• Excess = Happiness

    Excess = Happiness

    Did that title make you balk? I hope so. Now read on.

    kid at christmas

    Every year it happens. I vow I am not going to make our lounge look like Christmas threw up in it on Christmas morning, and yet, as the holiday season is upon us, I find myself making lists and lists of gifts to give. I love giving presents. Nothing like finding the exact right present for a person, and seeing their face when you open it. I find myself ambling along aisles in stores, unable to resist all the commercial gunk that they deliberately put out to tempt people like me. People who love Christmas.

    I LOVE Christmas. I really really love Christmas.

    I love the feeling around the holidays. I love being with family. I love the nostalgia of Christmases past. I love Christmas carols – even by Boney M. Especially by Boney M. I love that some of my happiest memories revolve around Christmas holiday time. I love that I cry when I hear the “Christmas Shoes” song. (I dare you to watch it without crying!) I just love everything about it. I love decorating and putting up our tree. I love the flood of memories that each special ornament brings back… my Maine lighthouse… lobsters… carefree holidays. My kitsch and very clichéd Empire State Building … remembering Rockefeller Centre at Christmas… the kids’ 3yr old hand-prints in clay… The lights (though not the colourful ones, I draw the line at those!) Christmas time makes me happy.

    And that is why I get sucked in. Every. Single. Year.

    But I try, every year I try, to limit the gifts. To not get to the point where the kids are just opening gift after gift in a never-ending sea of wrapping paper. And every year I believe I have achieved it. Until the aftermath… Christmas morning when I cannot find my kids because they are lost amid mounds of wrapping paper. Oops… I did it again.

    I am not a material person. And definitely not a material parent. I don’t believe in keeping up with the Jones’ and certainly not the Jones’ kids! I won’t buy things for my kids just because their friends ALL have one. If they need it, or if they are of the right age, then that is a different thing entirely, but I firmly believe they should earn a lot of what they have. They all saved up for their own tablets – there was no way I was buying them one. And they were so proud. And even better, they look after them as prized possessions. That to me is the lesson. That is the kind of parent I am. But then … Christmas.

    I accept full responsibility. For me, nothing beats that bright-eyed frenzied excitement on Christmas morning when they wake up and go from a state of being virtually comatose to being jacked-up, hyper-excited, Christmas-injected Energiser bunnies. On crack. Drinking Red Bull. With Ritalin.

    It’s my fault. But hearing that “Mommy! Wake up wake up! He came!” at 4.40am on Christmas morning, when I had to fumble in the dark to reach my ever-ready camera to capture the moment, was the drug that hooked me. It brought tears to my eyes every time. Every. Single. Year. I was often breathless with emotion – you know that overwhelming feeling when your chest aches and you take ragged deep breaths to stop your heart from bursting at their joy? Yup, that. And I just love the excited looks on their faces as they ogle the stockings with little mysterious bits popping out, dying to see what they are. Even if it’s socks, or undies. Or stationery. It’s just so exciting.

    And I am as excited filling them. Which is why it happens.

    My kids are grateful. Even for the socks and undies. Even for the lopsided, hand-knitted jersey granny made them. So the problem is not them, it’s me. I know this. I own it. And I try to do better every year.

    Last year was the first year without Santa. At first, my little one was so excited he was in on the secret. He was BIG now, and part of his brothers’ team. On the adult side of knowing. But it’s a bit like eating that proverbial fruit of the knowledge of good and evil… it just isn’t so great in reality. I knew that he was going to be so deflated on Christmas morning… It was going to break my heart. So I compensated. I filled their stockings. Again. Little stockings and little things, but I did it. Again.

