When the age gap is apparent

J is 17 years older than me. I pretty much never think about it to be honest. We're on the same level. It works.

Until tonight.

Tonight he asked what I wanted to do to bring in the New Year. Half jokingly...okay, I wasn't joking at all, I told him we should have a netflix marathon of Dawson's Creek. He looked at me like I was Ted Bundy. As if he truly had no idea who the woman he married is.

"No one wants to watch Dawson's Creek more than once. That isn't natural," he finally said.

"Well," I started. "I was like 10 when it started. So it'd technically be my first time. At least for the high school years."

Yeah, I'm pretty sure he had a coronary just then.

13 New Years Resolutions for 2013

Somehow it's going to be New Years Day tomorrow. I didn't even realize that today was New Years Eve until I saw it on a friends status last night. Yep. I'm so on top of things these days!

In my defense I'm night weaning B (you thought I did that back in May, right? I did. For one night. After that he went all ape shit crazy and I had a lot of guilt still from when H was a baby so I said fuck it.) He's actually pretty unphased, but he's also cutting 6 teeth, so pretty terrible timing of me. So now he thinks 4am is a great wake up time. But I can't really complain, since he's been super amenable to the night weaning with no tears or fussing...

Anyway, I've never been one for New Years resolutions, but I figure it can't hurt. Maybe actually putting it down to visibly see will motivate my bum to actually do all this. Maybe...

So here are my 13 New Years Resolutions:

1.)    The obligatory get my ass in shape by 25 and eat healthier (I know some of you are rolling your eyes at this one, but seriously, I can always do better)

2.)    Be a better parent.

3.) Upcycle more clothes for the kidlets.

4.)    DIY projects:

a.)    wedding song lyrics on canvases

b.)    H’s duvet

c.)    Paint fridge

d.)   And other things that float my boat

5.)    Coffee bar

6.)    H and B’s rooms set up and completed – waaaay too many details to list, but also includes a LOT of DIY

7.)    Picture frame wall in bathroom

8.)    Write people letters/postcards, and get the kids involved, too!

9.)    More random acts of kindness – it makes all of us happier filling buckets.

10.)                        Meal plan, meal plan, meal plan!

11.)                        Finish project S&S

12.)                        Organize and print photos from past three years…

13.)                        Keep calm and carry on

Forgotten Birthdays

I love birthdays. Adore them. Always have.

Though it makes no reasonable sense. And for such a typically reasonable girl, I still can't figure out why I love birthdays so much.

My birthday. My husband's. My kids'. Everyones'.

And yet, my birthday has never been a "big deal." I didn't have big birthday parties as a kid, other than for my 9th birthday. In fact, more often than not I was handed a gift while my folks headed out to something bigger and better.

My 14th birthday was completely forgotten.

My 18th birthday I ordered my own cake. And picked it up. And ate it alone.

My babes birthday track record has only been slightly better. And they've only gotten three under their belts between them. At least for Miss H's first birthday pretty much all of our family acknowledged it, even though not many people celebrated with us. There were people there of course, both of her paternal grandpa's, her Grandma T, and her Aunt C. Plus friends. So it wasn't a fail by any means, even though there were also people who chose not to come for the most ridiculously petty reasons.

Then her second birthday rolled around. More friends, less family. And more family didn't acknowledge it.

And then poor baby B. I'm just glad he's too young to have known or noticed much about his birthday.

Though I shouldn't have expected much, since most of my family didn't even meet him until he was closing in on 9 months old! We did plan his party on a Tuesday, but since most of our family hadn't bothered for H's weekend parties, I figured it didn't matter. His friends would still be there. And they were. And it was lovely.

But most of his family didn't even send him a birthday card. Or a text or a phone call. I don't expect people to buy my children gifts. It's not needed, and not expected. But some sort of an acknowledgement is always nice. Especially when you're family.

So H has a box of all her 1st birthday cards which is in great surplus. And B has a box...which has very few.

Don't get me wrong. I loved their birthdays. We had fun. People we love and care about showed up to celebrate and the kids had marvelous times.

But I have this hang up with forgetting birthdays.

Probably because as a kid mine was easily forgotten.

So now I've taken my issues and put them on my kids.

Because that's how it goes.

I know I need to be sure they're not even aware of those who don't acknowledge their awesome days of birth. They need to celebrate in their own glory, and be extremely happy and thankful for those who do acknowledge and celebrate with them, whether it be in person or in spirit.

Because regardless as to whether or not other people remember the miraculous days my children entered this world, the day each year that they've come full circle and are now a year older, their momma will never forget.

No matter how busy or stressed or tired or whatever, I could never forget their birthdays. And I would never leave them to celebrate alone or to bake their own cake (unless they wanted).

So really, everyone and everything else is just icing on the cake, right?

"That means he loves me!"

Siblings are funny. That ridiculous love/hate relationship that they have.

One second H and B have me on the verge of a breakdown with their constant bickering and then the next my heart is utterly melting because they are so freaking sweet to each other.

Seriously, H is screaming at B for touching a toy and then two seconds later she riding the rocking turtle, prompting B to "Oh, be so careful! Watch your footsies, love!" so she doesn't accidentally hurt him if he gets too close.

The best melt my heart moment though came this morning when H ran into the kitchen where I was making them breakfast and squealed, "Mommy, mommy! B loves me! I said, 'I so love you' and then he said, 'I wuv oo!'. And that means he loves me!" The look of absolute ecstasy on her face can never be duplicated.

I've seen her excited about a lot of things. Books at Christmas. Fruit leather. But it doesn't compare to this morning.

So although I might lose my mind while they're figuring out their friendship and how to get along (and B is admittedly so freaking aggressive, I'm not sure he's my child), it will be worth it for those moments like this morning when their love for one another outshines all the whines and cries.

What is with the shaming photos of kids on the net?

Dude, what is up with the public humiliation of children? I thought it was bad enough having to witness kids being screamed at, put into time out, and/or spanked in public. But now it's been upped to a whole new level.

Photographs on the Internet.

The first form of this I saw was actually a video of the teenage girl whose father shot her laptop. I won't lie, at the time I thought he was bloody brilliant. The shooting of the laptop that is, not the filming of it and making it available for the world to see. Of course now I don't even agree with the shooting of the lap top. That whole situation, most especially everything that lead up to that moment was just a series of bad parenting, but oh well, not my problem. I'm just appalled he put it on the Internet.

But more than appalled, I'm extremely sad for all these little kids whose photos are being shared all over facebook. Typically they have signs that read of their wrongdoings, or they are with a sibling in a "get along" shirt.

I mean, obviously, I don't agree with sticking your kids in a shirt together as punishment. But I vehemently oppose photographing it for complete strangers to see! How disgusting. If this was done to any other group of people in the world other than children there would be hell to pay for it. People would not laugh, they would cry abuse! But not if it is done to the most fragile and vulnerable group of people in the world - our children.

