Christmas is for little kids and big kids...and Moms

If only we would have had Light Sabers this cool when I was a kid.

The world has stepped it up since the days of empty paper towel rolls and sound effects produced by gargling your own spit.

In spite of the tsumami of illness which nearly wiped out our whole family - Christmas 2014 delivered her magic.  

She brought Sophie a new kitten which was discovered prematurely at 5 am by a girl who just couldn't wait.  

Light sabers for our young Jedi which he wielded all day long.  Beckam had no trouble finding an opponent.  No matter their age, everyone's eyes light up when presented with a glowing sword.

For Pepper, a karaoke machine and Elsa dress, which she slept in.  She is now right back at it with her microphone.  Kids pick up right where they left off.

Cousin Max and Beckam dueling at Grandma's house.

Yes, Jedi wear their blankies as capes.

Dad Vader scared Beckam

Hulk hands bigger than her head.

"This Rapunzel hair is too heavy"

Reading her Christmas list to Santa

The after math

My mother has 7 children.  We are all legally adults.  She's been making our Christmas magical for 35 years.
She is a single parent.
She is not rich.
She does not let this stop her.
A stockpile of presents spreads 5 feet out from her tree, and it's all for us.
I know why she does it.
Christmas is the one day a year a mother can indulge.
She can try to give her kids everything.  Of course this is impossible, and of course they don't need it.

I can see her giddiness at knowing she got a good one.  Her gift caused our mouths to hang open and eyes to pop out.  Maybe a tear or two slipped out.
She goes to work every day all year, so she can give the excess (plus a little more) to us.
To her it is a privilege, as it is for me, to care for her children.

Still a kid

Brad, me and Andrew.  at Grandma Shannon's house. She still goes all out even though we are in our 30's

Merry Christmas

internal alarm clock

I don't need an alarm clock.

I wake up at 5:30 a.m. even though all the Health articles I read say, "Get plenty of rest."

A minimum of 6 hours is required to allow the body to heal and prevent weight gain.  

However 8 hours is ideal.  

Yeah, right.

I'm sure it is.

However, how can I afford 8 hours when I have:

3 kids

1 husband

a hamster wheel of artistic ambition

an endless stream of story to be written

a body which throbs for activity

2 cats....

and of course....the laundry.  (there is always, the laundry)

I don't want to sleep.

Even as a teenager, I would burst open at 7 a.m. and annoy my more "mature" friend, Monica.

It got so bad that she sat me down one day and said basically,

"Look Sarah, I like you.  But if we are going to have sleepovers, you've gotta promise not to wake me up before 9 a.m."

So I'd spend 2 hours staring at her Patrick Swayze poster on the ceiling and picking the nail polish off my toes.

Now I am a grown-up and I can do whatever I want.

This is still a novelty to me.  I dream up more projects than I can execute.

Sometimes this defeats me and I spin in too many directions.  

For example when I try to outwit traffic and wind up driving in circles.

Today I am painting a giant mirror flat black with an FTR logo taped off.

When the paint dries, which will be agonizing to wait for, and I peel back the tape, I will see the letters reflecting back in the clear mirror space leftover.

It will be glorious!  I want to do it right now!

In fact I didn't want to go to bed.  I wanted to paint it last night at 11 pm

But my eyes were aching cuz I'd been up since 5 a.m. and I was forced to be responsible for this body and let it rest.

My stomach is growling.  It is annoying.

Beckam is lying on the floor in his ninja turtle jammies.  He is going to need breakfast.

I should probably put on a bra and change out of my swishy pants.

And now I hear Pepper in the other room cooing to the cats.

I wish I could just zip from writing to art to exercise...but there are other facets of my life.

Without these dimensions, I would not be human and my art would have nothing to say.

I would be like Data from Star Trek trying to record human behavior without any connection to it.

So I take a deep breath, publish my writing for the day, and scoop up my fuzzy children for breakfast.

BOLD FONT

I FAILED TODAY.

TYPED A RESUME INSTEAD.

THERE ARE TOO MANY #!*$ING FONTS ON THE PLANET.

WILL TRY AGAIN TOMORROW

AHHH!

The BOOK

I sit down at the computer and remember that Pepper has colored all the keys lime green with a Sharpie.
It actually looks good. Andrew finished off the job for her, adding color to the tiny spots she missed.
He wasn't the least bit angry.
This is progress.

