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The Insanity of All This Violence is Driving Me Crazy
Just over two weeks ago, while families gathered to watch Fourth of July fireworks at a park less than a mile from my home, a gun was fired. In addition to shooting the intended victim, the gunman also shot and injured an eight year-old girl.
Just two days ago, a man opened fire in a crowded movie theater in Aurora, Colorado, He killed 12 people and injured dozens more.
While one incident was right down the street and the other was across the country, my initial reaction to both was the same. I wanted to hug my children and thank God they were safe. And then I wanted to scream about the insanity of it all: “Why does such senseless violence keep occurring and, even worse, why is it creeping into my world?”
In “my world,” the only violence we ever witness is in the form of entertainment: on television, in the movies and in video games. It’s not a place where people have to fear actual violence.
In “my world,” safe neighborhoods are easily defined, and we avoid violence by avoiding unsafe locations. It’s not a place where my daughter’s friends tell her “that shooting at the park was in my backyard.”
In “my world,” guns are used for hunting animals and shooting targets – not for shooting people. It’s not a place where people use violence to resolve a dispute or share their rage with the world.
In “my world,” when a horrible crime does occur, we rally around and pray for the victims and their families. It’s not a place where, only hours after a shooting, we try to turn a tragic event into a political advantage.
But I’ve come to realize that “my world” is a complete fantasy, but it’s a fantasy I also want my children to believe.
On July 5, I was driving by the park where the shooting had occurred only hours before. My daughter, sitting in the passenger seat, noticed all the people picnicking and swimming and asked “why are those people even at that park? Don’t they know it’s dangerous.?”
She was talking about a park that she has walked to and played in hundreds of times: a park where I walk my dog every day: a park that is the gathering place for most community events in my town.
And so, I told her that the shooting was an isolated incident and she shouldn’t worry or avoid the park.
What I didn’t tell her was that if we tried to avoid every place where there’s been gun violence, our options would be very limited. At the time, movie theaters weren’t even on my radar.
But theaters are creeping onto my worry list now.
Just last night, while my daughter was performing in a local production of “The Wizard of Oz,” the alarms in the theater unexpectedly went off.
No one in the audience moved, and the youth on the stage continued to perform. We were probably all hoping the same thing: that the smoke on the stage had tripped a fire alarm. We were also probably all just a little worried about the same thing: that someone with a gun had entered the building.
The alarm was turned off, my concerns ebbed and I went back to the fantasy of “my world.” It’s actually a very nice place, and I like living there. If I didn’t, I’d go crazy with worry.
Sadly, I’m having to leave it more and more often. And until we stop arguing about solutions and actually start working together, “my world” never will be a reality.
Jerry Sandusky, Miss America and Good Old-Fashioned Denial
For the most part, I write my blog because I simply love to write.
I love to string together words in a way no one else ever has. I love to put forth ideas in creative ways that make people think. And I love to feel that maybe, just maybe, what I write makes a difference in the life of someone else.
Today, I’m not feeling that love at all.
In fact, I hate the topic about which I’m writing.
But events over the last few weeks have left me no option.
Friday, after a 20 hour deliberation, a jury found former Penn State defensive coordinator Jerry Sandusky guilty of 45 out of 48 counts of child molestation.
I know people cheered. I know people declared justice. I know people expressed relief that Sandusky is going to be locked in jail for the rest of his life.
Personally, I’m not feeling much elation.
Don’t get me wrong. If Sandusky had been acquitted, I would have been livid. What bothers me is how easily his crimes were swept under the rug for years, even though so many people must have sensed something just wasn’t right.
What bothers me is how easily people were silenced by the job Sandusky held, and how he literally bought more silence by feeding into the growing materialist nature of our society.
What bothers me is that victims didn’t have the knowledge, self-esteem or support to ensure Sandusky was behind bars years ago.
What bothers me most is I’m not at all surprised.
This isn’t an isolated case. Child sexual abuse has been occurring for years, and, for the most part, society has chosen to turn the other way.
I recently read the book Miss America by Day by Marilyn Van Derbur. It’s not a book I would have normally even glanced at, much the less picked up from a shelf. But I’d attended a workshop about how anyone can help prevent child abuse, and Ms. Van Derbur, along with other abuse survivors , was in the training video.
