Looking back

Wow.  That was one hell of a ride.  365 days of a lot of "wait....what?" mixed with a heaping pile of "you have got to be kidding me" stirred together with a swizzle stick of "no effing way" and topped off with a large dollop of "what did I do to deserve this?!".  2013 was nothing short of the most difficult span of time in a long line of ferocious years.  And, I almost didn't survive it.

No, really.  I almost didn't make it to 2014.  More than once, I had the exit pass in my hands.  More than once, I wrote the notes and got out the vital information.  More than once, I said my goodbyes.  But, each time, I had to remember the girls would be back in a few hours.  They would be running through the door looking for the only thing they've ever relied on.  Me.  So, I put them first.  Regardless of how much I was failing as their mama, they depended on me to be there.  So, there I stayed.

I got my heart broken.  By someone I didn't trust and didn't even invite in.  I can't explain how it happened, really.  Just, one day, the last little piece of me was gone.  And I couldn't smile anymore.  And, while I mourned that last spark I had, I admit to a little relief.  If anything, this new way is so much easier.  Nothing left to break means nothing is broken.  Everything hurts so much less now.

I let my kids grow up a little bit.  As their mama, I have always prided myself on what I could do for them.  As my kids, they needed to learn that they are strong and resilient on their own.  So what if they destroyed my house in the process?  They figured out how to come together as sisters until I got home from work.  And, they're all still breathing, so it all worked out just fine.

I let go of that last little piece of me that cared what people think.  Don't like my clothes?  K.  Don't like my sense of humor?  Cool.  Don't like my profile pic?  Perfect.  Don't like my parenting style?  Keep your brat away from my girls.  Don't like what I have to say?  I wasn't talking to you anyway.  Do I want to offend people?  Not even a little.  Do I want to change who I am so that people will like me?  Not even a little.  This is me.  I wear what I like, I crack myself up frequently, I don't care if my cleavage offends you, I'm a pretty big fan of the way my girls are turning out; and, being a parent, I know that I speak just to hear the sound of my own voice - I'm used to being ignored.

I learned about true friendship.  I don't ask people for help.  I don't open myself up to people.  And, as a rule, I try very hard not to whine about the rain when so many people are basking in the sun.  I know too well what it's like behind the curtain.  Just because someone else seems to be smoothly sailing doesn't mean they aren't huffing and puffing though the same storms as you.  So, when you gladly watch my girls while I go to work, I know it's a gift.  When you let me take forever to pay you back for a bag of Christmas gifts, I know it's out of love.  When you don't try to justify the latest mountain of melodrama left on my doorstep, I know it's with the last bit of your patience.  And, when you quietly remind me that it's ok to fall apart, I know it's because you believe in my ability to pull myself together in time for kid exchange.   So many people stepped up and did the things I couldn't do on my own.  And, I will always remember the year I was reminded what sincerity means.

It may take a village to raise children, but it takes so much more to deal with loss.  And, I had almost all I needed in 2013.  I had enough real friends, enough sense of self, and enough little faces looking to me.  I may have been drowning, but I kept kicking toward the surface.  My only hope for next year is that I catch sight of the shore.

I'm not one for resolutions.  I won't start going to the gym today or make promises that I'll forget by February.  I can't even muster up a wish for 2014.  Today has all the same hours that yesterday had.  The same 365 days lay ahead as lie behind.  The only thing different is me.  And, this time next year, I plan on saying "well, that wasn't quite so bad".  

For everyone who put up with me in 2013:  I appreciate you and promise to lean less this year.

For everyone who rejoiced in my drowning:  sorry about that whole survival thing, you may want to avert your eyes this year too.

For my girls:  I love you and promise to carry us a little further this year.

For me:  it has to get easier at some point, just keep swimming.

Love.

Please

Let them see beyond the presents.  Let this be the year they look back and remember how we spent all day in the kitchen together.  Let the couch time, snuggled up watching a movie count more this year.  Let the hot chocolate-filled Christmas mugs and dinner in pajamas outrank everything else.

Let them not remember the cool kid socks or the big new tv or the countless other things they opened on Christmas Eve when they look back on the end of 2013.  Please.

Not because I'm not happy for them.  Not because I begrudge the gifts they deserve.  Not even because I lost another competition I didn't even enter.  Just because I did my best.

Let me remember that these are my kids.  These are the same kids who get excited over a simple peppermint candy or a block of cream cheese.  The same kids who have never questioned my loyalty to them.  These are the kids who just know that I am doing the best I can.

