Working it Out

This week, I’ve been reflecting on an article by Bronnie Ware’s article “The 5 Regrets of the Dying.” After many years of working with palliative care patients, she developed a list of regrets men and women tended to express in the last weeks of their lives.

One of these included:

“I wish I didn’t work so hard”

Of this particular sentiment, Ms. Ware writes:

“This came from every male patient that I nursed. They missed their children’s youth and their partner’s companionship. Women also spoke of this regret. But as most were from an older generation, many of the female patients had not been breadwinners. All of the men I nursed deeply regretted spending so much of their lives on the treadmill of a work existence.”

Mine is not necessarily a nine-to-five job, but as Mike would tell you, I spend most nights during the school year on the couch surrounded by a stack of papers or a mountain of books. I will sometimes spend an entire Sunday grading essays, and at the end of the semester, when the work piles faster and higher than it does during any other point of the year, Mike will find me in a crumpled mess at the kitchen table under a pile of chaos.

However, I am a ten month employee, so at least I get a respite over the summer months.

I have been fortunate enough to be on an extended maternity leave this year, affording me the chance to spend most all my moments with Jude. But when I return in the fall, I will be jumping back into the fray, and though I’ve stepped in front of the classroom thousands of times, I will be entering brand new territory.

And it’s scary.

I will have to find time to spend with Jude while maintaining my courses and keeping up with papers. Oh yea, and then I have to prepare dinner and keep the house clean and find time for Mike and find time for myself and…

I am not the first person who has to negotiate a husband, a child, a home, and a job, but that doesn’t make it any less daunting. I want so much to raise a happy, healthy, well-adjusted son, without sacrificing my other commitments. I know I will figure it out as I go, and for now, the best that I can do is put it out of my mind and live in a cushy world of denial.

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Yes, that seems like the best plan of action.

At the end of my life, I know that one of my greatest contributions to the world will be my son, and I owe it to him to do the best I can so that he can become a productive citizen and a fulfilled and well-rounded person. And though I wish I could raise him full-time, this is not possible, and so, I have to get used to sharing him.

It has to happen some time, I suppose.

I enjoy my job, and I have made very close friendships with some of my co-workers. Plus, my salary will be a great help to our little family, not to mention Jude’s education fund. And let’s not forget how lucky I am to have a job in a time when so many are jobless. These are all respectable reasons for continuing my career outside the home. But I also find my work satisfying. Even though my students may never realize how deeply I care about their success or understand how hard I take their failures, I keep trying harder because it’s important to me, and I need something like that in my life. One day, Jude will be school-aged and won’t want a thing to do with me. Won’t a stack of papers at my feet be a good distraction?

I never want to feel that I missed out on being present in my family’s life because of work. But I also don’t want to lose myself in my family and forget that I am a separate person with a life of my own.

It’s all so perfectly complicated.

I hope I get it right.

Courage

“Wash out this tired notion
That the best is yet to come
But while you’re dancing on the ground
Don’t think of when you’re gone”

-Dave Matthews Band, “Pig”

***

Yesterday, I wrote about Bronnie Ware’s article “The 5 Regrets of the Dying,” and the five themes that arose from her experiences as a person who worked with palliative care patients.

The first regret that most patients expressed in the last weeks of their lives is as follows:

“I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.”

In contemplating this, I find myself lingering over the word “courage”. I know very few people who do not care what other people think. Others might describe these individuals as “odd” or “free spirited,” and though I agree to a certain extent, I admire them, too.

I can say that I haven’t made all my career choices or other life decisions based on the expectations of others, but I do let people’s opinions affect the way I feel about myself, so much more than I should. I can’t help it.

But that’s not what I want to say here today.

Instead, I want to come back to the word “courage”. When I was young, I just assumed that I would be a famous author. It didn’t occur to me that I could be anything different.  Writing always came easy to me, and when I pursued creative writing in college and then later in graduate school, I told myself that I was taking steps to achieve that vision.

But I was lying to myself.

Though I wrote some of my best work in those years, I didn’t take real steps to do anything about with it. I wasn’t ready, but I can’t say why.

