I shook my head and rolled my eyes.  I did not want to even imagine what he might be up to.  And at this point, I thought to myself, he is old enough to know better.  If he gets hurt, that will be the last time he does whatever he is doing.  Cynical parenting at it’s finest.

“HHHHUuuuuuuuummmmmppppphhhhhhh!”  THUD!

‘Huuuuuummmmmmppphphpphphphhphphphp!” THUD!

“HHHHuuuuuuummmmmmpphphphphp!! THUD!

Over and over.  Just at the moment when I did not think I could possibly ignore it for one more nano second, the THUD! was followed with a very triumphant, “Conquered!”

“What?” I called, still not wanting to move from my cynical relaxed spot.

“I conquered it!” Kamden called out victoriously.

Laughing to myself, I had to get up and see what it was he had conquered.

I entered the kitchen and there was no mess.  Nothing out of order.  I looked at him quizzically.  He stood smiling, so very proud of himself.  “Let me see what you conquered,” I asked.

With that he backed up, took in a deep breath, launched into two big steps and lept up toward the ceiling.  Which he touched.  “There.  I did it again.  I conquered it.”

Taking his head in my hands, I looked deep into his chocolatey brown eyes.  “Yes, you did.”   Trying over and over.  Setting a goal and not giving up until he achieved it.  Whether it be snapping, jumping to touch a ceiling, multiplication facts, or a 6 minute mile, kids just keep pressing on, jumping up, over and over and over again until it is conquered.  Then they move on to the next.  Now that is inspirational.

This year was a particularly special year for many reasons. We have added to our family and are now a bigger group with more kids (and thus, more love!). Our next-door neighbors are celebrating their last Christmas in their house, as they are moving after 28 years. And, sigh, as Keith appeared dressed as Santa, not one kid batted an eye – not even a glimmer of “could it be?” crossed their faces.

As we made our way around the cul-de-sac and down the street, each door opened with a flurry of activity. Some little ones were afraid of Santa. Others mesmerized. Adults, young and old, clapped hands and sang along. Often, we were asked to pause, to wait to begin until family members could be assembled. We all sang from our hearts, and played our instruments with glee – it was like being a kid again!

This was our gift to our neighbors. Some were having large family gatherings so we got to sing to large crowds. Others were just two. Our kids were “rewarded” for their caroling at various houses with Chanukah gelt, solid milk chocolate Santa’s, a kitty Christmas ornament, and nearly some cash as one man started going through his wallet (which was odd, we weren’t singing for our supper, after all!). We even stayed and sang to the house that would not open the door and actually closed all the shutters on us. But we knew someone was in there, so we sang. I guess we all figured they needed Christmas Joy more than anyone.

Laughing, singing, banging on drums, jingling tambourines and shaking music sticks and maracas, we were not only giving the gift of neighborly love, but we were giving ourselves and our children the gift of a family tradition. Of a memory. Of an activity that they will have forever stored in their memory banks, that lets them know that they are part of a family, of something bigger and safer that will wrap them in love when they need it the most. And that is what this moment, this Christmas moment, is about.

An occasional red light brought the procession to a stop just long enough for us each to pick our favorite color – as though we were browsing at a dime store candy counter. My favorite was the glistening purple one. Paris chose royal blue and Sophie chose bright apple red. Or was it green? Or  pink? Maybe it was the white or turquoise? There were so many! So many in fact, that it quickly lost it’s magic. One after another rolled by in this exclusive high-end car club procession.

Honestly, it started to look like my family room floor after a serious round of Hot Wheels. While I can appreciate the fine artistry and craftsmanship that goes into these adult toys, my mind eventually went back to, “How many cup holders can it possibly have?” and “Do the doors slide?” and the gratingly practical, “Humph, they obviously don’t do carpool.” Why is it that a car has to be small to have club? I had a Miata once. Oooh, I loved that car. And I joined the Miata Club.  But I had to give it all up when I was 7 months pregnant with my first child because, well, I could barely fit into it. Much less tote a baby around in it.

Joining the mommy crowd was at first about SUV’s. Then, for me, it became about the Minivan – the most miraculous of cars. The car of mom freedom. All the doors and the back operate at the touch of a button – from the key fob and/or from the buttons inside. The kids can reach everything, operate everything, and I can relax as each mechanism has a safety retract feature to protect hands and feet from being smashed. Oh, and six cup holders, three air conditioning zones and room for all of the soccer, baseball, and beach equipment you can imagine.

The parade of Minivans at drop off, however, doesn’t have the same visual impact on me as the parade of Lamborghinis on a Sunday morning. Why is that? Why did I feel ever so slightly envious? Was it the power, the freedom, the exotic body style and candy colors? Or because everyone looks and wonders just what kind of life you must be living to drive one?

As I thought about this, the man driving the white Lamborghini paused and waved at me and the girls after he saw us standing by the pond, watching. I waved back.  In that moment, it occurred to me that he was wondering what kind of a life I must have to be out on a Sunday morning, strolling about with two beautiful children, finding pretty much the same awe and joy in the fish, the turtles and the glorious day ahead of us, as we did in his brief Lamborghini Parade.