I saw one photo of a girl holding a sign in the parking lot of Wal-Mar that stated she had back talked to her dad, and this was her punishment. WTF? If you are in the group of people who believe in punishments, why not at least make it be a natural consequence? Standing in a parking lot and having your "misbehavior" told to everyone is extreme humiliation. It doesn't serve the purpose of making the situation better. I can guarantee you that girl does not have remorse for what she did or any more respect for her father. Probably much, much less.

But we also seem to live in a world where fear is often confused as respect, and unfortunately many people are too dumb or simply don't care to see that. And that's sad.

But no worries! Because childism is totally legal. You can humiliate your child each and every way pretty much with no repercussions to yourself (just repercussions to your relationship with your child).

Think of all the kids whose photographs are out there forever now, for the whole world to see, in their most vulnerable state of humiliation and shame. Bravo, parents. Fucking bravo. You should only be so proud...

The most recent photo that has been making its rounds is of a boy, he looks about 9, holding a sign above a PS3 and a Captain America action figure. The sign reads something along the lines of : Because I wasn't grateful to receive this Captain America action figure from church, I have to return my PS3 that I was going to get for Christmas and use the money to buy other people gifts.

Well, they sure taught him.

I can actually respect these parents goal, but they went about it in a terribly horrible way. No way is that boy going to be more grateful next time. If anything, he is going to be far less giving in the future.

And the face on that boy is crushed. You can tell how sad, heart broken, and genuinely shamed he is. But maybe if his parents had taught him gratitude in the first place, this wouldn't have been an issue?

And who even knows what the whole situation was? Was he flat out rude about the gift when he received it? Or was he simply overheard mumbling and grumbling that he all ready had one or that he didn't like it? We'll probably never know. But regardless, publicly humiliating him is disgusting.

It's one thing to discuss your child's misdeeds and punishments with close family or friends. I think everyone does that, and needs to do that. We are not simply raising children, but people.And I think getting feedback on situations and hearing advice from other people is always beneficial, even if not always applicable.

But to announce it to the world: no. To photograph humiliating photos and share it with the Internet: no.

And yet so many people think this okay. I don't get it.

I try to always ask myself before reacting to my children, "Would I treat an adult like this?" If the answer is no, then I shouldn't be treating my child like that.

Would I tell a friend to stop talking? Would I insist a friend go to time-out while she sorts out her emotions? Would I walk away from a friend who was crying and in distress? Would I hit a friend "to teach them"?

Would I photograph a friend's inappropriate behaviour and then display them in all their shame for the world to see?

Hell no!

So why would anyone do that to their child?

Remember, how we treat our children is how they will treat the world when we're not looking. It is how they will treat their own children.

I for one do not want my children to ever think that shaming or humiliating someone is okay, publicly or not.

The least expected hardest and easiest of 2012

2012 is coming to end here shortly (and not because of the end of the world, I managed to survive that one! Now onto Zombie Apocalypse survival...I hope you can sense my extreme sarcasm here).

I can't believe it's almost over. A whole year has come and gone. A whole year of my babies growing, growing, growing. I'm fairly certain Miss H woke up 3 inches taller just today. So you can only imagine what a whole year has added up to (you know...she's like 73 feet tall at this point, of course!).

The year has had it's ups and downs, as have all years.

Instead of saying, "These were the hardest things this year" or "These were the easiest things this year" I'm going to tell you my top twelve least expected hardest/easiest parts of this past year.

We'll start with top 12 least expected hardest things this past year:

1.) Accepting that I am enough. I never realized how difficult this would be.
2.) Finding clothes that fit. Again, who'd have though that by getting skinnier, clothes would actually be harder to find. I assumed it would get easier.
3.) Finding cute boy shoes. Girl shoes are so easy to find. I figured boy shoes would be the same. I figured wrong.
4.) Disconnecting myself from the people I have unhealthy relationship with. One would think that realizing and accepting unhealthy relationships would be the challenge, and once you managed that, it'd be easy to throw in the towel. No such luck, my friends. No such luck.
5.) Getting my butt to the gym. Before I had kids I loved going to the gym. And I did so religiously. Getting back into that groove has been more difficult than I anticipated, though I'm getting there.
6.) Surviving the aftermath (my own emotional repercussions) of cutting all of my hair off. 'Nuff said on that one.
7.) Taking a decent photograph. Good camera does NOT equal good photo. But we're working on it.
8.) Surviving months 3-6 of "the 2's". Nothing could have prepared me. Nothing.
9.) Staying on top of laundry. Why is this so hard?
10.) Dealing with the babes growth spurts/growing pains. I had no idea growing pains were real. And they're fierce.
11.) Accepting that there will be no more babies. Once I was clear headed from the PPD, my first revelation and regret was that we were done having children. Accepting that was one of the most difficult things I've ever done.
12.) Finding BBQ sauce that does not contain high fructose corn syrup. Dude, read the labels of all the BBQ sauces next time you are in the grocery store. You will know what I mean.

And on to the top 12 least expected easy parts of 2012.

1.) Finding artificial food coloring free candy canes. It's been so difficult to find AFC free treats when I want to get something particular. But the candy canes, they were just sitting there on the end shelf in the Co-op, patiently waiting for me. Bliss.
2.) Leaving H at preschool the second go around. The first time we tried preschool I was an emotional mess. I expected to be the same way when we tried in October. Not so much. At all.
3.) Overcoming post partum depression. I thought for sure that this one would be difficult. But once I had the right resources and tools, it was relatively easy to kick.
4.) Taking a 24 hour car ride with both kids (more than once!). My kids hate the car. Yet it was relatively painless.
5.) Moving H into her own bed. I was expecting tears and all around just a no-go. But she took to it like a pro. Sure, she still doesn't sleep through the night and ends up with us half way through, but the starting out in her own bed was too easy.
6.) Blogging. Apparently it's just really easy to say whatever I feel like without a censor. Who knew?
7.) Ridiculous amounts of purging. I learned how incredibly easy it is for me to pitch things. I have no sentimental value to anything with the exception of a few baby things from the kids. I have virtually nothing in storage anymore other than a few photo albums because it's been good willed if I don't use it or display it.
8.) Still being in the lovey-dovey stage of marriage despite having two toddlers. I have been warned since before our first was born that once you bring children into the relationship, your marriage changes. You no longer have time for cutes and cuddles with your spouse and your sex life goes downhill. But, our relationship is virtually unchanged with the exception of less exotic travels.
9.) Remaining calm when B knocked himself unconscious. Once, a 6 foot garter snake was within inches of me. I screamed like a banshee until someone rescued me. So I assumed I was a "freaker outer" but it turns out I'm not. I'm a freaking ray of calmness on a natural disaster day.
10.) Doing activities (park, library, pool, etc.) sans J, with two walking toddlers. Everyone had me prepared for hell and impossibility. But I say poo poo on that. Two is a piece of pie. Mostly.
11.) Dropping 25 pounds before even stepping foot in the gym. It's all in the food, baby. It's all in the food.
12.) Accepting help. I still cannot ask for it, but accepting it when offered proved incredibly easy. Who knew?

And there you have it folks. My 2012 in a nutshell with a pretty bow on top.