Something about her passion spoke to me, and she’s still speaking to me.
Ms. Van Derbur was Miss America 1958. She was also molested from the age of 5 through age 18 by her father, a wealthy and well-respected member of the Denver community. To the outside world, her family was perfect. To perpetuate this perception, Marilyn’s mother looked the other way. And, for years, Marilyn even repressed the abuse.
But now, she’s an advocate whose message is simple: preventing child sexual abuse isn’t primarily the responsibility of social services agencies, law enforcement or the courts. It’s the responsibility of all of us.
We need to eliminate our preconceived notions that child abusers are easy to identify.
We need to recognize that community leaders, religious leaders and sports leaders are just as likely to be predators as anyone else.
We can’t allow children to be alone with an adult just because that person is trusted by others.
We need to listen to our children and not dismiss their fears, concerns and even silences.
We have to be willing to talk about sensitive issues, such as sex and abuse, so the children feel comfortable talking to us.
We need to look beyond appearances and examine behavior.
Most of all, our outrage needs to be expressed long before an individual has molested multiple children and is on trial.
Our outrage should begin the moment a child communicates they are they least bit uncomfortable with another adult. Period.
Until then, when we see or hear about a conviction, we can cheer and proclaim justice all we want. But if we look away when we think the alleged perpetrator is too well-connected or that no one we know would purposely hurt a child, then all we are really celebrating is good old-fashioned denial.
Five Words I’d Like to Ban From Any Political Discussion
This week, Michigan State Representative Lisa Brown was banned from the House floor for uttering the name of a body part.
She, unlike her male colleagues, actually has that body part.
Personally, I’ve said the word countless times. I’ve taught my kids that it’s an appropriate word, unlike the slang terms that are often used. I’ve even attended a play that features the word in the title and in the script.
But I don’t want to get banned from writing or labeled an extremist, so I’m not going to actually include it here.
I know that’s sad.
But sadder still is that, in 2012, a woman was reprimanded for saying it.
I shouldn’t be surprised. This has been an especially bad year for women.
Access to birth control has been threatened. Equal pay for equal work is being discounted. Ridiculous and invasive medical procedures (procedures that actually include the banned word) have been considered for legislation.
And women who stand up for their rights have been called sluts (because that is apparently not as offensive as a the name of a body part) on a nationally syndicated radio show.
I’m not just feeling belittled and a bit angry, I’m feeling frustrated.
I thought women were making progress. I thought the country was making progress. I thought individuals were important regardless of how much money they make, where they were born, what their sexual orientation is or, most important to me, what sex organs they were born with.
Silly me.
But since we are now engaged in a debate about what words are and are not appropriate to say during a political debate, I’d like to propose five that shouldn’t be part of any discussion.
1. Socialism. In recent years, this term has been used to perpetuate divisiveness and bitterness. It is being used to suggest that it is not American to believe those who have more resources have a responsibility to help those who are struggling.
2. Obamacare. I don’t believe that access to health care should be the responsibility (or fault) of one particular party or individual. It’s about all of us. Health care reform is complicated and hard to understand. But quality, affordable health care is also critical (and currently not accessible) to too many Americans. I have family and friends who have had cancer, high blood pressure and chronic sinus conditions. These are all pre-existing conditions that can drive personal health-care costs sky high. Most of my professional life I’ve been in jobs that either didn’t offer health insurance or offered it at an incredibly high price. I’m a very hard-working person, and I take extreme offense at being told that I don’t deserve the same access to health care as some one who has a different employer. Let’s be rational and talk about the issue rather than about specific politicians and leaders.
3. Christian. Anyone who knows me, knows that I have the greatest respect for God, religion and faith. But America was established on religious freedom, and we are going backward when we make any one religion the basis for laws. Of course our laws should be based on moral and ethical principles, but most religions are based on strong values. Let’s not marginalize people of different faith by holding up Christians as the only religion that counts.
