Spoiling Christmas?

     I love my kids. Those darling little boys of mine with their lopsided smiles throwing peace signs in the air or dabbing so I can't get a decent photo for Christmas cards. They bring as much joy to my heart as they do Legos to the playroom floor - a infinite amount that stabs you with love unexpectedly at two a.m. My sons fill my world with happiness!
     Consequently, I want to reciprocate the feeling. And what can be more joyous than watching two little boys tearing through presents on Christmas morning throwing last year's discounted wrapping paper over their shoulders along with that carefully picked out present on Amazon. Cries of "Where's mine?" and "Are there anymore?" join the angel chorus of Pandora holiday favorites soaring out of a nearby speaker. They pause for the occasional photo holding their cherished gift for the five seconds necessary for a blurry picture on Instagram accompanied by another peace sign before tossing the gift onto the growing pile and shoving another chocolate orange slice in their mouths for energy.
     Sometimes, they will play with the new toy after mom and dad carefully extract the thing from its security ties. (Seriously, did the Pentagon design those black twisty security holders on the back of toys?) Of course, mom and dad will get roped into playing Monopoly Empire or Just Dance 59. Then the boxes will be cleared, the wrap thrown out in a black sack large enough to be St. Nick's, and the gifts will be put away, some forgotten about until I threaten to sell them or throw them away.
     As I work in my sons' closets, organizing toys and hanging up new clothes, I wonder if I'm spoiling them too much. There seems to be a fine line between wanting to make my kids happy and buy them their heart's desire and turning them into spoiled little brats who expect to get whatever they want. I love providing a happy childhood for my kids and revel in their smiles and ecstatic squeals when the husband and I discover the perfect game or toy that makes them dance around the family room like a sugar-powered Energizer Bunny. I remember my own happy childhood, and how my mom often went with out providing all those Barbie dolls and My Little Ponies that littered the underneath of our Christmas tree.
     But I cringe when the wrapping paper carnage is over, and they scramble under the tree pulling up the tree skirt and asking if there are anymore presents. I bite my lip and point to the mountain of books and video games already amassed in a corner. The beginnings of a lecture on gratitude and greed write itself in my brain just waiting for my tightly compressed lips to open. Sometimes I let it out, sometimes I count to ten and wonder if it will make a dent. Sometimes I realize they can't help it. I've conditioned them to expect a lot. They are a product of my spoiling, just as I am a product of the world I live in. A world of plenty of everything including expectations to bury your kids in gifts.
     I just don't want them to be, what's that nasty word that gets tossed around these days - Entitled. Yes, that's my biggest fear apart from spiders, the Big One (earthquake), and nuclear war. I don't want my sons to grow into narcissistic, spoiled, entitled little brats who believe the earth revolves around them, and they are entitled to everything they want. I need them to know there are limits - financially and ethically to our generosity.
     Plus, I want them to see the beauty in giving as well as getting. That's why we participate in toy drives and Angel Tree. I feel a little like the moral at the end of a Christmas movie as I try to impart my grown-up wisdom that the reason for the season is about love and bringing joy to others. They nod to get me off my soapbox and look solemn and help me wrap the toys. But like the kids they are they will still ask as I'm purchasing the angel gift - "Is that for me? Or I want that".
     Now, I have read on Facebook and others blogs that some families try to tamp down the spoiling with the three gifts rule: something they want, something to read, and something to wear. I've seen some other variations on this one, too. For about a second, my husband and I contemplated trying it out this year. Of course, that lasted as long as the three seconds it took to pull up Amazon Prime and start browsing Pokemon and art supplies. We get carried away picturing their bright little faces singing karaoke on a new machine or exclaiming best parents ever as they don their new Five Night's at Freddie's t-shirts and Pokemon socks.
     I am sure I failed this year to bring any semblance of restraint to Christmas gifts. But it's something to think about for next year. After all, I feel I owe the world and myself the gift of two kind, thoughtful, non-entitled boys who grow up to be good men.

Teaching my son not to be popular but be himself

     My oldest son is sensitive. He's like me, he doesn't just read books or watch movies. He invests himself in the characters. Let's himself get drawn in and immersed in the fictional world. Consequently, he gets very upset when something bad happens to his beloved characters. He cries. But what he said after watching a recent movie and crying nearly brought me to tears.
     Sitting on the edge of his bed, talking about the day's events and the movie, he told me he was afraid the other kids would make fun of him for crying. He said he didn't have as many friends at school as he used to. The boys were changing, their soft, sensitive, little kid interiors changing in time with their round, chubby exteriors becoming sharp-edged and hard. They cuss and bully each other and seek out other people's weaknesses as buttons to push, something to exploit and make fun of. Our world encourages this behavior. Even celebrates it. 
     And I'm not sure what to tell my son. I've never been popular. I've always had about two or three close friends I felt comfortable and secure with even now as an adult. For the most part, I've never conformed to what the world said was important. I've never worn the right clothes, said the right words, played the right games, or owned the right things. And those times that I did try to conform, stuffed into expensive jeans, primped and polished like a high-gloss Barbie, playing mind games to get attention, I hated it, feeling false and uncomfortable.
     Now, my mother's heart wants to protect my boy from hurt. Wants to wrap him in assurances that he'll always be well-liked and well-loved. But the brutal truth is that he won't be liked by everyone. That's not how the world works. Especially, when we don't share the world's values. Honestly, I don't want him to grow cold and hardened to emotions. I pray that he retains his warm heart, his boundless curiosity for knowledge, his enthusiasm for new activities and adventures. He skips when he walks, he believes any kid at the playground is a friend to play with, and he gives the best hugs.
     Now, I'm not saying he's perfect. He's a bit spastic and can overwhelm others like a Labrador puppy. He's forgetful and possessive of his things. And like all kids he sometimes thinks he needs the latest game or gadget to be happy.
     Yet, he's also content to talk with me about history for hours pouring over maps and learning about the past. If prompted he'll tell you in detail about the Donner Party or Civil War battleships or the Atomic Bomb - facts he's learned about in a series called Nathan Hale's Hazardous Tales. But he'll go one further and discuss the police brutality on civil rights marches in Alabama and question racism comparing the water hoses being aimed at protestors in the 1960s with those being aimed at the protestors of the Dakota Access Pipeline. He'll get teary-eyed when discussing the Holocaust and the shoes of innocent victims piled high in Auschwitz. And I love discussing history with him and teaching him to learn from the past.
     I want my son to be sensitive and smart and empathetic and kind. But the world and the kids on the playground may not. So I also have to teach him to be strong and confident. I have to help him build a wall around his feelings so they don't get trampled on but also leave a large door so that his true friends may come in. I must teach him to see the best in others but not to be naive and trusting of everyone so he doesn't get taken advantage of.
     It's hard. He just wants to be loved by all. A goofy, happy-go-lucky, loving boy who likes to play. I love my boy. He means the world to me, but the world might be mean to him. But I mean to teach him to be strong enough to be himself. 
    