Let me remember that, regardless of what's under the tree, I have so much to be thankful for.  Let me remember all of the people who stepped up to help me provide gifts for the girls this year.  Let me look back on this difficult year as the time right before I got my feet under me.

Not because I made a series of grand decisions.  Not because I hit the lottery.  Not even because I didn't give up.  In fact I did give up for a few minutes this morning.  I did sit down and fall apart when I hung up the phone.  Just because I pulled it together for the only three people who matter.

And, please, let tomorrow morning pass without a single moment of feeling sorry for us.  Let the three faces lit up by our Christmas tree continue to be enough for me.  Let me keep the focus on the little things that keep us going.  Let me give them enough love to make them remember long after the socks are lost and the tv broken.

Please.

Let’s talk about the Elf on the Shelf, shall we?

 A few years ago, a whole new trend hit my Mama radar.  A super cute little guy, all dressed in red, that came with a book and symbolized all that was right about the holidays:  fun, hijinks, selective honesty, morals, the sweet naiveté of childhood.  Yep, I raced right into the local bookstore and forked over the over-priced charge for my seat on the bandwagon.

That’s how they get you… the promise of a little piece of the excitement that can only come when you’re young enough to believe the unbelievable.

The girls named him Robert.  Yes, it could’ve been something creative or significant (Lala or Snitch or Creepy Stalker with the cold stare); but my girls went for boring and basic.  If only their expectations for the little elf were the same.

It seemed so simple at first.  Move the little thing every night after they go to sleep.  They believe he visits Santa to report how good they are.  Bingo, Bango… pleasant children….”extra” presents from Santa.

You think… oh, it’s just a new tradition, a sweet thing they’ll mention in your long, heartfelt eulogy.  No.  Tradition is turkey on Thanksgiving or baskets on Easter – not pulling all of your brain cells together at 4 in the morning to remember where you’ve hidden the stupid thing the last 22 days because heaven forbid he shows up in the same place twice.  Tradition is the salad my grandma always made for me on special occasions.  It is not the annual dreading that, while unpacking our holiday decorations, I’ll accidentally open the box with the elf shoved in it and have to explain to my distraught children that Robert prefers hibernating for eleven months out of the year rather than baking cookies with Mrs. Claus.  And, tradition is certainly not accusing your sweet children of the absolute no-no (laying a finger on the magical sprite) because you forgot to move the darn thing before they woke up extra early on a Tuesday.  I like my guilt trips spur of the moment, thank you very much.

Look, as a mama, I accept that some traditions are less than ideal.  Yes, Santa gets some credit for gifts I scraped together loose change to buy.  Sure, a giant bunny came through and hid the baskets I stayed up all night arranging just so.  And, ok, a miniscule fairy alights on your pillow instead of your exhausted mama who had to hold her breath rather than screaming in pain when she stepped on the abandoned Lego on your floor.  Traditions – I get it.  However, this Elf on the Shelf has gone too far.

And, whatever you do, do not… I repeat DO NOT fall into the trap of ridiculousness that is being laid by the Wonder Women on Pinterest.  No, our Robert doesn’t make snow angels on my counter in sugar or have pool parties with Barbie all over my kitchen table.  Because, excuse me Super Mommies, but if we are teaching the children to follow the rules here:  it starts with you.  So, no my elf can’t be bathing in marshmallows in the bathroom sink.  Because rule #1 is no touchy the elfy.  And, I’d like my children to brush their teeth so that we don’t put the Tooth Fairy out of business.  Also, I’m no fan of bugs; so, I refuse to leave powdered sugar out on my counter for 24 hours… or 48 if I forget to clean it up and move on to the next ridiculously crafty position.  Personally, I am convinced that the creators of these high brow elf tricks are non-child bearing evil dictators who just laugh and laugh at the real world imitators’ vain attempts at their mind blowing feats.

Look, the holiday season is overflowing with opportunities to amaze your kids.  Build the supertallest snowman the world has ever seen.  Make so many mountains of cookies that no one could possibly scale them.  Go from three packages to a gazillion while they sleep Christmas Eve night.  Heck, buy the darn elf and move him from one mundane spot to the next each time you stumble upon him.  Just don’t make one more reason to stress traditional.

Oh, and please don’t let your kids find the Santa wrapping paper in the storage closet…. Or blame it on the elf.

No idle threat

This was what the tree looked like at bedtime last night.  Ornamented and grounded with presents, all ready for the coming holiday.

