Seasons Greetings

 

I’ve mailed Christmas cards out nearly evey year of my life since I was a teenager. Sending holiday wishes to friends and family far and wide has been a tradition in my family as long as I can remember.

My mother would spend days at the kitchen table doing hand-written letters to her brothers, sisters, former roommates, in-laws, and old friends across the country and throughout Canada.

Her handwriting was perfect.

Her notes depicted the rosy highlights of the past year, dotted with proud parental moments and good cheer.

Envelopes were stuffed and sealed with impeccable precision.

Addresses were in perfect penmanship.

There was rarely even a return address label.

Postage was exact.

Distribution was timed so that everyone, even the Canadian family, would get their greetings at least a week prior to Santa’s visit.

It was craftsmanship of the highest degree.

I’ve tried to carry on the tradition. I even made my own cards quite a few times (and when you have a 200+ distribution list, that’s a task that starts in October, trust me).  Other than those years, the craftsmanship of my ancestors has been replaced by the standard one-page xeroxed family newsletter with a few personalized greetings scrawled at the bottom, a couple pictures of the kids, laser labels and return address stamps.

But this year, things are different and I’m not exactly sure how to handle it. I’ve ordered the cards. The kids faces will be smiling gleefully from their covers with a holiday greetings followed by our three names. Three names. Not four.

An adjustment that hits me when I least expect it.

Not sadness.

 Not happiness.

Just an odd numbness.

Just another reminder that things are different this time.

And then there’s the letter. Most folks know about the divorce. But there are those older family members and friends who don’t keep track of each other on facebook and twitter and for whom the news will be new. A part of me feels like the change of address and the names on the card will say enough. Another part of me wants to put more context around it all…give some assurance that we’re all okay…share about the kids accomplishments and Dad’s health issues….my work and travel adventures…our plans for 2010.

But, in the end, what’s the exercise for? Is it really to inform them…or is it to assure me that everything is really okay?

No easy answers, here. I guess folks will find out when they open their cards.

Happy Birthday Boo!

My dearest daughter.

On Sunday, you turned six.

You are blonde.

You are sunshine.

You are blue-eyed.

You are the sky.

You are my couch cuddler.

My tap dancer.

My wanna be rap star.

My bedazzled pink and purple princess.

My Kindergartner.

My cast-toting swimmer.

I love how you start nearly every sentence with “AND GUESS WHAT?”

I love how you’re wanting to make your own choices about who you want to be, even if we disagree over what does and doesn’t match.

I love how you can get your baby brother to dance to Yo Gabba Gabba.

I love watching you with your friends. You can never leave a room without at least three hugs even though you’ll see them again tomorrow.

I love seeing you dance. You may not be the best one in the class, but it’s not for lack of trying. You’re learning that it’s about fun, not about winning (well, except for at board games, but we have something to work on this year.)

I love singing “Shout it out” with you in the car and how you try to look cool while you dance.

I hopet this next year is a little less tumultuous for you.

I hope you’ll learn to relax a little on some things and care a little more about others.

I wish that this year will be filled with even more love and laughter.

You are my angel girl and I love you so much.

Here’s looking at you, six.

Write-of-passage post: Most Embarassing Story

When Mrs. Flinger posted this “beta challenge” to start with writing your most embarrassing story, I had to think hard. I make an ass out of myself all the time. I’m a total klutz. I trip, fall and run into stuff all the time. My foot is practically superglued in my mouth. I’ve had my share of vehicular “boo-boos”. I’m a walking fashion faux pas that could make Rhianna feel better about being a weekly feature on Us magazine’s fashion police page.

It takes a lot to make me blush.

My brain is scrolling…scrolling…I must be blocking something out…that time when I laughed so hard in Brownie’s that I peed all over myself? Nope. That wasn’t the worst.

What happened that made me want to crawl up into a hole and die? This writing project is about making me dig deeper. Write meaningfully. Yes, embarrassment is about laughter most of the time…but at the core of it…the real core of it, it comes from shock and hurt and shame.

When I came to this realization, this is the memory that came. This is a hard story to tell and, for some people, a harder one to read.