All I want for Christmas is Time, Baby

     I blame my over-wrought, fatigued, and hyper-caffenieted brain and the local radio station over-playing Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas" for my blog title. But I honestly hear it singing in my brain, "all I want for Christmas is time, baby" with a few oo, babys elongated and repeated over and over.
     Now if only time could be bottled in a cute Pinterest-stenciled bottle or gift-wrapped in a giant box with a ridiculously over-large red bow, I'd be a very happy woman. And I believe I'm not alone in this.
     Except, I am not just seeking time during the busy holiday season. That hectic time of year where we shuttle our kids from one "fun" activity to the next, exhausting ourselves for the sake of a happy family memory commemorated by twenty Instagram photos to prove we were having a good time or at least smiling for the camera before mom lost her cool again.
     I am not looking for a few more minutes to finish holiday shopping for whatever "it" gift my kids think they need (hatchimals, right?). And while I really do need more time to finish my Christmas cards, gift wrapping, cookie baking, party planning, and Christmas play practice schedule shuttling, etc; that's not the time I truly want.
    No, the time I desire is a bottle of an extra hour or two here and there to be used all year long so that I can escape and accomplish the thing I really enjoy doing - writing. Because between being a mother, taking care of the house, grocery shopping, remembering cousins, aunts, friends, grandmas birthdays, driving all over the city and back again (sounds like a more boring title for the Hobbit and lacks the dwarfs and dragon gold), and now working as a sub; my time falls through the cracks like the proverbial sands through the hourglass.
     But what I am left with most days is what I call "stupid time", that spare fifteen minutes between dropping kids off at the bus and when my next scheduled assignment or doctor's appointment, hair appointment, etc. happens. Or the majority of my spare time occurs in the half hour driving all over the Coachella Valley running errands and since they haven't invented robot-driven cars and after seeing I, Robot I'm afraid of my toaster getting ideas and planning with my Keurig to kill me or turn me into a battery like in the Matrix, writing while driving would not be a safe idea.
     If my wish could only be fulfilled, I'd slip my extra two hours a day along with it's companion half-carafe of coffee between getting off work and picking kids up from school. Two glorious hours to plot and create and kill off a few key characters, oh wait that's my George R.R. Martin mode kicking in, before being owned by my six-year-old until I finally win the bedtime battle and get him tucked in forty-five minutes past when I said "go to bed". (Yes, most nights he wins.)
      Not that I don't enjoy having him glued to my side for the five hours between school and bed. I mean, we accomplish a lot of things together like building forts and crying when it falls down, attempting art and crying when it doesn't turn out right, planting seeds and crying when they die after not being watered, helping mom with dishes and crying when we drop mom's favorite mug on the floor shattering it, or helping mom bake and crying when we don't get to crack the egg in the bowl or do crack it and cry over most of the shell ending up in the dough. Honestly, I do love him but need a Valium after several hours by his side. And isn't it amazing that the few minutes I do manage to sneak away from him while he's actually playing by himself, he manages to sense I'm sitting at my computer and runs to my side, quizzing me on what I just wrote, offering his help typing words he can't spell, or begging for help to write his own story. Yet, if I sit stock still on the couch doing nothing but staring at the latest mysterious stain on the wall, half-listening to the canned plot of Lab Rats, while counting my remaining brain cells, he leaves me alone for hours. It's only when his bat ears hear my feet walking somewhere with purpose that he springs into action.
     And please for the love of all that's holy or unholy do not tell a mother that she can get her stuff done when the kids go to bed. Because by the time I have fought two kids into bed after a long day of driving, working, cleaning, shopping, cooking, picking up, nagging, and listening to detailed play by plays of Minecraft gaming sessions, my brain resembles a television on the fritz. No channels come in, all stories are halted, left streaming through the atmosphere with no reception to pick them up and air them. Nothing but grey, staticky fuzz and a buzzing sound. It's enough for me to slump onto my side of the couch and watch non-Disney programming and occasionally give into the husband's amorous overtures. You know those subtle offers to rub your shoulders or cuddle only to have a penis tapping out Morse code on your back. Dot, dot, dot, I want sex, dot, dot, dot.
     So my selfish wish for Christmas isn't a Coach handbag, Lularoe leggings, or whatever diamond necklace K Jewelers tries to tell me I want - it's just time. Self-indulgent, all mine, no strings attached "me" time. Now do they sell it on Amazon?

Wanderlust Part 2

    
     An arrow lay across the floor shaped by shadows, light, and maybe my own wishful thinking. A sign, probably meant to redirect my mind to the church sermon I should have been attending to. But instead, my mind wandered after it, the thing my body longed to do but couldn't. I traced patterns of rugged bronzed mountains sewn in copper thread across my new scarf. Another shape rose up like the Arc De Triomphe with silver lines of thread sparkling like the headlights on the Champs Elysees at night. The pattern on my boring brown acrylic crocheted hobo bag (appropriate name) spoke of tilled fields or lines of sediment along a canyon wall.
     I was so carried away on this train of thought (wishing for a real train) I didn't see the shadow of the boat the arrow pointed at till later. I should have noticed it as I blame the Pixar animated movie, Moana for reawakening my wanderlust. This exquisitely beautiful and touching narrative about a young woman called by the ocean, ignoring family and duty, following her heart on an adventure across wide seas full of peril, excitement, and the unknown spoke to me. When she sings the line "One day I'll know, how far I'll go" the pressure of the tide mounted in my breast swelling with salt water and longing. I can still feel it travel down to my fingertips, the place I channel all my unfulfilled energy, writing it out before it consumes me.
     Because my feet are planted firmly in my black faux leather boots grounded to duty, to husband and children, landlocked from lack of funds or available time. Where is my window, bound between soccer practice, Cub Scouts, school, work, Christmas plays, cookie exchanges, all fun things but not the antidote for this nagging virus making me weak-kneed and dizzy with desire. I see castles in Spain in the clouds. Castles I long to conquer with camera and the wisdom of a aged tour guide.
     Unable to fulfill my heart's quest, I shut down, grow numb, a mental hibernation that makes people pre-judge me to be cold or distant. It's a coping mechanism to tamp down the longing, my rational brain preaching the merits of doing my duty. Ignore the call to adventure. I am not my protagonist, unfettered and flush of funds or a sturdy horse.
     I am blessed in life with home, health, family, and friends. I find joy in the simple pleasures. Yet, just under the surface, fighting for freedom lives this other woman, the gypsy girl, ancestral daughter of sailors still genetically predisposed to go where the wind and sea call.
     Someday, I'll let her free. Follow the arrow to adventure.

Learning to Fall Off a Bike

     Today, I girded up my loins in Lycra yoga capris and steeled my nerves to teach my youngest son how to ride his bike. My fellow parents will understand my reluctance to accomplish this milestone as it becomes a lesson in patience and letting go of more than the handle bars. 

     For with the removal of the training wheels, comes the removal of keeping them safe. While not placing them in mortal danger, this is one of the first acts of parenthood where we need to learn to watch them fall. And it sucks! What hurt my son physically today, hurt my soul. I cringed with every fall, sucked in my breath with every scrap, and felt lower than a cockroach digging in manure every time he looked back at me, his eyes saying “what kind of monster lets her child fall and then tells him to get up and try again?”

     But I did. I smiled and called out encouragements. I even swore a little under my breath and over it too as I jogged alongside him balancing the center of the handlebars between my fingers and sweating like a demon in hell. I wiped his tears and threw out every generic inspiring phrase I could remember. “You can do it.” “Just keep trying.” “Nothing worthwhile is ever easy.”  Believe me, I got tired of hearing my own voice and wanted to punch myself in the face. But we persevered.

     He’d teeter from side to side begging me not to let go, all the while I knew I had to. Knew it was for his benefit and independence that I release my hands and watch him go. Even if it meant watching him fall. I forced myself to keep my voice calm and even, not making a big fuss, as I lifted the bike off his six-year-old body, inspecting his small bruises and encouraging him to do it all again. 

     But the biggest challenge of all was learning not to quit. It would be easy to throw in the towel and go home. Leave it for another day or another day or another distant appointment in the future when our nerves would both grow miraculously strong as steel and the ground would be less hard and the bike steadier. That’s the easy way out. The one I couldn’t teach him or myself today.

     No. I had to teach him not to quit on himself or me. I had to let him show himself what he was capable of. Show him the courage, dedication, determination, and skills he possessed deep down inside. He learned that he was stronger than a scraped knee, braver than self-doubt. He could conquer his fears, one bike ride at a time.
     Then came the moment, he sailed forth a few yards ahead of me over the grass, perfectly balanced and pedaling his little boy heart out. My words sang out, “You’re doing it.” “You got this.” And I saw his eyes, the high-beam of his smile saying everything I knew this moment could accomplish. He believed it himself. His cries of fear transformed into cries of elation. “Mom, did you see me.” “I want to do it again.”
     With fear behind him, we chased the thrill of accomplishment. Still sweating but with a new spring in my step, I ran alongside him, working hard and harder to keep up as he rode further and faster ahead of me. Another metaphor for life and maybe part of the reason we delay these lessons. Because once our children learn to overcome their fears and embrace their abilities, we are left to chase after them and their independence as they grow further ahead of and away from us.
     The hardest part of parenting is letting go. Letting them fall. Letting them know, that while we will always have their back, they can do things on their own, unsupported by training wheels and insecurity. 