4. Undeserving. This word makes my heart hurt. By using it to broadly describe any group of people is unfair and incredibly biased. It is also very effective. It allows some people to pat themselves on the back for being deserving while belittling people who are different. People hit hard times for a wide variety of reasons, many of which are beyond their control or rooted in a childhood that never gave them a chance. I’m not saying that we shouldn’t set expectations for people or encourage them to take care of their own needs. But lets provide them with skills and opportunities rather than blame and labels.
5. Penis. If vagina isn’t allowed, then we shouldn’t be allowed to say penis either.
Whoops. Did I just say vagina? There go any hopes of a political career.
Hopefully, I will still be allowed to share my thoughts and opinions. And hopefully this post doesn’t get deleted as a result of actually naming a body part.
The Reason I Never Forgot Eddie Pee Pants
On a beautiful spring day several weeks ago, my kids and I were heading to lunch a few blocks from my husband’s office on the crowded streets of Washington D.C . Dressed in only shorts and t-shirts, we didn’t really fit in with the men and women in business attire who were walking with a great deal more purpose.
But we had one thing in common: we all pretended we didn’t see the homeless person still wrapped in a blanket and sleeping in a doorway on a busy sidewalk.
I saw both of my kids glance over at him, but neither said anything. I didn’t either. Soon, the homeless person was forgotten.
Almost.
Because somewhere in the back of my mind, he stayed with me.
He’s still there.
It’s not that I’ve never seen homeless people before. I see them every day. I even have a semi-relationship with the guy who hangs out at the park where I walk my dog. If I don’t at least wave at him, he coughs or makes some other noise until I acknowledge him.
But the homeless guy sleeping on the steps was different, because he might as well have been invisible. Everyone, including me, blatantly ignored his existence.
I understand why the business people ignored him: they probably see him everyday. He’s as much a part of their daily landscape as the traffic lights, the street signs and the blur of faces they regularly encounter.
But I didn’t have any excuse, and I couldn’t figure out why I didn’t even talk to my kids about him. That’s just not like me at all. If anything, I usually talk way too much about such things.
The only explanation I could find is one I don’t like: I was going along with the crowd. It was just easier.
It’s not the first time I’ve had to make that admission.
When I was in elementary school, I didn’t even know the full name of the boy who rode the school bus. I just knew everyone called him Eddie Pee Pants. You don’t need to be a genius to figure out how he got the name.
I don’t remember calling him that to his face, but that’s the name I used when my peers and I were discussing how to avoid him. No one wanted to have to sit with Eddie Pee Pants on the bus. If you did, you’d not only have to smell him, but you would get “Eddie Pee Pants germs.”
I knew what we were doing was wrong, but I justified my behavior by telling myself that I was never actually mean to his face. But the guilt got worse when Eddie’s life got worse.
One Saturday morning, I joined my dad at the top of our driveway to watch the drama unfold on a hill about a mile from our house. A dilapidated mobile home was on fire. Flames were shooting out the roof, and smoke was turning the sky black.
“That’s a total loss,” my dad commented.
I didn’t know until Monday that the old, junky trailor everyone said was an eyesore was Eddie’s house.
I have no recollection of what happened to him after his house burned. I just know he never rode the bus again, and I don’t remember ever seeing him at school again. I don’t even remember if there were any injuries or fatalities in that fire.
What I do remember is wondering why I wasn’t nicer to Eddie and feeling horrible that I’d never have an opportunity to undo my misdeeds.
Eddie isn’t the only person I’ve ever discounted or belittled. But he’s the first person who taught me three essential life lessons:
1. Treating someone poorly never makes you feel better about yourself.
2. Sometimes you don’t get a second chance to do the right thing.
3. Issues such as poverty, child abuse and homelessness are actually about individuals — people who, regardless of the reason for their circumstances, still have value.
I’ve taken that third lesson to heart. Eddie, like the homeless person in the doorway, gave me something priceless. They taught me to look beyond the unkempt appearances, poor hygiene or odd behavior. They’ve taught me that sometimes the person who needs to change their attitude or perception is me. And they’ve taught me that speaking up feels a lot better than putting someone down.
They were priceless gifts in my life, and I hope I can pass their lessons on to my children. And that, if nothing else, is what makes their lives so valuable to me.
