Holy cow, what a week. Just when you think you have the Ph.D in parenting, there's always another phase to the course work. I know I'm not alone in this particular learning curve, though, because my pharmacist, otherwise known as my new best friend, has told me so. It's official: whether it's the flu, the norovirus, or a nasty stomach bug, every kid in the county is sick. And this week? It was our turn to wrestle with some Africanized virus that nearly took the family down. Yep: this was the week sickness nearly took down the Counce house.
Oh, you just think I'm exaggerating! But no...it was truly touch and go this week. Part of the problem was that Hubs went down with it first. It takes a lot to stagger Hubs, but whatever particular respiratory slice of hell this disease was certainly did it. They don't include "night sweats" in the wedding vows, folks, but they should. Shudder. I haven't allowed him to so much as break a five foot imaginary barrier around me all week. If I'd a had a SARS mask, I would have broken that sucker out days ago.
And what is it about men and doctors? His arm could be dangling by a tendon, and the average man will glance over at it and murmur something about duct tape being good for almost any repair. Not me. I'm a giant woman-baby. One degree of fever, a hint of discomfort, and I'm making a nuisance of myself to my PCP. The squeaky wheel gets the grease, or in this particular case, the appropriate antibiotics.
So about day three of Hubs' unmedicated misery, the inevitable: my five year old daughter got quiet and still. And if you know anything about my five year old daughter, there is no more dangerous time than when she is quiet and still. She is either plotting world domination or has a fever. This time, it was no murderous plot. But it was a nasty, nasty virus. Let the disease games begin. The quiet and still was soon replaced with nuclear-strength whining and weeping.
And begin the games certainly did: for three days, Hubs and daughter were laid low together. Who knew so much fluid could come out of such a little person? And forget sleep. A sore throat did not seem to deter my darling girl from screaming for her parents in the middle of the night every couple hours. Hours were spent half-dozing, half-upright on the sofa. Sheets practically had to be boiled.
And the medicine drama! Please tell me I am not alone in having to pin my kid to the floor with my knees on their shoulders in order to administer what must be medicine mostly made of sugar. I cannot the only parent who brings back a bloody stump trying to wipe raw noses. Antibiotics. Fever reducers. Mucus looseners. Throat sprays. It was a march of pharmaceuticals of which Michael Jackson would have been proud. And my daughter wasn't having a one of them without a slug fest.
Doctor's offices. Missed school and work. And a My Little Pony marathon played out over the week that I am certain has shaved a dozen IQ points off me. Tantrums. Whining. Yards and yards of snotty Kleenex. Steamy baths. I have been Nurse Ratched, transformed to Nurse Wretched by miserable family members. It turns out the old saying is true: familiarity breeds contempt. And by the end of this week, I have been with these patients way too much.
So here's to the Earth turning on its axis, time passing, and the end of this horrid cold and flu season. And here's to every parent out there dealing with sick kids or being sick yourself. It takes everything you have. I have no patience for it. And no more patience for the patients. So those of us who so far seem to have escaped getting sick, let's toast to our health, wash our hands, and invest in some vitatmin C or something. Because I've had enough of playing nursemaid to last me the rest of the year. Now you'll have to pardon me. I'm off to look into laminating my children. Here's to health.
Friday, February 1, 2013
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Sing Loudly and Badly
The presidential inauguration this week! Did you catch the festivites? What fun! Okay, so if you're more of a right-winger, it might not have been your kind of party. I get that. But I enjoy a good celebration as much as the next girl, and when it comes to shindigs, it doesn't really get more exciting than the parades and balls and patriotism. So despite who's getting sworn in, I've always liked watching the presidential inauguration festivities. Not to mention Michelle's bangs! Swoon! If they don't have their own Twitter account by now, it's only a matter of time.
And the formal balls! President Obama looking oh-so Downtown Abbey in his white tie. Michelle and her arms rocking a red dress...move over, Nancy Reagan! Malia and Sasha adorably taking photos. Jill Biden dancing with Joe! The parade! Oh, there was something for everyone; even the most hardened Tea Partier must have enjoyed the twenty-one gun salute.
And since our president is such a cool cat, the parties and guests were particularly ogle-worthy. Jennifer Hudson looked so lovely crooning to the First Couple as they had the first dance of the evening. What talent! I wish I had her size six figure and her Weight Watchers dollars, too. But I digress. Jennifer Hudson was only one of several A-list entertainers on the docket that day, too. Although I thoroughly missed Aretha Franklin and her hat.
There was something for everyone. James Taylor crooned for the white baby boomers. That man is amazing. He's clean now, but he took enough heroin in his lifetime to take down a small village yet still is smooth as butter onstage in the cold, hitting those "fruited plains" notes effortlessly. He's seen fire, and he's seen rain. Seriously, what kind of iron-clad DNA is this man in possession of?
Then there was fellow Texan Kelly Clarkson. Woo hoo! Did that girl belt it out! Chuck Shumer looked a little afraid of her as he returned to the podium when she was done singing. "Wow!" Shumer exclaimed, and he was right: it was cold, crowded, and for the lousy acoustics, sister truly did wear it out. My country 'tis of thee indeed!
And then President Obama opened for Beyonce, which was weird enough in itself. She "sang" the Star Spangled Banner, even gaining additional audience praise when she whipped out her earpiece mid-song and kept her perfect pitch. I use quotation marks around "sang," of course, because of the controversy of which we are all now very well aware: Lip-Syncgate. Followed by an epidemic of eyerolls.
Cue the sturm und drang for a nation of people with clearly not enough to worry about: now everyone's got their proverbial dainties in a bunch because Beyonce didn't sing live. Aside: if you are emotionally involved in whether or not Beyonce lip-synched for Barack, you clearly need a hobby or a cause. So why the hubbub, bub?
Perhaps the real controversy is about authenticity. Displaying confidence in one's abilities. James Taylor and Kelly Clarkson took their chances with the poor acoustics, the cold weather, and the huge crowd. Bey took the safer road by taping her performance. I get it; the stakes were high, and she wanted to cover her bases.
Beyonce is one of the best at what she does, but Americans value authenticity. She baited and switched us, and no one likes feeling duped. We'd rather you sing loudly and badly and own it. We like individuals who take risks, who don't play it safely, and have confidence. As long as you can mea culpa, we'll give you chance after chance.
So here's to being our most authentic selves, as messy and flawed as we can be. Let your freak flag fly. Do your thing fearlessly. Here's to taking risks, having confidence in our gifts and abilities, and to singing loudly and making mistakes. It's not only okay to be human, it kind of rocks. So what if we come off more like Roseanne tackling the national anthem at a major league baseball game? She lived to tell the tale. And so will we. Here's to singing loudly and authentically. Like they taught us on Sesame Street: doesn't matter if it's not good enough for anyone else to hear. Just sing a song.
And the formal balls! President Obama looking oh-so Downtown Abbey in his white tie. Michelle and her arms rocking a red dress...move over, Nancy Reagan! Malia and Sasha adorably taking photos. Jill Biden dancing with Joe! The parade! Oh, there was something for everyone; even the most hardened Tea Partier must have enjoyed the twenty-one gun salute.
And since our president is such a cool cat, the parties and guests were particularly ogle-worthy. Jennifer Hudson looked so lovely crooning to the First Couple as they had the first dance of the evening. What talent! I wish I had her size six figure and her Weight Watchers dollars, too. But I digress. Jennifer Hudson was only one of several A-list entertainers on the docket that day, too. Although I thoroughly missed Aretha Franklin and her hat.
There was something for everyone. James Taylor crooned for the white baby boomers. That man is amazing. He's clean now, but he took enough heroin in his lifetime to take down a small village yet still is smooth as butter onstage in the cold, hitting those "fruited plains" notes effortlessly. He's seen fire, and he's seen rain. Seriously, what kind of iron-clad DNA is this man in possession of?
Then there was fellow Texan Kelly Clarkson. Woo hoo! Did that girl belt it out! Chuck Shumer looked a little afraid of her as he returned to the podium when she was done singing. "Wow!" Shumer exclaimed, and he was right: it was cold, crowded, and for the lousy acoustics, sister truly did wear it out. My country 'tis of thee indeed!
And then President Obama opened for Beyonce, which was weird enough in itself. She "sang" the Star Spangled Banner, even gaining additional audience praise when she whipped out her earpiece mid-song and kept her perfect pitch. I use quotation marks around "sang," of course, because of the controversy of which we are all now very well aware: Lip-Syncgate. Followed by an epidemic of eyerolls.
Cue the sturm und drang for a nation of people with clearly not enough to worry about: now everyone's got their proverbial dainties in a bunch because Beyonce didn't sing live. Aside: if you are emotionally involved in whether or not Beyonce lip-synched for Barack, you clearly need a hobby or a cause. So why the hubbub, bub?
Perhaps the real controversy is about authenticity. Displaying confidence in one's abilities. James Taylor and Kelly Clarkson took their chances with the poor acoustics, the cold weather, and the huge crowd. Bey took the safer road by taping her performance. I get it; the stakes were high, and she wanted to cover her bases.