    

Postcards from Heaven

     When I was little, I'd quiz my mom with questions about heaven. She'd smile and sigh a little, probably exhausted by the barrage of questions I daily volleyed at her, and answer "I don't really know. No one's ever sent a postcard."
     She'd half-laugh and then melt as my face fell, unsatisfied at the answer. She'd wrap me in her soft, squishy body and whisper in my ear, "I just know it's beautiful because it's full of love."
     My mom also believed heaven was more like an invisible dimension surrounding us instead of the celestial image high above us. I like her version. It lets me picture her next to me watching her grandsons play and commenting to my dad that my youngest has not only my curls but my sense of mischief.
     So maybe we don't get a glossy 4 x 6 postcard of a celestial city glittering with streets of gold and a "Wish you were here" tagline from a winking angel. But I believe our loved ones send us signs just the same. And I'm a natural born skeptic who scoffs at vortexes, magic crystals, psychics, and guardian angels, the latter because mine is either lazy or constantly in the bathroom when my klutzy moments happen.
     Yet, I've had occasions in my life where I felt like my parents were sending me signals from beyond. My dad, true to his larger-than-life personality seems to be the loudest and most often like the wild postcards he'd sent daily of London punks in the 80s or castles around Britain.
     I remember one June a couple of years after he passed around the time of my birthday, he seemed adamant to tell me he was there. I kept seeing random images of a Welsh dragon or a daffodil, tokens of my Welsh father, just when I was feeling blue. 
     One day I'd been crying in the car, frustrated that I couldn't talk to him in our weekly five minute phone calls that he was famous for. He'd mastered the art of cramming politics, history, pop culture, and love all in those expensive international minutes, he could barely afford on his phone bill. I longed for the stimulation of those conversations, even when he got my hair on end with constant nit-picking and rantings, because they made me feel. They made me feel worthy of so much passion and energy, his molecules bouncing off the speaker and transmitting themselves into my living room. His intensity radiated light like one of the aliens in Cocoon. So there I was silently crying over my steering wheel on I-5 South passing downtown San Diego, numb to my favorite view of the skyline and harbor when I saw the Welsh license plate cover on the car in front of me.
     A few days later, I had chills as I entered a small jewelry shop in the picturesque mountain town of Julian. I had been humming a song in my head, Nana Mouskouri's First Time Ever I Saw Your Face, a record he bought the day I was born and sang to me in his enthusiastically off-key tenor. As I opened the door, the song greeted me, playing over the store's radio, the chill of surprise warming like a hug across my chest. I smiled to myself, glowing with memories. For days after that I'd see signs with his name, Allan, an unusual spelling and the Welsh word for "out".
     Then when I first started writing again in September of 2014, I'd get these manias where I'd plot out ideas while singing show tunes in the car between dropping off kids at school. But I started to have a dry spell. I felt like a recovering addict, the writing high had been so visceral, I felt numb without it. So there I was singing Don't Cry for Me Argentina, a song he taught me when I was three, and a golden Welsh dragon and the sign Cambria, the Latin word for Wales appeared before me on the side of a van. And my brain clicked. The plot started writing itself again, warm fuzzies crawled up my chest and into my brain and danced a jig. I kept seeing the sign again, coincidence maybe as the Cambria company is located her in the Coachella Valley. But it sparked my imagination and brought a smile to my face whenever I saw it or passed the office on Cook.
     Finally, when I found my Claddagh ring hidden in a straw basket of seashells in the guest bathroom, I danced with joy. I'd had my 1st one stolen when our house was robbed. It had been a gift from his trip to Bunratty Castle in Ireland, a symbol of his love and my Celtic heritage. But he replaced it with another one that I vowed to never take off but unfortunately did and then lost it. To find it in the shell basket, a symbol of the sea we loved, the salt in our bloods from generations of Welsh sailors bringing Welsh coal to the four corners of the globe, I knew it was from him. A postcard with the words, "Tell my girl I love her" the last words he said to my mom before he died written in his tight, nearly illegible script. I wear it as a reminder, a connection to my dad and his passion.
     My mother's postcards are quieter, more subtle. I see signs from her in art, mainly in my son, Will's passion for creating and playing with her old watercolors. He's poky like her and quiet at times. But never to be underestimated. He is her largest postcard, one of those giant, pasteboard ones sold in novelty stores.
     But I will never forget the lady I met walking along the shore of Shelter Island in Point Loma. She was short and curly-haired, and my scrap-booking friends and I stopped to talk to her one dusky evening. She was from Pennsylvania like my mom and arty, but more than that - she had my mom's spirit. My dearest childhood friend, Mandy, noticed it too. It was like my mom just wanted to chat, to enjoy an evening walk along the coast, and be apart of creative people. I walked away full of her, a hug around my heart, a smile imprinted deep on my face.
    Now I also wear her love around my neck, a golden thread of her pulling me in close for a snuggle or my own childish arms stretched up to reach her, as I drape her Celtic cross over my head and rest it over my chest. I bought it as a Christmas gift for her when I lived in Dublin, something to match the one my dad gave me, something that said I missed her even when I was enjoying my Irish adventure, something that reflected the beliefs we both shared. And I was devastated when I couldn't find it after her death.  I searched her house, her clothes, her wallets, anywhere and everywhere I could to find it. I needed to clothe myself in something of hers after she left. I needed a talisman against the gut-ripping agony I felt when the numbness would recede and memory would bite.
     For many years, I felt the necklace was gone - lost or somehow burnt with her ashes melted into her bones. Then one melancholy day while going through her pictures, I found a box of old silver. There hidden beneath tarnished silver bowls and the cheap pewter candy dish  I bought her at Yellow Front was her necklace. I put it on feeling instantly connected to her. I wear it still, usually hidden beneath my t-shirt close to my skin.
     Some may argue these signs are nothing more than coincidence. That we read into something trivial something that's not there. Maybe. But I choose to see the connection, the celestial nudge reminding us that we are still connected, still loved. If anything, maybe we read into these signs hidden meaning because the meaning is hidden within us. We are the biggest postcard of all, their words written across our personalities and memories, their love stamped across our lips and foreheads and anywhere else they kissed us when they were alive.
     What does it matter if it's real or not?

What matters is it brings us peace and joy.

Confessions of an Introvert

     I recently saw a blog post on Scary Mommy explaining why the blogger doesn't want to be friends with other moms. And while I totally support her choices and understand the awkwardness of making mommy friends, it had a bit of a biting tone to it. Like she was putting down the other moms while justifying her standoffishness. Snark sells these days.
     But while I feel solidarity in her quest for solitary time, I am here to say, it really is me and not the other moms. I am an introvert. I've known this about myself since my mom would shout it through my door as I holed up in my fluffy, sea-foam green, unicorn-postered room with a good book.
     I like my space. I like silence so that I can hear myself think. That and so I can hear the voices in my head more clearly. Don't get the straight jacket yet, I'm a writer, not schizophrenic. And if you research the personalities of many famous writers, you will see that most of them were introverts if not downright curmudgeonly hermits.
     Now sometimes I can pass myself off as social, an extroverted introvert of sorts. I do enjoy parties, especially if I know all the people there and don't have to make a good impression. I can be naturally bubbly and outgoing, even dance on a table or two, sometimes cracking a clever joke or witty comeback. But I have to be in my element and feel comfortable with people first.
     But it takes me time to feel people out. This requires quiet observation, a study in trust to see if I can be my quirky self with this other human being. I've been shell-shocked by too many mean girls who laughed at my unusual comments or told me I was stuck up because I liked big words. No judgment here, some of those girls have grown up to be compassionate, loving moms and good friends. I just like to be sure of my audience before I let loose my own brand of weird.
     Some mommy acquaintance should be glad of my quiet because once I do feel comfortable with someone, it's hard to shut me up. I'm a whirlwind of thoughts and ideas. But I am more comfortable talking about ideas than chit-chat. Again, not a judgment but an observation. I stumble over my tongue trying to talk about soccer games or the weather or how many hours I've worked out or what I've eaten. My brain doesn't retain mundane details very long, it skips over them to ponder the mysteries of the human persona. That's why I often call myself the smartest ditz you'll ever meet.
     Meanwhile, other people who don't know me well or who have just met me have sometimes called  me stuck up. Makes me wonder if there's a resting snob face, as I don't believe I look bitchy, just detached and a little zoned out. I've also had people question by intelligence, but no I really am smart just a million miles away plotting out stories. So don't make me plot your demise in my next narrative by insulting me, it will make the Walking Dead season opener look like a children's book in comparison.

