my mother. Were you this overwhelmed, this obsessed? Could you possibly have loved me this much? Her answer was an immediate and unqualified YES!
We don’t ever get it ‘right’. Or, as we say at healing school, ten percent of the people get it right ten percent of the time. So does that make it one percent? or .01 percent? Math ain’t my thing.
It’s not about that, though, not about curing or getting it right. It’s about just knowing, and being.
Meanwhile… my Christmas tree sparkles on.