Now I'm looking around the room trying to notice the next delightful detail to illustrate for you.
This must be the block...the writer's block they talk about in my book.
I've been reading the War of Art.  It is telling me a bunch of stuff I already know, cuz I've lived it.
I suppose it is validating in some way, but I have yet to read the part where he tells me the secret code.
You know like in Contra?
Up...Up..Down...Down...Left...Right...Left....Right...B...A...Select...Start.
Bam!  30 guys.
Anyone can beat the game with 30 guys.

What is the secret code for a writer?
I believe it has something to do with fear.......
.........bathroom break...........I drink a lot of coffee............................*
Okay.
So you're not going to believe this.
I took my War of Art book into the bathroom and the next page says:

Resistance and Fear
"Are you paralyzed with fear?
That a good sign.
Fear is good.
Like self-doubt, fear is an indicator.
Fear tells us what we have to do.
The more scared we are of a work or calling, the more sure we can be that we have to do it."

The universe is tickling me, and it's a little bit uncomfortable.

So now the question.....What is the question?

What am I afraid to do as a writer?
I know this answer.
I am afraid to write a book.  I am afraid to try for publication.
I am afraid to hope for a wider audience...but I want one so bad I could cry right now.
Literally I feel tears hot in the corners of my vision.
I feel overwhelmed by this thought.  I don't know where to start.
I don't know what my focus will be.  I don't know what the book would be about.
Why would anyone read my story?
Perhaps because people read it already...?

What story am I afraid to tell?
I am afraid to tell my story because I'm afraid it doesn't matter.
But it's the only one I know.  It's the only one I can tell honestly.
I'm afraid that if I tell it honestly I will offend the other characters.
Because my own story is so wrapped up with the people I am close to.
I am afraid that I won't be able to say the whole truth cuz someone else will be embarrassed.

I'm afraid I'll get obsessive and mean.  I'm afraid I'll go crazy.
I am afraid of the creative mania.  It is easier to fold the laundry and read children's books.
I am afraid of a new definition of myself.
I'm afraid I won't be good to my kids.  I'm afraid I won't be delighted by the lime green keys.
I'm afraid it isn't time.

Mostly I am afraid to say this matters.  This is a book.  This is serious.
But how many "books" have I written?  A book is just a whole bunch of writings smooshed into one place and read by lots of people.  Usually it is about one thing.  I'm afraid mine wouldn't make sense.  I'm afraid it would never get published at all.
How can I think about it differently?
Maybe the War of Art will tell me......

To be Free

In the wake of July 4th, I am exhausted.
 Two nights up past midnight and this Cinderella is weary of the dance.
But, as the princess says,
"Ahh...it was worth it.  Cuz when we danced...it was so....well...I'll bet even the prince himself couldn't have been more...more...Oh well...."
And that pretty much sums up how I feel.
Pretty clear, right?

Really though.  It is like heaven, right here, all around me.
I believe Heaven is to want for nothing.  It is to wish only for what is right in front of me, and to see the light, the magic, as it is.
Complete with sparkling angels and a love so complete that no wind blows through to chill my soul.

I see them delight in the same magic I have found on warm summer nights, with smell of fireworks floating above my head.  My five siblings and I running on baked asphalt in bare feet and Dad's over-sized T-shirts.
Each tucked into our little pockets of family and finding everything to celebrate.
The magic snake growing out of the ground is our own private volcano.  We stomp the ashes between our toes leaving footprints.

Beckam is a soldier, truly.  Roaring "Freedom!" with his sword over-head and his barrel chest mounding out against the night.  He told me he didn't need a shirt, and I understand.
The fireworks whirl them all into a frenzy and the kids run circles in the grass.  Pepper wears her sunglasses even though the sun has gone down.  She is a misplaced Audrey Hepburn.

I curl into Andrew on the blanket. Beckam climbs the mountain of his Dad's shoulders.
"I got you Dad."
Andrew laughs and tells him, "You're little. I'm big."
Beckam grumbles back, "No.  I'm big. and strong.  and tough."

I teach the kids the mantra of the fireworks,
"OOooo....Aahhhhh.....FREEDOM!"

They are hooked.
Every explosion launches a chorus of:
FREEDOM!

And it is true.
We are.

Kinship with the sun

I just finished making the bed where my Dad has been sleeping for the past 4 months.

I arranged all the decorative pillows and smoothed the sheets.
I found one of his toothpicks on the floor.
There is an odd privacy to the basement once again.
I don't entirely like it.

Pepper just walked into the room where he slept and sleepily said,
"Hmm.....I've never seen this place before.  It used to be different."