     So to all those moms at soccer practice and the school pick up line, it really was me and not you. You are lovely people with your own quirks but my kindle book on my phone is calling me like the wardrobe to Narnia into other realms and realities. And with two attention-demanding children in my house, I must soak up all the alone time that I can. It's the only time I can complete a full sentence in my head and discover those things that make me me. And I can be an amazing friend, when I'm comfortable.

Are We Keeping it Real or Keeping it Rude?

Disclaimer: This is not an attack on my friends and their politics, but more of a general observation on the license for inconsiderate and sometimes downright thoughtless words and actions that both politicians and our society has allowed to become the norm.

Now my personal belief is that human nature is inherently problematic, bad being too strong a word for me. This is something philosophers and world religions have discussed and mulled over for centuries. But my Christian upbringing and just watching the developing nature of my own sons makes me believe we must work at being good and empathetic. We are born rather selfish and self-centered. It is the role of our parents, schools, and society to model good behavior and teach us how to rise above our nature of want. We learn from them the benefits of kindness and sharing.

But when I tap my mouse and open any social media page or turn on the television, I am bombarded by a celebration of cruel, cutting words and the idolatry of the individual. Our politicians have been slinging barbs against not only each other but particular segments of society like hyper-active monkeys slinging poo at the zoo. And no one is apologizing. Quite the opposite, it's being hailed as keeping it real. That the honesty is refreshing. Well, I'm here to say it's not. It's not honest to say all Mexicans are lazy, rapists, and drug dealers. I'm married to a Mexican American man who works hard as an attorney. His mother may be retired but never stops working for her kids, grandkids, and her church.

It is fear, pettiness, and too much free time combined with the false courage social media affords us, that allows us to post unkind words without looking the person in the face that has really fed this trend of nastiness. But it still hurts. I was appalled to see a post from someone I thought was better than that of a political cartoon depicting President Obama as a slave picking cotton while someone calls him "Boy". Now, you don't have to agree with his politics but making fun of slavery, a despicable stain on our national history that should teach us humility and the error of our ways is downright ugly and evil.

But this is the new norm, ironically in an age of political correctness where more people care about Cecil the Lion and animal rights than human ones. So while one news story or viral post celebrates diversity another makes fun of it. And I will go on record as saying I can be a hypocrite like every other person on the planet and am known for my snarkiness. But I am never cruel. I'd rather poke fun at the inconsistencies of human nature than label an entire race as terrorists.

But I fear this new acceptance of rudeness and cruelty. I work hard to teach my kids to respect all people and judge others only on behavior not race, religion, gender, or sexual orientation. But will society undo my life lessons?

I hear people complain about entitlement, a word I truly hate and knee-jerk react against whenever my darling sons start acting like entitled brats. But isn't Facebook a vehicle for entitlement allowing people to show off their "sanitized" and heavily edited pictures and images of their "perfect" lives. Our ids have splattered themselves all over social media. Between the mean political memes are the ones defending the right to be a bitch or act like a spoiled brat. Or we can watch shows like "Real Housewives" or the Kardashians or anything on E or Bravo where rich people are famous for being catty and cruel to each other.

I think being "real" should mean that we are "really" trying our hardest to be kind, considerate, loving people who agree to disagree in an intellectual and understanding manner. We cannot argue like second graders on the playground and start name calling when someone calls us out on our hypocrisy or differs with our opinions. I want to live in a world where rudeness is seen for what it really is - petty and mean and meant to inflict harm.

Real to me are those friends who really do good for others and will really lend you a helping hand or a shoulder to cry on or an ear to vent to. I have so many of these good people in my life. They should be emulated and celebrated. There is enough hate and misery in the world, let's not add to it in an effort to seem cool and edgy. It's not honesty but honestly malicious.

Why I Went on Strike from Motherhood this Morning?

     This morning, I slept in. I did not slide my lethargic body out of bed with my alarm at 6 a.m. I shut it down and half an hour later, I opened both my son's doors and told them I was on strike. I calmly informed them that they would be responsible for getting up and dressed, feeding themselves breakfast, making their lunch, filling their water bottles, brushing their teeth, and making sure we were out the door on time. I them went back to bed, ignoring the wail of protests chasing me into my room.
     Now, despite a serious need for coffee this morning same as any morning, I did not wake up in a bad mood and a Disneynesque evil-stepmother desire to torture my kids and make them my little slaves. I woke and went back to bed with the purpose of teaching a lesson. My sons needed to see how much I do and stop taking advantage of my mothering them.
     This does not mean I will stop cleaning and caring for them. I know what I signed up for when I saw that frisky gleam in my husband's eye nine-years ago and decided to have children. I am currently doing their laundry and have done the dishes and will pick them up at the bus stop, feed them dinner, and take them to soccer practice. I am just asking them to do their share in this social contract of being a family and not treating me as their maid and cook. Plus, I am teaching them skills and responsibility.
     I believe in our desire to be kind and attentive to our kids and make their lives special, we over do it. And we short-change them out of necessary life skills. Because honestly are we being kind if in the long run, we send kids out to college or real life without the ability to manage their time, clean, feed themselves, and remember their own belongings. Isn't this why colleges are now offering adulting classes for teens whose parents "kinded" them into a helpless state. And isn't our job as parents to make them self-sufficient, empathetic, and kind adults. I feel like I owe that to them, society, and the world - to produce a decent human being, not an entitled little brat.
     My kids are quite capable of getting themselves ready for school, something I had to do every day since age eight as my mom was already at work by the time I left for the day. It's just that my kids act helpless because I do it for them. Remember, necessity is the mother of invention. So while my oldest son screamed from the kitchen that he couldn't peel the ham apart for his sandwich, after a few minutes of ignoring him, he figured it out. And my youngest discovered that if he placed the step stool near the fridge, he could reach the mayo.
     I also made my oldest responsible for getting his poky younger brother up and out the door. Consequently, he discovered the fun of being a nag and learned how annoying it is when no one listens to you and makes you repeat things over and over.
     So while they learned about the duties of motherhood, I played the part of child. I had to be coaxed out of bed. Then I took my leisurely time getting my coffee and playing with my phone, enjoying the simple pleasures, basically being them.
     See this all began last night after a sweet cuddle watching the Little Prince when I discovered that my oldest had been hiding half-sucked cherry sours in my bathroom and under the bedside table and my youngest had ignored my request to pick up his desk and put his clothes away. They both said sorry hoping that would amend all wrongs and informed me that they were too tired to do anything. In turn, I told them I was tired too after cooking, cleaning, and taking care of the house and life while they sat and watched their shows on the television or played video games or read. Things I don't get to do until they are finally in bed for the night, something usually delayed repeatedly by my youngest. So I too didn't have the energy to clean up their messes after a long day and wanted to rest, like they were doing. I told them they could clean up after school. Of course, a loud roar of protest could be heard miles away as they both wailed and gnashed their teeth, declaring that they wanted to play after school. That life was unfair and why did they have to do everything. And that was the straw that broke the camel's back.
     Instead of continuing to waste my breath and energy, I'd show them what doing everything looked like. And that is why I went on strike from motherhood this morning.