Beyonce is one of the best at what she does, but Americans value authenticity. She baited and switched us, and no one likes feeling duped. We'd rather you sing loudly and badly and own it. We like individuals who take risks, who don't play it safely, and have confidence. As long as you can mea culpa, we'll give you chance after chance.
So here's to being our most authentic selves, as messy and flawed as we can be. Let your freak flag fly. Do your thing fearlessly. Here's to taking risks, having confidence in our gifts and abilities, and to singing loudly and making mistakes. It's not only okay to be human, it kind of rocks. So what if we come off more like Roseanne tackling the national anthem at a major league baseball game? She lived to tell the tale. And so will we. Here's to singing loudly and authentically. Like they taught us on Sesame Street: doesn't matter if it's not good enough for anyone else to hear. Just sing a song.
Friday, January 18, 2013
Just Keep Swimming
It's January 19, people! Do you know where your New Year's Resolutions are? Scientists say it's around 21 days that repeating a behavior makes it a habit. We're just about there. What did you choose this year? Quit smoking? Do more charity work? Or like me, did you just resolve to take off that pesky five pounds of egg nog and sugar cookies from December? I don't know about you, but I gain weight when I breathe in deeply around food. And it takes a will of iron to take weight off. So I've hit 2013 armed with a new Jillian Michaels work out video and a freezer full of Lean Cuisines.
To my deepest chagrin, I cannot yet report success in my weight loss endeavors despite some considerable effort. Yeppers, I'm officially struggling. Plateau city. I'm working out, I'm restricting food...and yet? Nada. The numbers on the scale refuse to budge. It's scientifically impossible, I tell you, but there it is. Magically, my body is holding on to what I lovingly like to call my "winter coat" with a vengeance.
I was in such denial about my holiday padding that I actually bought a second scale in belief the first one must truly be lying to me. Alas, now they work in tandem to make me cry first thing in the morning when I do my obligatory weigh-in. There is no mistake. All scales are in agreement, and I cannot deny: I am chubbier than I was in the majority of 2012. Not by a lot, mind you. But enough to bother me.
And I have been a good, good girl, y'all, this January. I have been a resolutions poster girl. You would not believe the delicacies I've turned down lately in my quest for a more narrow behind. There was that staff breakfast with the doughnuts, muffins, and lovely egg and cheese casserole. Bread pudding, guys. There was BREAD PUDDING and I said no. No small feat for a girl of Cajun ancestry.
And there was that lovely Square Off remote we shot at the resplendent Henry's of Plano, home of gorgonzola-smothered fries and comped creme brulee for desert. Did I bend? NO! Who ate grilled salmon and asparagus and demurred from deep fried doughnut holes, all the while screaming internally from the effort? THIS CHICK. I'm telling you, if desire burned calories, I would have dropped a dress size at that lunch.
But am I rewarded on my nemesis, that bitch-goddess I call the scale? No! Despite this month's application of what I call extreme austerity measures, that needle refuses to move. I think I quite literally banged my head on the wall this morning after I weighed in. How? How is it possible? More calories burned than taken in...it's just mathematically impossible! Related: ARGLE BARGLE.
It's so frustrating to behave yourself and have few results. But in the interest of my sanity, here's what I'm telling myself about all this eating well and exercising like mad I've been doing:
It's the process, not the product. Being motivated to get to the gym or go running in the cold is hard. Being unhappy and unable to fit in my pants is hard. I need to choose my hard, because at the end of the day, taking care of myself isn't a short term project. It's not like there's an end to diet and exercise even when you're at your goal weight. You don't get to be done.
Self esteem comes from within. A number on a scale doesn't define you or your attractiveness any more than the size tag on your pants. Self esteem is that feeling you get during the stretch after a run or when you complete your first 5K. Resolutions aren't about reaching a size or a number but changing from within and living differently.
Forget arbitrary start dates. So, you blew it. Maybe you did eat your weight in Doritos during the last NFL playoff game. That doesn't mean 2013 is blown. And for me, that means no matter what the calendar says, every day can be New Year's Day at least as far as resolutions are concerned. Every minute is a new minute in which I can make decisions that feed my self-esteem as opposed to tearing it down.
Just keep swimming. My favorite character in Finding Nemo is Dory. I like her short term memory loss. It works for her, and we'd probably benefit from forgetting a little more ourselves. And when she doesn't know what else to do? She just keeps swimming. And, taking a page from Dory's book, I will just keeping running...no matter what that damnable scale wants to tell me. It is after all impossible to get nowhere if you refuse to give up.
So wish me well as we head into the latter part of January, 2013. I just know that scale and I are going to come to an understanding here soon. But in the meanwhile, if you see me, don't offer me anything fattening, please. I know clean living will prevail. I send you Godspeed as you tackle your own 2013 resolutions. We'll just try to remember this is the new normal, right? We've picked our hard. Here's to making our resolutions into habits.
To my deepest chagrin, I cannot yet report success in my weight loss endeavors despite some considerable effort. Yeppers, I'm officially struggling. Plateau city. I'm working out, I'm restricting food...and yet? Nada. The numbers on the scale refuse to budge. It's scientifically impossible, I tell you, but there it is. Magically, my body is holding on to what I lovingly like to call my "winter coat" with a vengeance.
I was in such denial about my holiday padding that I actually bought a second scale in belief the first one must truly be lying to me. Alas, now they work in tandem to make me cry first thing in the morning when I do my obligatory weigh-in. There is no mistake. All scales are in agreement, and I cannot deny: I am chubbier than I was in the majority of 2012. Not by a lot, mind you. But enough to bother me.
And I have been a good, good girl, y'all, this January. I have been a resolutions poster girl. You would not believe the delicacies I've turned down lately in my quest for a more narrow behind. There was that staff breakfast with the doughnuts, muffins, and lovely egg and cheese casserole. Bread pudding, guys. There was BREAD PUDDING and I said no. No small feat for a girl of Cajun ancestry.
And there was that lovely Square Off remote we shot at the resplendent Henry's of Plano, home of gorgonzola-smothered fries and comped creme brulee for desert. Did I bend? NO! Who ate grilled salmon and asparagus and demurred from deep fried doughnut holes, all the while screaming internally from the effort? THIS CHICK. I'm telling you, if desire burned calories, I would have dropped a dress size at that lunch.
But am I rewarded on my nemesis, that bitch-goddess I call the scale? No! Despite this month's application of what I call extreme austerity measures, that needle refuses to move. I think I quite literally banged my head on the wall this morning after I weighed in. How? How is it possible? More calories burned than taken in...it's just mathematically impossible! Related: ARGLE BARGLE.
It's so frustrating to behave yourself and have few results. But in the interest of my sanity, here's what I'm telling myself about all this eating well and exercising like mad I've been doing:
It's the process, not the product. Being motivated to get to the gym or go running in the cold is hard. Being unhappy and unable to fit in my pants is hard. I need to choose my hard, because at the end of the day, taking care of myself isn't a short term project. It's not like there's an end to diet and exercise even when you're at your goal weight. You don't get to be done.
Self esteem comes from within. A number on a scale doesn't define you or your attractiveness any more than the size tag on your pants. Self esteem is that feeling you get during the stretch after a run or when you complete your first 5K. Resolutions aren't about reaching a size or a number but changing from within and living differently.
Forget arbitrary start dates. So, you blew it. Maybe you did eat your weight in Doritos during the last NFL playoff game. That doesn't mean 2013 is blown. And for me, that means no matter what the calendar says, every day can be New Year's Day at least as far as resolutions are concerned. Every minute is a new minute in which I can make decisions that feed my self-esteem as opposed to tearing it down.
Just keep swimming. My favorite character in Finding Nemo is Dory. I like her short term memory loss. It works for her, and we'd probably benefit from forgetting a little more ourselves. And when she doesn't know what else to do? She just keeps swimming. And, taking a page from Dory's book, I will just keeping running...no matter what that damnable scale wants to tell me. It is after all impossible to get nowhere if you refuse to give up.
So wish me well as we head into the latter part of January, 2013. I just know that scale and I are going to come to an understanding here soon. But in the meanwhile, if you see me, don't offer me anything fattening, please. I know clean living will prevail. I send you Godspeed as you tackle your own 2013 resolutions. We'll just try to remember this is the new normal, right? We've picked our hard. Here's to making our resolutions into habits.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Multiple Madness
Yo, parents. Did you survive the winter school break? Holy cow. The situation was dicey around here. Two weeks, mano e mano, with three bored children under the age of nine. Surly, surly children. How did you survive, dear reader? It's true confession time here: I let 'em vegetate. Lay, as they say, like broccoli. Before the end of our school vacation, I am ashamed to admit the depths I sank to as a parent to entertain my hellions lest they run amok.
There were so, so many screens. The children's programming flowed like water. Nutritional rules were relaxed. Whims were indulged. I know, I know. I'm not proud. But desperate times call for desperate measures. When you're in survival mode, you just might sink to cannibalism. And two solid weeks with my babies aged five, seven, and nine? Comparable to an Artic circle plane crash. Anything could happen. And it did.
Yep, I'm here to once again make you feel like parent of the year. Or at least reach out in camaraderie to my other desperate, slacker parents who are simply overwhelmed most of the time. Yes, yes, I chose to have three babies in four years. I really don't have a right to complain. But today I'm talking to the other parents out there who are also outnumbered and reduced to playing zone defense instead of man. We're soldiers, people.