In the past couple of weeks, I have begun the process of contacting literary agents in the hopes of seeking representation for my manuscript. It’s a lot of work, and at moments, when I am about to hit the “send” button after typing my email query, I feel exhilarated. But when the rejections start appearing in my inbox, well, my spirits dampen. It’s part of the process, I know that, but that doesn’t make it any less frustrating or disheartening.

There are a range of emotions that accompany the rejected author. The one I’m experiencing now is guilt. I wish I started building a sturdier platform when I was younger. I wish I put my words–my writing–out there years ago.

I wish I was braver. 

But I didn’t do those things. I am here now, and I am ready now, and I am courageous now.

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Sometimes when I get down about my situation, Mike will say:

“Julia Child.”

Julia Child published Mastering the Art of French Cooking when she was in her forties after having been rejected. The prime of her public life was still yet to come; she was a TV personality well into her seventies. If she let fear and outside expectation dictate her life, she may never have become the beloved Julia Child.

So, what Mike means to tell me is:

Don’t abandon hope.

***

Despite the rejection I’ve been experiencing, I am going to keep going. If it doesn’t work the way I’ve always imagined it would, then I know I need to try something new. I have plenty of ideas for new projects and just the right amount of will to try them all.

The alternative would be a lifetime of regret, and I’m just not willing to go that way.

No Rewrites

While perusing the Huffington Post on Sunday, I came across an article by Bronnie Ware entitled “Top 5 Regrets of the Dying.” Despite the seemingly morose subject matter, it was an enlightening read, so much so that I decided to email it to myself in order that I might use it as an inspiration for several upcoming posts.

Two and a half years ago, I started this blog as an attempt to record my experiences during the wedding planning process. But, what I discovered soon after was that I was trying to learn something about myself through those stories. The process had a tremendous impact on me, not just because I’d made a significant life change but because I opened myself up to happiness after years of finding it elusive and impossible. Re-living it allowed me to get clarity. And then, once I said everything I could about that topic, I just kept going. I suppose this is the thing that I like most about writing; it’s probably why I love movies and TV and reading. I am always looking for some hidden lesson/greater meaning/bit of hope.

I am always searching.

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So it’s no wonder I was drawn to Ms. Ware’s article. It discusses one of the things I fear the most: wishing for too many re-writes at the end of my story.

In reference to working with patients receiving palliative care in the last weeks of their lives, Ms. Ware writes:

“People grow a lot when they are faced with their own mortality. I learnt never to underestimate someone’s capacity for growth. Some changes were phenomenal. Each experienced a variety of emotions, as expected, denial, fear, anger, remorse, more denial and eventually acceptance. Every single patient found their peace before they departed though, every one of them.”

She then goes on to list her patients most common regrets:

“When questioned about any regrets they had or anything they would do differently, common themes surfaced again and again. Here are the most common five:

1. I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.

2. I wish I didn’t work so hard.

3. I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings.

4. I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.

5. I wish that I had let myself be happier.”

Maybe the topic is on my mind because her words are fresh in my mind, or maybe I found the article so intriguing because I am a new mother, desperate to help my baby boy keep a firm grasp on the happiness that comes so easy to him as an infant. I am naive. I want him to have everything. I want him to love this life no matter what the world shows him.

And so I keep, keep, keep searching.

Over the next two weeks, I’d like to reflect on one of the five themes Ms. Ware discusses in her article, and I hope you’ll share your thoughts along the way, too.

And the Award Goes to…

I have always enjoyed the Emmys, the Golden Globes, and the Academy Awards. This shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone since I love TV and movies so much, but my fondness for these broadcasts is also connected with my affection for writing. On countless occasions, I’ve practiced my own acceptance speech for best original screenplay, dreaming, hoping. Watching a show like the Globes each year helps to keep that fantasy alive. Sure, it becomes more and more far fetched with each passing season, but that doesn’t seem to dampen my wonderful world of pretend.