Sophie came home last night and asked,

Beckam and Grandpa on the iphone - 2014

"Where is Grandpa?"
"He moved out," I said.
Her face fell and shoulders slumped,
"He did?"

In that small moment I realized, he had been a part of my family again.
We accounted for him in our day.
He had a regular breakfast.  Just as Sophie does.
Grandpa eats bagles/toast with cream cheese and juice.
Sophie eats waffles with one egg cracked in the mix.
We knew that about him.
Grandpa sits on the swing on the back porch for long stretches just soaking in the sun.
He loves to watch the TV show "House."
He will always babysit if you ask him.  But he will not clean up toys or change diapers.  He may possibly make popcorn if you're hungry.

Grandpa was sick for 2 weeks.  It was our job to worry about him when he coughed too much.
We got excited when he was finally feeling better.
Some days the whole morning would pass in the kitchen with he and I, just talking.
The light growing in warmth all around us, and I remembered my origins.
Why I ask so many questions, and awake with a buzzing mind.
He picked Sophie up at school, at gymnastics.

My Dad and Me - 1981

He helped me shovel the driveway.
Before bustling out the door to work or a meeting, we would wish each other good luck.

These are the small stitches by which family are sewn together.
And now, it feels like he's been torn off.
Perhaps a spot that will never be mended.
Is this the ache of growing up?  The reality of having a father who is a maverick, an entrepreneur, a soul with a thirst never quenched.  One who cannot get too comfortable without feeling disloyalty to the great possibility stretched on the horizon.  One who feels a kinship with the sun.

The morning before he left we had an honest talk on the porch swing.
It ended with my head on his shoulder, barely swaying, me crying, and him with an arm around my shoulders.
A moment we stole from the tide of change.
I didn't want it to end.
He told me, "This relationship with you is the closest thing I have to the soft spot in my heart."
"Well we'd better take good care of it then," I said.
And we both knew it was time for him to move on.

Now I cry, because I look at his picture and I imagine him alone.
But he does not want my worry for him.  He wants my belief in his strength.
He wants me to know what he is and to love him for that.
I suppose this is part of my tears...is that I do.
More completely than I ever have, I understand my father.

If it's not fatal...

Beckam has carried a bruise on his forehead for the last year.

 It migrates, but it is always there.

It is his war badge, his stamp of bravery and I am proud.

We had to superglue it shut once last summer.

His skin popped open on the edge of a rock.

My rugby playing brother came over for dinner last night.

The first question he asked the 2 year-old was,

"Come here Beckam. You got a bruise on your forehead?....Oh, yep.  There it is."

I just read an article about a school in New Zealand.

http://www.theatlantic.com/education/archive/2014/01/recess-without-rules/283382/

They have recess without rules, and the results are positive.

The school now has less bullying, less vandalism, and higher concentration levels during class.

Their students are learning how to deal with risk, and with this comes accountability, common sense.

It also breeds self esteem.  I remember looking at neighborhood trees as a kid and thinking, "I climbed that."

I didn't swing from below the monkey bars, I walked on top of them with bare feet, toes wrapped around them like a monkey.  I remember the floating transcendence when this skill clicked, and I can also still do it.

The article makes another good point, a more subtle one.

It is one thing to read such an article and think, "Yes, we coddle our children too much, this needs to stop!"

However, are these readers able to allow their own children to get hurt?

Are they able to let go of the impulse to hold someone else accountable?  Can they give administrators, teachers, and coaches the space to let kids run free?

Last year at gymnastics, Sophie broke her arm.

She dove into a forward roll and dislocated her elbow.

Never once did I think to blame her coaches.  She is a gymnast.  Gymnasts get hurt.

My daughter wore that cast like a soldier in uniform.  

She had the experience of heart ache while watching her team-mates compete.

She attended their meets in her cast, with a smile.

Granted, she did cry all the way there, and she didn't want to go.

Her Dad told her, "You are a part of a team, and you will go support your team."

So she suited up in her GTC warm-ups, cheered them on, and learned the value of good sportsmanship.

I watched her struggle to regain the skills she'd lost while injured.

I saw her work hard for something she wanted.  The decision was hers.  The commitment was hers.  I am a teacher.  I know how difficult it is to teach kids to be intrinsically motivated.

The article's last point is this, those of us who remember free play will preserve it.

I would never want to rob my children of these medals.  My tag-line is:

If it's not fatal, it's okay.