There’s a Reason This Mom’s Brain is a Hot Mess
There’s no doubt I love my children.
But at times, when I’m completely honest with myself, I wonder what the heck I was thinking when I decided to become a mom.
It’s not because I regret having children. Not for a minute.
And it’s not because I think my life would be more interesting or exciting if motherhood didn’t require I put their needs above mine. Being a parent puts a whole new spin on interesting or exciting.
And it’s certainly not out of guilt that as a girl, teenager and even as a young woman, being a mom wasn’t on my list of life goals. Having children helped me recognize what’s really important in life.
It’s because there are times when I think my kids could have done better with another mother – a mom who isn’t as emotional or head strong or outspoken as the one they got. A mom who never purposefully ignores parenting magazines, workshops or other sources of standard parenting advice. A mom who always enjoys her children’s activities instead of attending out of a sense of obligation.
And just when I’ve convinced myself that my kids would be better off with any mom but me, I come face to face with parents who don’t understand what an incredible gift – and responsibility –being a parent is. I witness moms behaving as though they are still adolescents with all the same drama and self-absorption. I have to listen to parents who always blame someone else when their child behaves poorly, gets a bad grade or is fighting with other children. Worst of all, I know of parents who put their children’s welfare and safety in jeopardy.
I may be imperfect, but those situations make me feel better about my own parenting skills. At least for a little while… until my kids do or say something embarrassing or completely inappropriate. Then I’m back to thinking that if they had a different mother, their behavior would be stellar.
Such thoughts bounce around in my brain on a daily basis… sometimes at such incredible speed that I fear an impending brain explosion.
The requirements of my profession haven’t helped.
Because I have a social work license, I’m required to take continuing education. Usually, I seek work-related education. Because I recently changed jobs, I’ve been seeking education that is more closely aligned with parenting issues, which I usually avoid.
I’m not sure the plan has worked for me.
In a workshop on bullying, the presenter disparaged parents who tell their daughters that, when a boy teases her, he actually likes her. According to the presenter, that’s putting her on the path to domestic violence. Having said those exact words to my daughter, I was convinced that, at worst, I was creating a victim. At a minimum, I was teaching her that abusive behavior is a sign of affection.
I was back to being a horrible mom.
But then, a couple of weeks later I attended a workshop on child abuse. The workshop emphasized the need for children to feel comfortable questioning and saying no to adults. Now that is something my children have NO problem doing. Could it actually be good that my children are following in their mother’s footsteps by requiring more than just a command as a reason to follow orders?
My internal confusion isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it does highlight the reason I’ve avoided reading all those articles about parenting. Once my children started developing their unique personalities, I had to treat them uniquely. And no expert could tell me how to do that.
So while no parenting magazine will ever put me on its cover, that’s not important to me.
What is important is that someday in the distance future, when I’m not the complete embarrassment or the clueless person that my children currently think I am, I will be featured in their life scrapbook .
I don’t even expect to make the cover, but I do want to be featured.
I’m pretty sure I can fill that role quite well… a long as my brain doesn’t explode in the meantime.
Remember When Mother’s Day Was Considered a “Gay” Holiday? Maybe It Still Is.
As a child, I adored Mother’s Day. Just like Halloween and Christmas, it held the purposiveness of preparation and the excitement of anticipation.
I was incredibly intent the year I had to make a corsage for my mom out of tissue paper. While my fellow students curled the colorful paper around their pencil erasers then glued it to cardboard to resemble bright flowers, I felt the need to put order to chaos. The result was a smiling face that, in retrospect, bore a striking likeness to the Wal-Mart smiley face.
My mother never hesitated to wear the hideous yellow corsage. In fact, she wore it all day on Mother’s Day, even though it thoroughly clashed with her dress.
I was incredibly proud the year I played Mary Poppins in the Mother’s Day program. Families were required to provide the props, and because my frugal family didn’t have a normal umbrella, I twirled a hideous clear, plastic one shaped like a mushroom as I danced through boxes painted like chimneys. I resembled Mary Poppins about as much as I resembled Grace Kelly.
I was incredibly naive when I bought my mother a card that described Mother’s Day as a “gay” holiday.