It's hard out there for us with multiple children. And then, there's your "special needs" kids. And I'm afraid I've got a couple. Dyslexia, spectrum emotional stuff. Not to mention the crackers don't fall from the dramatic box, if you know what I mean. They are mine after all. Hilarity ensues.
So special. Case in point: how many of YOU had to carry your seven year old out to the van late to school as he kicked and screamed because he wanted an umbrella we didn't have time to find? Anyone else have to endure daily freak outs over brushing teeth and other basic hygiene activities? How about pulling your children off one another as they slug it out? Good, good times.
SIGH. So bear with me, darlings, because I'm writing what I'm doing. And like a lot of you, I am rearing some children. It is my number one job. And a lot of the time it feels like it is kicking my behind. Who else is chief cook and bottle washer out there?
And a big huzzah to those of you who are raising multiple children while also taking on full time employment. Holy cow, I don't know how you do it. I am also lucky enough to make child rearing and domestic engineering my chief mission in life right now, but with apologies to the army, it's the toughest job you'll ever love. And sometimes, let's be honest, loathe.
Admit it! Intensive parenting is tough. It's repetitive. It's dirty. It's tedious, nay, I'll say it: boring. I'm currently and actively avoiding the daily sweep and mop of the kitchen floor by penning this little missive. I'm writing this today to salute parents everywhere and to the sleep we don't get. A tip of the hat to every one of you who hasn't had an uninterrupted night of sleep for five days due to nightmares and/or puking.
Yes, here's to you, parents. For every homework tear, for every meltdown over tangled hair or clipping nails, for each wardrobe battle and wiped bottom. Here's to all those bodily fluids that come with being a parent, no? They don't tell you about that, folks. So many bodily fluids.
Why do we do it? On account of the love. And the really cushy retirement homes these children will eventually place us in. We knew the job was dangerous when we took it. Well, okay, there may be surprises when you're raising more than two young children at a time. When they handed me that first little bundle there in the hospital, I truly had no idea what was to come. But I'm here to remind you it's okay to be imperfect in this child-rearing thing. In fact, it's to be expected an embraced.
Don't despair the condition of your once clean and organized home! One day, we will have done our jobs with these little people. We will, egad, probably miss the chaos and the hand prints and the occasional nuclear-level skirmish. But what we get to take advantage of for the rest of their lives and ours? The love. There will always be lots of that. I'm thinking: in the end? This insanity just might be totally worth it.
There were so, so many screens. The children's programming flowed like water. Nutritional rules were relaxed. Whims were indulged. I know, I know. I'm not proud. But desperate times call for desperate measures. When you're in survival mode, you just might sink to cannibalism. And two solid weeks with my babies aged five, seven, and nine? Comparable to an Artic circle plane crash. Anything could happen. And it did.
Yep, I'm here to once again make you feel like parent of the year. Or at least reach out in camaraderie to my other desperate, slacker parents who are simply overwhelmed most of the time. Yes, yes, I chose to have three babies in four years. I really don't have a right to complain. But today I'm talking to the other parents out there who are also outnumbered and reduced to playing zone defense instead of man. We're soldiers, people.
It's hard out there for us with multiple children. And then, there's your "special needs" kids. And I'm afraid I've got a couple. Dyslexia, spectrum emotional stuff. Not to mention the crackers don't fall from the dramatic box, if you know what I mean. They are mine after all. Hilarity ensues.
So special. Case in point: how many of YOU had to carry your seven year old out to the van late to school as he kicked and screamed because he wanted an umbrella we didn't have time to find? Anyone else have to endure daily freak outs over brushing teeth and other basic hygiene activities? How about pulling your children off one another as they slug it out? Good, good times.
SIGH. So bear with me, darlings, because I'm writing what I'm doing. And like a lot of you, I am rearing some children. It is my number one job. And a lot of the time it feels like it is kicking my behind. Who else is chief cook and bottle washer out there?
And a big huzzah to those of you who are raising multiple children while also taking on full time employment. Holy cow, I don't know how you do it. I am also lucky enough to make child rearing and domestic engineering my chief mission in life right now, but with apologies to the army, it's the toughest job you'll ever love. And sometimes, let's be honest, loathe.
Admit it! Intensive parenting is tough. It's repetitive. It's dirty. It's tedious, nay, I'll say it: boring. I'm currently and actively avoiding the daily sweep and mop of the kitchen floor by penning this little missive. I'm writing this today to salute parents everywhere and to the sleep we don't get. A tip of the hat to every one of you who hasn't had an uninterrupted night of sleep for five days due to nightmares and/or puking.
Yes, here's to you, parents. For every homework tear, for every meltdown over tangled hair or clipping nails, for each wardrobe battle and wiped bottom. Here's to all those bodily fluids that come with being a parent, no? They don't tell you about that, folks. So many bodily fluids.
Why do we do it? On account of the love. And the really cushy retirement homes these children will eventually place us in. We knew the job was dangerous when we took it. Well, okay, there may be surprises when you're raising more than two young children at a time. When they handed me that first little bundle there in the hospital, I truly had no idea what was to come. But I'm here to remind you it's okay to be imperfect in this child-rearing thing. In fact, it's to be expected an embraced.
Don't despair the condition of your once clean and organized home! One day, we will have done our jobs with these little people. We will, egad, probably miss the chaos and the hand prints and the occasional nuclear-level skirmish. But what we get to take advantage of for the rest of their lives and ours? The love. There will always be lots of that. I'm thinking: in the end? This insanity just might be totally worth it.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
What Should Happen: The 2013 Edition
2013! New year, new starts, new attitudes. I like the feeling of a clean slate, don't you? I have some definite ideas about how this new year can show 2012 how it's supposed to be done, too. I was kind of glad to see 2012 end. In between hurricanes, elections, shootings, the Mayan apocalypse, fiscal cliffs and reality TV, it was a bit of a rough ride there. So I've taken it upon myself to make a list of how 2013 can kick 2012's behind. Here's some things that should happen, in my humble opinion, this year:
They're here. They're queer. And that's awesome. It's time for America to embrace the next civil rights movement. Homophobia is so 1880s. Time for America to embrace the rainbow. No one's getting a toaster for recruiting. Your heterosexual lifestyle is safe, truly. You can't convince me gays present the threat to heterosexual marriage that Kim Kardashian does. I'm not gay, but I am totally supportive of each of our citizens having a right to marry and all the legal goodies that go with that. 2013 should be the year when America starts spreading the love...and the legal rights. Love is a good thing, folks. We need more of it.
The stigma of mental health care should go away. Want to curb gun violence in America? Let's make a mental care checkup as innocuous as a physical care check up. Like your body, if you don't take hygiene into account, you'll be at risk for poor health. Everyone, everyone struggles. You wouldn't break your arm and put a bandaid on it. Let's make 2013 the year we all connect with someone to talk with if we struggle. No one should have it held against them that they took care of themselves. No one looks sideways at you for a well check for your body. News flash: your psyche is part of your body. You don't carry it in a shopping bag. Tend to it.
Acrimony should go out of style. This Us and Them politics we showcased for the 2012 election season was seriously not attractive. On both side of the political argument, I saw heinies being worn as hats way too often. Yeah, yeah, yeah...easy for me to say, I suppose, when my politics seem to be more popular. But it's a circular process, people. Notice: Bush. Clinton. Bush. Obama. Trust me. Let's make a deal, shall we? I'll try to keep from throwing shade when your guy's in power. Grin and bear it until 2016. Times are always a'changing.
Redneck TV should go away. I mean, really. Reality TV was pernicious enough when it focused on the uber-rich Housewives of Various Cities and, god help us, the Kardashian circus. But at least that reality featured some blingy excess to enjoy. But this new trend: Duck Dynasty? Moonshiners? Or MTV's Buckwild, which is a cringeworthy Honey Boo Boo meets Jersey Shore? We're better than this, America. I know we are. There's an antidote for this pablum, and it's called the "off" button. Or a nice viewing of Nova. Related:
We need a better hobby than celebrity watching. I know, I know. The siren call of Us magazine is strong. But balance is the key. They're called "books," y'all. Let's look into them. Can we all make an agreement to never speak the smush name "Kimye" ever, ever again? I mean, I think we can all survive without knowing what's in Beyonce's purse, right? I shudder to think that when I'm retirement age, Blue Ivy Carter, Willow Smith, and Jessica Simpson's children might hold elected office if we continue at this rate.
Grown ups should act like grown ups. It's children who are "me first" people, y'all. It's a toddler who grabs what he can for himself without thinking of others. I'm getting a little weary of you charging in front of me in the grocery line, wearing your heinie as a hat in traffic, listening to you be rude to waitstaff or cashiers. 2013 is your year for personal growth. I don't want to hear about any politicians telling each other to perform, well, acts that are physically impossible to perform in the halls of congress. We're adults, people. Let's act like them. And finally:
Let's keep random acts of kindness a thing. After the Newton shooting, I was touched to my core by the outreach of kindness to the Connecticut town from all over the world. For a little while, everyone was a little nicer to one another. I heard local stories about people committing random acts of kindness everywhere: compelled to pay for the coffee of the guy behind you in line, offers of help, and generosity galore. Here's to continuing this trend in 2013. Smile at a stranger. Let that guy merge in, for the love of Mike. Allow the guy with fewer items to go ahead of you in line. You'll be glad you did.