My Kids Killed My Joy of Cooking

     Once upon a long time ago, I actually loved to cook. I was inventive, throwing in spices at will and trying new combinations of food. It found joy standing over a hot stove, my face bathed in a glow from the condensation of a boiling pot of water. Cooking was an adventure, a delicious challenge, and a labor of love with a successful outcome. Time, availability of ingredients, and my own burgeoning skills were just obstacles to overcome and learn from.
     For instance, as a poor college student I learned that adding, cheese, garlic, and spices made cheap food taste so much better. I mean, unless you are lactose intolerant, cheese is like the panacea to a bad day. It just wraps you up in its melty goodness or eases your pain when sliced on a cracker, even an off-brand Saltine.
    Cooking also became a social event for me when I lived in Dublin studying my Masters. I spent many happy hours in the kitchen with my international cadre of friends teaching them to make Americanized Mexican food and stir-fry. They in turn taught me to make German pancakes, Apple Strudel, Irish soda bread, curries, and so many other fun dishes. We would dice onions together crying into our glasses of cheap wine and singing Abba songs and dancing around the narrow kitchen. Cooking was joyous and so was our appreciation of the food.
     Then, back in the States and living in San Diego, I became master of the grill. My margarita lime chicken tickled the taste buds. I became obsessed with grilled bell peppers and onions. I loved cooking for my friends.
     Skip ahead, twelve years and I'd honestly rather stick needles up my fingernails than cook dinner for my family. And usually, I don't have to. My husband, an avid Food Network Foodie is an excellent cook. Of course, his idea of dinner is a slab of meat, and I have to remind him to add a vegetable side dish. But this is a small price to pay for a perfect steak.
     But on the days he gets busy or just doesn't feel like it. I am stuck with dinner duty leaving me in a full-scale panic attack and crying over my computer as I scan recipe after recipe on Yummy trying vainly to find something my kids will eat. My oldest son is king of the bland and screeches like a howler monkey being swung by its tail if I dare to add sauce to anything. We still can't convince him that marina sauce on spaghetti is the same stuff they put on his beloved pizza. He will only eat cheese if its on said pizza or shredded on the side of his taco. And no foods can touch - ever! He even cried the first time we tried to give him ice cream. Seriously!
     My youngest actually has quite a sophisticated palate and is a regular at the tasting counter at Trader Joe's often scoring extra samples of Port Wine Cheese of Brie. However, his heightened sense of taste demands variety. He'd do well eating tapas every night or going to a Casino buffet. He likes little bites of everything but never finishes anything. He often declares himself too full to finish dinner, but is ravenous for something else two seconds later. Usually, I find him scouring the pantry and fridge lamenting that there is nothing to eat. Which translates to nothing he's in the mood for. I can hardly get him to eat breakfast and have told his teachers that I attempt to feed him in the morning so don't feel sorry for him when he complains that he's starving at nine. He had his chance.
     Now I know these are common complaints. I see the battle-hardened Facebook posts of my fellow sisters-in-arms complaining about their kids throwing epic tantrums over a nutritious, long-labored over meal. I feel your pain and send you cyber hugs and recommendations that you find a good wine or beer to drown your sorrows in. Also, a good Netflix series. Outlander and Meomi wine after the kids are bed or a Moscow Mule and The Night Manager or My Crazy Ex-Girlfriend and a Shocktop will help ease the pain. Your kids being a butt over dinner will dissipate with the sight off a firmer, tighter Scottish backside.
     I also hear all your wise advice to just not give in with the corn dogs and chicken nuggets. Let them go hungry. Make them try new things. And I hear you. I have told my kids to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich when they complain about my chicken tikka masala.
     But I am weak and there are some nights after already battling over homework, computer time, cleaning up, and a million other kid/parent conflicts that I am exhausted by dinner time and the thought of another battle makes me ill.
     This too shall pass and some day I may find my joie de vivre in the kitchen again. But when my oldest tells me he will "suffer through" the healthy and delicious chicken and pasta I made, my soul dies a little.
     I miss when cooking was fun. An adventure in taste and exploration of new recipes. I miss watching people enjoy my endeavors. After spending a half-hour chopping vegetables till my hands smelt like garlic and bore indentations on my index finger where the pairing knife pressed in to my skin, I felt rewarded by the yummy sounds people made and the scrape of the fork getting every last bite. Now I have to threaten and cajole little people to have two more bites of broccoli or half their chicken teriyaki. It's completely exhausting and deflating.
     Like the rest of the mommas out there, I will persevere. After all, I have to feed them.  And a friend gave me a helpful suggestion that I plan to try out the next time one of my darling sons complains about my cuisine. Whoever complains must be the next chef, and I get to critique their efforts. Let's hope it works.
     Thanks for letting me vent. I know I'm preaching to the choir. But it feels good to get it off my chest.

Restless Spirit Syndrome

     My skin tingles and itches but there is no ointment or essential oil for this malady. Because it stems from deep within my restless soil - an aching pressure mounting to unseen volcanic magnitude. An intense need to do something, see something, make something. First world problems, I know. If I had a job or bigger issues to worry about like food, shelter, and safety; I wouldn't have time to feel this way.

     But I do. And it's making me into an irritable shrew. I snap faster than a spring trap at people and things that irritate me. Then I feel like shit for being this waspish wench that I don't recognize somedays. This isn't me. Or not the me that I want to be.

     Yet, I can suppress the quick-step a the back of my brain shouting at me to just go. Just get in the car, point it in a direction, and drive without purpose of destination in mind. I'm a gypsy at heart, not meant to be tied down to mortgages and school schedules. 

     I'm my father's daughter. A willing companion to his Doctor Who eager for adventure wherever it may lead. We'd jump on the next bus, train, trolley, or flying carpet that came our way. The destination was not the point, the journey was. It meant being free and unencumbered by schedules and expectations. Just a desire to explore and see something different. Even if it only took us as far as the shopping center at Wolverhampton. 

     But I'm a grown up now with two kids and a homebody husband content to watch T.V. and play with his iPad. The one hundred and ten plus temperatures of my desert home further squelching any outside exploration until late Fall. I'd have to abandon children and drive two or more hours to find a temperate climate to play in. I'd willingly take them with me. Except, my oldest is a cyber clone of his father content to explore world in Minecraft before his own. And my youngest likes travel in theory but despises the car. (He was the only baby who never, I repeat never slept in the car but screamed like he had irate red ants in his diaper anytime we took him anywhere.) He also despises walking, waiting, or standing still. 

     When theses moods come upon me, and I can't channel my angst into my writing, I am known to paint the walls instead of walking them. Except, I've been recently been forbidden to do this as well. Probably because I can't be bothered to prep well and tape off the baseboards like a cross-eyed drunk. Then there's the time I got obsessed with chalkboard paint.

     But I can't be the only one to feel this pent-up energy. It's like being in one of those sci-fi movies where the alien or ill-fated scientist accidentally becomes an unwilling container for some building cosmic energy. I can almost see it flickering blue and pulsing around my skin. I can definitely feel it pressing the back of my skull, lifting my shoulders, winding my stomach muscles, and shortening my nerve endings. 

     Hopefully, I can find an outlet soon. I don't want to fry anyone in my vicinity. I wonder somedays if I can make it to Ikea in Orange County and be back in time for school pick up. My mind makes mental maps of places nearby planning but not yet executing my plan of mental escape. 

     I love my life. Just sometimes, I need to be true to my nature and just go. 

Snorkel for Serenity

     I have discovered the key to peace in the pool, and it's only $16.99 at Target. Yes, for this measly sum, you too can muffle those cries of "look at me" or "Mom, watch this". Just strap on the ultra-sexy plastic mask and wrap your mouth over the large plastic snorkel. Not only will it make you look like one of the taller Minions, you get to sound like Darth Vader.
     Let me tell you from personal experience, it is so totally worth the strapped down hair and mask rings. Just stick your head under the water leaving all your stress above the surface. Down below where the water kindly silences all sounds except the gentle swish of the water, you will discover serenity.
     There is magic in watching your hands glide in front of you caressing the water. Like being a mermaid, a childhood fantasy, of being carefree, daughter of the waves. I always thought Ariel was a little crazy and her world looked more fun.
     Maybe its a memory of the womb, a safeness in being encompassed by the water, it's velvety liquid surrounding you. It makes me feel free, flowing with the water.
     I watch the bubbles the kids make as they dive under to wave and mouth words at me, my own mute button. But they are more playful like benign seals when I'm underwater. The sun plays around their legs making their skin look smoother. The light draws circles in the cerulean blue shades thrown on the bottom of my pool.
     All I need are some plastic fish and kelp, and I can imagine myself in Hawaii, lazy with vacationing, enjoying the beauty of nature. It's amazing how just swimming in circles around my backyard pool with my head under water can transform me into a tense, nagging shrew of a mother to a calm, quiet goddess of the sea.
    My kids don't even bother me much except to dive under themselves. They seem to know that this makes mom happy to swim in circles like a lycra'd goldfish. We are all transformed. The world itself becomes hushed and beautiful, a different perspective, looking at the sky from underneath the water. It's like the water itself cleans the air, the trees, even your children. Complete bliss!
     I highly encourage any mom with a backyard pool or access to a friend's to try it. Snorkel your cares away. Find your zen under the water. And maybe even get a nice tan on your back. Happy swimming!