Gingerbread Man

Seriously, everyone needs an almost 3 year old. You know, just for shits and giggles.

Last night, as bedtime was approaching and I was changing B, J told H it was time to change into her jammies. We were all gathered in the living room (J's sister, husband, and son were visiting) as H slyly maneuvered around J, mumbling, "We'll...I think...now..." And as soon as she was out if arms reach she took off in a full sprint laughing, "You can't catch me I'm the gingerbread man!"

Oh my goodness. We all laughed so hard we cried. J indulged her a few circles around the house. Then he playfully scooped her up while she shrieked, "No, fox, no! Don't get me!"

Needless to say, it was a very good way to conclude our Christmas.

Miss Manners is contradicting

So, Miss Manners says to always have particular foods for your guests - family guests and otherwise. Basically if you have at least a days notice, even if the visit is only for an hour or two, you should make sure you have foods your guests like. So if Sally drinks a different milk than you, you get it. If Jimmy only eats blueberries, you stock up. If Jane is vegan, you acquaint yourself with tofu.

I get it. I try really hard to abide by it. But it's not always perfect.

Miss Manners also says to never feed your guests something you wouldn't eat yourself.

Well, sorry, I'm not eating tofu. Not even for Jane.

So I've had to loosely interpret these for myself. So I stood in front of the milk, so something I haven't bought from a store in over a year, looking for 2% milk, which I haven't bought in over 6 years, trying to figure out which was the less of the evils (I went with Organic Valley if anyone wants to know). And so this continued as I perused sugar, lunch meats, breads, etc.

I don't mind buying different stuff, in fact, I like it. I enjoy being able to do at least something to help people feel more comfortable when away from home because I thoroughly understand how alienating it is to be somewhere else and realize there is virtually nothing to meet your food needs.

That being said, I never expect others to buy particular things for us, so it's always a nice surprise when I show up to my sister in law or elsewhere and she's bought the kids almond milk and gluten free crackers.

On a different note, B is saying "I love you" pretty damn well lately which melts my heart. He will be dumping cereal on the floor and look at me with a wicked grin and say "I wuv you." And yeah, the cereal becomes a non-issue.

Theatre babies

J and I  are theatre people, as in, we love going (and maybe once upon a time I really loved being a part of it too!). So our kids never stood a chance.

The first production we went to see after having H, we had sitters (yea, multiple, we were paranoid). She slept the whole time we were gone, and I'd go again without my kids for the right show, but since then, we've been dragging them along.

I remember last Christmas people were in awe with our 21-month old girl who sat through the whole production of Annie without disrupting. And they were equally in awe Friday when both kids did the same at the Wizard of Oz.

Admittedly, I haven't seen the movie since I was 6, and if I had, it probably wouldn't have been my show of choice with babes. Though all the "scary" parts were toned down greatly, complete with the flying monkeys being jitter bugs who danced Dorothy and co into exhaustion.

Afterwards, H asked for more, and then loudly proclaimed, "I can do that!"

Yep, she's mine.

I've produced at least one theatre baby. But the way B got his boogie on, I'm thinking probably two.

An email from a friend

A good "mom friend" of mine with an 8 year old and a 3 year old sent me a message the other day that really touched me, and showed me that there are people willing to learn and change. I asked her if I could copy her email onto my blog and she consented.

It read:

"I've been reading your Facebook posts, checking out the articles you link, long before you started your blog. I read that too though. At first, I thought you were so idealistic. That is was very easy to state you are against things like sleep-training or non-punitive parenting when H was only a small baby. I laughed with my husband even about how nice your perfect life must be where your children sleep through the night without crying, they always listen so you never punish, your husband is always there to help so you never feel overwhelmed and buy a happy meal, you always feed them good organic meals and they never ask for cookies, and of course, all cleaners in your house are chemical free. Your ideas were, in my home, a good laugh for me when I had yet again grounded S or  spanked L or had left him once again to CIO in his crib, or committed any of your other many transgressions. Until one day when things were just all around bad, and I figured things couldn't get worse, so why not try out some of your ridiculous ideas. I decided I'd give it a week. For one week I committed to no processed or fast food (sorry, I may never go organic). I stopped yelling at my children and forcing them to do things. L didn't want to wear his shoes one day. I said fine and didn't force it. I brought them along anyway, something my former self would have never done as it would have been "giving in". When he finally decided he wanted them, I helped him put them on. There was no power struggle or tantrum. It was so, dare I say, easy? And when S gave me lip that week or was disobedient in some other way, instead of immediately demanding respect or doling out a punishment, I talked with her. We got to the root of her behavior and together we were able to agree upon an acceptable behavior and I was able to understand her "disobedience". That first week was hard. Very hard. Especially because my husband was not on board. He strongly believed in his authoritarian ways. He's slowly coming around, the transition is definitely harder for him than it was me. But he sees how our children truly respect me, and he wants that too. He is realizing that respect out of fear will not give him the relationship he wants with our kids, especially when they're grown. We are far from perfect, but from reading your blog, I have realized that you are far from perfect as well. And I've realized that you weren't telling me I was bad, but offering a different way. And it was just hard for me to see that because to admit you could be onto something forced me to re-evaluate myself, and the last thing I wanted to admit was that I was possibly not doing things the best way for my kids. The point of this is, I want to tell you thank you. Thank you for standing firm in your beliefs even when I've witnessed other people slam you for them. Even when I was one of those people. And thank you for being such a good friend and for never making me feel bad about my choices even though they were so drastically different than yours. I mean, how many people would happily pick up a can of formula for me when you are so dedicated to boob-feeding? So thank you. You are making a difference, even if it is on a small scale and just me. It matters. To me and to my kids."

Seriously, this message made my day, maybe even the rest of my year. I've been at a bit of a low point, annoyed and fed up with certain people, but K helped to brighten my day and help me realize that although a lot of people either blatantly ignore me, or like her, mock me, sometimes it just takes one very small seed to get things rolling and then people start changing.

So thank you, K. I love you and cherish our friendship more than you know.

I'd rather give birth than have the stomach flu

Seriously, I'd rather push a 9lb baby out naturally again than to have the stomach flu. Hands down, any day. I choose child birth over the stomach flu.

I'm never sick. Ever.

Fortunately, my children are not either. We have, semi-knowingly, been exposed to stomach viruses several times throughout my children's lives. Thus far, they've never gotten them. And I hadn't either until last night.

Dear God, I deserve a baby after all that. Just sayin'.

But this is definitely one of those moments that make me go " oh , crap! I'm so not ready for parenthood."

1.) I got lucky. Both kids actually slept through it all. But I haven't a clue what I'd have done all alone if they were awake during the worst of it.

2.) Omg, if they'd been the pukers, it'd be a vomit-fest, for real. I'm a sympathetic puker. Even to myself sometimes.

3.) Now that they're awake and I'm exhausted and still unwell, what do I do with them? It's not like they can feed them selves or B can change his own diaper, or they can remotely be trusted not to destroy the house we are in (B is currently taking all the wipes out of their package and shredding them...).