To celebrate this year’s awards season, I have decided to present my top five movies of 2011, in the order that I viewed them.*

1. Rango

A sweet, adorable, computer-animated Western with Johnny Depp at it’s helm. Mike and I saw this while we were on our Babymoon in Charleston, SC last March, and we were quite entertained.

2. The Lincoln Lawyer

I can’t look at Matthew McConaughey without hearing my grandmother say, “He is gawjess.” Despite this, I enjoyed him and the film.

This was one of those choices Mike and I made based on its Rotten Tomatoes rating. We felt like going to the movies, but we had already seen whatever else was playing/didn’t feel like sitting through a feature that scored a 13% by critics.

This film is adapted from Michael Connelly’s novel of the same name. It’s suspenseful enough and interesting enough, and it’s well-acted. Overall, it’s a solid movie, the kind of crime drama I haven’t seen in a while and throughly enjoy.

3. Midnight in Paris

Quirky. Smart. Charming. This Woody Allen gem features Owen Wilson at his best. It was our first post-Jude movie, and though Mike was pushing for Super 8, we went with my pick–with Woody–and were both pleased with this decision. In short, it made me happy, and I loved it.

4. Drive

Mike wanted to see Contagion, but I said:

“No. Way.”

Instead, I pushed for Ryan Gosling. Can you blame me?

After the first sequence, Mike turned to me and whispered:

“I don’t think I took a breath for ten minutes.” It was then that I realized that I had been holding mine, too. The tension was that dense and that wonderful.

Drive pulls you under and holds you there during its hundred minute run. It is captivating and perfectly acted. But its violence is startling. I mean, it is graphic. It is bloody. If you cannot stomach this sort of thing, you’ll want to skip it. At the end of one scene in particular, Mike said:

“And you thought Contagion would be too disturbing?”

Regardless, we were mesmerized.

5. Moneyball

This film had a touch of everything. It is light enough to solicit a few laughs and satisfying enough to be absorbing. The acting is sound; Brad Pitt and Jonah Hill are good separately and great together. Because it was getting such good buzz, Mike and I were in agreement about wanting to see this film. It was that rare feature that is as good as you hope it might be, and its accolades are well-deserved.

Honorable Mention:

Bridesmaids

Real-deal comedies are hard to come by, but this film has some genuine laughs. Melissa McCarthy is 100% the best part of this movie. I adored her character and admired the way she just went for it.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

It is as if David Fincher cracked open my brain and sketched every character, every set, every scene exactly as I saw it while reading the book. I mean, it is freaky. Rooney Mara is so brave in this movie; she disappeared into Lisbeth Salander. The biggest negative for me was the rape scene. This was the reason I put off seeing it and the only thing that I out and out hated. But, it’s an important scene in terms of the longtime arc of Stieg Larsson’s Millennium trilogy, so I understand why it has to be there.

Still hated it.

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So there there they are, my top five choices for the year. Even though it looks like The Descendants** and The Artist will walk away big winners at the Academy Awards, the films listed above are worth checking out on the cold winter nights ahead. So pick one up at Redbox this weekend, and head home to cuddle up with some popcorn and the pet/person you love most. Happy viewing!

*Please keep in mind that I have only included the films we were able to get out and see when we had a babysitter (aka Nonni). I am still interested in: The Artist, My Week with Marilyn, Shame, Hugo, 50/50, Young Adult, Finding Elmo: A Puppeteer’s Story, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, and sadly, the movie I looked forward to the most yet somehow missed, The Muppets. Had I watched any of these (most especially the latter), perhaps my top five would be different.

**Mike hated The Descendants. Hated. And we both agreed that Nick Krause’s “Sid” is the Jar-Jar Binks of the film.

Ten Best

Two nights ago, I decided to try a recipe in Better Homes and Gardens (BHG) for Chicken Marsala. Here and there, I get stuck in a rut when it comes to making dinner. I’ll find myself repeating recipes over and over until Mike and I tire of them and crave something different.

