When my daughter was little, she had hundreds of imaginary friends. They would go with her everywhere, making sure she was safe, happy and ready to face the world.
Often, I would hear her talking to them when she was alone in her room, sharing secrets and passing stories across the pink princess table she used for hosting tea parties.
At times, she would laugh so hard, I’d drop whatever I was doing and peek around the corner just so I could catch a glimpse of her in action.
“I can see you, mom,” she’d scream as if the room were three miles away.
“What’s going on in here?”
“Nothing. Just Watching TV.”
“Who are you talking to?”
“Oh,” she’d smirk, pointing at the television. “I’m just telling my pretend friends which character I wanna be.”
But the second I’d leave the room, she’d start giggling and whispering into thin air again.
Sometimes I wish I had pretend friends. I imagine that life would be much less complicated and lonely if I did. I would tell them all the things I’m afraid to tell anyone else and feel good about myself knowing they weren’t judging me.
Oh, who am I kidding? I DID have imaginary friends, but they stopped talking to me three years ago when they overheard my psychiatrist say they weren’t real.
There are so many firsts in life: the first taste, first step, first grade, and the list goes on until it exhales from memory altogether.
We experience life at our own pace, but everything changes when you have kids. You start doing things according to their schedule, not yours. You feed them when they want to be fed, not when it is supper time. You lay them down after they fall asleep, not always before. And when they want to become more independent, you step back and give them the space they need to survive.
My daughter woke me one night with tears in her eyes. She was upset over a four-day field trip to another state that she and her classmates had been planning all year long. It was a big deal to both of us because, aside from spending an occasional weekend at her grandparents, she had never been away from home before, and it was all happening the next day.
As we sat on the edge of the bed, discussing apprehensions, she shared her biggest concern.
“It’s weird how all of my firsts are happening at school,” she said. “I always thought you would be with me the first time I did anything and this will be my first time riding a bus, flying on an airplane or going to a baseball game. I’m just sad that you are not going with me.”
We held each other tightly as the weight of her words washed over us. For once, I was going to miss her first, and the thought of it was consuming us both.
After squeezing out a few more tears, I shared something else. “You know; you don’t HAVE to go if you don’t want to.”
Up until that moment, she was under the impression that any school-related decisions were not hers to make. It was a deliberate plan that I had been drafting for months, but something inside of me was not sitting right and I wanted her to be the one to make the call.
“What do you mean, I don’t have to go?” she asked, “Do you mean I can stay home with you?”
And then it hit me: I had just taken a year’s worth of fraudulent joy and obliterated it over a moment of weakness.
She sat quietly with her eyes in full swing while contemplating my offer. Then, without so much as a blink, she took my hand and shook me back to consciousness.
“I’m going to miss you so much,” she whispered, “but I don’t want to regret not going.”
And just like that, my daughter made a choice. She was getting on that airplane whether I liked it or not, and I had to let her go.
I woke in the middle of the night to find her standing next to me. The enormity of circumstance had, once again, trumped her confidence, and she was sobbing in much the same way. She crawled into bed with me, and I handed her a box of tissues. Wide awake, we cuddled, giggled and wept for the next two hours until we fell asleep with smiles on our faces… just in time for the alarm to go off. Tomorrow was today, and my baby was leaving.
It is difficult to articulate the torment that accompanies parenting; it just is. We worry about everything and whatever lies in between: a curse that comes from loving someone more than yourself.
As I hugged her goodbye one last time, my second thoughts were palpable. Every what-if imaginable was now floating through my mind, waving bright red flags of uncertainty.
“Don’t do it,” they shouted, “don’t let your little girl get on that plane!”
I thought about her a lot that day, as she soared high in the air with a panoramic view of freedom that—at her age—I never knew existed. Like a pilot, I had taken both hands off the wheel and given up complete control because that is what we do: we parent until the memory lands safely back in our minds, and then we thank the powers that be for putting them there.
Having sex with a hostile, sticky porcupine (also known as a live Christmas tree) is número six on my “Things That Make the Season JOYFUL” list.
NOT! I hate live Christmas trees. They are sap-regurgitating pines that contain eleventy gazillion pine needles that end up in my underwear—and other dark recesses.
For the record, it’s not just the sap and needles that make my hair stand straight up like Marge Simpson’s; it’s a combination of that and the ceremonial wrapping and unwrapping of the Screw-You Lights, which are inevitably tangled, dead, or both, EVERY—SINGLE —TIME.
I absolutely despise dancing the tango with lights. The end of that chapter almost always involves scissors, alcohol, and singing the annual holiday overture called Screw This and Screw That.
I especially hate said sap-bleeding monstrosities if one is acquired when it’s 10 degrees outside and the snow is blowing.
Jack Frost definitely blows.
Heck NO, I won’t cut a tree down like a pioneer woman. Leaving my warm castle and driving to the farm stand in frigid conditions is already extra credit in my Mom-Call-of-Duty book.
This Christmas it went something like this: “That one looks good.” A new Christmas-tree-picking-out record of less than five minutes was made; and my eeny-meeny-miney-mo blind selection wasn’t half bad. I won at Christmas tree roulette.
Technically, she’s not fully decorated yet, but that’s all I’m going to do for tonight. If my minion-elf family would like the remaining dozen or so bulbs and tinsel hung up around the house, they can do it themselves.
My family still uses tinsel. No kidding. What a shiny disaster it has become. The only real perk is glittery cat turds.