This is what they woke up to this morning.  Ornamented, but stripped clean of the gifts they had carefully searched.  The gifts I had scraped and struggled to buy.  The gifts I lovingly and thoughtfully chose for the children I love more than, well, more than anything.

I love them so much that I patiently waited for them to pick up their room.... For months now.  I'm not exaggerating, months I've been waiting.

I love them so much that I dropped to my knees and begged them (again, not exaggerating, I was on my creaky knees) to put their laundry away.

I love them so much that I grounded her for letting her grades drop, but gave in and let her go to the Girl Scouts fall party because I didn't want her to be left out.

I love them so much that I added 7 dozen marshmallows to my workload yesterday so that they could give them as teacher gifts.  Yet, when I had finished fluffing the bows, all they could say was "but you didn't make the hot chocolate.  I can't give it to her without the hot chocolate.  Why can't you just make that too?".

I love them so much that it was always an empty threat.  "Fine!  I'm canceling Christmas!"  "I'm taking back all of the gifts."  "I'm donating all of the gifts to kids who will appreciate them."

Until last night when I sat, defeated, on the couch staring at this tree.  This tree which we decorated (while arguing) and I wrapped presents for (while worrying that they wouldn't be excited at what was inside) and they crawled under (to check for the elf I moved every night in an attempt to keep the magic alive).  This tree, I decided, was mocking me.  

You won't do it.

It was just another idle threat.

You don't want to be the mean parent again.

Just go to bed, lady.  You're never going to actually take those presents.

And, I slumped off to a restless night.

Drinking my coffee at stupid o'clock this morning, I looked to my right at the presents and the tree and the threat of them waking up to one more day of me giving in.

And I grabbed some bags, loaded up the presents, took down the stockings, and quietly took away Christmas.

I don't want them to be the spoiled ungrateful kids I've seen stomping little feet and rolling preteen eyes around my house.  I don't want that more than I don't want to be the mean lady again.

They didn't know what to say this morning when they awoke to the new tree.  But they sure knew I wasn't idle anymore.  And that, oh judgemental people, was the price I lovingly paid my children this morning.

21 Christmases

She was Christmas.

Santa hat wearing, chain smoking, coffee refill break taking, big silly grin smattered all over her face, Grandma.

She addressed presents:  To:  Sarah  From: Claude.  Claude was her evil, obese cat who attacked my feet whenever I made the mistake of sitting on the couch.

She swore she knew exactly who touched the presents under the tree, even if we only flipped them to read the tags.

She waited up for me every Christmas Eve so that I would have a happy face greet me when I got back from my dad's.

She made me sit at the top of the stairs until my mother woke up on Christmas morning in an attempt to include her in my astonished surprise at the miracles Grandma created every December 25th.

I still remember the year I came home on Christmas Eve to discover she had already stuffed the stockings.  Years after I knew Santa wasn't real, I was still heartbroken that Grandma had given up waiting until I fell asleep.  She wouldn't let me peek though, just patted me on my head and sent me to my room.

I had her for 21 Christmases.  I woke up 21 years in a row to the most overwhelming feeling I've ever felt.  Grandma loved me like no one else ever could.  And, I didn't know it by the money she spent.  I knew it by the free perfume samples she stuffed into the stocking she knit for me when I was born.  I knew it by the way she spent all year gathering tiny pieces of my life, just to shower me with them beside the tree.  I knew it by the indescribable joy she spread with her own laughter.  I knew it 21 bright and early Christmas mornings in a row.

And, I selfishly pouted when she traveled for two Decembers.  She had other grandchildren she loved just as much as me.  She had other children who deserved to spend that magical time with her.  I hoarded her for so long that I forgot how to share.  I tried not to show it, but I didn't want a holiday that didn't include my Gma.  So, for those two years, I woke up alone in my apartment and vowed to cancel Christmas.  It simply didn't come without her.  

My Christmas was never stuffed in a box or with ribbon and bows, as Dr. Seuss once taught us: my Christmas was so much more.  It was one woman in a Santa hat, cigarette in hand passing out love to little old me.

Two years after our last morning by the tree, Grandma was gone.  A year after that,  I woke up early to wait for my eight month old daughter to enjoy her first Christmas.  Eleven years later, I stuff the stockings of three people who never met the woman who knit the one I still hang alongside of theirs.  And, as I wait for them to fall asleep before dropping perfume samples and propping Santa presents under the tree, I can almost smell her coffee.  I almost see her joy in their excitement at the first sight of the Christmas morning sky.  I almost feel her laughter when they unwrap the socks.  