I’m a lot older now, and I’m a lot less naive.
But I still don’t have a problem describing Mother’s Day as a gay holiday, especially this year.
That’s because, as I’ve aged, Mother’s Day has come to mean more than simply honoring and thanking my own mom. It’s also become a day to reflect on what being a good mother is.
While my experience is limited to 14 years, I’ve come to recognize three primary truths about being a parent:
1. A mother’s primary responsibility is to ensure that her children grow up to be responsible adults;
2. Every child is different, so there is no “right” way to be a parent;
3. Teaching our children to defend and stand up for those who are different is much more important than teaching them how to be popular or stylish.
This week, our President served as a parent to our entire nation when he publicly declared his support of gay marriage. I know the motivations behind his statements can be disputed, but I choose to believe that he was guided by his sense of morality and his need to set an example for all of us.
I heard his message loud and clear; if we tolerate hate and intolerance wrapped in religion then we are acting in direct opposition to the principles on which our country was established: a country in which all people are supposed to be treated equally.
So, while I seriously doubt my children will ever used their hard-earned allowance to buy a card that describes Mother’s Day as gay, I know that if they do, I would be honored to receive it. After all, it might be describing a holiday that looks beyond stereotypes and bias and unites us with a purpose of increasing tolerance for the next generation.
I can certainly hope.
Ten Lessons about Love for My Ten Year-old Daughter
Being a very practical person, I’m extremely fortunate to have a pragmatic daughter. Unlike many of her peers, she’s shown little concern about romance and relationships. Other than incessantly listening to Taylor Swift songs and keeping tabs on Taylor’s love life, she just doesn’t seem to care.
And while I hope that doesn’t change, I also know that, eventually, it will.
I can’t imagine that she’ll ever be the type of person who feels incomplete without a significant other, but I do know that she will start dating at some point.
And that also means she’ll have her heart broken.
But before that happens, I feel obligated to share ten lessons I’ve learned (sometimes the hard way) about love:
1. You can’t truly love someone else unless you love who you are. And who you are is an imperfect person who makes mistakes, gets mad and will sometimes say and do very stupid things. Love yourself anyone. How you handle your mistakes and flaws is more important than trying to hide them.
2. Love is only genuine when you are being true to yourself. Don’t pretend to enjoy something when you don’t. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t compromise. You should. Love requires a great deal of compromise. But compromise doesn’t mean you should pretend to be someone you’re not. If you do, you’ll wind up being miserable.
3. Love isn’t a competition, and you can’t make someone love you. You will always be loved for being the unique person you are and not because you are prettier, smarter, funnier, sexier or nicer than someone else. Therefore, you should never worry about what others are doing to attract attention or affection. Being yourself is enough.
4. You don’t fall in love. That indescribable feeling of “falling in love'” is usually a combination of infatuation and physical attraction. Love is something that is grounded in mutual respect, grows slowly and doesn’t necessarily bloom as much as it thrives.
5. Love isn’t about romance. It’s about experiencing someone at their very worst and realizing that walking away would still be more devastating than dealing with a tough situation.
6. Love is about having passion in your life – but not necessarily in the way you might think. Never invest so much of yourself in a relationship that you don’t have time for everything else you love. Be passionate about a hobby. Be passionate about a cause. Be passionate about your family and friends. And also be passionate about your love.
7. True love means you aren’t worried about what other people think about your relationship. If you spend time worrying about what others are thinking or saying, you likely have concerns yourself. If you’re confident about your relationship and the integrity of your significant other, you won’t care what others say. Always stay in tune with your inner voice and be honest with yourself.
8. Love means saying you’re sorry. Unlike the quote “love means never having to say you’re sorry” made popular in the 1970’s movie “Love Story,” love means that you’re willing to let go of your ego. Admit when you are wrong or when you’ve said or done something hurtful. And when you are in a relationship, you will say and do hurtful things at times.
9. Don’t expect love to always feel exciting and new. Just like life, love can sometimes be dull and boring and predictable. Relationships are like roller coasters: sometimes they can be difficult and sometimes they can be easy and fun. But being able to work together during the uphill battles is what makes the downhill ride so enjoyable.