Yes, even our pets help decorate: We end up with a yard and a litter box that are beauteous.
Live trees for Christmas are lovely and they smell amazing, but after 20-something years of pine needle enemas, I’ve finally had enough. Who needs the extra work and aggravation during this joyful season of stress, exhaustion, and pulling the last hair out of my head?
“Why not use a fake pine?” you ask.
A couple of years ago, and against my family’s wishes, I bought an artificial tree. I figured it would grow on them. I presented my fake tree as now-we’re-one-of-those-hip-families-with-two-trees kinda thing, hoping sooner or later they’d accept it and I’d be free from tree muckery forever.
Technically, I lost by a vote of five to one in favor of a real, muthermucking mess of a tree.
So, for the next few months, I will be dissecting pine needles out of my unmentionables and chanting The Muck It overture.
Next year, count me out. No more Christmas trees, dead or alive (or fake).
“Why I Hate Christmas Trees” is an excerpt from the new anthology Mom for the Holidays: Stories of Love, Laughter, and Tantrums at Christmas and Hanukkah. Visit them at momfortheholidays.com! You couldn’t ask for a better gift to a fellow mom! (Want the UNCENSORED VERSION? It’s available on Kindle here!)
Gina Fenton of Extreme Mom: There’s the painfully boring PERFECT mom, and then there’s . . . Extreme Mom. Gina’s blog is the uncut and uncensored thoughts bouncing around in her head, except on speakerphone. Matriarch extraordinaire of four teens including an extra credit bundle called ADHD, OCD, Aspergers, Bipolar, and every other quirk not yet recognized in the DSM Proud member of the Parental Special Forces. That’s like a Green Beret, but with more practical skills. She’d like to advise a rating of M for mature, but mature is not exactly a word she’d use to describe herself. She is more like a fun grown-up. (extrememom.net)
I have the most beautiful nine-year-old girl in the world: a delightful compilation of everything simple and pure. For the most part, my daughter is a brilliant, charming, funny and thoughtful human being, but last night she wasn’t herself. Last night, she chose to raise hell (and my blood pressure) by transforming herself into a little smartass and forcing me to choose my weapon of discipline.
Truth be told, the incident didn’t happen at night; it occurred during the wee hours of early morning. I was nearly unconscious from a recent Lunesta party when I heard the first scream… “MOMMY, get in here!” My first thought was, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Why can’t she just handle shit without waking me up?”
I stared at the clock in a fog of confusion and noted the time. It was 1:27 am exactly. That’s when the footsteps commenced and thumped their way into the Jack and Jill bathroom we grudgingly share.
“I can’t sleep!” She cried from the porcelain throne.
“Well, what do you want ME to do about it?”
With a hint of perplexity and just enough attitude to warrant a bare-ass spanking, she pointed toward a glowing light on her bed and advised me of her intentions. “I can’t sleep, so I am watching Bewitched.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so.” I scoffed, snatching the DVD player from the mattress and stomping out of the room. “Go back to bed.”
This, of course, was the beginning of World War III between a tired mother and her strong-willed child. There were outcries, wall kicks, death threats and door-slamming fits of rage that lasted well over an hour—until she finally crossed a line and crushed my soul.
“I hate you!”
And there it was: the three words that every parent knows they will hear at some point but never expects. I sat on my bed for a moment to collect thoughts and suck the tears back in. By now, my body was full of so much rage and sadness that I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I put the pillow back over my head or split that DVD player in half?
When the door opened again that one last time and our eyes met, it was evident that she felt remorse. “I’m sorry, mom. I didn’t mean that.” But as a mother, I felt it was time to step up my game and teach her a lesson that she would never forget.
“Mom… NOOOO! I can’t believe you just broke my DVD player!”
I could write a lot of things about Brock Turner. I could tell you what an asshole he is for sexually assaulting an unconscious woman, but you already know that. What you may not know is that, aside from evading a suitable sentence for a heinous rape crime, he is getting released early today for “good behavior.” He spent 90 days of a six-month sentence in the Santa Clara County Jail for an offense that should have put him behind bars a lot longer. So basically, instead of getting punished; he’s getting praised for destroying the life of an innocent girl. Way to protect a victim, California.
This whole “it’s okay to rape someone if she’s drunk” thing needs to end, and parents need to hold their sons accountable instead of justifying their behavior with drastic pleadings. There is a first time for everything, but rape? There is nothing naive about that. My guess is that he’s done this before, and will no doubt do it again. But even if it were a first-time offense, why would that matter? Why would a person be awarded for only doing it once?
Sexual assault on any level is maddening. The devastation it causes to the victim is intense and permanent. They cannot *blink* it away or pretend it never happened because the darkness is a now part of them; traveling deep into their souls and burning the ability to trust.
There are some who continue to blame victims of abuse. For whatever reason, they assume these girls are either lying or deserving of what they got, but I disagree. I don’t believe anyone, man or woman, should ever be violated in a way that humiliates and scars them for life. And, I don’t agree that a short skirt or too much alcohol gives anyone the right to harm me, but what do I know? I’m just a 49-year-old woman who was abused as a child before I ever knew what alcohol was.
In the past few years, I have met more (rape) victims than I care to discuss. Some, like me, were too young to do anything about it, but others were no different from this girl in California. They were just girls being girls; hoping to meet a nice guy. The ironic thing about our culture is the image it has shaped for women. We are expected to look and dress a certain way if we ever want to meet Mr. Right, yet held responsible whenever his friend turns out to be a rapist. Who knew?