My Grandma was Christmas.  Now, somewhere high above me, she sits chain smoking, coffee sipping, and smiling.  And, beside her is an obese angry cat that gave great presents.

People don't like real

This isn't new information, I know.  Most people like to hear what they want to hear.  They want you to repeat the lies they tell themselves.  They want that sugar coating, and they will accept nothing less.  And, not just for their own lives.  Most people want you to lie about you for them too.  

Don't make them uncomfortable with your struggles.

Don't make them feign compassion for the obstacles you're facing.

Don't humanize yourself for someone who wants to make you a stone.

These are the people who go on and on and on and on and on about how great their marriage is...on Facebook.  But text you three times a week about what a jerk he is.

They are the ones who can't stop telling you about all the unbelievable accomplishments their children couldn't have actually completed because you know they're really just average little kids who pick their noses and trip over their own feet.

The people who buy, buy, buy knowing they can't really afford, afford, afford.

I disappoint these people.  I'm simply not that good of an actress.  

Why does my Facebook profile pic rarely show the region north of my neck?  Because I'm no fan of that area and I refuse to photoshop a bright smile or smaller bags under my eyes.

Why do I joke about my ornery children in 3 out of 5 status updates?  Because my girls aren't perfect.  They do some impressive things, but there is definitely some stupidity mixed in there too.

Why do I blog about sadness or anger or humiliation?  Because I am sad and angry and humiliated.  I tell the truth.  It ain't pretty sometimes, sure; but honesty is always my first language.  If I logged on and wrote an essay about the joys of divorce or the ease of single parenting, I'd have to chew my own tongue off first.  And, frankly, I don't need the calories.

This is me.  Sometimes, I'm not as strong as everyone believes I am.  Sometimes, a feeling sneaks in before I have a chance to stomp it back down.  And, every once in awhile, I fall on my behind.  If those things never happen to you, congratulations!  Make sure you Facebook/twitter/blog/Instagram/snapchat all about your perfection.  Meanwhile, I'll be over here...not highlighting lies.  Feel free to dislike me for my reality because, I assure you, I'm no fan of your imagination.

I forgot to mention

But wait!  I forgot to tell you that I love you.

And I miss you.

And you are important.

I didn't mention how I still remember the way your eyes found me in a crowded room.

Your arm around my waist lead me home.

The warmth of your hand set me on fire.

I needed you to know that your name doesn't fall from my lips anymore.

But your voice is still on my phone.

I can't bring myself to delete that last picture from my gallery.

I wanted you to hear it from my lips, just once.

Not to change anything or to walk backwards through our mess.

Not to break my heart again or to listen to your whispered excuses.

I love you.  Not permanently or catastrophically.

Just, I love you.  Softly and quietly.

I forgot to tell you when you were mine.

I miss you still, though not all the time.

You are important still, though not so much anymore.

But we've already said our goodbyes again.  Already hung up, promising to keep our distance.  Already turned back toward our present, separate and defined.

So, to the emptiness on my right - I love you.  And, I miss you.  And, you are important. 

And, I hope that passes before we meet again.

Nights like these

It's nights like these that scare me.

Nights when it's drink or cry.

Nights when I check in with people in an attempt to forget everything I should be fixing.

Nights when I won't let the girls leave me alone in the kitchen - in fear that I'll open the bottle.

Nights when it's a lot of sinking, with very little swimming.

Nights when I'm falling back into hurting myself to make everyone else ok.

These are the nights when the holes feel deeper and the scars more fresh.

These are the nights when my mother is staring through the mirror.

I feel like I ran out of road hundreds of miles before the skid marks stop.

And I just want to get off of this ride.

But there are bills to be paid and lunches to be packed and hair to be combed.  I don't have the luxury of checking out.  I don't have the benefit of a time out.

No strength for another inch and no extra set of shoulders to shovel this onto.

No choice but to keep going.  Tomorrow is another day and all of that.

Really, that scares me even more than tonight: another tomorrow.

I'm so far behind in this marathon that I think I've lapped myself.

It's almost their bedtime, and I'm clinging to that thread of hope.  I hope I won't break before the last good night kiss.  I hope I can muster a genuine smile when they wrap their arms around my waist.  I hope they can't see how hard I'm trying.

Yes, nights like these scare me.  But, I didn't drink and the tears were dry before I pulled into the driveway.  So, I won again.  And, tomorrow could be different.  Tomorrow, I could be brave.

Either way, every breath I draw is another fear conquered.  Soon, this night will be one more survival story.

And I will be less afraid.