    This year I started my Christmas shopping early – which I thought was a good thing, but it turns out it just gave me more time to find more ‘perfect’ goodies. I also shoped smarter – incorporating things I would probably have to buy them in January anyway for school… But their stockings will be full of little goodies again, and then the one ‘main’ gift, but this year, I am ok with that. This year I am not going to beat myself up about it. My kids are not spoilt. One day a year that they get a small stocking of goodies is not going to make them into brats. And as long as they are always grateful, and appreciate every gift – and if not the gift, then the effort the person went to in getting it for them – then I really am ok with that. If they were turning their nose up at granny’s hand knitted jerseys, or said things like “Socks are boring, I don’t want sock!” then yes, I would take another look at this, but they are not. And this year I am not going to try not spoil them. They are great kids, and I am making memories that will outlive the latest craze, or the newest toy.

    a kid on Christmas

    I am creating traditions that will live on and become part of their children’s traditions and Christmas. Or Chanukah or Ramadan, or Eid Al-Fitr, or Saint Nicholas Day, or Eid’ul-Adha, or Fiesta of our Lady of Guadalupe, or St Lucia Day, or whatever holiday you celebrate during this season. I am celebrating family and giving and loving. And that to me is what this time of year is about. It’s about love and forgiving and giving and receiving. Of course the ‘real reason’ for Christmas is to celebrate Jesus’ birth – but not everyone subscribes to that religious belief and that is not what I am writing about. I am writing about family and love and good times and togetherness and traditions. I am writing about connections and memories and a legacy of this season. I am writing about sentimentality and nostalgia. And all of this is about family. And one day, my family will become sentimental Christmas nostalgics like me. And they too will experience the ‘adult side’ of watching children’s joy. And their eyes will well up too. It’s genetic, this loving Christmas thing. Or maybe it’s contagious… but whatever it is, my kids love it, and that just makes me love it more!

    Enjoy the season. Don’t get caught up in the ‘crazy stress bandwagon’… rather get caught up in the crazy spirit of it all and make memories that will live on in their hearts forever.

    I’m off to the shops!! Chag Urim Sameach…Ramadan Mubarak… Eid Mubarak… and Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night…

  • NO Year’s Resolutions

    NO Year’s Resolutions

    NY resolutions6

    January. New beginnings, fresh starts, good intentions. That is what it’s about, right? Unfortunately, if you are like most of us, by February the resolutions are either out the window, modified or sadly diluted. The new beginning already feels like the old rut, and our good intentions have faded to a niggling guilt in the back of our minds.

    So much for that.

    This year, I challenge you… DO NOT MAKE RESOLUTIONS. Don’t come up with the obligatory list of improvements to be the best you you can be. It can be soul destroying to get to the next 31 December and feel, “I can’t believe it’s been a year since I didn’t become a better person.”

    How about this year, you resolve instead, to love you in the best way possible. To be kinder to yourself. To make more time for the things and people that matter. And to just generally be happier. Yes, yes, I know, you would be happier if you were thinner. And you would be happier if you were healthier. And you would be happier if you were more in control of your finances. But would you really?

    Probably not.

    Would you ever feel thin enough? Healthy enough? Wealthy enough? Aren’t those the stereotypical holy grails of conversations. No one ever says, “I am so happy with my current weight/health/financial situation”, do they? Those are conversation stoppers. It’s much more socially acceptable to complain about those things than to say you are satisfied with them. When someone does brave that type of attitude, most of us are stunned and walk away from those people feeling that they are arrogant, conceited, self-important braggards.

    Why is that?

    If I was to stand up and ask a group of six-year olds to tell me five things that they are good at, I bet you they would not hesitate for a second and would probably come up with a list in a few seconds flat. But if I was to ask a group of adults, they would flounder and hesitate and get stumped. I know this, because I have done it. Six year olds can’t wait to tell you that they are great at running and jumping and singing and spelling and writing and making toast and making people laugh. Grown ups… well they get stuck. Five things! I kid you not.

    How do we get to that place? The place where we either feel we are not that great at things, or that we feel we may be but we would never have the gumption to outright admit it?

    It’s because of our resolutions. OK, maybe not just the resolutions. But the principle is the same because what are resolutions really? They are a long, hard, painfully honest looks at ourselves from our most critical eye. They are the conclusions we draw when we look at all our faults and criticisms and things we – or society – don’t like about ourselves. They are the confidence knocking, damaging chips off our self-esteem. And then when we get asked to list the things we are good at, we come up short.

    I am not advocating living in a state of mediocrity. I am all for improvements and stretching yourselves, but you can stretch and improve without knocking yourself backwards. Acknowledge your strengths, and weaknesses, and make plans to improve the things you want, but DO NOT make resolutions based on what you believe society says you should be doing. Do it because you believe in your heart that that is what you really want to do. It’s the difference between what you want to do and what you think you should do. And at the end of the year, it’s the difference between what you will do and what you thought you would do.