To Be or Not to Be with My Kids - That is A Mother's Question

     I used to call my father the eternal see-saw, his bi-polar personality rising and falling within minutes. Now, I find my heart's the eternal see-saw, an indecisive organ, constantly changing heights on whether it wants to be with my children or not. When they are gone, I need them. The prickling feeling growing under my skin that part of me is missing. Worrying and wondering what their time apart from me is like.
     But when they are near me, I prickle up another way, my temper rising like a cat's arched back warning them to back off and give me space. I feel hunted, my every thought winnowed out of me like the director's cut of my life, as they interrogate my every look, word, and silence. "Why are you smiling? What are you looking at? What are you doing on the computer?"
     I feel defensive. Why should I explain myself to a six-year-old? He shadows me from room to room imitating my every move, crawling into my every space, watching me like a nervous stalker. Sometimes, I find it adorable. The way he mimics me. Or crawls into my lap petting the skin on my arm and telling me I the best mommy ever. My heart bursts with a love I never knew till motherhood.  I cuddle him closer smelling his warm hair and marveling that he is mine. But I'm his too.
     That's the part that prickles my nerves. The ownership. The never having space or time that is fully mine anymore. The invasion of the body snatchers mentality that comes with once sharing your body with your child. They feel entitled to have everything that is yours. Not that I'm selfish. I'll gladly share with my sons. I'll happily give them what I'm eating. Just not directly off my plate or out of my hands. I love sharing stories and experiences with them. Just not when I'm in the middle of peeing or chewing or lugging six bags of groceries into the house. That's when I want to run away and lock the door ignoring small begging voices of "mommy, let me in," and crayon-colored heart love notes slipped under the door.
     That's when I call 911 grandma or ship them to camp or a friend's house. So I can breathe, sit in glorious silence, watch a grown-up show with no animation or smart-ass precocious kids, eat a whole bar of chocolate by myself, and remember who I am as an individual. I can finish a thought in my head without it derailing to police a sibling squabble or find a lost shoe. I can read a book, take a long shower, and find time to write. All things that make me happy and are necessary for sanity.
     But there's still that small pull at the back of my heart wondering what I'm missing out on. Opening the photo app on my phone, so I can gaze lovingly at my boys. They always look so much sweeter and peaceful in pictures. And suddenly I want to hold them and kiss their squishy faces and dance them around the living room like maniacs to Taylor Swift and Pharrell. So I finish my work, a smile imbedded wide across my face as I collect them from wherever I shipped them off to. A warm hug and a squealed "Mommy" melts my heart. Then five minutes and a full-on backseat war later, over the "good" headphones, and I'm wondering if I can take them back.
     Don't get me wrong. We have many wonderful, magical times together with minimal whining and fighting. They have enriched my experiences of the world. And I love them dearly.
     But they have also dispelled my heightened expectations of outings making me break down in silent expletives and rue ever taking them out of the house ever again.
     I think most mothers, especially those with more than one child have experienced this mixed bag of emotions that come with child-rearing. The insatiable need to be with them and the desire to tape their mouths shut with duct tape and run away to the beach or a bar or anywhere.
    

It's like the daily struggle for identity. Am I mom or am I me? Is motherhood my identity or just one facet of my personality? I teeter up and down with my need to be with and away from my children usually in the same minute.

Crazy - But Not Because I'm a Christian

     I really hate those judgmental, belittling people who publically humiliate you and make you feel ashamed of who you are and what you believe in. Those people who make you hide your true self so that you can be socially acceptable. And no, I am not talking about Christians.
     But take a look at any social media site, movie, television show, or news article, and you'll see someone taking potshots at the Crazy Christians. Because it's not cool to believe in anything nowadays, except money and fame.
     Now I am not denying that there are a lot of messed up folks out there spouting hate and their own crazy judgments under the guise of Christianity. But those people would have been crazy without this particular pulpit to preach from. Those people in Westboro are just small, angry-minded individuals who don't represent the majority of believers. In fact, there are only forty members in that church mostly from the same loony family. And there are roughly 2.1 billion Christians world-wide. But the loud-mouths get all the attention, just like that annoying kid who always acted out in class and earned your class the reputation of being the bad one that no one wanted to sub for. That kid probably had a crappy home life and wanted whatever attention good or bad he or she could get. Same with these loud-mouth idiots spewing hate, because it's what the media loves to lap up.
     No one wants to hear about my friend, a devout Christian who would literally give you the shirt off her back and makes a mean batch of rummy gummies (remember they drank alcohol in the Bible), and her adventures mentoring children of inmates at a free camp. Because it doesn't sell ads to hear about a normal, kind-hearted woman who picked the lice out of children's hair so they wouldn't have to go home and miss out on their only camp experience.
     It's ironic that I read about or have people tell me to my face that Christians are so bloody judgmental and hate gays, atheists, and people of other religions. I don't hate anyone other than the bugger who nearly hit my car while I was driving my kids to camp. And I got over that two hours later.
     Yet, these people seem to hate me. They are certainly judging me without knowing me. They automatically assume that as a Christian I am a judgmental, holier-than-though, hypocrite. I've been told by a friend, not to openly wear my Celtic cross necklace, the open I bought for my deceased mother. I was told it made people uncomfortable and gave them a quick judgement of my character. I'm sorry how is this fair? I have gay friends, Hindu friends, Jewish friends, and wiccan friends, and I would never think to tell them to put away a symbol of their faith. That would be rude and small-minded of me. And I have never once shoved my beliefs down their throats or hit them with a Bible. I live my faith, by example.
      I was raised by open-minded, worldly parents who taught me to respect other cultures and faiths. My father's funeral was attended by Hindus, Sikhs, Muslims, Atheists, Agnostics, Jews, and several denominations of Christians, all close friends and colleagues. He even joked when he was about to undergo surgery that everyone was praying for him, so he had all the gods covered. He even taught me the Muslim greeting of saluum alaikum to say to his friend who ran the local News Agent.
     So it hurts that I am told to hide and be ashamed of my religion because some vocal idiots makes the rest of us look bad. Is it ok to make me cry and feel belittled for what I believe? I thought only ignorant, self-righteous people did that?
     Yes, I know there are the bible-thumpers and the preachers. The people who are all too quick to quote Scripture instead of listening. But they are not me. And they are not my experience. I am sorry if someone rubbed you the wrong way or you had a bad religious experience. I had a German shepherd bite me on the way to school. Should I hate all dogs and think they are all vicious? I had two blonde friends growing up psychologically fuck with my head. (Yes, Christians swear. I swear like a drunk sailor.) So all blondes are bitches, right? Except two of my best friends are blondes.
     I am not excusing the yokels and wrong-doers who hide under the banner of Christianity. I can tell you for historical fact that most of those religious wars had more to do with land and power and greed than religion. It just sounded more persuasive to tell the uneducated populace that it was for God than the king's coffers.
     To wrap up my tirade, I am sure I have rubbed some people the wrong way. I am sorry. And then again I'm not. Why is everyone else allowed an opinion? That seems unfair.
      I had three hugs today at church from kind, quiet people doing good-work without seeking reward. In fact our church motto is we'd rather love you than judge you. So do me a favor and don't judge me unless it's on my brilliant wit and awesome dance moves.
     If I'm not suppose to fill Facebook with angry memes condemning other religions and atheists, do me the same courtesy. Otherwise you are guilty of doing the thing you think I do - judging others.

I Always Love You

I Always Love You

“I always love you”, the mommy said, “even when you are stubborn & won’t go to bed.”

"I always love you, my darling, Honey Bear, even when you put gum in your little brother’s hair."