Yeah, I'd much rather give birth than deal with the stomach flu. I know how to deal with that. And there is an awesome reward at the end. All I get when this blows over is a flat stomach for a day until I rehydrated and eating normally again.

I believe in a form of eugenics

I'm snuggled in bed between two perfect babies. I'm at my step dad's house while J re-does the stairs in our home. It will be a relief when they're done. Until then I'm single parenting it up in someone else's home. Far more difficult than doing it in my own house, but that's okay. I have some pretty awesome kids who make it worth it.

Which gets me to the point of this blog post.

From the day I got two little signs on that pee stick, every single decision I have made has been with my children's best interest put first. Some would say that I put my children first to a fault. Maybe so.

But I know I could never imagine treating them like some mothers treat their children. I'm not talking about time-outs or spankings, not a healthful diet or such. I'm talking about the mental, emotional, and verbal abuse that happens all too frequently. Those scars aren't visible, so they are often overlooked.

But at the end of the day, they're probably the most damaging.

There should be a test you must pass before becoming a parent. Not one that states you must be a certain age or have a certain income or even parent a certain way, but one that proves that you are in fact mentally stable. Sure, it's a form of eugenics, but whatever. Sure, I wouldn't exist, but nonetheless. I still believe in it.

Being able to tell a 3 year old her daddy threatened to kill her, and then sending her off to spend the summer with him, giving her your warmest regards, should be illegal.

Telling your 13 year old that she is fat and ugly should not be legal. Telling her she is crazy, she's beautiful, when she finally accepts it, should not be legal.

When your child has just birthed a perfect human being, telling her that she can have another baby that is the "better" gender next, but until then she's thrown her life away to be a mom, should not be legal.

Constant degrading, malicious words, and so much more, should not be legal.

Choosing to love one child, but not another, is just sick and should not be legal.

Withholding your motherly love should not be legal.

But it is.

It all is.

And it's even acceptable if you can hide it all in a fancy house and a few over glorified college degrees. If you can hide it under expensive clothes and make up and lots of smiles and words of praise when in front of others.

Yes, I believe in a form of eugenics. A form that would never allow this to happen to children because narcissistic individuals would not be allowed to reproduce.

Because children deserve to be loved. At 4. At 24. At 74. They should be loved by their parents.

When I look at my children, I could never imagine treating them in such a mentally and emotionally abusive way. It never crosses my mind. Sure, when they're absolutely crazy I want to yell or confine them to their rooms. Occasionally I want to spank them. Of course I don't, I know better.

But never have I thought about or even had the slightest desire to degrade my beautiful children. To torment them with disgusting, vile, hurtful words. To control them with my love.

Phrases such as, "What's the matter with you?" Or "Grow up!" aren't appropriate, so obviously words such as, "Are you sure you're going to eat that, you're looking kinda chunky" and so much worse are far from okay to say to your child.

I just don't get it.

Not even a little bit.

And yet it's more common than many would ever suspect.

The damage from words lasts far longer than the damage of bruises. The pain much deeper.

So hold your babies. Love them. Do not be guilty of harming your children with words. Because words can never be unsaid. The damage never undone.

Oh how I believe in a form of eugenics that would prevent this kind of abuse from ever having to be endured by another child. I believe in it deeply.

Different

Being different it hard. Choosing to do things differently than the majority of other people is fucking hard.

It is accepting that most of the time you’ll be the only one with your ideas and beliefs. That you’ll always feel like you are working against the grain. That you’re alone. It is accepting that you won’t have anyone who supports you other than your spouse (and I know for some, not even that).

I’ve been in a terrible funk lately. I contribute it to poor sleeping, too much sugar, and being different.

Because, well, sometimes I want support. I told J this today.

He supports me. Amazingly so. He tells me every day how proud and happy he is to have me for a wife. That he loves how I’m not afraid to question everything. How I’m totally cool if the whole world hates me or thinks I’m crazy. Because I do what is right.

I have immense morals and values that no one ever instilled in me. J is amazed that someone with such a morally jaded childhood can be so damn straight-laced. Maybe too straight-laced sometimes.

For the most part, I don’t need anyone to agree with me. I’m happy alone. I’m happy in my beautiful bubble with my beautiful, happy, amazing family.

But sometimes, yes, I would like some support. It’s a lot to ask for, I know.

It’s hard.

I mean, other than genital mutilation, which I’ll never be on board with, and abuse, I respect every parents decision that they make for their child. Even if it drastically differs from mine. Even if I don’t understand it.

I don’t think less of those parents. Not even a little bit. I do think that maybe they just don’t know. Sometimes I genuinely hope that’s the case. Sometimes I realize they are doing things because their spouse “won’t let” them do things differently. And that makes me sad. Because kids pick up on that stuff and I feel like everyone deserves a better relationship then that..

But I do also realize that people make choices completely different than me, being well informed, because they want to!

And that’s okay.

I SUPPORT YOU!

I won’t shut up though about why I make my choices. I won’t shut up about my choices. Because I know that sometimes people hear me.

And more than one person has told me that their sweet baby boy was left intact because of information I shared. That even when they were exhausted and at the point of a breakdown they didn’t abandon their baby in a crib all by themselves and let them scream because of something I shared with them. That they thought twice before spanking their child. Before punishing them at all.

So it makes it worth it. It makes being different worth it when good things happen to babies and children (and their parents!) because of my “different” ideas. (Though they don’t seem so different.)

The hard part is I’m constantly changing my ideas. Drastically. Because I’m constantly learning knew things.

I mean, in education beliefs alone I’ve changed so drastically in 2.5 years. I went from feeling strongly about giving my children a good Catholic education, to wanting simply a good academically-structured education, to believing strongly in the Montessori principles (and some I still do), to feeling strongly about homeschooling, and now I’m leaning more toward unschooling.

It makes me feel crazy sometimes how much I change. So I get how others can feel bonkers too.

And I know everyone is at their one place in their learning journey. Some people are lightyears ahead of me and I won’t catch up for several more years. Some are where I was at one point in time. Others are one a completely different path.

Some people do share some of my ideas in theory. I told J that it’s hard though, because I’m often doing things alone when it comes to reality and to the actual practice of my beliefs.

I’m the one not forcing their child to say “I’m sorry” at the playdates. So I appear to be a rude and permissive parent. But I model the behavior for my child. To me, “I’m sorry” means nothing if it’s not genuine. And if you have to be told to say it, then it is NOT genuine.

But I get that other people tell their child to apologize because they feel it’s the right things to do. Because that’s how they were raised. Because they don’t question it. Because they don’t want “society” to think their child is rude.

I understand. And yet I’m so alone most times in my understanding of my own beliefs.

And that’s okay too.

I lamented to J that so many people feel I have “failed” because of my adult-choices. And while I don’t care what others think, I feel very confident in my decisions, it still hurts sometimes that the people who are supposed to care, to love you, don’t always support you.

But while discussing these, let’s face it, ridiculous feelings with J, I also said, “I don’t want my children to be like everyone else. How can I be the same and do the same if that’s not what I want for them?”

So I’m different. I have a different way of doing things. I’m a different kind of person. My children will be amazingly different.