10. People do change, and that can affect your relationship. Our experiences shape who we become. The person who you fell in love with several years ago will probably be different from the person you know today. And you will be different too. Many times, you can join hands while you grow. Sometimes, you drop your hands and grow apart. Often, the decision is yours, but sometimes it isn’t.
As I share these lessons with my daughter, I realize that I could add so many more. But I figure one for every year of her life is enough for now. Besides, she often doesn’t listen to me anyway. Despite that, I do want her to hear one message loud and clear: even though she will ALWAYS have her mother’s heart, I hope she is also able to follow her own.
When It Comes to Sex and Relationships, I’m Pretty Sure America is Bipolar
I’m beginning to think that America suffers from bi-polar disorder when it comes to issues related to sex and relationships.
Either that, or we are simply a country of hypocrites.
Since I’d like to believe we aren’t a bunch of hypocrites, I prefer to blame our attitudes and behavior on something else.
But whatever the reason, we are definitely a country of extremes.
On one hand, the United States continues to have one of the highest teen pregnancy rates in the developed world: a rate almost three times that of Germany and France and over four times of that Netherlands (http://www.advocatesforyouth.org/publications/419?task=view). On the other hand, we have a really difficult time talking to our children about sex and sexuality.
Years ago, I felt completely beaten up when I was battling the issue of “abstinence only” education versus comprehensive sex education. But then, the issue got personal: I had children, and I want them to develop safe and healthy attitudes.
This means providing them with as much accurate information as possible. This also means providing them with the tools to use that information wisely and to feel comfortable talking with me about anything. If I don’t have the answer, I’ll help find it.
But I’m learning that’s often the exception. A lot of parents want to avoid any conversation. Period.
They freak out when certain body parts or behaviors come up in conversation, and they attempt to steer the discussion elsewhere.
This is ridiculous considering what our kids are exposed to every day in the media. I remember when 8:00 was reserved for family friendly television programs. Now, it’s hard to find anything on network television that doesn’t center around sexual humor and innuendo or that doesn’t portray casual sex as the expectation rather than the exception.
I’ve found myself explaining more to my daughter between 8:00 and 8:30 than at any other time of the day. But the discussion also becomes an opportunity to share my values, which I hope she and her brother eventually appreciate. And I hope both my children understand how self-love and independence are far more important than being in a relationship, at any age.
But that’s not easy, especially with girls. While the public service messages and textbooks are telling girls they can be anything, the rest of the world seems to be broadcasting that being in a relationship is what they should be striving for.
I was recently at a birthday party for a 10-year-old girl who was crying because her boyfriend had broken up with her. She had just turned ten, and she was crying over a boy. I just didn’t get it, and when I don’t get something, I ask questions.
First, I asked my daughter. Always her mother’s daughter, she said she didn’t get it either.
“Some of these girls always have to have a boyfriend,” she said. “It’s stupid. They waste so much time on that rather just having fun with their friends.”
I agreed, but, in a concerned manner, approached the mother about the issue. Her response? “I know, she’s heartbroken and will be up all night worrying about it. Hopefully, she’ll get over him soon.”
Get over him soon? At (barely) ten?
But then, I should have known better. This comment came from a woman who, recently re-married, has a signature on her text messages that reads “I love (the name of her husband).”
I’m thinking maturity regarding relationships isn’t her strength.
When I told a friend about how the girl didn’t enjoy her tenth birthday party because she was upset about losing her boyfriend, his response was, “They are just imitating what they see adults do.”
That’s what scares me most of all.
Despite efforts to build their self-esteem, I’m afraid the predominate message girls receive is that being in a relationship is a measure of who they are. Is that why so many woman are involved in abusive relationships? Is that why one in four women will experience domestic violence in her life and why an estimated 1.3 million woman are the victim of physical assault by an intimate partner every year? http://www.ncadv.org/.
But I can’t blame the media too much. They simply sell what people are willing to buy, such as magazines with pictures of unrealistically beautiful and barely dressed women on the covers. Apparently, our country is fine with seeing pictures of half-naked woman while in line at the grocery store, but is struggling with issues of breastfeeding in public: http://healthland.time.com/2011/12/27/the-nurse-in-why-breast-feeding-moms-are-mad-at-target/?xid=gonewsedit.