"I always love you, my dear baby boy, even when you break your expensive new toy."

"I always love you, my sweet little Boo, even when on my new painted walls you drew."

"I always love you, my cuddly bug, even when you spilled juice all over the rug."

"I always love you, my cute kissy face, even when you throw water all over the place."

"I always love you,  you are my dearest heart, even when you took my new book apart."

"I always love you, no matter what you do, even if it seems I lose patience with you."

"You are my little boy & I love you so dear, your place in my heart will always be here."

Kat Aragon

While cleaning out my word documents, I discovered this little poem I wrote for my oldest son, Xander when he was three. It's saccharine and a little cheesy but completely true. And I still love my cuddle bugs even when I am screaming silently in my head while cleaning the fourth spill of the day or sweeping the remnants of my favorite mug off the kitchen floor. It's a mother's love. 

Cabin Fever - Desert Style

     I have almost always lived in desert cities. For some reason fate thinks its funny to stick my fair Celtic skin designed for constant rain in places it will fry or turn me into an epic dot to dot page. And right about the 100 degree mark, my mood starts to turn like meat left out on the counter, I reek of pent up energy and anger at the sun. I curse it's constant, cloudless beat down upon the sidewalk burning my toes when I risk a barefoot walk to take the garbage out. I start climbing the walls, a snarling, raving beast of resentment at being caged between four air-conditioned walls with two crazy little boys.

     In summer, the desert turns into a literal ghost town. Snow birds fly back to their 80 degree homes in Vancouver, Oregon, Idaho smartly migrating from one cool dwelling to another. Restaurants and shops reduce their hours closing down early from a lack of clientele. Mom's Night Out's are limited to the few bars and bands left playing on select nights only. That's if you can scrounge up enough moms to even go out, most people fleeing the desert for vacations in cooler climates.

     Sometimes I feel like Charlton Heston in Planet of the Apes waking to a strange world, monuments covered in sand, and not another living being in site. (Obviously, the part before he meets the apes.) Or a lone straggler who's car broke down on the highway finally falling upon an old abandoned western town tumbleweeds drifting past, wind whistling lonely through vacant buildings, no one to talk to except a cactus you ironically name Teddy. 

     If I don't see their car pull into the drive, the quick bustle of bodies in another air-conditioned space, I don't know if my neighbors are home. The streets are bare, no one exchanges greetings, no  one plays at the park, the baked plastic would scorch anyone who dared. I almost fainted yesterday seeing a kid walking around in the midday sun, until I saw the cellphone and realized the lengths people will go to play Pokemon Go, even risk sun stroke.

     Whenever I visit San Diego or my aunt's in Oregon, I am stunned to see neighbors outside talking to each other, sitting on porch's waving, kids running in and out of other people's houses, or playing basketball outside. It's like looking at a Richard Scary book there should be labels over their heads so I can identify who they are: Basketball playing kid, swinging kid, elderly neighbor, man walking dog, etc. 

     I met a friend on accident at the ice skating rink, and she commented on how the desert has changed her nature. Almost conditioned her to not know what to do if she even sees someone outside, all social etiquette gone, just an instinct to get inside. 

     Now I know I am blessed with lower house prices, less traffic, and better parking than those cooler urban spaces to the west of me. And I realize from mid-November to March, our weather brings flocks of people envious for our mild winters. 

     But I hate having to patrol Facebook to see if my friends are in town or text my son's friend's mothers over and over till I feel like I am begging for them to drop their kid off for a playdate. I don't know what the answer is. It's the literal climate and the social media climate that we live in. For now, I swim alone. 

I Understand You're Hurting, I Acknowledge Your Pain. What Can I Do to Help?

     These are the words I wanted to hear when my dad died of complications from esophageal cancer when I was 27. And later, when my mom died suddenly when I was 32. I wanted someone to acknowledge my grief and not negate it with easy words. Those trite phrases we roll out because grief is awkward and uncomfortable for those viewing it as well as those experiencing it. Because if you haven't experienced it, you don't fully get it.

     This is sort of how I feel as I watch the news and view the grief of African American mothers and fathers and children and loved ones. I don't know what to say to those families of the police officers gunned down in Dallas. It is not my own personal grief. But at the same time I can empathize as much as my reality allows me to with their loss because I know loss. 

     Moreover, I know that pain and grief demand to be felt. Because its excruciating to experience the death of a loved one, no matter the reason. That's why the Internet is full up of people voicing their grief. Black mothers write about their fears for their black sons. Children of police officers write about their fears for their parents. We live in an age of pain, a country of hurt. Dallas Police Chief, David Brown says "Our hearts are broken," as he mourns the loss of five fellow officers and the pain and chaos his city faces. 

     Right now, our whole nation hurts, a citizenship of broken hearts because no matter what side of these polarizing events or political associations we fall on, we all know something is wrong with the world we live in. There is too much hate and vitriol so easily slung on social media behind the safety of our computers. 

     That's where it starts - in words. Words that stir the pot and bring to the surface all our worst traits: our jealousies and petty hatreds, our fears, our scapegoating, our need to blame. But words is where it needs to end. Words, conversations need to be had face to face and in the social media space too about what we need to do next. Words of acknowledgement of grief, words of compassion need to be spoken to those on both sides for their loss. 

     But then we need to take it one step further and ask "What can I do to help? To bring change." Dallas pastor, T.D. Jakes expressed his hope that these events will force us to talk to each other saying that "change happens in the hearts of people". He acknowledges that we don't need to agree with each other, but we need to be talking and working together to find a solution.

     What that solution is I don't know? But I would hope that we use these events to open up a dialogue, one with fair, open-minded words, not mud-slinging and blame, to listen and understand. Understand does not mean agree, it means to appreciate and comprehend what the other side is saying. 

     I'd hope that this great first world nation, purported leader of the free world, a nation of intelligent human beings could listen and really hear both sides. Naively, I'd like to see groups of different races pulled together in communities all over the country to have civil town hall type conversations. Or meet in churches to pray together and grieve together. 

     But I'm not completely naive and know there will still be people stirred by hate and other psychological baggage or learned prejudices who will still spew their venom all over the Internet. I know there may be more violence to come. We live in a culture of hate. It's become cool to judge people, even celebrated to be snarky and mean and say things over social media we wouldn't say to someone else's face.

     But I also believe there are good people out there like me who don't know what the right answer is. We have not personally experience the pain and prejudices of those suffering but we want to help. We just want to know how. 

     I am an upper-middle class white woman. So I don't know the fears and experiences of those mothers of other races. I also don't have any police officers in my family. I can not feel their feelings or know their truths. I do not want to sound trite from my place of privilege. 

     But I can feel the hurt too in our nation and cry with those mourning loved ones. I can feel the punch to the gut hatred roiling in our nation and fear the future. I can look at my two sons and wonder with trepidation about the world they will inherit. 

     But I can acknowledge the pain I see and ask what can I do to help and follow through.

(I always welcome friendly, intelligent comments and don't ask that you agree with me. But I will not tolerate or acknowledge trolls spewing hateful comments for their own amusement. What you say says a lot more about you than me.)

Why I Had 2 Kids?

   Disclaimer: Before I shoot my mouth off, this is nothing against having an only child. I know some very happy only children. This is just my personal experience and should be viewed as such.

     Yesterday, my two darling sons fought for verbal dominance as they eagerly harassed a fellow mom who had mistakenly shown interest in Minecraft. Their words tackled each other tumbling and sparring louder and louder to be heard till finally my youngest made a fist and hit his brother with his hand instead. They drive each other nuts. 