Here's to an fantastic new year for our country and American culture! These are only a few ideas for how 2013 can be our best yet, dear reader. It doesn't have to suck. 2012 was a trial at times for us as a nation and a people. Here's to making 2013 a little more awesome.
They're here. They're queer. And that's awesome. It's time for America to embrace the next civil rights movement. Homophobia is so 1880s. Time for America to embrace the rainbow. No one's getting a toaster for recruiting. Your heterosexual lifestyle is safe, truly. You can't convince me gays present the threat to heterosexual marriage that Kim Kardashian does. I'm not gay, but I am totally supportive of each of our citizens having a right to marry and all the legal goodies that go with that. 2013 should be the year when America starts spreading the love...and the legal rights. Love is a good thing, folks. We need more of it.
The stigma of mental health care should go away. Want to curb gun violence in America? Let's make a mental care checkup as innocuous as a physical care check up. Like your body, if you don't take hygiene into account, you'll be at risk for poor health. Everyone, everyone struggles. You wouldn't break your arm and put a bandaid on it. Let's make 2013 the year we all connect with someone to talk with if we struggle. No one should have it held against them that they took care of themselves. No one looks sideways at you for a well check for your body. News flash: your psyche is part of your body. You don't carry it in a shopping bag. Tend to it.
Acrimony should go out of style. This Us and Them politics we showcased for the 2012 election season was seriously not attractive. On both side of the political argument, I saw heinies being worn as hats way too often. Yeah, yeah, yeah...easy for me to say, I suppose, when my politics seem to be more popular. But it's a circular process, people. Notice: Bush. Clinton. Bush. Obama. Trust me. Let's make a deal, shall we? I'll try to keep from throwing shade when your guy's in power. Grin and bear it until 2016. Times are always a'changing.
Redneck TV should go away. I mean, really. Reality TV was pernicious enough when it focused on the uber-rich Housewives of Various Cities and, god help us, the Kardashian circus. But at least that reality featured some blingy excess to enjoy. But this new trend: Duck Dynasty? Moonshiners? Or MTV's Buckwild, which is a cringeworthy Honey Boo Boo meets Jersey Shore? We're better than this, America. I know we are. There's an antidote for this pablum, and it's called the "off" button. Or a nice viewing of Nova. Related:
We need a better hobby than celebrity watching. I know, I know. The siren call of Us magazine is strong. But balance is the key. They're called "books," y'all. Let's look into them. Can we all make an agreement to never speak the smush name "Kimye" ever, ever again? I mean, I think we can all survive without knowing what's in Beyonce's purse, right? I shudder to think that when I'm retirement age, Blue Ivy Carter, Willow Smith, and Jessica Simpson's children might hold elected office if we continue at this rate.
Grown ups should act like grown ups. It's children who are "me first" people, y'all. It's a toddler who grabs what he can for himself without thinking of others. I'm getting a little weary of you charging in front of me in the grocery line, wearing your heinie as a hat in traffic, listening to you be rude to waitstaff or cashiers. 2013 is your year for personal growth. I don't want to hear about any politicians telling each other to perform, well, acts that are physically impossible to perform in the halls of congress. We're adults, people. Let's act like them. And finally:
Let's keep random acts of kindness a thing. After the Newton shooting, I was touched to my core by the outreach of kindness to the Connecticut town from all over the world. For a little while, everyone was a little nicer to one another. I heard local stories about people committing random acts of kindness everywhere: compelled to pay for the coffee of the guy behind you in line, offers of help, and generosity galore. Here's to continuing this trend in 2013. Smile at a stranger. Let that guy merge in, for the love of Mike. Allow the guy with fewer items to go ahead of you in line. You'll be glad you did.
Here's to an fantastic new year for our country and American culture! These are only a few ideas for how 2013 can be our best yet, dear reader. It doesn't have to suck. 2012 was a trial at times for us as a nation and a people. Here's to making 2013 a little more awesome.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
The New Year of Your Choice
Imma need someone to explain myself to me, really. I'm throwing a New Year's Eve party, and it's going to be epic. Oh, no, not in that drink-to-hallucination and wear the lampshade kind of sense. It's just that I'm lucky enough to ring in the new year with some very old (not elderly, long term) and dear friends. A lot of them. A lot of them that have bottomless children. We're talking two full days of eating, drinking, and gratuitous merrymaking that's gonna require lots of fun fuel. Folks, how to feed the locusts? I'm getting a little breathless.
I'm just one person! Don't get me wrong. Man, am I excited to fete BFF. She and I have been tight since the days of neon clothing and Duran Duran. But I digress. Because in the meanwhile, she's married a big dude and had two hulking children. And unlike the Counce offspring, they ain't picky about what they consume. I don't know how she did it, but those kids love veggies. And fruit. And...well, pretty much anything that won't bite back first. I am in charge of feeding these people for two days.
The other couple we're inviting for the New Year's Eve party has three teenagers. There is no metaphor that does justice to the amount of food these young adults can put back. Again: I could not love these people more. It gives me great pleasure to ply them with food. But I'm going to need one of those Home Depot carts at Target in order to get all the food swag I need home. And perhaps some sherpas. Man, does this Carol Brady need an Alice.
But I'm so in. I need a spreadsheet and a Ph.D to plan for the next several days, but Momma always did say I was hardheaded. Who can get up at 3 a.m. to turn on a crockpot? I can! But we're going to have a brisket that hopefully could feed a small African nation for a week. Four breakfasts. Four dinners. Three lunches. Good thing I own stock in my grocery store.
So why do I do it? You very well may ask. Because, dear reader, in the end? I love it. I love to host. I love a house full of laughter and company. I love to stuff people I love with fine, homemade food. It makes me happy to induce carb comas to those I hold most dear. Food is a big part of my family tradition. I mean, what's New Year's Day without Good Luck Jambalaya made with black eyed peas? You simply can't risk a bad 2012 all because you didn't get your black eyed peas, people! Priorities!
So in the end, I may dither and flap over going to lengths to entertain my dear ones. But I know first: I choose this. I choose to surround myself with my darling family and friends and I chose the admittedly challenging menu. I could scale back. We could get some Kentucky Fried, and my friends would love me and our party just the same. I choose the hustle and the bustle; I arranged it.
Eat, drink, and be merry! There's no more appropriate time for said than New Year's Eve. I will not complain about my Homeric grocery store journeys. I will not lament the time and care preparation will take in my making merry. I'm just grateful to have so many loved ones, so much love, at this holiday time. It's ridiculous what an American princess I am. So spoiled.
So friends, eat McDonald's off a paper plate. Or prepare the most lavish New Year's Eve party you ever had and drink Cristal. But know you've chosen the way you want it, and enjoy. Count your blessings as we welcome in 2013. I'm so grateful to have the means to stuff my friends with a ridiculous amount of food and drink. So grateful they're taking the long ride here with their kids and a Boston terrier in a small car, just to eyeball me and my little brood.
I wish you a happy New Year and a fun New Year's Eve, whether you're in sequins and heels or your bathrobe, whether with twenty people at a rowdy club or with just yourself and Ryan Seacrest. However you've arranged it, my wish for you is to find the joy and positives associated with the choices you've made and choices that bring you serenity and moments of great joy in 2013. Now, if you don't mind, you'll have to excuse me. I've got a grocery run to make.
I'm just one person! Don't get me wrong. Man, am I excited to fete BFF. She and I have been tight since the days of neon clothing and Duran Duran. But I digress. Because in the meanwhile, she's married a big dude and had two hulking children. And unlike the Counce offspring, they ain't picky about what they consume. I don't know how she did it, but those kids love veggies. And fruit. And...well, pretty much anything that won't bite back first. I am in charge of feeding these people for two days.
The other couple we're inviting for the New Year's Eve party has three teenagers. There is no metaphor that does justice to the amount of food these young adults can put back. Again: I could not love these people more. It gives me great pleasure to ply them with food. But I'm going to need one of those Home Depot carts at Target in order to get all the food swag I need home. And perhaps some sherpas. Man, does this Carol Brady need an Alice.
But I'm so in. I need a spreadsheet and a Ph.D to plan for the next several days, but Momma always did say I was hardheaded. Who can get up at 3 a.m. to turn on a crockpot? I can! But we're going to have a brisket that hopefully could feed a small African nation for a week. Four breakfasts. Four dinners. Three lunches. Good thing I own stock in my grocery store.
So why do I do it? You very well may ask. Because, dear reader, in the end? I love it. I love to host. I love a house full of laughter and company. I love to stuff people I love with fine, homemade food. It makes me happy to induce carb comas to those I hold most dear. Food is a big part of my family tradition. I mean, what's New Year's Day without Good Luck Jambalaya made with black eyed peas? You simply can't risk a bad 2012 all because you didn't get your black eyed peas, people! Priorities!