**********************************************************************
It was late April of 1985. I was in the seventh grade at a semi-exclusive private Christian school in southern California. I was sitting in science class, somewhere in between Angela, Amber, Elena and one of the half dozen Crystals, Heathers and Jennifers that filled my grade. Most of us had been together since Kindergarten. We’d been through birthday parties, book reports and even “the talk” where all the girls’ moms showed up and the boys got an extra two-hour recess, while we had to watch a filmstrip about our ovaries and learn the nomenclature of puberty. We were friends. Some closer than others, but friends.

I don’t recall what we were talking about in class that day. Maybe it was osmosis, maybe it was laws of motion, maybe it was refraction. What I remember was the shadow in the doorway. It was the principal and there was a police officer standing behind him.

The principal called my name and asked me to come with him.

My pulse raced. I could feel the blood drain from my body. I don’t know how I got up and moved, but the next image in my memory was the wood grain paneling in the principal’s office and a man’s voice behind the desk. The man wasn’t the principal, though. It was the police officer. He needed to take me in for questioning.

I hadn’t done anything wrong, he assured me.

It wasn’t my fault.

They were doing this for my protection.

My teachers would be notified.

I would have a chance to catch up.

But, I needed to go with them.

I remember my eyes stinging with the tears. I could barely see. Snot ran from my nose like a fountain.

As I tried to open my locker, my hands shook so violently the officer had to get my combination from the office to open it for me. The bell rang, doors flew open and the hallway was flooded with my classmates.

They saw.

They saw me.

They saw me with a cop.

They saw me with a cop leaving the school.

They saw me with a cop leaving the school in a squad car.

I was gone for three weeks. No one told them where I was or what had happened to me.

With the absence of information, they filled in the blanks with the worst imaginings thirteen-year-old minds could conjure.

I returned to whispers of pregnancy, abortion, drug use, and unspeakable crimes that I allegedly perpetrated. All from people I knew for more than half my life. People who should have known better. People who should have at least had the decency to ask for the truth.

The next school year was a blur. The the summer months brought new controversies within the junior high culture that somehow distanced my humiliation in their minds. But things were never the same. There was a stigma. I wasn’t invited to sleepovers anymore. I was usually picked last for group projects and lab partners despite my academic performance.

Soon, my parents decided it was time for my dad to retire and for us to move to a different city.

But it wasn’t my fault.

It was best for the family.

Change was good.

I would have a chance to start fresh.

A chance to make new friends with people who didn’t know, who didn’t need to know.

I needed to go with them.

Life is too short for crap.

 

That seems to be a recurring theme for me this year.

So much has happened. So many changes. So many issues. So many trips. So many people. So. much.

Some of it’s been great. A lot of it has been pure, unadulterated, crap.

Some of it was completely, totally, and unabashedly my own doing.

In some cases, there were accessories to the crimes crap.

Some of it was just life.

Regardless of the source, I’m tired of it. I need to get back to the good again.

I spent most of this last weekend sorting through closets and cupboards, clearing out crap we don’t need so we have room for the “good things” to come.

I have piles of stuff heading to consignment, co-workers, and thrift stores. Craigslist postings are up. I nearly finished my Christmas shopping so I could spend the rest of this month helping my mom as my dad continues to shuttle back and forth between hospital, rehab, and home. More importantly, I’m focusing on making great holiday memories with my kids.

And, I’m going to write more and write better.

Thanks to Mrs. Flinger, I’m giving myself an early gift this Christmas – a challenge. So, bear with me. Check back on Mondays for each challenge’s post. I’ll be doing my best to make it good.

No. Not now. Not this.

 

My friend Anissa had a stroke today. She is in the ICU at an Atlanta hospital.

I met her a few years ago through Neil’s Interview Project. I interviewed her and fell in her love with her strong resilient spirit from day one.

She is just hitting her stride. Her daughter’s cancer is gone. She had started a new project this year to help moms laugh more about not being perfect.

She’s a ball of fire that just can’t be extinguished. Hell, even Ralph Macchio thinks she’s cool.

She is in my thoughts and prayers.

Please keep her in yours.

Anissa – get well soon. You need to get back to molesting wildlife with your fabulous bewbs.