Wishing you all a Merry Christmas (or a Happy Tuesday!)

May you all get some special snuggle time today.

Two years ago, on December 22, 2004 , my father never woke up from his night’s sleep. He had been suffering from cancer and, yes, suffering is the operative word. By the end, cancer had robbed him of his ability to walk, eat, drink and even lie comfortably, but it never did rob him of his mind. Indeed, the day before he died, as he felt his eyesight and hearing fading, he told my mother that he thought he was ‘shutting down’. He was aware of it all, and for that I am grateful because I never really lost the essence of my father, my daddy, my children’s Opa.

After he died, I felt like he was gone. Yes, his ashes were in a box on my mother’s dresser and his voice on her answering machine, but he was gone. I would never see him again watching Speedvision; I would never be able to argue/joke with him about politics; I’d never see the way his eyes shown when they looked at one of my three children, his grandchildren. Two years later, the knowledge that he is gone can take my breath away, make my eyes fill with tears and make my voice catch. It seems unbelievable that it can be true.

And while I can accept that his physical self is gone, I am beginning to think that maybe he isn’t really gone. There have been little things. Like, the time I was about to listen to a liberal call-in radio show, and the show suddenly went to static (that was him protesting my political leanings). Or, when we went up to an inn in Vermont with my mom and my sister’s family and found a Fleetwood Mac CD in the stereo. As corny and superstitious as it sounds, I know he had some part in it being there, Stevie Nicks fan that he was.

Then, there are other, more subtle ways in which I can feel my father’s presence. In fact, if I pay attention, I see that he is everywhere.

I see his gait–straight-legged and stiff–in the way my son walks across the floor.

I see his craftmanship and attention to detail in my husband’s work around the house. I imagine that he is standing by his son-in-law, providing the same quiet guidance he offered during his life.

The taste of a fresh tomato, a just-picked zucchini or a crunchy pole bean remind me of the garden he tended year after year in my youth.

I hear the synthesized plinkings of Mannheim Steamroller on the radio, groan and then think of how much he liked that Christmas music, even though his musical tastes were normally much better than that.

Red Sox games on the radio, kielbasa cooking on the grill, the roar of lawn equipment and the murmer of late-night television—these are the sounds of my youth that remind me of my father.

When Belly tickles my feet, I remember how he laughed from his hospital bed as she tickled his toes and warmed his heart. When Jilly leans over to kiss me, I remember how she took turns kissing him and then me, over and over, when she was nearly one year old. And when D does anything sweet, a hundred times a day, I feel the warmth in my heart that my dad must have felt the day we appeared in his hospital room holding his three-day old grandson.

A lot of people have said to me that it must be hard to have my father’s “deathiversary” fall so close to Christmas. In many ways this is true. That first Christmas was a blur of strong emotion. Now, though, I feel like this time of year, when we are all trying to spend as much time with family as we can, when we are remembering to be a little kinder to each other, when we are reliving traditions and celebrations of years past, this may be the best time for me to stop, pay attention to his presence all around me and just remember.

Please don’t find me.

Please don’t find me.

I wake up in a panic and tell myself, “you are okay—go back to sleep.”

The dreams are terrifying. But they aren’t real.

My heart hurts for those families in Newtown, Connecticut who are waking up this morning, hoping it was all a nightmare.

In actuality, it’s making me feel kind of sick. Lately, whenever I start to think about what I have still to do—-all the posts I still need to write for work, the holiday activities I’ve promised to do with the kids, the Christmas cards, the gift shopping, the cookie making, the “making merry and bright” . . .I feel like I’m about to spiral out of control. Or just lie on the ground and weep.

Even the little Christmas Countdown app I have on my iPhone makes my hands break out in a cold sweat. Two weeks?????

I need more time. More. Time.

Though, I’m sure that’s not the only problem. Part of it is the overload of a to-do list that will not quit. Part of it is some weird expectations I have on myself for what the holidays “should” be like and what we “should” do. Even though some of those things aren’t even things the kids care about doing. (Seeing Santa? They could care less. I want the photo.)

But, I’m trying to de-stress in ways that don’t involve eating a jar of Nutella, guzzling wine, or yelling at the kids. How?