So in the end, I may dither and flap over going to lengths to entertain my dear ones. But I know first: I choose this. I choose to surround myself with my darling family and friends and I chose the admittedly challenging menu. I could scale back. We could get some Kentucky Fried, and my friends would love me and our party just the same. I choose the hustle and the bustle; I arranged it.
Eat, drink, and be merry! There's no more appropriate time for said than New Year's Eve. I will not complain about my Homeric grocery store journeys. I will not lament the time and care preparation will take in my making merry. I'm just grateful to have so many loved ones, so much love, at this holiday time. It's ridiculous what an American princess I am. So spoiled.
So friends, eat McDonald's off a paper plate. Or prepare the most lavish New Year's Eve party you ever had and drink Cristal. But know you've chosen the way you want it, and enjoy. Count your blessings as we welcome in 2013. I'm so grateful to have the means to stuff my friends with a ridiculous amount of food and drink. So grateful they're taking the long ride here with their kids and a Boston terrier in a small car, just to eyeball me and my little brood.
I wish you a happy New Year and a fun New Year's Eve, whether you're in sequins and heels or your bathrobe, whether with twenty people at a rowdy club or with just yourself and Ryan Seacrest. However you've arranged it, my wish for you is to find the joy and positives associated with the choices you've made and choices that bring you serenity and moments of great joy in 2013. Now, if you don't mind, you'll have to excuse me. I've got a grocery run to make.
Friday, December 21, 2012
Dear Santa
Dear Santa,
How's it going, Fat Man? How's tricks? This week is your big scene! Everyone outside the North Pole is so jonesing for your arrival. I hope you're on schedule. Fitting all those flat screens in the sleigh? Got me an iPad? I know you and the Mrs. are super busy this time of year keeping elves in line, grooming reindeer, watching the weather forecasts and in general bending the laws of physics and time. I don't mean to hassle you. But since you're in the business, I thought I'd drop you a line.
Because I've been giving some thought to what I want on my Christmas list this year, and I need your help. I could certainly use some of your Christmas magic if not a full-on Christmas miracle to make my Christmas dreams come true. It's not that what I want is expensive. Well, okay, the iPad is outrageously high. But material objects are not so much at the top of my list this year.
No, Santa, instead I need mental gifts to survive two weeks home with my family and the holiday season in general. Don't get me wrong! I love my spouse and children. When they're not actively trying to commit crimes. You think I exaggerate. But have you seen their act in that magic snowball of yours? The threat of the naughty list seems negligible. Alas, my children fear nothing, not even a childhood icon of your considerable weight. No pun or offense intended.
And I love the holidays! Christmas Eve, in particular, still feels magical to this old broad: like love is in the air, and no problem is too big to be solved by Christmas magic. I still feel the romance. I did grow up with some great Christmas specials and movies that may or may not have convinced me miracles can happen before end credits. But in spite of my natural affection for all things Christmas, I still must say keeping the old goodwill intact while wrestling other shoppers and the traffic? Bah. Humbug.
So Santa, send me some patience. Patience to make it through this school break. Make board games and children's programming less torturous. Intervene in battles over game controllers, computer time, and who called whom what. Inspire my children to change out of pajamas happily and quickly and in to clothing that doesn't make them look feral. Send some Christmas magic that returns shoes to their proper resting place so I am less likely to lose my life tripping over them. If you can re-animate Frosty, surely you can motivate my offspring to get off the couch.
Yes, Santa, this year I ask for fortitude, as I'm unlikely to get what I'd really like for Christmas: a chef, a team of muscle-bound nannies, and a housekeeping service. Related: if Hubs gets me any type of cleaning implement at all this year, that sucker better be diamond-encrusted. But I digress. Your gift to me, Santa, will be in my refusal to throttle the first one that says "I'm bored!" Christmas afternoon.
Get me through the cooking. The scrubbing. The hosting. The intense sibling rivalry as familarity breeds contempt. All with a giant cheese-eating grin on my face no matter how many times the dishwasher needs to be unloaded or my golden retriever's feet need to be cleaned before she can come in the house. No matter how many empty milk cartons Hubs abandons on the counter.
Peace on earth! Goodwill to men! It's not just a phrase from a Christmas carol, Santa. And I gots to get me some. It's a tall order, Santa, and I know it. But I've seen bigger Christmas miracles. And if anyone can bring the Christmas magic, it's you, Kringle. I'm convinced with your Christmas mojo, I can sail through the Yuletide with the best attitude yet.
Peace on earth! Goodwill towards men, my children, and the gum-snapping, impossibly bored cashier with the pink hair and eyebrow ring who moves like she's on Quaaludes. Let nothing me dismay, including the elbow in the ribs from that lady who just has to get to that on-sale ceramic Santa before I do. Make me tender and mild to that driver who's tailgating me...with reindeer antlers on his car.
Thanks for looking into my Christmas list, Santa, even if what I crave doesn't come in boxes or bags. Peace on Earth? Hell, I'll take peace in my living room first. But we've all got to start somewhere, right? And I know I can count on you, Santa. Here's to a New Year featuring clean, well-behaved children, a clean house that stays that way, and goodwill towards siblings. See you Christmas Eve, Santa. As always, there's cookies and milk in it for you. Thanks in advance.
Love,
Eliska
How's it going, Fat Man? How's tricks? This week is your big scene! Everyone outside the North Pole is so jonesing for your arrival. I hope you're on schedule. Fitting all those flat screens in the sleigh? Got me an iPad? I know you and the Mrs. are super busy this time of year keeping elves in line, grooming reindeer, watching the weather forecasts and in general bending the laws of physics and time. I don't mean to hassle you. But since you're in the business, I thought I'd drop you a line.
Because I've been giving some thought to what I want on my Christmas list this year, and I need your help. I could certainly use some of your Christmas magic if not a full-on Christmas miracle to make my Christmas dreams come true. It's not that what I want is expensive. Well, okay, the iPad is outrageously high. But material objects are not so much at the top of my list this year.
No, Santa, instead I need mental gifts to survive two weeks home with my family and the holiday season in general. Don't get me wrong! I love my spouse and children. When they're not actively trying to commit crimes. You think I exaggerate. But have you seen their act in that magic snowball of yours? The threat of the naughty list seems negligible. Alas, my children fear nothing, not even a childhood icon of your considerable weight. No pun or offense intended.
And I love the holidays! Christmas Eve, in particular, still feels magical to this old broad: like love is in the air, and no problem is too big to be solved by Christmas magic. I still feel the romance. I did grow up with some great Christmas specials and movies that may or may not have convinced me miracles can happen before end credits. But in spite of my natural affection for all things Christmas, I still must say keeping the old goodwill intact while wrestling other shoppers and the traffic? Bah. Humbug.
So Santa, send me some patience. Patience to make it through this school break. Make board games and children's programming less torturous. Intervene in battles over game controllers, computer time, and who called whom what. Inspire my children to change out of pajamas happily and quickly and in to clothing that doesn't make them look feral. Send some Christmas magic that returns shoes to their proper resting place so I am less likely to lose my life tripping over them. If you can re-animate Frosty, surely you can motivate my offspring to get off the couch.
Yes, Santa, this year I ask for fortitude, as I'm unlikely to get what I'd really like for Christmas: a chef, a team of muscle-bound nannies, and a housekeeping service. Related: if Hubs gets me any type of cleaning implement at all this year, that sucker better be diamond-encrusted. But I digress. Your gift to me, Santa, will be in my refusal to throttle the first one that says "I'm bored!" Christmas afternoon.
Get me through the cooking. The scrubbing. The hosting. The intense sibling rivalry as familarity breeds contempt. All with a giant cheese-eating grin on my face no matter how many times the dishwasher needs to be unloaded or my golden retriever's feet need to be cleaned before she can come in the house. No matter how many empty milk cartons Hubs abandons on the counter.
Peace on earth! Goodwill to men! It's not just a phrase from a Christmas carol, Santa. And I gots to get me some. It's a tall order, Santa, and I know it. But I've seen bigger Christmas miracles. And if anyone can bring the Christmas magic, it's you, Kringle. I'm convinced with your Christmas mojo, I can sail through the Yuletide with the best attitude yet.
Peace on earth! Goodwill towards men, my children, and the gum-snapping, impossibly bored cashier with the pink hair and eyebrow ring who moves like she's on Quaaludes. Let nothing me dismay, including the elbow in the ribs from that lady who just has to get to that on-sale ceramic Santa before I do. Make me tender and mild to that driver who's tailgating me...with reindeer antlers on his car.
Thanks for looking into my Christmas list, Santa, even if what I crave doesn't come in boxes or bags. Peace on Earth? Hell, I'll take peace in my living room first. But we've all got to start somewhere, right? And I know I can count on you, Santa. Here's to a New Year featuring clean, well-behaved children, a clean house that stays that way, and goodwill towards siblings. See you Christmas Eve, Santa. As always, there's cookies and milk in it for you. Thanks in advance.
Love,
Eliska
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Leaps of Faith
Ever do something you're incredibly excited about that at the same time scares the hell out of you? Set a goal for yourself that seems almost impossible but at the same time totally doable? Strike out to achieve, build, or create something at a risk to yourself? Even when you didn't completely understand what was pushing you to expand your boundaries?