     Maybe its the three year age gap. I did try to make it smaller, I really did but fertility makes its own rules and time schedule. My oldest would happily sell his younger brother for a pack of Sour Patch Kids and laments loudly and often "Why did you have to have another kid?" The answer - because I grew up alone and lonely.
     I was the sun to my parent's planets. Everyone emotionally revolved around me. I was the thing they fought over, the frayed rope in a knock out game of tug of war. I was it. The pressure to be everything, the golden child, the panacea to a broken marriage, the "Best thing they ever did" was suffocating. There was no one to share the avalanche of emotions they threw at me. And when they both died, there was no one to share my grief and the burden of death with.
     I had everything and nothing. They spoiled me with Barbies and My Little Ponies. I was the only kid in my poor apartment complex with pocket money treating the rest of my friends to Funyuns and Dr. Pepper. Mixed motives paid the price of a movie ticket so I could bring a friend along to the movies. I honestly liked treating my friends, it made me happy, but I also selfishly enjoyed the movie more with someone by my side.
     More often than not, the person by my side had to be my mom. Many of my friends had grandparents to visit during the summer with their sibling by their side or family vacations to go on or cousins to visit. I am nine years younger than my youngest cousin. So when I wasn't being babysat or sent to a camp I hated, I went to the movies with my mom or the museum with my mom or the mall with my mom.

     Occasionally, I went to my grandparent's house in Sun City West where I got dragged along to art shows and craft fairs and the swimming pool where I had to suppress all child-like behavior so as to not upset the senior citizens. I grew up old. I knew more classic Hollywood films than anyone my age and had an affinity for Mozart and watching the Golden Girls wedged between my mom and my Grandma Stina. I'm not complaining, entirely, I really enjoyed those things but it sets you apart from your peers who look at you weirdly when you don't know Duran Duran from Wham. And I missed being around someone my own age.
     Even more so, I feel like my only child status now affects my sons' summer vacations and family gatherings. They have no young cousins to play with or pal around with since my husband is the virtual only child of his family being six years younger and getting married later in life than his brothers.
     Now I am blessed that my beautiful half-sister, Lynn discovered me ten years ago but with half a globe between us I can't see her that often which kills me as we get on like a house on fire. Then there's an 11 year age gap in cousins there too. 
     So as much as my kids argue and battle to be player one on the Xbox, I figure at least they have someone to spar with. I figure its better than playing Atari by yourself. They can even complain together about how weird mom is. And maybe someday they will get along better. Maybe someday they'll have kids the same age who can pal around on family vacations to the beach and Disney cruises. I know the grass is always greener, and they envy my only child status. And most days, I'm the referee splitting cookies and attention between them. But I had to have two to see what life was like on the other side of the fence.

Your Mom (Not Grandma)

     “Is that your mom’s painting,” my nine-year old asks barely glancing at the watercolor landscape of the Point Reyes lighthouse outside San Francisco, the one my mom, his grandma lovingly painted to commemorate another one of our mother/daughter adventures up the PCH. He doesn’t mean to but his words hurt me – reminding me of loss. Not just mine but his and his brother’s. Because no matter how many times I correct him to say Grandma Cathy showing him pictures of her in her floppy Disney hat with her name embroidered on the brim and her arsenal of cameras, purses, and fanny packs overwhelming her short, round body, she will only ever be my mom.

     Dead before he was twelve weeks along, the secret of his presence in my body frozen on my lips never uttered because I was told not to tell before I was three months pregnant, I didn’t even get to say the word grandma to her.  She never cuddled his sweet milk and Baby Bee smelling body to her expansive chest rocking him in the glider I bought with my inheritance wanting to pretend it came from her.

     I try really hard to show both my boys pictures of her even if they remind me of the pain I’ve buried. I tell anecdotes of her ability to fall asleep anywhere or how she travelled the world visiting the pyramids of Giza and dating a man with six passports before he dumped her for the heiress to the Goodyear fortune. But they half listen and rarely connect this person they’ve never met as someone related to them. They only know their Grandma Josie, their dad’s mom who spoils them with the junk food, video games, and hugs.

     Yet, I see her in my six -year-old’s flair for art. He's the child she longed for just one generation too late. He'd have gladly accepted her gifts of watercolors and sketch books filling them with more than scribbled margin notes about how I had no talent so lay off the art supplies. They would have created wonderfully imaginative, funky junk sculptures together from his hoard of toilet paper rolls and discarded wrappers. She hoarded too.  He even moves like her a deliberate pokiness, going at his own speed.

     But she’s also in my nine-year-old and his love of books. Brat that I was, I'd complain to her face that books were not appropriate birthday gifts, so where was my Barbie. But he snatches them out of the gift-wrap and dives in openly soaking up their worlds and knowledge the way I did in secret when she wasn't looking. He's cuddly like her, but also possesses her hang-dog expressions and ability to make me feel guilty.

     Why is that seeing her personality reflected back in theirs both warms my heart and pricks it at the same time? Probably because the boys and I both got cheated out of these moments.

     And I know how hard it is for them. My own Grandma Marguerite died when my mom was sixteen and was stuck in my memory as her mother no matter how many stories and photos she shared.  My mom probably felt the same way when I said “your mom” before she corrected me to Grandma Marguerite. And I wonder if she cried in private the way I do wishing there was a key or magic spell between the worlds, some Harry Potteresque ring where I could call her up for just a second so they could meet and hug and know the wonder of themselves, the people I love and loved the most.

     But I can’t create connection where there is none. I can just continue to recant my stories of her reminding them of the woman who would have loved and spoiled them with gifts and tight hugs against her ample, squishy, motherly bosom.

     Yet I know part of her still lives in my parenting style, the good: my zany antics of dancing in the kitchen and playing dress up and caring more for having fun than if I look stupid to the other parents at the park. The bad: her paranoia of public toilet seats and dirty cups; her obsessive checking to make sure the door is locked three times before leaving the house. After all, I am the woman she made me to be – her love and compassion and sense of fun and adventure and creativity all live in me.

     But be sensitive when a mom loses her mom, because she’s not just mourning her own loss but her kid’s loss too that she mourns. The loss of Grandma to Your Mom and all the connections in between.  

Day-Trip Dilemmas

     My palms sweat, my heart races, and my mind crashes like an overloaded hard drive over the simple prospect of going on an outing alone with my two sons. I search the internet for ideas to entertain two rambunctious boys begging Google to give me the answer, the perfect daytrip to wear them out but not make me loathe every second. But with each click of the mouse my mind comes up with five reasons why that’s not a good idea.

     Now let me preface this by saying that I love my boys, and we have had some lovely adventures together. But we have also had some miserable, scream crying, tantrum launching misadventures that left us all a little shell-shocked and mom in need of a fifth of Scotch even though the Instagram picture looks like we’re having fun.

     For one their idea of fun and mine don’t always align. I am an impulsive, adventurous spirit who loves bike rides, hikes, museums, and shopping. My kids on the other hand think Chuck E. Cheese or Dave and Busters is the ideal way to spend a day. If there isn’t an electronic device controlling the adventure, then what’s the point. But I persistently soldier on and try to broaden their horizons, but they are young. I mean I remember hating my mom for dragging me out to Pioneer Village while she drew Victorian churches and school houses, and I threw rocks at the dirt and cursed her under my breath when I wasn’t whining.

     Plus maybe it’s just me, but I need another adult to talk or at least field half the questions of “Are we there yet? and “How much longer?”

     When I was pregnant, I dreamed about the fun outings we’d have making memories together filled with adorable conversations where we learned from each other, and made daisy chains and sang songs. In reality, after half an hour of a complete in-detail description of my son’s friend’s new YouTube video about a Minecraft cactus named Pete, my ears start to bleed. And Minecraft or Roblox or Smashy Road are the only topics of conversation my oldest wants to have. While my youngest speaks a language all his own and yells at me when I don’t understand what he’s saying.

     So do I suck it up and head to the arcade all the while hoping for spontaneous blindness and deafness from the bright lights, perpetual pinging sounds, and screams of happy children? Or do I slap on my uber-eager chipper face in an attempt to convince them that they love the Art Museum and cannot wait to see the new abstract art exhibit?

     Or there is always the beach but lugging all the beach chairs, sand toys, towels, sunscreen, snacks, and change of clothes alone over hot sand does not sound tempting. Plus, the added fact that I have one child who likes to be in the water and one who likes to sit on the sand and dig sand castles, but how do I supervise the both of them. Maybe not.

    Theme parks means a lone rider or a battle to the death for who gets to sit with mom. Water parks means grabbing the screaming six-year-old out of the wave pool while chasing the nine-year-old from slide to slide.

     I honestly don’t know how single moms do it. I now realize why my own mom drank lots of wine or sent me to summer camp.