And if I do it without the support of anyone but J, that’s okay. Because he’s the only one I need to support the decisions regarding our family at the end of the day anyway.

I realized long ago that the boat with my family’s support sailed. Long before I ever even had a chance. And that’s okay.

I’m different.

Luckily.

Thankfully.

Because I couldn’t be like some other people. I couldn’t let J make all the decisions. I wouldn’t obey if he said “Let them cry themselves to sleep.” In fact, I’d scoop up my babes and walk right out the door, and I’d keep on walking until the divorce papers were signed. And he knows that. And he agrees with that. I couldn’t drink my unhappiness away (I’m not unhappy). I couldn’t leave my kids in the care of someone else all day. Or all week. Because although I like a break, I like being with them. Yes, there will come a time when they are older that I’m sure they will spend time with someone so J and I can finally have our honeymoon. But it will not be for a long time. And not until there is actually someone out there willing to keep them, ha ha.

Just because I can have a paying job, doesn’t mean I will. Just because I can go to law school or grad school and be “successful” by most of society’s standards doesn’t mean I will. Or should.

We both decided when we had kids that they would always come first. Because, you know, we’re different. So that means there are nights that J and I spend very little or no time together because our kids need us. There are times we are tired. Exhausted.

And times we feel incredibly alone in this journey.

But I’m realizing that that is okay.

 

The people who do support me are mostly childless friends. Which doesn’t make their support any less amazing, but it’s different. It’s one thing to be able to talk to someone without kids about how exhausted you are because B hasn’t slept decently in two weeks and you just want 6 hours straight of sleep without anyone touching you. It’s another to be able to whine about this to a friend with children. One who chose different sleep arrangements for their children.

How amazing it would be if I could lament about sleep issues to someone who sleep trained their child and their first words not be, “Oh, you need to night-wean him! Oh, you need to have him in his own bed! Oh, you need to let him cry it out!” Wouldn’t it be freaking amazing if instead, although having made different decisions, they could say, “Yeah, infants and toddlers are craptastic sleepers. I feel for you.” Or even just, “That sucks.” Or “I hear you.” You don’t have to agree with how we’re sleeping. I understand you may have no advice because you don’t know any other way than what you chose for your children.

I just want someone to listen. To sympathize. To be a supportive FRIEND.

I’ve never flat out told a friend who has chosen to sleep train their child that they should co-sleep instead. I’ve never encouraged someone not to wean their infant or toddler. I’ve never told someone who has smacked their child in front of me what they could have done instead.

I respect everyone’s decisions. And I support them! I’ve helped friends find gentle ways to wean their babies. Just because it’s not what I’m doing, doesn’t mean I cannot or will not be supportive.

And yet it seems so ridiculously hard for others sometimes.

To some my choices are fearless and bold. J says that people cannot support ideas they envy, but are too afraid to implement themselves. That although many people would like to change, they just can’t without support.

So I understand. Because it’s a scary thing to do on your own.

I was scared, too.

I was scared the first time I admitted I would still breastfeed my child after a year old. I was scared the first time I admitted my child was sleeping in my bed. I was terrified the first time I stood firmly by my belief that I will not send my children to school. I was scared when I first ventured down the path of non-punitive parenting.

It’s scary. It’s scary to do new things. It’s scary to be the only one you know doing them.

But scary is good sometimes. Sometimes it can be revolutionary.

But it doesn’t mean it’s easy.

It’s hard. Incredibly hard. It’s hard to be the one still whipping out a boob for an almost 3 year old when everyone else is saying, “Dear God, haven’t you weaned her yet?” It’s hard to refrain from saying, “H you need to share that with Sally” when you know Sally’s mom is waiting for you to say such because it’s “right.” It’s hard when you tell the nice lady passing out candy canes, “No, thank you,” and it’s hard when you just have to sit awkwardly while everyone else talks about sending their kids off to kindergarten and you know that is not in the cards for yours.

So I’m different. Maybe when my kids are grown, I won’t be so different. Or maybe I will.

But at least my kids will know that it is okay to be different. It is okay to have different ideas. Different beliefs.

People once believed the sun revolved around Earth and that the world was flat. People once thought it was okay to own people and to discriminate based on something as silly as the color of skin. People once thought it was okay for husbands to beat their wives and for little girls to have their genitals mutilated.

So just because the majority believes something, doesn’t always means its right. This gives me the courage to be different. To stand alone when needed.

Maybe someday my grandchildren will be horrified that people used to think it was okay to hit their children. To yell at them. To belittle them. Maybe they will think the idea of sending 5 year olds to school for 8 hours a day to recite the alphabet and trace letters and forced to take standardized tests is ridiculous. Maybe they will be well-educated in the power of breast milk. Maybe they will have better knowledge of the chemicals in vaccines and they won’t accept artificial food coloring or GMO’s in their foods and processed shit will be a thing of the past.

Or maybe not.

But at least they will know there is a different option. An acceptable alternative. And that it’s okay to be different.

And that their family, (J, sibling, and I) will support them.

Even if they’re doing it alone.

It could have been my sister

This Connecticut shooting has me an emotional mess. I won’t lie. I just don’t deal well with this kind of stuff. That’s why I’m usually not “in the loop” with the news, because I’m just emotionally healthier not knowing, even if that’s maybe wrong.

Obviously it screwed me up because they’re kids. They’re young and little and innocent. Not all that much older than my own babes in the grand scheme of things. It’s terrifying to think of such a thing happening to my own littles.

And the absolute lack of support and attachment that that young man had to have had with both his parents and the rest of the world makes me sad and sick. To think our society has allowed for someone to feel so unloved and sad that they could do such a heinous thing. I do think parenting plays a huge part in this. Because murderers aren’t the people who had parents who loved them unconditionally and supported them and raised them attached. They just don’t. It’s proven. So that makes me sad.

But what has screwed me up the most is thinking that it could have been my sister.

I saw a photo floating around facebook before the names and ages of victims had been released.

It was of a girl. A teacher. She was young and smiling. Immediately I thought, “She can’t be much older than me.” The picture told the story of that teacher's last few moments on this earth. Upon hearing the gunshots she hid her students away in the cabinets and the closet of her classroom. When the shooter came in, she told him her students were in the gym. He shot her.

My sister is a teacher. I never thought of her teaching a class full of 4^th graders as something potentially dangerous. Crazy, sure. But dangerous, no.

I worry about my brothers. 3 out 4 of them are members of the military (the other is still far too young). One of them was a part of the last troop to leave Iraq. The potential danger in their jobs is obvious. They carry guns. They have to go to war zones when told.

But my older sister M is a teacher. She goes to school and deals with a gaggle of 9 year olds who talk back and forget to raise their hands and don’t know how to stand still in line (and I don’t blame them for that!). She spends her days teaching kids.

Kids she loves.

Kids who, if she were in the same position, I know she’d hide away in closets and cabinets.

And that scares me.

Because until Friday, I didn’t think to ever be scared. I didn’t know that that could even ever be something she’d be called to do.