Recipes revolving around boneless chicken breasts are amongst the simplest and most innocuous, so I often gravitate towards them. After paging through the BHG cookbook–a gift to Mike from his mom years ago and a staple in everyone’s kitchen according to her expertise–I came upon a recipe for chicken marsala. I knew it was something that Mike and I would both enjoy, and it seemed simple enough, so we purchased the necessary ingredients with enthusiastic anticipation.

***

When Mike walked through the door on Tuesday night, late after having been stuck in terrible traffic, he walked over to the stove, looked at the chicken and said:

“Why isn’t the sauce reduced?”

“The recipe didn’t call for it,” I said.

“Well, it doesn’t look like any chicken marsala I’ve ever seen.”

At this moment, I wanted to pour the hot mushroom mixture over his head, then clock him with the frying pan, not because I’m violent but rather, because I’d hit my limit for the day. By this point, I’d already straightened the house, did some laundry, took Jude to the pediatrician, and tried to get dinner done while contending with this:

If you look closely, you can see tears AND a smile. This is because he would cry every time I turned towards the stove.

And then, there was this:

Not only does Harry want to walk over and steal the chicken, but he also is a little irritated that I haven’t fed him his nighttime snack. For the record, he’s not allowed on the dinner table, but you can see how well I’m winning that battle.

Yes, I have used similar images before when discussing the stress of making dinner, but I can’t think of a better way to illustrate the drama that unfolds in my kitchen every night between 6-7 pm.

Also on my mind was the piles of clean laundry sitting in baskets upstairs, waiting to be put away once the dishes were cleaned and Jude was changed into his pajamas. After that, I’d squeeze my last bit of energy into getting some writing done before bed. So really, I could have done without the critique of my marsala sauce. It was just bad timing on Mike’s part.

Once we sat down and tasted the meal, the adulation began flowing. At first, I thought he was trying to make up for his original commentary in order to stop the steam from billowing out of my ears, but he insisted that his praise was sincere.

“This is easily one of the ten best chicken dishes I’ve ever eaten,” he said after his third helping.

I was quite pleased with the way it turned out, but I wasn’t sure about his declaration.

“Is that even a compliment? One of the top ten chicken dishes?”

“Gina, do you know how much chicken I’ve eaten in my life? More than ten-thousand varieties, I’m sure. We’re talking one of the ten best meals amongst all of them.”

I thought for a moment.

“Well, I guess that is kind of nice, actually.”

After having been stuck in traffic at the end of a long work day, Mike was just frustrated and hungry. I know now that he made his observation without thinking. I’ve been guilty of the same and worse.

And about that top ten comment? Pretty awesome.

***

Better Homes and Gardens Chicken Marsala

Ingredients:

• 1/4 cup all-purpose flour
• 1/2 teaspoon dried marjoram, crushed
• 1/8 teaspoon salt
• 1/8 teaspoon black pepper
• 4 skinless, boneless chicken breast halves
• 2 cups sliced fresh mushrooms
• 1/4 cup sliced green onion (2)
• 3 tablespoons butter or margarine
• 1/2 cup chicken broth
• 1/2 cup dry Marsala or dry sherry
• Hot cooked pasta, such as capellini or linguine (optional

Preparation:

1. In a shallow bowl stir together flour, marjoram, salt, and pepper. Place a chicken breast half between 2 pieces of plastic wrap. Using the flat side of a meat mallet, pound chicken lightly to about 1/4 inch thick . Remove plastic wrap. Repeat with remaining chicken breast halves. Lightly coat chicken on both sides with flour mixture; shake off excess.

2. In a large skillet cook mushrooms and green onion in 1 tablespoon of the butter over medium-high heat until tender; remove from skillet. In the same skillet cook chicken in remaining 2 tablespoons butter for 5 to 6 minutes, turning to brown evenly.

3. Remove skillet from heat. Return mushrooms and green onion to skillet. Carefully add broth and Marsala to skillet. Bring mixture to boiling; reduce heat. Simmer, uncovered, for 2 minutes more, stirring occasionally. Season sauce to taste with additional salt and pepper. Transfer chicken to a serving platter. Spoon mushroom mixture over chicken. If desired, serve over pasta.

Enjoy!

Weight? Check!