Think about it. Did you train for a race? Interview for that job? Quit that job? Put down that deposit on that Harley Davidson? Did you say yes, or did you say no when the universe gave you the opening to make a big change? Is the window still open? Do you still dream? Or does fear almost imperceptibly hold you back from taking up a challenge?
Man, do I dream. And on that note, I've been making some plans that thrill me...and at the same time scare the poo out of me. What am I thinking? I've got a house full of kids and plenty to occupy me. But ever since I decided being a counselor would be a good idea, I also believed in my community having access to free mental health care.
So I decided to wander over to Community Lifeline Center (check us out at communitylifeline.org) to see if they might need a mental health gun-for-hire. Turns out they think I can not only think I can counsel, but that I can run a whole community counseling center for them. Insert spit take here!
Am I on crack that I would take this on? Evidently I am certifiable, because I've not only brought on some lovely helpers but we're plotting to find you and give you free counseling if you live in Collin County. I, the electronically challenged. I, the harried mother of three. I, the clearly crazed.
But I, like you, have a calling. What is the Source daring you to do? What would you do if money and resources were not an issue? What do you do a little better than other people do, get lost in the moment doing it? Can you make it a gift to the world? Do you dare?
I may be making a huge mistake. I may be biting off more than I can chew. Can I really direct a mental health initiative for the county? Who the hell do I think I am?
Hey. Maybe I can't pull this off. Maybe it's a mistake. But it's not feeling that way. It's feeling like the Universe is lining up for something good to happen. All I know is I've been putting this dream out there in the form of energy for years, and here's my counseling building for the community.
So, onward and upward. I'll take it a day at a time. When there's a knot, I'll get people to help me. Especially when it comes to electronic records which scare me most of all. But I digress. I truly believe as long as I'm working to give my Source-given talents to the world, I will be guided in the right direction. But it's up to me not to give an inch to fear, to answer the call, to take the risk.
So what about you? Who the hell are you? What's presenting itself to you? What's a risk you could take to give your gift an airing? Can you step out of our comfort zone in order to make your gifts count in the world? I have to confess, it's breathtaking sometimes. It's also terrifying and some work for you. But I'd argue it's why we're here.
So let's hold hands and jump off a cliff together, shall we? Here's what author Martha Beck had to say about this:
"Some cartoon characters whip out hankies, improvise parachutes, and float daintily to Earth. Others crash-land and pop up only slightly woozy. The more leaps of faith you take, the more you'll find your own hankies: ways of solving problems when they appear. When you crash, you'll keep getting better at the pop-up. You'll live through every leap except the big one at the end. And even if you never leap, you'll die anyway."
So this kind of thinking leads me to the door of a community service agency, where I'm being called to adventure. Fear makes bad decisions anyway. Join me and take a leap of faith. You just might be looking at a dream come true. If the call keeps coming? Answer it.
Think about it. Did you train for a race? Interview for that job? Quit that job? Put down that deposit on that Harley Davidson? Did you say yes, or did you say no when the universe gave you the opening to make a big change? Is the window still open? Do you still dream? Or does fear almost imperceptibly hold you back from taking up a challenge?
Man, do I dream. And on that note, I've been making some plans that thrill me...and at the same time scare the poo out of me. What am I thinking? I've got a house full of kids and plenty to occupy me. But ever since I decided being a counselor would be a good idea, I also believed in my community having access to free mental health care.
So I decided to wander over to Community Lifeline Center (check us out at communitylifeline.org) to see if they might need a mental health gun-for-hire. Turns out they think I can not only think I can counsel, but that I can run a whole community counseling center for them. Insert spit take here!
Am I on crack that I would take this on? Evidently I am certifiable, because I've not only brought on some lovely helpers but we're plotting to find you and give you free counseling if you live in Collin County. I, the electronically challenged. I, the harried mother of three. I, the clearly crazed.
But I, like you, have a calling. What is the Source daring you to do? What would you do if money and resources were not an issue? What do you do a little better than other people do, get lost in the moment doing it? Can you make it a gift to the world? Do you dare?
I may be making a huge mistake. I may be biting off more than I can chew. Can I really direct a mental health initiative for the county? Who the hell do I think I am?
Hey. Maybe I can't pull this off. Maybe it's a mistake. But it's not feeling that way. It's feeling like the Universe is lining up for something good to happen. All I know is I've been putting this dream out there in the form of energy for years, and here's my counseling building for the community.
So, onward and upward. I'll take it a day at a time. When there's a knot, I'll get people to help me. Especially when it comes to electronic records which scare me most of all. But I digress. I truly believe as long as I'm working to give my Source-given talents to the world, I will be guided in the right direction. But it's up to me not to give an inch to fear, to answer the call, to take the risk.
So what about you? Who the hell are you? What's presenting itself to you? What's a risk you could take to give your gift an airing? Can you step out of our comfort zone in order to make your gifts count in the world? I have to confess, it's breathtaking sometimes. It's also terrifying and some work for you. But I'd argue it's why we're here.
So let's hold hands and jump off a cliff together, shall we? Here's what author Martha Beck had to say about this:
"Some cartoon characters whip out hankies, improvise parachutes, and float daintily to Earth. Others crash-land and pop up only slightly woozy. The more leaps of faith you take, the more you'll find your own hankies: ways of solving problems when they appear. When you crash, you'll keep getting better at the pop-up. You'll live through every leap except the big one at the end. And even if you never leap, you'll die anyway."
So this kind of thinking leads me to the door of a community service agency, where I'm being called to adventure. Fear makes bad decisions anyway. Join me and take a leap of faith. You just might be looking at a dream come true. If the call keeps coming? Answer it.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
The Great Santa Caper
I'm getting nervous, y'all. It seems my nine year old is, age appropriately, starting to be suspicious of the Santa thing. He's no dummy, and it turns out he's kind of on to us. He's got hardened criminals for friends as elementary school, evidently, who are jaded. They've left Santa behind already, and they're talking to him. Now, he is becoming a skeptic. Asking questions. And he, in fact, has told me he will be no less than brokenhearted (his words! Egad!) if it turns out his parents actually engaged in years of subterfuge and what must only add up in his little head to no less than felony identity theft and betrayal: lying about leaving presents instead of the Big Guy. The parental stakes are high.
Twice, my son has mentioned it! The depths to which he will feel pain if Dad and I are the ones leaving the gifts under the tree. We were safe for awhile after we bought him his hand-held gaming system for awhile. He told us he knew Santa was real after getting his Nintendo a year ago because and according to him: "You're way too poor to buy me a Nintendo!" But this year, I can tell the school peers have been bending his ear a bit about Saint Nick and his faith has been tested.
And it's time; the average age kids find out Santa's presents come from mom and dad is actually age seven. So we've squeezed a good bit of magic out of the Fat Man for my oldest boy. But he's got two younger siblings, seven and five, for whom we'd like to make the magic last a bit longer. So we're juking in a Yuletide minefield over here, folks. We can't afford a misstep that blows the experience up for everyone. A meltdown must be avoided.
He wants to know how Santa bends the laws of physics. He's curious about all those "Santa's helpers" dressed up as Santa and exactly how these grownups are in league with the Head Elf. He's especially curious why Santa would be limited in his electronics availability. He's starting to notice toys are not stamped "Made At the North Pole." And that the UPS driver seems to keep delivering packages to me that quickly disappear. But he doesn't want to give Santa, or being a kid, up just yet.
Because my oldest, also known as Borg Designation 1 of 3, is a little different from boys his age. He's still living a rich fantasy life; he's a dreamer, a softie. He just might be one of those kids who has some trouble if Santa is yanked out from behind the curtain in a sudden kind of way. And after trolling the internet researching, as is wont to happen, I've not been encouraged by what I've read about how Hubs and I should have been handling Santa.
Evidently, and according the interwebs, by perpetuating the Santa myth to my kids I make them question the existence of God, turn them into materialistic takers, ruin the trust between us, and compromise own morality. I've learned my true motive in being Santa is to bribe my kids into good behavior. Silly me! Even Brad Pitt claims to have been emotionally scarred by the dawning of enlightenment where Santa was concerned. Although he seems to have turned out okay. And with his kind of money, I'm sure Christmas is every day for his pack of kids. But I digress.
So has Santa been worth it? Seems to me and looking around, most people I know were raised with some belief in Santa if you have a certain socio-cultural experience. As I recall it happening to me, logic and reason by age nine had me knowing that there was no way Santa was a true entity.
And that fateful day when my dad popped the trunk open to reveal accidentally our suddenly unveiled Christmas bounty and then turned to my brother and me to say, "You knew Santa wasn't real," I was not torn asunder emotionally. I felt mature. Smart and sophisticated. I was among the adult ranks now.
In fact, since our younger sibling was still Santa-aged, we were brought in as honorary adults at Christmas, care-taking the Santa magic for our baby brother. It felt like a right of passage and a responsibility. And Santa still brought surprise gifts for us and was part of our family long after we knew he was a myth along with the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy.