I found out that teachers name was Victoria. She was 27.

The same age as my sister.

I’m sad about the children. My heart literally breaks for the parents because it’s something I could never fathom.

And I’m sad for those courageous, heroic teachers.

I’m especially sad for Victoria.

Because she could have been my sister.

Figuring out Faith

Religion is one of those things that I have gone back and forth with throughout my life to such extremes. I’m still not 100% what I believe.

When I was going through some major purging while pregnant with B I found old journals of mine from middle and high school. I was all over the place with religion. There were several times I wrote things like “God is dead” and “If God is real he is deeply sick and twisted.” And I wrote these things over and over and over again. Because obviously just writing it one time on a page didn’t get my point across.

Those were definitely from dark days when I was too young and naïve for the world, experiencing that the world is a very unkind and inhumane place sometimes.

But then there were times that I confessed that I believed without a doubt that God existed. How could I not?

And then I admitted to being agnostic for most of my high school career.

I tried our Buddhism, since I loved the Zen lifestyle and I’m a mostly peaceful person and have peaceful beliefs.

I still think I could totally do the Buddhism thing.

Except I really do believe in God.

It’s not logical. I know that. I understand the Big Bang Theory and I believe in a form of evolution. And I even committed to this belief before I had children.

The year I lived in England is the year I chose to go through Confirmation with the Catholic Church (and good thing! I wanted us married in the Church and one of had to be confirmed…and J wasn’t it!) To be completely honest, it was the only year of my life that I actually enjoyed attending mass. That I got anything from it. I loved the Father. His sermons were things I could relate to, and I never felt like he was damning me.

And then of course, the first time I felt tiny kicks from within, I was sold. I mean, science is amazing and extraordinary, but it just cannot create miracles like the two perfect people I gave birth to. It just can’t.

I mean, yes, it can, but at the same time, it can’t.

But I’m always still at that weird place of beliefs. Like I 100% believe in God, but I won’t lie, I question Jesus sometimes. I totally question the Bible. It’s strange and twisted and we only get select parts of it anyway. Just the parts the Church wants people to know. So I’d love to know about all the other books they have locked away in the Vatican, afraid to let the world read.

I know there is one about Mary Magdalene. That’d be mega interesting.

I obviously intend to teach my children about God and Christ. And if they choose it as their belief, I will support it. But if they say, “Hey, Mom, that’s not for me,” then I’m okay with that too and I’d support it. Because no one ever told me what to believe unless it was convenient for them at the time.

And I’d sincerely hope they never choose a religion that is so closed minded that they are unable to be accepting of others. Or that they feel they have the ability to condemn others to Hell or decide who is going or not (if it exists).

That’s my other issue. I don’t know about my beliefs as far as the afterlife go. I really like the idea of Heaven. It makes me happy and gives me warm fuzzies. But at the same time, I figure that we will simply cease to exist, just as we were before we were born.

To be honest, that’s what scares me the most. Simply ceasing to be. No thoughts, no recollections; just gone. And how can I cease to be and no longer have any coherent thoughts of my children or my husband?

I mean, I guess I won’t know. It won’t matter. But the idea of just being gone is scary. No matter whom you are.

Even if Heaven exists, who knows if I’d make it in? I’m not like the most devout or stellar person out there. So then I spend eternity in Hades?

Yeah…I guess I like the idea of simply ceasing to be anyway.

Though I’m pretty sure Heaven and Hell are made up. At least the way we are taught about them. A way to scare people in “behaving.” I’m pretty sure that God is unconditional. And that means there are no punishments. Just because you fail on earth to be what one religious person says you must, doesn’t mean you fail in the eyes of God. You’ve done your job.

And that’s to simply be you. Right?

Maybe I’m completely wrong. I’m wrong about a lot of things, so there’s no reason this would be an exception.

But I just hope I teach my children to be genuinely good people because they want to be and it makes them happy and they feel good about themselves. Not because I want them to be. Not because God wants them to be. Not because there is some “reward” waiting for them. Just, you know, because.

And as J point out, he doesn’t want our kids doing things “in the name of God.” Because then that can get nasty. I mean, the Crusades were done in the name of God. I know a lot of people who “know Jesus” better than I do, so their mistakes are okay. I was flat out told I was going to hell when I got my tattoo by someone who was fornicating. Apparently my sin at the time was worse. And I wasn’t as close to God. So only my “sin” would be punished. Yeah…I can never believe to know God better, or not what will or will not happen to me or someone else. And I’d certainly never declare to do something in the name of God, because too much of that gets twisted and convoluted. And I hope my children end up with more sense than that, too.

Even though I’d like them to believe in God.

I’m still up in the air as to what to do when they become Confirmation age. I made the decision to have them baptized, and I feel very good about that. But Confirmation is a whole other ball game. That means they are accepting the faith completely.

I just don’t know if a 7 year old can truly understanding what they are saying they believe in. I’m not sure I did at 20, and I’m not sure I do even now. It seems like a pretty big commitment for such a tiny child.

But we’ve got a while before we get there I suppose. More time to figure out my own beliefs. More time to help indoctrinate my children, for lack of a better word.

Miss H has some pretty big opinions as it is anyway. So maybe by the time she’s that age she will be able to confidently tell me, “Yes, these are my beliefs,” or “Are you crazy, lady? I’m all about the Daoism.”

I guess I’ll deal with it then. Until then…I’ll just try to figure it out for myself.

But if nothing else, I’ve got two pretty good arguments for God does exist in the form of  H and B. Everything else is trivial anyway.

Nothing worse than that

I don’t turn the TV on very often during the day. It’s just not something I’m comfortable with the little ones around.

But I did today.

And I shouldn’t have.

Plastered on every channel was a breaking news story about the massacre of more than 25 people, 18 of them just little kids, in a school in Connecticut.

I cried.

I rarely cry.

My very first thought, if I’m being honest, was: One more reason I’m not putting my kids in school.

But that wasn’t a fair thought at all. It was biased and selfish, but nonetheless, it was still there.

I can’t watch the news. I can’t watch just the “petty” crimes without feeling sick. The news was banned in my house before it was ever my house. It’s just not okay. Yes, I want to be informed of the world. But I just can’t take the emotional overload.

And this was overload.

Holy fucking God! All those babies murdered. How senseless. How tragic.

The thought of taking H to preschool one morning and it being the last time I ever see her makes me want to vomit. It definitely makes me cry.

I don’t get it. I don’t get murder at all. I understand the murder of small children even less.

It’s tragic. It’s asinine. It’s senseless. It’s monstrous.

Kids are so good and pure and innocent. They have the potential to change this world. Hopefully for the better. They whole their whole lives ahead of them.

They don’t understand this kind of violence. They don’t understand this kind of hate.

And they shouldn’t.

And they shouldn’t be exposed to it.

I was annoyed today. I was annoyed that B hasn’t slept without physically touching me for almost two weeks now. Annoyed that I have to go to bed at 7pm with him at the moment and don’t get to spend time with J. I was annoyed that B screamed and cried from 2-5am when I finally called it a day and got up. But he still cried unless I was holding him.