Sophie belaying Pepper while she climbs in Big Cottonwood

The Truth about Baking a Cake

I programmed myself to wake up at 6 a.m. just so I could write.
I have been missing this time.
The rest of the world is asleep now, and I can sneak into my own heart.
Because once everyone wakes up, it belongs to them...and that is exactly how I want it.

When this life is over, my heart will be the most ragged stuffed animal.
It will be the t-shirt I can't give up.  The one so thin it looks like cheeze cloth.
It will be my 28 year old brother's baby blanket, whittled down to a 1 foot square and still draped over his shoulders in the morning.
It will be my husband's Big Book held together by duct tape, with a broken spine, and highlighted paragraphs.  The pages soft and brittle on the edges, like Grandma's skin.

I get hurt often, and I am grateful.
There is a line from the Big Book which I often meditate on, and it says:

"...we invariably find that at some time in the past we have made decisions based on self which later placed us in a position to be hurt."

In the margins I have written:

"I am not a victim."   and    "Not so bad, that I am human."  I am a willing participant in this human race.


Yesterday my daughter Sophie decorated her cousin's birthday cake.  He is turning 10 and he loves Batman.

We went to the craft store and bought black fondant.  She is pumped.  We baked cakes the night before. They sat perched on the kitchen counter, waiting to be draped in Batman's cape and logo.
She watches Cake Boss  with the eager face of a teenage groupie.
That guy can dream up any cake and make it happen with precision.
So, in her mind, her cake is supposed to be masterful.  It is the 2nd time she has used fondant...in her life.
To her, this does not matter.  She is supposed to be able to make her cake look like "The Boss's" cake.

I coach her through, just as my mentors have done for me.  They remind me that I am learning, and to take it slow.  This is impossible for me.  My ambition drives me smack into the solid wall of reality.  It hurts.

"Ugh!  This fondant work is sloppy!  Look there's a hole in it!"
She stomps around in her boots and sticky fingers, fluffing hair from her eyes.

"It's okay Sophie.  I promise, people won't see it as you do.  It is a small hole.  Let's wrap a band of fondant around the bottom to hold the frosting in.  It is good to learn to work with your mistakes. Because you will make them.  You are learning. It's okay.  It looks better than you think."

"No Mom! It is NOT ok!  It looks terrible!  I hate it!"

I remember this.  I remember studying art in school and feeling this way.  I had an idea of the painting but couldn't execute it.  My professor would say,
You have to paint a hundred bad paintings before you will paint one good one.
To which my head would respond,
Not me.  I'm going to paint a good one, now.

But he was right.  I am only barely able to paint...kind of...how I want to...sometimes.

I know she will kick against me.  I know I can't take away her frustration, because it comes from hope.  It comes from caring.  I will simply keep telling her the truth, no matter how many years it takes, for both of us to bring about the desires of our hearts.

still falling...

I'm wearing my knee-high Doc Martin boots he gave me 5 years ago for Christmas.

The world around us is rocking and booming and ending.
People are throbbing and sweating.  We are in a bubble.
We create that, still.  I don't have to go looking.  I have found exactly what I was seeking.
I need only what is inside this bubble.  He knows everything I can't say.
We don't find ourselves here as often.  Life crowds us tightly.

"I always get a little nervous on New Year's Eve," he confesses.
But his eyes say otherwise.  They have crinkles of joy at their corners and his grin is that of a Cheshire cat.
"Oh really?"  I bend backwards at the waist where his hands are locked.  "Yeah, you look very scared...."

Before our first New Year's together I told him,
'This is a very significant holiday.  If we kiss at midnight and it falls flat, then it's a sign.  If I look at you and dread the year ahead...well...that means maybe we probably won't make it.'
The poor man spent the whole day twisted up and afraid he would not pass the test.
But our kiss was luminous, and every year since then, the world stops for us on December 31st.

Sometimes I get scared this is too naive of me, too superstitious.
But I don't think so.  I don't think it is silly that I want to be in love with my husband.
Because if my eyes are wide open, If I am really looking, then I cannot help but to see him.
What I see is more and more about what it takes to be the man he is, and I cannot help but adore that man.
So I suppose it is an exercise in awareness too, and honoring something sacred.
For reasons I cannot understand, I was graced with an immense love for another person.
Every year my resolution is the same:
                                                 Do not forget to honor what Grace has given you.
                                                 Do not get too busy to see him.

How do I do this?  How do I stay awake?  The answer has been the same since I was a hormonal little twirp with a journal in junior high...keep writing.  That is it.   The resolution.  Do not forget.   Keep writing.

just before we took the plunge...