So, Santa lives on at Chez Counce. Perhaps I've done my children a disservice with all those reindeer-nibbled carrots and cookie crumbs left on the plate, notes from the tooth fairy, and hidden eggs. But I've decided when asked the Big Question at last by my children regarding Santa's reality, I will channel writer Frank Church who wrote these words on the pages of the New York Sun in his classic 1897 response to eight year old Virginia O'Hanlon's question about whether Santa Claus was real:
Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.
He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy.
Alas! how dreary
would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary
as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith then,
no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have
no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which
childhood fills the world would be extinguished.
So here's to milk-and-cookie-ing Santa for all he's worth. Most of us come out of childhood with minimal scarring about the existence of Santa. And he's a great way to pass down culture and values to our kiddos, too. Let's enjoy him at every age. After all, if worse comes to worst, it's just more grist for my kids' future therapy mills, after all, right?
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
Twice, my son has mentioned it! The depths to which he will feel pain if Dad and I are the ones leaving the gifts under the tree. We were safe for awhile after we bought him his hand-held gaming system for awhile. He told us he knew Santa was real after getting his Nintendo a year ago because and according to him: "You're way too poor to buy me a Nintendo!" But this year, I can tell the school peers have been bending his ear a bit about Saint Nick and his faith has been tested.
And it's time; the average age kids find out Santa's presents come from mom and dad is actually age seven. So we've squeezed a good bit of magic out of the Fat Man for my oldest boy. But he's got two younger siblings, seven and five, for whom we'd like to make the magic last a bit longer. So we're juking in a Yuletide minefield over here, folks. We can't afford a misstep that blows the experience up for everyone. A meltdown must be avoided.
He wants to know how Santa bends the laws of physics. He's curious about all those "Santa's helpers" dressed up as Santa and exactly how these grownups are in league with the Head Elf. He's especially curious why Santa would be limited in his electronics availability. He's starting to notice toys are not stamped "Made At the North Pole." And that the UPS driver seems to keep delivering packages to me that quickly disappear. But he doesn't want to give Santa, or being a kid, up just yet.
Because my oldest, also known as Borg Designation 1 of 3, is a little different from boys his age. He's still living a rich fantasy life; he's a dreamer, a softie. He just might be one of those kids who has some trouble if Santa is yanked out from behind the curtain in a sudden kind of way. And after trolling the internet researching, as is wont to happen, I've not been encouraged by what I've read about how Hubs and I should have been handling Santa.
Evidently, and according the interwebs, by perpetuating the Santa myth to my kids I make them question the existence of God, turn them into materialistic takers, ruin the trust between us, and compromise own morality. I've learned my true motive in being Santa is to bribe my kids into good behavior. Silly me! Even Brad Pitt claims to have been emotionally scarred by the dawning of enlightenment where Santa was concerned. Although he seems to have turned out okay. And with his kind of money, I'm sure Christmas is every day for his pack of kids. But I digress.
So has Santa been worth it? Seems to me and looking around, most people I know were raised with some belief in Santa if you have a certain socio-cultural experience. As I recall it happening to me, logic and reason by age nine had me knowing that there was no way Santa was a true entity.
And that fateful day when my dad popped the trunk open to reveal accidentally our suddenly unveiled Christmas bounty and then turned to my brother and me to say, "You knew Santa wasn't real," I was not torn asunder emotionally. I felt mature. Smart and sophisticated. I was among the adult ranks now.
In fact, since our younger sibling was still Santa-aged, we were brought in as honorary adults at Christmas, care-taking the Santa magic for our baby brother. It felt like a right of passage and a responsibility. And Santa still brought surprise gifts for us and was part of our family long after we knew he was a myth along with the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy.
So, Santa lives on at Chez Counce. Perhaps I've done my children a disservice with all those reindeer-nibbled carrots and cookie crumbs left on the plate, notes from the tooth fairy, and hidden eggs. But I've decided when asked the Big Question at last by my children regarding Santa's reality, I will channel writer Frank Church who wrote these words on the pages of the New York Sun in his classic 1897 response to eight year old Virginia O'Hanlon's question about whether Santa Claus was real:
Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.
He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy.
So here's to milk-and-cookie-ing Santa for all he's worth. Most of us come out of childhood with minimal scarring about the existence of Santa. And he's a great way to pass down culture and values to our kiddos, too. Let's enjoy him at every age. After all, if worse comes to worst, it's just more grist for my kids' future therapy mills, after all, right?
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
Friday, November 30, 2012
All I Want For Christmas is My Sanity
I
don’t know about y’all, folks, but considering it's barely December, already there has been an amazing amount of jingle
going on at Chez Counce. We’re mere weeks away from the holiday we celebrate
at my house, Christmas, and the three children under the age of nine have demanded so far nothing
less than a full-on Santapalooza since the day after Thanksgiving.
Before it's all over, I will have sat on
Santa’s lap, made and decorated the obligatory gingerbread men, caroled myself
silly, pasted foam snowflakes crafts together, toured neighborhood for lights,
wrapped presents, served hot chocolate and candy canes, dressed up the kids and
watched them dance the Jingle Bell Rock at their schools. I fear by Christmas Eve they will be actually levitating a
little bit.
It’s
a lot, the holiday season, for anyone, if you let it be. How do you maintain mental health while under such elven
pressure? How do you grit your teeth, smile, and get your yule on with minimal
emotional scarring? Gather around, children:
If it ain’t fun, don’t do
it. If you
find yourself at a holiday event hissing at your family to Have fun already, dammit!, I’m thinking you might want to rethink
the purpose of your tradition. My four-year-old loves the concept of Santa.
Santa in person, however, might as well be a jihadist for all the terror he
invokes in my middle child. Forcing my child near Santa, whether at a mall or
breakfast, is ill advised. Who’s the activity for, anyway?
Acknowledge your feelings. If a
loved one has died recently or you aren’t near your loved ones, it’s normal to
feel sadness and grief. Take time to express yourself. It’s okay and expected
for the holiday season to induce some stress and depression. Seek support
through friends and family members. Or seek professional help if physical
complaints, sleep and appetite disturbances, irritability, and hopelessness
continue past a couple of weeks.
Delegate, delegate, delegate! If
you’re hosting, ask others to bring food, or if your budget allows, cater some
of the food. If you have friends or family members who insist on home cooked
family meals, cheerfully announce you are delighted to serve theirs!
Keep decorations simple. Unless
you’re just incredibly passionate about decorating, less can be more. Trust me:
women like me will appreciate you for it.
Reconsider holiday cards. These
take a lot of time and energy. But you have options! Send them out every other
year, send them to only out-of-town friends and family, or just wait until
Valentine’s Day when things aren’t so crazy.
Think about how to impart your deepest values
to your children. Most of us want our children to realize the value of
giving over receiving. This is an excellent time to teach this value. Think
about giving to charities in lieu of gifts. Dad doesn’t really need a new tie
anyway. Gather up gently used toys that aren’t as popular as they once were
with your children, and take them to a local shelter together. Volunteer with
your children and teach them the real reasons behind the seasons. It ain’t all
about the Furby.
Limit gifts, keep a budget, and stick to it. I can be
the worst about buying last minute items that are just perfect for someone…even
though I’ve already bought for that person. Remember your commitment to stay
congruent with you values by spending wisely. Your children will appreciate
happy parents more than any gift. It also takes pressure off of family and
friends to reciprocate. In this economy, bling is dead. It’s now hip to consume
less and be greener.
Be realistic. Families grow and
traditions change. Be willing to find new ways to celebrate and understand that
some traditions may not still be possible. Make new and more meaningful
traditions that reflect your values.
Set differences aside. Stress
levels run high at the holidays. Mix in a little eggnog with too much “nog,”
and you can have serious issues. Accept family members as they are and don’t
get too upset or distressed if something goes awry.
Don’t abandon healthy habits. It’s
tempting to let the holidays be a culinary free for all. Overindulgence only
adds to stress and guilt. Have a healthy snack before parties: whole grains,
fruits, and veggies have the fiber to fill you and cut cravings. Remember
sweets send you high before the inevitable crash. Keep up exercise, journaling,
time for fun. Take a breather. Fifteen minutes alone can be amazing: steal away
to a quiet place (hello, bathroom and trashy magazine!), take a walk at night
and stargaze, or listen to some soothing or inspiring music.
Rethink resolutions. I’ve
always resented the artificial prompt of the new year to somehow make up for
past excess. Instead, just return to basic, healthy lifestyle choices. Make
specific goals with a reasonable time line. Resolutions can set you up to
failure if you are unrealistic. There’s a reason the Slim Fast commercials air
non-stop in January and disappear in February, ladies!
Forget about perfection. One of
my favorite holiday movies is National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. Towards
the end of the film, Clark Griswold bares his teeth into a maniacal grin and
shouts at his dismayed family: “We’re going to have the hap-hap-happiest
Christmas since Bing Crosby danced with Danny @#$%^&* Kaye!” Clark has gone
to extremes to make the holiday perfect for his family…and nearly sent himself
to the asylum in the process. Holiday TV specials are filled with happy endings.
Sadly, TV is not real life. Problems do not wrap up neatly at the end of the
hour. There’s no such thing as “normal,” and we all have our own special brand
of crazy that makes our family unique and special. Love the ones you’re
with…warts and all. We all need that.