I was annoyed that the kids had destroyed everything I cleaned. Annoyed that the entire batch of granola I made my mom for our Christmas Sunday a certain small child dumped on the floor. Annoyed I had to make more.

I was so annoyed with just everything.

But it’s so freaking petty. At least I have a baby to insist on touching and cuddling me all night. At least I have a baby to drag my ass out of bed at the crack of dawn for. At least I have a darling to dump granola all over my floor.

Because today more than one mother lost her baby. Her little darling. She dropped him or her off at school, or waved good-bye at the bus stop, and never knew it would be the last time she’d see that precious child breathing.

And I can’t imagine anything else in the world worse than that.

I'd like the village back

So the Huffington Post just published an article about why no one is failing as a mother. It talks about that old adage “it takes a village to raise a child.”

I agree with that. So much. My absolute most stress-free times as a mom have been when my dad and step-mom are visiting, or we are visiting them, as well as when we’ve visited J’s sister L.

These people do not necessarily understand or even agree with the way I parent my kids. But they respect it. And that’s enough.

There is someone willing to play with them in the mornings if the babes slept poorly and I’m exhausted. There are tons of people to cook and clean and entertain kiddos, so nothing gets neglected.

J and I can go out and spend time with each other and know are children are safe and with people they love. Yes, I have to remind myself it’s not the end of the world if they watch TV when I would rather them not, or if all they drink is chocolate almond milk. That they will be just fine if they go to bed an hour later than normal. They probably seem like silly worries, but they are still my worries. They are very legit for me.

I even have to tell myself that if someone tells them “no” or tries insisting they eat or put a jacket on because it’s cold but they don’t want to (no, I don’t make them), it is okay! They will be okay.

And I know they will.

So sometimes, okay a lot of times, I wish we still lived like that. Families and friends all together helping each other. The way it’s supposed to be. Because right now we are doing a huge social experiment in 1^st world countries, living in singular families the way we are.

What happened to the village? I want it back.

"50 Shades" is glorified abuse

When trying to explain my disgust with what seems to be the best-selling book this past year, 50 Shades of Grey, J was able to pinpoint my feelings exactly: It is glorified abuse.

To be honest, I had zero interest in reading the book anyway, so I’m sure I have some serious biasness against it. But a friend pressed it into my hands and begged me to, saying, “I bet you’ll love it. And if not, blog about it!” Well, here’s the blog…

The whole thing made me sick. I have no freaking idea how anyone can find this to be good literature, much less a turn-on.

Every time Mr. Grey gets annoyed with Ana her first instinctual response is, “Please don’t hit me.” Um…ABUSE. If that were my first comment anytime I annoyed J I think anyone would agree that it would not be a healthy relationship. Yet, apparently it’s romantic in this book.

Maybe I don’t get it because I have a healthy, happy sex life. J and I are still pretty much in the “honeymoon phase” in all aspects of our relationship, even after two kids: we still talk non-stop about anything and everything, we hold hands, we cuddle, we spend time together and are constantly around each other when we’re both home, we never really fight and of course, we still have sex. All the time. So I don’t need to read about someone else’s twisted and abusive sex life to get my fill.

And it’s not just sex. It’s abuse. I mean, he freaking spanks her. As punishment. Not as just part of some kinky sex. Dear Lord, I’d be frakking PISSED if Jaime spanked our kids, especially for rolling their eyes! I’d be saying sayonara! if he thought he’d do it to me. That’s sick and disgusting and wrong.

I don’t believe in causing anyone physical harm. Much less someone whom you have a genuine relationship with.

And the contract. Dear God, the contract. Yeah, yeah, she doesn’t sign it. But the fact that she doesn’t run for the hills as soon as she sees it (or sooner, when she sees the Red Room of Pain) is insane. I want to shake Ana. I want to tell her that she seemed like such a good, sensible girl for the whole first three pages of the book. What happened!?

And I don’t get S&M. So maybe that’s my problem with the whole book. I don’t find it sexy or alluring. I would never be okay with it. I don’t even think it’s sexy to fantasize about. So I don’t get it. Pain does NOT equal pleasure or love or whatever for me. A creepy man wanting to hurt me just doesn’t put me in the mood. Even if he is worth billions of dollars.

I won’t even get into the fact that this book is clearly a blatant rip-off of another sensational book (that’s also a rip-off of another book…), this one just doesn’t have vampires and includes some (not so) awesome sexual abuse. But whatever.

I’m sure I’m in the minority; since this book is everywhere you look. All over the media. In all of my much-loved friends’ hands. Plastered all over the shelves in the library and Barnes and Noble. Apparently there are groups springing up all over the nation of grown woman who get together and discuss this book and all that it entails in order to get their kicks and jollies.

I don’t get it.

At all.

To me, it’s glorified abuse.

And that’s just downright creepy that people find it okay.

But that’s just me.

The gender neutral movement

I knew, long before I had children, that I would never force gender stereotypes on my babes. If my girl wanted to play football or work on cars, cool. Girls need to know how to fix things, too. If my boy wanted to do ballet and play with babies and cook, awesome. Boys need to know how to dance and be good daddies, too. And self-sufficient, in general.

The idea that my girl had to have long hair and only play with “girl” toys and participate in “girl” sports/activities and that my boy had to have short hair and play with “boy” toys and participate in “boy” sports/activities just seemed asinine and backwards to me.

Yes, until they are able to make those decisions for themselves, I get to make them for them. And maybe my choices for them will influence them somehow. But I have pretty opinionate kids. So I doubt it too strongly.

I will not cut H’s hair short until she asks me so. But by the same means, I won’t cut B’s hair short until he asks me to do so. I like long hair. On boys and girls.

I’ve bought them both cars and babies to play with. They play with their toys fairly equally. I don’t encourage H or B to play with something over something else for any reason. Whether it be “boy,” “girl,” or “alien.” I just don’t care.

Sure, I put H is pink and frills because I like it. She seems to as well. But she’s pretty vocal about her likes and dislikes for clothes. So she gets the say. She likes things that “twirl” so yes, we tend to end up with dressy things. But if she wanted jeans and sweatshirt with an airplane, I’d be totally fine with that.

Same with B. I put him in cute boy clothes that I like. But if he asks me for pink sparkly shoes or a dress to match his sister, that’s fine too. I don’t care. What my kids look like, wear, or play with is irrelevant to who they are. And as far as who they are, I just want them to be open, honest, big-hearted, genuinely good people. The rest is just silly details.

But it seems that there is a gender-neutral revolution going on. I thought it was an idea I was down with. To be honest, before ever realizing it was a “movement” I thought it seemed like the same thing I was all ready doing. Just letting my kids be themselves, regardless of preconceived stereotypes.

Boy, was I ever wrong! This “movement” seems to be more of a challenge to other people. It seems adults are more or less forcing their children to break all the “rules” of their gender, whether they want to or not. Boy doesn’t want long hair? Too bad. He doesn’t want to wear a dress? Too bad. He doesn’t want to play with baby dolls? Too bad. He has to, so as to defy his gender stereotype.