We need laws so mothers can breast feed their babies, but we are forced to look at “stars with cellulite” while buying milk?
I understand that we all get mixed messages, but our country is one big mixed message, especially when it comes to the human body, sex and relationships.
If it was up to me to resolve the issue, I’d say we need to start with some honest discussion about what we really value rather than what we pretend to value.
But then, I also know Americans have a love/hate relationship with honest discussion.
I’m guessing that’s also part of our disorder.
Ghosts of Christmas Past
Halloween may be the most ghostly holiday, but like Ebenezer Scrooge, I have always found Christmas to be more haunting. 
And just as with Scrooge, my Christmas ghosts remind me of what used to be and what I still hold dear.
Unlike Scrooge, my ghosts don’t necessarily encourage me to reconsider my life path. They are simply reminders about change, about being a parent and about how the best Christmas gifts often go unopened for years and sometimes even decades.
And every holiday season, my ghosts remind me of when I was an adolescent and received gifts that I didn’t unwrap or appreciate until years later.
They were given to me when I was struggling with the usual angst and therefore oblivious to anything my parents were dealing with.
And they were dealing with a lot.
My dad was unhappy with his current employment and seeking a new job. My mom was happy and fulfilled with her role in the community, but supportive of my dad. Therefore, the needs of my dad, the family breadwinner, won out and he accepted a job almost all the way across the country from our Oregon home.
Shortly after accepting the new job, he packed up his Ford truck and our family dog and drove cross-country to West Virginia. And my mother, my brother and I were left behind.
He made the move in early fall, and even through my self-absorbed haze, I knew much my mom didn’t want to move.
She even insisted that no one was going to buy our house anytime soon. But it sold almost immediately, and plans were made for the rest of the family to move to West Virginia over the Christmas holiday.
I continued my life as usual, pretending the change wouldn’t occur. My mother appeared to do the same. And with the holidays approaching, she made sure all the family traditions were kept. We decorated the house and the tree. We participated in holiday events. And we baked Christmas cookies and breads. Our house was warm, festive and inviting. In fact, there were very few indications that our life would soon be disrupted in ways that would take me years to understand.
But that Christmas WAS different.
My dad wasn’t around, and my mom’s eyes would tear up every time ‘”I’ll be Home For Christmas” came on the radio.
Too soon, school was out for winter break, my dad came home to help with the move, we hurriedly celebrated Christmas and just as quickly packed the house. Then we left. Forever.
Initially, I thought I would never adapt to my new life. Everything was different – the way people talked, how they viewed the world and what their priorities were. But I was young, and I eventually adjusted. But because I was young, I was also self-absorbed. So, the fact that my mother was facing the same issues at the “real-world” level didn’t seem important.
I knew she was unhappy. I knew that she went from being a community leader to being someone fairly unknown. And I knew that she just couldn’t conform to the suburban culture that we suddenly found ourselves in.
But I also thought she was “old” and just wasn’t affected by things the way I was. Or at least she knew how to deal with everything better.
I’m now even older than she was at that time, and I know we “old” people don’t always know how to deal. At least I don’t. And I don’t always hide my frustrations and imperfections… not even from my children. And during the holidays, I sometimes simply choke.
But my mom never choked. Even when she was going through one of the hardest times of her life, she never put her own issues, concerns and needs before those of her kids. She pretended that whatever her children were going through was a much greater priority. And she knew the importance of making us feel like we were home, even if she didn’t feel like she was.
That’s why, the Christmas after “the big move” felt just like every other Christmas. We decorated the house with the same decorations that we’d put out in years past. We baked the same cookies and breads that we baked in the past. And we listened to Christmas carols on the scratchy records we’d always listened to. It felt like we were home for Christmas.
I actually received several unwrapped gifts those two Christmas holidays. I received the gift of learning to move forward with my life while still embracing the past. I received the gift of understanding the importance of traditions at Christmas. And I received the gift of a role model who gave of herself at a time when there was often little left to give.