Remember: your attitude is up to you. Lastly,
don’t let stress and depression be unwelcome guests this holiday season.
Remaining calm and cultivating joy can help defuse any stressful situation, and
eyes that are warmed by the heart can see these situations more clearly. Making
the decision to ask yourself: “Am I
bringing my best self into this situation?” has the potential of transforming
any difficult moment. This may be challenging, but it is intensely rewarding.
Happy holidays, everyone!
Friday, November 23, 2012
Parent Fail
Hey. You. You boneheads that brought your four children under the age of ten to the movie theater to see the latest Bond film, Skyfall, the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving. I hate to break it to you, but this is an open letter to you, because you are so doing parenting wrong. The decision to expose those kids to the sex, violence, and profanity in that movie? Epic. Parenting. Fail. And you need to be called out on it. I'm up for a little public shaming.
I mean, really: bringing your three or four year old daughter to an R rated movie? She had her blankie and bottle with her while 007 was having his shaken, not stirred. Her legs barely stuck out over the theater seat. Oh, and she was paying attention. I heard her asking you questions, Mommy. In fact, I heard A LOT from the four children you had up past decent bedtimes to expose them to completely inappropriate cinematic material. The three boys under ten lined up to our side had lots of tween commentary about blowing things and snickers for boobies. Good times.
Your eight or nine year old son was also the only one to giggle, wildly inappropriately, at the gruesome end to our Bond villain, a serious denouement scene. The rest of the theater was silent. But then again, making noise didn't really seem to concern you: you were either unaware or didn't care you were making a great deal of noise as you brought out your bowls and cups from home to share your popcorn and drinks with your children on the row behind you during the movie.
How many ways did you fail, parents to small children in that theater? Let me count the ways:
You failed your children. Why did you insist on bringing these impressionable young people to see all this violence? I'm a jaded old lady. I enjoy a thirty-kill spy movie on occasion because it's age appropriate for me. I wanted to snatch your baby's blanket and wrap it around her head so she wouldn't see all the blood, guts, and guns. How did she not have nightmares? What time DO your children go to bed anyway? Why was she up so late? You don't care she heard the B, F, and S words that night? You needed your Daniel Craig fix so badly you would expose them to R rated material? Thee three boys lined up next to me and Hubs giggled at every bloody moment. What are you teaching them? How numb ARE you?
You failed me and the rest of the audience. The excessive talking, snack sharing, and not to mention two potty breaks for the baby who was too little to even take the stairs? More than a little distracting in a packed theater. The sold out, adult audience was straining to filter out British accents and listen for plot points as you pointed out to Baby Sister that yes, that was a house in the movie! Before it got blown up in your baby's face, I mean. I couldn't relax and truly enjoy my adult gratuitous violence. I literally felt uncomfortable sitting next to your eight year old during Bond's sex scenes and annoyed at how they snickered at all the violence. I did not get the experience I hoped to have when I payed through the nose for my popcorn due to you and your entourage of minors.
You failed yourself. Admit it. You're better than this. You don't need to see a movie so badly that you would expose your naive children to it. Well, before seeing the Bond movie, naive. I'm not so sure how innocent your children are at this point. You chose to have these children. You can either wait until they grow up or get a damned babysitter if you want to see an R movie. You showed appalling self-centeredness at bringing your kids to this show and with your display of obliviousness with the inter-aisle snack sharing.
So. Do better. Pay attention to movie ratings. They're there for knuckleheads like you. Under seven? G only. Under ten? PG at best. And a lot of times those are questionable. PG-13? 13. Duh. R is 17 and up, people. There's a reason for that rating, folks, and it's called human development. The brain is still forming. And trust me, there's no room for the ultra violence of an R rated James Bond film. Do us all a favor. Get a sitter. Or stay home and put the kids down at a decent hour. Give them a chance, for the love of Pete. Because that display of you and your family at the movies Wednesday night? Was all kinds of no.
I mean, really: bringing your three or four year old daughter to an R rated movie? She had her blankie and bottle with her while 007 was having his shaken, not stirred. Her legs barely stuck out over the theater seat. Oh, and she was paying attention. I heard her asking you questions, Mommy. In fact, I heard A LOT from the four children you had up past decent bedtimes to expose them to completely inappropriate cinematic material. The three boys under ten lined up to our side had lots of tween commentary about blowing things and snickers for boobies. Good times.
Your eight or nine year old son was also the only one to giggle, wildly inappropriately, at the gruesome end to our Bond villain, a serious denouement scene. The rest of the theater was silent. But then again, making noise didn't really seem to concern you: you were either unaware or didn't care you were making a great deal of noise as you brought out your bowls and cups from home to share your popcorn and drinks with your children on the row behind you during the movie.
How many ways did you fail, parents to small children in that theater? Let me count the ways:
You failed your children. Why did you insist on bringing these impressionable young people to see all this violence? I'm a jaded old lady. I enjoy a thirty-kill spy movie on occasion because it's age appropriate for me. I wanted to snatch your baby's blanket and wrap it around her head so she wouldn't see all the blood, guts, and guns. How did she not have nightmares? What time DO your children go to bed anyway? Why was she up so late? You don't care she heard the B, F, and S words that night? You needed your Daniel Craig fix so badly you would expose them to R rated material? Thee three boys lined up next to me and Hubs giggled at every bloody moment. What are you teaching them? How numb ARE you?
You failed me and the rest of the audience. The excessive talking, snack sharing, and not to mention two potty breaks for the baby who was too little to even take the stairs? More than a little distracting in a packed theater. The sold out, adult audience was straining to filter out British accents and listen for plot points as you pointed out to Baby Sister that yes, that was a house in the movie! Before it got blown up in your baby's face, I mean. I couldn't relax and truly enjoy my adult gratuitous violence. I literally felt uncomfortable sitting next to your eight year old during Bond's sex scenes and annoyed at how they snickered at all the violence. I did not get the experience I hoped to have when I payed through the nose for my popcorn due to you and your entourage of minors.
You failed yourself. Admit it. You're better than this. You don't need to see a movie so badly that you would expose your naive children to it. Well, before seeing the Bond movie, naive. I'm not so sure how innocent your children are at this point. You chose to have these children. You can either wait until they grow up or get a damned babysitter if you want to see an R movie. You showed appalling self-centeredness at bringing your kids to this show and with your display of obliviousness with the inter-aisle snack sharing.
So. Do better. Pay attention to movie ratings. They're there for knuckleheads like you. Under seven? G only. Under ten? PG at best. And a lot of times those are questionable. PG-13? 13. Duh. R is 17 and up, people. There's a reason for that rating, folks, and it's called human development. The brain is still forming. And trust me, there's no room for the ultra violence of an R rated James Bond film. Do us all a favor. Get a sitter. Or stay home and put the kids down at a decent hour. Give them a chance, for the love of Pete. Because that display of you and your family at the movies Wednesday night? Was all kinds of no.
Friday, November 16, 2012
The Southern Girl's Guide to College Football
Ah, it's that wonderful time of the year when we all gather to join in celebration, feast, and to be of good cheer together. No, I'm not talking Thanksgiving or the holidays, folks! I'm talking one of the major religions of the South: college football. It's November in America, and that means our favorite sport is on. And women of the South are just as big a fan of college football as the men. Don't underestimate us. Here's some basic rules for the discerning Southern woman when it comes to watching college ball:
Now, down South, we females know how to dress for college football games. Men wear suits and ties in the stands (or at least a nicely pressed Oxford and team cap), and you might find any proud Southern girl in the stand outfitted in Ralph Lauren skirt, impeccably matched riding boots, and diamond earrings. There's a fifth of bourbon tucked lovingly into her Chanel tote. Wallets not necessary –
that’s what our dates are for. Our stadiums, like our hair, are bigger than yours. Our weather is perpetually climate.
A Southern girl also knows all about the rules of ticket procurement, parking, and game day. We come to expect we can only get on the waiting list for next year's season tickets this year. We know the trailers and vans start parking on Wednesday before the game at the Grove or Five Points or whatever your Southern college has named the spot where alumni park their over-sized RVs to drink and smoke what can only be described as an entire slaughterhouse of assorted meats. There are individualized smokers shaped like our mascot. Classes get canceled the Fridays before rivalry games. Live bands perform before game time in the parking lot, and they share your beer. Don't know where the stadium is? Be quiet. You'll hear it. The crowd is bigger on game day than the city that hosts the game.
And we in the South stay at the stadium until the last rib is eaten off the smoker. Doesn't matter if our team wins or loses, there's always time for another rack to go on and another trip to the package store. We'll need that bourbon for planning for the first tailgate party of the next season, you see.
And as ludicrous as this claim will likely seem to outsiders,
here, you are effectively born into loyalty toward a football team. Families
carry their allegiances through generations. If you are born into a family
divided (God forbid you have both OU and Texas fans in the family), then your family members will fight for your loyalty from the moment
you are born. Here in the South, asking “Who do you root for?” is
something akin to asking your political party, only it’s socially acceptable to
talk and fight about it with and without logic. It’s the one place where “if
you don’t have nothin’ nice to say” doesn’t apply. We worship God on Sunday and the SEC on Saturday.
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