* Getting outside. Honestly? I’d probably never do this if I didn’t have a big dog with soft eyes who looks at me as if she’s saying, “PLEASE take me for a walk” And, while it’s One. More. Thing I have to do a few times a day, once I start walking down the street with her, I feel the burdens of the day lifting from my shoulders. I always try to walk at least a half a mile (or so—I don’t measure it!), and breathe really deeply while I walk. I’ve had a few freezing walks the past few days, and while I sometimes wish I didn’t have to go outside (especially at 10pm!), I never regret it afterward.

* Zzzzzzzzz. 15 minutes on the couch and—wow—so much better. Reminds me of when I was in college and would arrive at the library at 7pm most nights, put my books down, my head on the desk, and fall promptly asleep for a short while. Just like then, I wake up ready to handle the next bunch of tasks. (don’t tell my former bosses, but I did the same thing when I worked in an office.)

* Magnesium. I started taking a magnesium supplement a few months ago on the suggestion of my doctor who said it might help me with those mood swings that come up every month. (YOU know what I mean) I’m supposed to vary the dosage based on where I am on my “cycle” but I’m lazy and just take 250mg every night. I can’t say that this is good for everyone (and you should always talk to your doctor before you take any supplements!), but I swear I’ve been a little more even-keeled this fall and winter.

* Just stop and go to bed. I’m a morning person and though I’d love to be productive at 10pm, I’m really just staring at my computer screen, getting nowhere. I don’t expect to get “enough” sleep this month, but I’m trying to get as much as possible.

* Lowered expectations. I will never have a house neighbors wants to visit for my decorating tips. I don’t make 10 different kinds of Christmas cookies or write a note on each Christmas card. And if we don’t see Santa this year, we’ll be okay. I think.

I’m doing okay and trying to remember why I love this holiday so much, though there is always room for improvement. How are you doing? Any other things I could be doing?

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This is my last of three sponsored posts with Harvard Pilgrim (here are links to the first one and second one.) All the thoughts, opinions, and advice expressed are my very own. Want to find even more ways to be well? Check out HarvardPilgrim.org/CountUsIn. 

Photograph by Gene Schiavone

A few years ago, I started taking the girls to see The Nutcracker. They were both studying ballet, and their friend was in a local production. Plus, I was really, really curious to actually see the ballet in its entirety, having grown up as one of those poor, underprivileged children who never got to get dressed up to go with Mum to the famous ballet each December.

I’m not sure it’d feel like the holidays now without The Nutcracker. Back in November, I start to get excited to bring the girls to see their friend who, this year, is playing Clara in her dance school’s production.

But when the Boston Ballet asked if I’d like to check out their newly revamped version of  The Nutcracker this past weekend—along with a tour backstage to see the brand-new sets—I leapt (and pirouetted) at the chance.

I chose to bring Jilly who studies ballet herself, and the two of us headed up to Boston’s Opera House which deserves its own paragraph of “wow”, “gorgeous”, “stunning”. All dressed up for the holidays in gold and red, it felt like we’d stepped onto the set the moment we walked into the lobby.

Upon arrival, we were given a “goodie bag” for us bloggers and media folk who had been invited to attend. Inside, Jilly found something that may rank up there with her favorite gifts ever: A pair of used pointe shoes from one of the soloists, Ashley Ellis.

Broken-in (and autographed) pointe shoes? This is what dreams are made of.

As for the production itself, there was plenty to awe us both. I had read of Artistic Director Mikko Nissinen’s decision to completely redo the sets and costumes (created by designer Robert Perdziola), as well as add new choreography and characters. I never had the chance to see previous years of the Boston Ballet’s The Nutcracker for comparison, but, wow, I loved so much about this production.

The sets have an old-fashioned storybook feel to them, with so much detail incorporated into them, they would actually make a gorgeous picture book if they were ever shrunk down and bound between covers. Let’s make that a pop-up book, okay?

Photograph by Gene Schiavone

So much glitters in this production that it really adds to the feeling that you’ve entered a dreamland: from the sparkly costumes to the shimmering snow and the pretty silver sleigh led by silver reindeer, it’s all very magical whether you are 9 or 40-cough-something. And Mikko Nissinen has a great eye for cool special effects like the huge shadows the mice cast which makes them seem so much more threatening, and the took-my-breath-away moment when the towering, glittering Christmas tree grows to over 40 feet in size.

Though it is the dancing that really makes this show worth the drive into Boston and the higher-than-your-local-dance-school’s prices. The quality of every dancer on stage is so high—-from the adorable little polichinelles that spill out from under Mother Ginger’s skirt, to the gorgeously athletic leaps and dizzying spins of the soloists. It has us all breaking out into spontaneous applause throughout the show. And, the young girl who played Clara was so beautiful and expressive on stage, I could tell exactly her emotion from 20-or-so rows back.