Same with girls. Your little girl doesn’t want short hair? Too bad. She doesn’t want androgynous clothing? Too bad. She doesn’t want to play with monster trucks? Well, no surprise here, but too bad!

It’s like the parents are just waiting, purposefully daring anyone to comment.

I’m so confused by this. It’s a movement that claims they want to break gender stereotypes and let their children be who they are.

If their children are, of course, the complete opposite of their gender stereotype.

It’s ridiculous.

To me.

In such an effort to rebel from societies norms, people are willing to squash who their children are and what they want for themselves in order to make a statement. I don’t get it.

I could equate it to someone who believes in natural duration breastfeeding, but then tries forcing her child, regardless of age, to keep going when he doesn’t want to. I mean, if he wants to, kudos to him. Let him go. But if that’s not what he wants, then it’s not natural duration. That’s someone forcing their own effort onto their child for the “cause.”

It’s crazy if you ask me.

I actually don’t care at all if my children want to fall into their gender stereotypes. I don’t care if they don’t want to either. Maybe I don’t feel so strongly about it because it’s just not my cause.

But I could never imagine telling my little girl she cannot play with a baby doll because she needs to move away from femininity. Or telling my boy he needs to find his femininity by playing with a doll. (And yes, I’ve heard this very conversation, recently).

So I understand a movement that wants to make close-minded people realize it is perfectly acceptable for a little boy to play with babies and wear a tutu while his sister is pounding a hammer in a pair of coveralls. If that’s what the kids want.

But that’s not what this seems to be about.

Why not just the movement where kids get to be what they want? And adults just STFU and leave their own prejudices at the door and allow their children to blossom into the amazing people they are?

I know…sometimes I ask for a lot.

Who knew a man called Santa could be magic and love?

My daughter taught me something today. (No surprise there, she and B teach me at least one something every day.)

She taught me that Christmas isn’t about me.

Seems pretty blatantly obvious, doesn’t it?

But it wasn’t. Though admittedly, I didn’t realize how ridiculously selfish and self-centered I was being (though most don’t when they are being so).

When I think of all my Christmases, they are beautiful and magical. Until they’re not.

I never wanted my kids to have those “until they’re not” memories. Not that any of my Christmases were ever bad, not in the least bit. They just ceased to lose their magic after about the ago of twelve (other than this one beautiful Christmas I spent in Paris at the sweet age of 20…but that’s a story of its own…). For some reason, I blamed a lot of this on Santa Claus.

Not on actual Santa Claus. But on the lies I was told as a kid. And Santa got the brunt of it.

I thought if I took Santa out of the equation and showed my children the real meaning of Christmas, then it would always be a beautiful, magical experience for them. I thought it would be better for them.

But I was wrong. Maybe it would have been better for me as a kid. Maybe not. I have no doubt my Christmases would have been the same, my memories the same, whether or not my parents had innocently played a sweet game of Santa with me.

I’ll never be able to tell H or B that Santa is real. Because that’s lying, and I’ve all ready said a million times I cannot and will not lie to my kids. Ever. Yes, I can tell that them that there was a real Santa, but not the guy in the red suit they know him as. I mean, I’ve already told them this. A million times.

But I’m not going to take Santa away from them either. (This is like a severe 180 from not too long ago, eh?).

Today we went to the mall to finish up our Christmas shopping. H got to shop for another little girl and she had a field day with that. She was so excited picking out gifts to “make a little girl so, so happy!” as she put it. I had a blast just watching her. If I’d let her, she’d have bought her all the toys in Target, all the books, and all the clothes at Macy’s. Not once did she ask for something for herself.

So something right is happening here.

I’d promised her we’d ride the train whenever we went to the mall with J. This was the first time we’d been with him since I’d agreed to that. So we bought the tickets and boarded the little holiday train that drives all throughout the mall.

We turned a corner and suddenly my little girl squealed, “Santa Claus!” Her hand popped out through the train car and began waving so quickly it looked like it would snap off at the wrist.

Santa didn’t miss a beat; he waved right back to her.

“Momma, he waved at me!” She cried; her face absolutely lit with euphoria. She was so excited and beside herself she could hardly contain herself. “Can we go see him, Momma? Can we? Can we?”

J looked at me; I’m pretty sure he was telepathically begging me to say no, but luckily I’m not a mind reader so I squashed that request and said, “Yes.”

After we climbed off the train and headed toward Santa J kept trying to tell her, “Now this isn’t really Santa. This is just a man dressed up pretending to be Santa.”

It didn’t matter. H was oblivious in her own little happy bubble where she had just seen Santa with her own eyes from her seat on the train.

We were fortunate; we were up at the ass-crack of dawn so there were absolutely no other kids there. H ran. Just as fast as she could. She didn’t even hesitate as she threw her arms around him in a hug and screamed, “Santa Claus, I just love you!”

I had seriously figured she would get close, but not that close and decide better of it all. No such thing.

B followed her, but he didn’t dare get as close as his big sister. Instead he pulled me by the hand and we stood a few feet in front of Santa while H made herself comfortable on his lap, telling Santa about her morning and her brother. When he finally was able to ask her what she’d like for Christmas she didn’t miss a beat, “Oh, I’d like some tigers!” (She told my mom this too…we don’t run a zoo, baby girl!)

“Oh, tigers?” Santa asked. “What about your brother? What would he like?”

“B just like ladybugs,” she told him, which made me chuckle. Though, admittedly, B has nothing against ladybugs.

She’d have stayed and talked to him forever. They talked about his reindeer and her dance class and hot chocolate. Finally a family showed up and so H had to be booted. They were dressed seasonally appropriate for Christmas photos. I was too cheap to pay the $30 for the picture I hadn’t been planning on anyway. Sue me.

She talked about Santa all. day. long.

Even before going to bed she asked if she could see him again. Begged is more like it. I told her we’d try.

But even with Santa, she was still my thoughtful, giving girl. When she and I went to get B a gift from her for Christmas after our visit with Santa, she went through painstaking efforts to pick out just what he’d like best. She decided he’d like a push toy that made noise when you pushed it. There were only eight. Seriously. She tried every single one out and analyzed it. Was it the right color? Was it big enough? Small enough? Would B want balls in it or maybe these little dangling butterflies? Etc., etc. It was all about her brother. And she was focused.

So I don’t know. I still don’t love Santa. I probably never will. But I also don’t love the commercialism of Christmas, and for me, Santa goes with that, for sure.

But there is something so incredibly beautiful, magical, about a little girl in love with Santa. So if she wants to be a believer, I will certainly support that decision. Because if nothing else, I believe in the “spirit” of Santa, as her Godmother put it, and that isn’t lying.

So I can’t make any promises about Tooth Fairies or Easter Bunnies at this point, but Santa. Yeah, Santa and I are going to have to be friends for a while.

Because he makes my sweet girl incredibly happy.

And as a Momma, that’s what Christmas is all about. Seeing my beautiful babes happy. They, after all, are my miracles. And Christmas is all about celebrating a certain newborn miracle who became our Savior. So I can get on board with that.