I do not respond well to tough love. In a moment of difficulty or pain, it is the absolute last thing that inspires me to pull through and triumph. If you don’t believe me, pop over to see my dentist and ask to see my chart. Highlighted in bold letters across the top, you’ll see the abbreviation “TLC”. I know it’s there because I’ve seen it from across the room while sitting in the chair, awaiting my fate. But, it doesn’t offend me; it’s the truth, and I’m impressed that they “get” me.

I am not going to tell the story of Jude’s birth just yet. I’m not ready to share my battle wounds. But I will give you the following:

I arrived at the hospital at about 9 pm on June 6th, but Jude wouldn’t make an appearance until after 8 am the following day. Over night, the labor nurse whose job it was to check on me did not administer the toughest dose of love in those 11+ plus hours, but she was far from gentle.

I was in pain. I was exhausted. I was scared.

Sometime around 6 am, her shift was ending, and she was about to be replaced with an more tenacious nurse. But before she left, she pulled Mike aside.

“She isn’t planning on breastfeeding, is she?”

“Uh, yeah. She is,” Mike said.

“Oh. Well she cannot handle that. It is just going to be way too hard for her.”

Of course, I couldn’t hear a bit of this exchange because I was busy throwing up in between bouts of terrible discomfort. But that’s a fun story for another day.

When Mike relayed this exchange to me, I was appalled. It had been a month or so into nursing Jude, and despite the labor nurse’s doubts, I was getting nothing but positive feedback from his pediatrician in terms of weight gain and health.

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Last month, at his 6 month visit, Jude’s weight dropped from the 31st percentile in to  the 16th . I was still nursing and feeling very confident, but this development had me puzzled. I was well over the difficult hump of breastfeeding and had become so accustomed to it that it never occurred to me that Jude could be anything less than perfect.  I wasn’t about to let the nurse’s words get to me after all this time, but that didn’t stop me from feeling angry at her all over again. The pediatrician wasn’t too concerned about Jude’s sudden drop in growth, but he did suggest that we schedule a weight re-check for 6 weeks later.

Like a good student, I went to work, determined to make real progress during that 6 week window. Finally, we had our appointment yesterday, and as I expected, Jude had an excellent report. He gained almost two pounds in this short time, leading the doctor to say:

“I don’t know what you’re doing, Mom, but awesome job!” [Insert thumbs up.]

Now, Jude has been on solids for almost a month and a half, but the pediatrician was quick to tell me that most of his nutrition still comes from nursing.

This was just the kind of TLC I needed.

I would be lying if I said I don’t get mighty irritated every time I think about that nurse pulling Mike aside to tell him I was too much of a coward to breastfeed my son. She had no right to try and put that doubt in my husband’s mind or to pass that kind of judgement along to him. But when I hear Jude’s doctor tell me that I’m doing a great as a mother or when I watch my happy baby smile, laugh, and play, I let her meaningless words fall away from me. Breastfeeding is hard, and there were days in the beginning when I fought to keep going, but it was something I wanted for my baby, so I persevered.

Okay, that’s a little bit of a lie. When I heard Jude gained almost two pounds, I was giddy with vindication.

Wouldn’t you be?

Would You Like Some Cereal With Your Sugar?

I was never much for sweets until I got pregnant. My enjoyment for the occasional chocolate chip cookie or peanut butter M&M gave way to a full on obsession with anything chock-full of sugar. And the cravings didn’t stop once Jude arrived. I’m not sure if it’s the nursing or just a change in palate, but it’s an alarming development that I’d like to phase out before I gain back all my baby weight.

I’m sure most people have heard about the recent study concerning cereals and sugar content. This was a particular disappointment because I eat Honey Nut Cheerios every morning for breakfast. The news about the possible unhealthiness quotient of this particular cereal lead me to some serious evaluation–for about five minutes in the grocery aisle. And then, I bought another box of the Honey Nut variety.  I should care more about this sort of thing, but alas, I have acquired poor self control when it comes to sugary goodness.

I am often endeavoring to make sweeping changes in my life that will somehow turn everything around and make me happier/full of energy and vibrance/an all around better human being:

I will go to bed early and wake up early, too!