Photograph by Gene Schiavone

Whoa.

The best thing about it all though was turning to my left and seeing how excited and energized Jilly was by what she was seeing on stage. I know The Nutcracker’s story line can be a bit confusing and–well–odd, especially if you haven’t seen it several times. But, armed with the scene-by-scene synopsis in the program book and charmed by this spectacular performance, this may be one more holiday tradition to look forward to each year.

Jilly. . .someday?

Are you a Nutcracker family? Do you take the kids to see if every year too?

You can find out more about the Boston Ballet’s The Nutcracker on their website. Also, go here for details on half-priced tickets. 

Thank you to the Boston Ballet for providing us with tickets to the ballet and the memories to go along with it. All opinions are my own.

Her kids seemed familiar, but they were not. It’s just that she had two older girls and a younger boy, just like me. We spoke for a few minutes and I discovered that they were spaced similarly to my three: about two years between the girls, and then—whammo—a short 18 months between the middle girl and her son. Though, they were not peers with my brood: Her kids were about three years older than mine, making her son about five that day in the library, and her girls around seven and nine. They seemed so much older.

We didn’t talk long. I remember that we laughed about how crazy my life was right now, and I’m pretty sure she reassured me that it would get less hectic.

I’m sure I’ve met other moms like this over the years, but this one has stuck in my mind for years. Maybe it is because her kids kind of looked like mine—-especially her little blond son. Maybe it’s because I hoped I’d look like her in a few years—slim, blond, dressed in non-rumpled clothes that didn’t have food stuck on them. Maybe it’s just how memory works—for no reason at all, I could still pick her out of a crowd in about 10 seconds.

I see her in town every year or so. At first, I’d say hello as we passed, but when I realized she has no idea who I am,  I stopped. But, I can’t help myself: as soon as I see her, I quickly scan the area and try to spot her kids which isn’t easy since I don’t really know what they look like. But, recently, I saw her son standing by her side—still blond, handsome, and almost as tall as her shoulder. Too old to be holding her hand, but not too old to keep his distance from his mother. This made me extraordinarily happy.

I think what is happening is that I feel like I am looking into a mirror—–one that shoots me forward three years—-whenever I see her. Truthfully, it’s not her I’m looking at though. In fact, she may be younger than I am—I have no idea. But, looking at her kids who I see so infrequently, reminds me of how quickly my own will be that age, that size.

I’m sure that someday  in the next few years, I will see her walk into the supermarket with a young man who towers over her and still calls her “mom”, in a deeper voice that wasn’t there before. I hope she doesn’t see me tear up as I walk past.

Inside the minivan, packed with our family of five and my mom, known by the kids as Oma. We were on our way to get frozen yogurt, our newest family obsession.

Oma, to my 8yo son, D: “What is your favorite flavor?”

D, easily: “Chocolate and vanilla. . .”

Oma then asked: “What is my favorite flavor?”

Silence.

Me: “D. . .you know what Oma’s favorite flavor is! It’s what mommy drinks every morning when she first wakes up!”

Silence.

D, brightly: “Oh! You mean wine!”

Curtain.

*and by “fires”, I don’t mean scary, burning things that are life-or-death. I mean that I am unable to cope with my “to do” list and need to tell myself that I’ve checked off something, anything, this week. 

Instead, I have a few quick tricks up my sleeve that take less than 15 minutes but leave me feeling like I did something good for myself. And I tell myself that someday, maybe when the kids are all at college, I’ll be able to take that bath.

Go out for a walk
I’ve always loved walking places when I lived in more urban areas, though I’ve grown more sedentary in suburbia where nothing is really “within walking distance”. This is where having a big black lab is a plus: She definitely needs to work off her doggie energy, and I can cover quite a bit of ground in 15 minutes. Since my kids are old enough to watch themselves (and I’m not going too far in such a short amount of time), I get to spend that time alone with my thoughts in the fresh air. For those of you without dogs, lace up your shoes anyway and hit the pavement for a little power walk—with or without the kids in a stroller. It really does feel great, even when the weather isn’t ideal.