    So what does this have to do with parenting?

    Do you want your children to be confident about what they bring to their world? Do you want them to know what their strengths and weaknesses are and how they could add value to anywhere they go? Do you want them to feel they are enough? Of course you do. Start modelling that. Start growing that in them from young. Heaven knows there are enough things in the world that will knock their confidence. But if they are happy within themselves, then no amount of knocking will chip away at their self-esteem completely. They will be able to take compliments and criticisms equally in a factual manner. It won’t be a personal thing that will make them feel like they are less. Or more, for that matter.

    That is what it has to do with parenting. Self-esteem begins at home.

    So this January, resolve to have NO RESOLUTIONS. Simply work on self-esteem – yours and your children’s – and you will find contentment inside yourself, and that will make all the things you want to improve much easier, because they will come from a place of ‘I want to do this for myself’ rather than “I really have to do this..”

    Happy New Year.

    NY resolutions5

  • It’s a Boy Thing…

    It’s a Boy Thing…

    Boys

    When people discover I have three boys, they usually respond in a shocked and sympathetic way, as if I have been afflicted with a dreaded disease. But other all-boy moms just smile that knowing smile that says, “I get it.”

    Boy moms get it. Boy moms say things they never thought would actually come out of their mouths.  Let alone to people who come from their own genes! Things like, you can’t eat your lunch sitting in the dishwasher. Or, please don’t use the foyer mirror to check if you wiped your bum properly. Or, please don’t drink the water dripping off the end of your brother’s penis in the shower.

    I swear those words have actually come out of my mouth.

    But other boy moms get it. Other boy moms could probably add their own hilarious stories.

    All-girl moms… not so much. They are cool, calm and collected. They get to wear white. And have pretty things. And are always clean. They get peaceful times where they sit with their daughters and colour, or flip through Pinterest, or look at nail art. They have tea parties and flip through magazines. Quiet! They know what quiet is! I’m particularly jealous of the quiet. For a boy mom, quiet is a sure sign that some hell is about to break loose somewhere, or someone has got hold of a box of matches and is quietly trying to set the cat’s tail on fire.

    Boy moms. They are the ones who are always scrambling. Their hair is never perfect. They never, EVER wear white. There are mismatched socks in their cars that give off odours one can only hope to survive by plunging your nostrils into a Vicks chest rub tub! They are surrounded by odours – and not of flowers and perfume. The odours can be frightening. When boys get in your car after sports, and sneakily slip off their boots despite numerous life threatening pleas for them to never, EVER, remove their shoes in a confined space, you will know about it instantly because that smell is so awful and pungent that even a boy mom, with a seasoned stomach, will be gagging and retching until that window comes down and fresh air fights to replace the stench. There are farts too. Farts are part and parcel of every hour. Unflushed toilets are not for the feint hearted. Boys are just NOT for the feint hearted.

    But boys are fun. Something is always happening that makes you laugh – or so incredulous that it makes for great stories later – once you have had some wine and allowed your pulse to slow down to almost normal.

    I’m always amused when friends with daughters visit. My kids will be doing usual boy things, and the girl moms are turning white with fear. “Do you know that your son is in the tree?”  or “Should they be jumping off the trampoline into the pool?” “Is it ok for them to play badminton? On the roof? Naked?”

    I just laugh. They will be fine. My freak-out tolerance has long since been dampened to cope with the daily roof climbs, tree swinging, bug poking, reptile catching, and the dirty unidentifiable stuff that I need to deal with. And there is hair colour. Thank goodness for hair colour!

    Boys are a unique breed, there are no two ways about it. They are spirited and fiery, they are mischievous, risk taking crazy beings. They are noisy and messy and not particularly clean. They make us frazzled and we feel like we permanently run on adrenaline. They are silly and hilarious. They can reduce us to tears and bring us to an exasperation level like nothing else. They are amazing, life-loving, endlessly energetic humans, who look so deceptively angelic in their sleep. They certainly make life exciting. They can melt your heart in a single, dirty, boisterous hug. And they can ignite a temper faster than rocket fuel.

    But don’t be too quick to shake your heads at us, all-girl moms,  because one day, one day your girls will marry our boys. And then we will be laughing with you.