I will cut back on my TV watching!

I will stop worrying about small, insignificant things!

I will eat more vegetables and whole grains!

These are nice goals, but they stray too drastically from the life I’ve been living for quite some time. It’s a mistake to try and take on too many large life improvements, especially if I feel contented cuddling and being lazy with Jude until late morning or feel happy watching Family Feud and Ellen. Instead, the best I can do for myself is to identify the things that are holding me back or preventing me from feeling my best physically or emotionally and then work on fixing them in a slow, realistic manner.

Baby steps if you will.

This morning, I planned to do as much by eating oatmeal for breakfast. And then I proceeded to pour myself a bowl of my old favorite. Perhaps I need an intervention or a stronger will, but I think I’ll just have to wait until that colossal double box that Mike bought for me at Sam’s is purged from this house like the devil food it is rumored to be.

Isn’t the first step admitting you have a problem, anyway?

Pass the Peas

I’ve written before about the fact that I am now and always have been a picky eater. The major drawbacks in my adult life are making dinner for Mike–I am happy to make him anything, and he insists I only prepare meals that I’ll also eat–and going to dinner at someone else’s home where the menu will be limited. I will probably always try to cook new things despite Mike’s feelings otherwise. And when it comes to the latter, well, I’ve learned how to cope over the years in order to avoid starvation and to minimize any offense to my host.

Most people who know me understand that I am a terrible eater, and they’re gracious enough to accommodate me. I don’t expect this from a host and consider it very generous when someone goes out of their way for me, but not everyone is willing to do this. So if I enter a situation when there is nothing I will eat, I fill up on bread.

Thank God for dinner rolls.

Jude is a little over a month into solids, and for the most part, he’s done well. At first, he wasn’t too keen on plain cereal, but that was all about texture. He’d only had milk until that point, and bland, tasteless, gritty rice or oatmeal just wasn’t his idea of delicious. Aside from a slow start with bananas, he’s lapped up every fruit he’s tried. No doubt, this is because fruit is sweet and delicious, and so are the sweet potatoes he enjoyed almost as much. Carrots were okay. He does not hate them as long as they are accompanied by rice cereal.

And then last night, it was time for peas.

Now, I despise peas and always have. I remember many tears at the dinner table when I was younger, staring down a slimy pile of canned peas and carrots. So, I get it. In fact, I felt myself gagging at just the smell of those mushy jarred veggies I scooped into my son’s reluctant mouth.

“I feel the same way, buddy,” I said.

As a good mother, I know I have to encourage Jude to try everything, and not just when he’s an infant, but later, when he’s older, and we’re eating together as a family. I also know that I cannot be so outwardly picky as to influence his tastes and feelings about food. I want things to be easier for him. I don’t want to see him crying into his plate of red beets–well, let’s be real. I would still cry into a plate of beets. I just want him to be a better eater because it will make his life so much easier.

Above all things, I just want him to be happy. I don’t care who he loves or what he chooses for a career or what he likes to eat as long as he is safe, healthy, and happy. And if he continues to hate peas? Well, at least he has a picky Mama with whom he can commiserate.

Don’t Mind if I Do

Belated Happy New Year, everyone!

One of my many resolutions was to blog more often. Perhaps I’m just off to a slow start.

After the chaos of the holidays, Jude and I have slipped back into our regular routine, and it’s been quite nice. He wakes up around 7-7:15 am after a decent night of sleep, and hangs with Mike who is busy getting ready for work. Then, he returns to my arms at about 8-8:15 and we both fall asleep for an hour or so soon after. Upon waking up, we make our way downstairs, where Jude eats his cereal and then plays in his bouncer while I eat my breakfast.

The other morning, as I grabbed the milk from the fridge, I stole a glance at Jude who was bouncing like mad in the family room, and like a shot, I was hit with an overwhelming feeling of joy.