Ommmmmm
I’m not a meditating kind of person, but after reading Mommy Niri and Lisa Johnson’s posts about their experiences with meditation, I’ve given it a shot. Just sitting quietly for a few minutes with my breath, telling my brain to s-l-o-w down feels really good. This is best done when the kids are still asleep in the morning, or when they are engrossed in a project downstairs, since angrily yelling, “Leave me alone! I’m meditating!” kind of defeats the purpose.

Spa Lite
I can’t ask the kids to sit tight while I run off for a massage at the local spa, but I can leave them downstairs while I spend 15 minutes taking care of my skin with a yummy smelling face mask and some heavy-duty, wrinkle-avoiding cream. Or, another trick I’ve done for years is to rub gobs of hand moisturizer on my hands and then plunge them into little disposable rubber gloves. Sure, I get really weird looks if the UPS guy comes to the front door, and–boy–do my hands get hot, but the reward is super-soft hands, especially if I can stand to wear them for a good long time (bedtime is good too).

Ten-minute tidy
Housecleaning isn’t often mentioned in pampering lists, but, since a messy house ruins my mood like nothing else, I swear by this trick: I set the oven timer for ten minutes, put on some great music, and the kids and I run around the house, putting away toys, clothes, papers, dishes. . .No I can’t clean my house in ten minutes (I wish!) but when the timer goes off, we all can see a big difference—and, if I’m lucky, the kids ask if they can “keep cleaning a little longer“—-er, OK kids. . .go crazy! I’m going to lie on the couch.

Pump Iron
In the perfect world, I’d have a gym membership and, after a nice long run or aerobics class, I’d have another hour to work on my chiseled arms and six-pack abs. In reality, I know any gym membership will go unused, as will big complicated home programs that require expensive equipment or an hour of time. But since gravity doesn’t seem to be giving me a break, I’ve decided to fight back. I grab the little 5-pound hands weights I keep in the family room, and do arm exercises for 10-15 minutes. Bicep curls, triceps push, deltoid squeezes, upright rows. . .It’s pretty amazing how many I can do in those few short minutes. I won’t have “Madonna-arms” doing this, but at least I can help tone things up a wee bit.

When all else fails. . .
I hide in my walk-in closet with a really, really good piece of dark chocolate and eat it v-e-r-y slowly.

Do you have any quick tricks for taking care of yourself during the day?

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This is my second of three sponsored posts with Harvard Pilgrim (the first one is here!) All the thoughts, opinions, and advice expressed are my very own. Want to find even more ways to be well? Check out HarvardPilgrim.org/CountUsIn. 

But, it still takes my breath away when we blame the victim(s) in an accident.

For instance, I just left my 11-and-8-year-olds downstairs making scrambled eggs so I could help my 9-year-old with the shower. If one of my children is terribly burned, how quickly will someone blame me for leaving them alone? (“She left her babies near a stove?!?!”)

After I stopped working to become a stay-at-home homeschooling parent, I’d hear comments like, “I could never let a stranger raise my children” every now and then. I always wondered, “Do they know that I let strangers “raise” my child three days a week so I could work an hour away?”

Do they know that I’d left my kids with a babysitter for a much-needed night out with my husband, only to find out later that this person was in no shape to be watching my very-young children. . .so much so that her mother called me afterward to say that her daughter was not “well” enough to do any more babysitting?

Do they think about all the children who get on a school bus each morning, or get dropped off at preschool, or go behind the doors of a gymnastics class. . .how vulnerable they are every day? Or do they tuck their children under their arms and take them everywhere, never letting them out of their sight?

I read last night’s horrific story about a nanny killing two young children with tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat. That this poor mother returned from taking her 3-year-old daughter to swim lessons to find her other two children bleeding in a bathtub is one of the worst things I’ve ever read. I dare you to read a news article about the screams the neighbors heard coming from that apartment and not be haunted by them.

Except some people weren’t haunted. They wanted to blame someone. And while the nanny seems like the likely person to blame, some blame the mother. How dare she have a nanny and “let someone else raise her children”? Serves her right for being wealthy and leaving her kids with a “stranger”?  Some even make this a political point as if this is a debate topic.

I realize the internet allows for a certain amount of anonymity so people feel “free” to make comments they would never have the guts to make to a person’s face. They may even feel they are raising important “issues”.

Though, make no mistake, they are not making some grand statement that needs to be heard: People who say this kind of stuff are assholes.

Have we always been so cruel? I suppose we have been. . .it just used to be easier to stay away from people like this. Now, with the internet, they seem to be everywhere.

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My heart goes out to the shattered Krim family.