I unwrapped those gifts years ago, but I’ve held onto them. Every year when we hang the decorations on the tree… some which go back to my childhood…these Ghosts of Christmas Past come back to haunt me. And they remind me that life is constantly changing: new people arrive while others leave. Circumstances sometimes improve and sometimes get worse. And sometimes, even the entire culture seems to dramatically shift. But amid these changes, we can still appreciate the Ghosts of Christmas Past, celebrate the Ghosts of Christmas Present and hope that the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come provide opportunities for our children to open the unwrapped gifts we’ve given them. And that they too are haunted by Ghosts of Christmas Past.
The Addams Family Has Nothing On My Family
One of the stories that gets told and re-told every time my family is together is how I was switched at birth.
Truth be told, the story really isn’t all that interesting. I never actually got sent home with the wrong family. There were only two babies born in the rural Montana hospital that day, and I was over eight pounds while the other baby girl was much smaller. So in reality, there was never any significant confusion. The hospital was just so small and births were so infrequent that wristbands weren’t used. As a result, my parents were handed the wrong baby when they were getting ready to leave.
But even though the circumstances weren’t all that dramatic, there were times growing up when I was convinced that I was living with the wrong family. I was sure my dad made a mistake when he told hospital staff that they had given him the wrong baby. At least, I really, really wished this, and I fantasized that someday my real family, the ranchers in Montana, would come rescue me from my plight.
Putting aside the obvious family resemblances, I was convinced that there was no way I could actually be related to the people I was being forced to live with. They were just too weird, and even worse, they were making me weird. I knew this because I spent a lot of time comparing our family to other families.
There was simply no doubt. We were abnormal: my parents didn’t care about the things other parents cared about; they had different expectations and priorities for my brother and me; they didn’t listen to popular music; they rarely watched any television other than PBS; they didn’t care about pop culture and they would express opinions that were outside the norm of suburbia. Even the food we ate was weird.
There were times when the hopelessness of my situation got so bad that I would secretly watch an episode of the Addams Family
just because it made me feel a little bit better. But only a little bit, because I knew the Addams Family was fictional, while my family was real. Besides, my mother never approved of such frivolous shows.
But, like so many other situations in life, I grew up and got some perspective.
I’m not saying I completely overcame my compulsive need to compare myself to others and to worry that I was a bit off kilter (I always have been and always will be), but I did realize that there really is no such thing as normal. Most people spend a lot of time and energy putting up appearances rather than truly engaging in the world. I was raised in a family that just didn’t worry about what other people thought and lived accordingly. Because of that, it took me a long time to figure out how much other people were trying to cover up.
I’ll never forget an incident that occurred when my children were small. They had been invited to a birthday party at the home of someone who I thought had it all together. Not only did she have a career, but she was always talking about the amazing meals she cooked, how she was decorating her home and how her children were exceeding at a variety of activities. At that point in my life, I was feeling accomplished if I arrived at work with matching shoes and if my children were fed before I collapsed in the evening.
Needless to say, I didn’t want to go to the party. But I did.
I don’t remember much about the actual event. What I do remember is trying to find the bathroom and opening a door to a bedroom instead. At least, I think it was a bedroom. I couldn’t tell from all the junk that had been thrown in and piled up to get it out of view. This was obviously the mother’s attempt to make her home and her life appear perfect.
At that moment, staring at all that junk piled to the ceiling, I realized how many people spend too much time and energy trying to create an image of who they think they should be rather than simply being who they really are.
My family may have been weird, but at least they taught me the importance of embracing and accepting differences and imperfections, especially our own. They also taught me that no great discoveries or great works of art were the result of simply following the crowd or doing what everyone else was doing. Great advances come from thinking outside the box and having the conviction to do things differently.
My parents innate ability to do this may have skipped me, but it went right to my children. Neither of them seems to care about doing what is considered to be popular or the “in” thing. They are simply happy pursuing their own interests and are comfortable in their own skin. I admit that I sometimes forget what I’ve learned and start comparing them to other kids.
Then I remember the Addams Family. Their neighbors and community members may have thought them strange, but not only were they oblivious to what other people thought, they were also incredibly happy.
I like to think my family is too.
Just So You Know 