I love these moments, I thought, my heart swelling. I am fortunate enough to be living a life I never knew that I wanted, and I want to sop up every possible moment. It will all go by too fast, I know. In a flash, I’ll be back at work, desperate for these mornings. And soon after that, Jude will be a thirteen-year-old who thinks it’s rather uncool to hang out with Mama.

But I don’t let myself dwell on those things. Instead, I’m just loving spending time with my best buddy. And I’m trying to extend that relishing of the moment to other parts of my life. Another resolution? I’m not sure.

It’s just something I’m trying.

Yesterday, a dear friend visited Jude and me for the day. We lunched at Panera and went for a long walk, and it was just so good to laugh. Even though we don’t get to see each other often, it was as though it was just the other day that we were over at her old apartment eating popcorn and watching movies. We became fast friends in graduate school, a time that felt so endless and busy until it whipped by and fell away from us before we could get a firm grip on it.

Sometimes, I wish I could get some of those days back, but I suppose I’ll always feel that way about certain segments of my life. That is why I am trying to hold on to these days with Jude.

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It’s also why I’ve begun to take notice of all the small, silly things that make me happy, like tomato soup and chocolate chip cookies and fountain soda and long walks and audio books. They may seem insignificant, but in some way, they help to etch away the gloom that crops up here and there.

I can’t undo all those wasted moments when I allowed anxiety and self-doubt to dominate my thoughts, but I’m hoping that my memories of these days with Jude will help me wade through future bouts of despair and that they will always direct me towards peace and calm.

I hope your 2012 is off to an equally ambitious start.

For the Rest of Us

While trying to get to the hair salon today, normally a five-ten minute ride, I sat in traffic, creeping along at a pace that added twenty additional minutes to my trip.

I don’t know why I was surprised. It’s the day before the day before Christmas. Christmas Eve Eve. And everyone is going mad.

As it happens, today is also Festivus. This Seinfeldian holiday, Frank Costanza’s answer to the hyper commercialization of the holiday season, is rather relevant to me this year.

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Now, I’m no Grinch. I love Christmas, and I love giving and receiving presents. I even love shopping in all of the madness.

This year, Mike kept asking me to think of something “fun,” that I wanted for Christmas, something special that would make me very excited/happy.

“What about a hobby? Is there something you want to try?” he said when I came up with nothing.

“What kind of hobby?”

“I don’t know. What is it that you’d like to do. You know, just for you. For entertainment?”

“You mean besides napping and going to Panera?”

Shopping. Reading. Writing. Baking. And…? Why don’t I have any cool hobbies, I wondered. In truth, I don’t have much time for the aforementioned activities, so I can’t imagine trying something new to the list. Not now, anyway.

I can seldom think of anything particular that I’d like to receive for Christmas. First, my birthday is in early December, so I often use that opportunity to ask for whichever must-have item I’m currently coveting. Like many women, I gravitate towards purses, jewelry and clothes, but I don’t think that’s what Mike was looking for this year in terms of suggestions. He wanted to get me something special, but I had no idea how to set him in the right direction.  When we started talking about it further, we realized that we are both such rabid consumers, that we’ve maxed out on the potential, reasonably-non-debt-producing-gifts we could buy one another.

In short, we are part of the reason why Festivus was invented.

Every year, I go into a shopping frenzy around the holiday season, and every year, I fret that I haven’t bought just the right presents or that I haven’t done enough gift-wise. Like most of the people on the road this afternoon rushing to the mall and the grocery store and every where else, I spent my time behind the wheel going over and over my list, wondering if I had time to make just one more stop.

I was so preoccupied, I couldn’t even focus on an audio book.

Even though I take great pleasure in giving presents, the reason I adore Christmas so much is because I get to enjoy spending time with people I care about the most. That’s the side of the holiday that I want Jude to cherish.

I don’t want him to say:

“My mom is a shopping maniac every holiday.”

Instead, I want him to think:

“My mom always loves Christmas, and that’s why it’s the best day of the year.”

I will never give up my mall-going ways, but perhaps I can learn to infuse a little bit of Festivus into our festivities each year just to balance things out–minus the Feats of Strength and the Airing of Grievances, of course.

Happy Festivus, everyone!