For Kelsie – Happy Birthday – Wear Those New Jeans! Today!

“You can’t wear that dress,” my mother used to tell me, “you have to save it for good.” “Don’t use those dishes/glasses/pens/ whatever, save them for good.” And finally, “No, you can’t borrow that, I’m saving it for good.” Well, by the time ‘good’ rolled around, nothing ever fit and/or it was out of style, or worse yet, lost in the bastion of piles of ‘good’ things that crowded every closet. Every drawer. Every cupboard. And why wasn’t today good enough? Why isn’t this moment, now, good enough? What am I saving it for? What was she saving it all for? As though some moment in the future is going to be that much more precious than this one? Evidently. And I am still waiting for it, so that I can wear my new dress. And shoes. And coat. And sign my checks with my fancy pen.

This is a belief, a meme, that I fight and literally have internal conversations (battles) with myself over nearly everyday. I know where it comes from – my childhood. Specifically, my mother. Always being told to save things for good, for special occasions. And yes, as a child and even as an adult when I visited, pulling out my parents wedding china once a year and setting a beautiful table for Thanksgiving was a special occasion. It was also the only day of the year that a complete meal was ever cooked in our household, so yes, it was momentous, indeed. It also led to over eating, and an intense avoidance of all the dishes that all had to be hand washed because ‘they’ don’t make ‘good’ dishes that can go in the dishwasher. And even though it was an event, a ‘special’ day, no ‘good’ clothes were worn, because we were just at the house cooking, and eating and cleaning. And you wouldn’t want to waste your ‘good’ clothes or shoes on that. Would you?

As an adult, I’ve become accustomed to fine things. I like designer clothes. And shoes. And furnishings. And technology. I find stuff I like everywhere – from estate sales to department stores, from small boutiques on Ventura Boulevard to Target, from EBay to Craigslist. It doesn’t matter to me where I shop, as I like to mix it up. I discriminate only on the basis of quality, craftsmanship, fabric, and ultimately, usage. But there are always those clothes, usually the ones I am drawn to the most, that I like the most, that invariably hang in my wardrobe, tags still on, week after week, waiting until the day comes that is good enough for me to wear them. It is so frustrating! I have friends that buy something new and immediately rip the tags off and wear it the next day, or even the same evening. I am envious of this behavior – of this abandon. For only if an item is purchased specifically for a significant occasion, like my wedding dress for instance, (sigh, how sad is that…that was 14 year ago) do I ever wear something immediately. And then, in the instances such as this, never again.

Recently, I bought three fabulous Hale Bob dresses to wear during the summer. They were moderately expensive dresses – three to four hundred a piece. I didn’t pay that, of course, but that is another article. They are beautiful and colorful and made of silk with beautiful detailing. So why haven’t I worn them?  How much better does it get than a warm day or evening in Southern California to wear a beautiful dress? It doesn’t get any better. But for some reason that just isn’t ‘good’ enough. Again, I ask, “What am I saving them for?”

I present my problem to my dear friend, Jessica, who wears what she wants when she wants and tries her hardest to knock the lid off my jar of possibilities. Her take on my dilemmas always inspires me. “Just put it on…wear it grocery shopping if that is where you are headed! You love it, wear it! That’s enough!” This is the retort I now hear in my mind every time I choose not to wear the dresses. The thought of ‘dressing up’ to wander through the produce isles with my kids is so ridiculous it always brings a smile to my face. And one day, I will actually do it….

Today, I dressed up for work. True, I work out of my home in a home office, but, today is a good day (not a sweats and/or pajama day), and I’m wearing new shoes and one of my new dresses. And later, I will be going to the grocery store in the same clothes – if for no other reason than someone needs to see me in it because I actually took off the tags and put it on.

‘Saving it for good’ puts off for tomorrow joy that I could be experiencing today. This day is ‘good.’ This moment is ‘special.’ And from this minute forward, I will strive to live in the present, with the awareness that what (and whom) we adorn ourselves with, surround ourselves with, and populate our lives with, ultimately creates our mindset, our experience, our life. And dammit, mine will be in fabulous clothes, sipping from my china and writing with my special pen – this is the moment I’ve been saving it all for and I will live it fully now, no longer putting it on hold, no longer ‘saving it for good.’

Lying in bed with a weeping child, I could not help but weep as well. I held him and felt his pain, felt his confusion. Giving him permission to experience whatever he needed to, validating each emotion as it came up, and comforting him was all I could do.

At a certain point, there seemed to be no end in sight to the downward emotional spiral we both were now involved in. Realizing I was the adult that my child was counting on to help him through this, not just go along with him for the ride, I took a deep breath and asked him a very difficult question, a very adult question, “What is the gift?”

“Are you kidding me?” I tried not to look surprised by his answer. “No, “ I continued gently, “let’s find the gift in this situation.” He responded angrily, “There is no gift in this situation!” Well, at least we had shifted from despair to anger – at this point that was progress. So I began the conversation. “It’s a gift that we are able to be here together and talk, not everyone is able to do that, not everyone has someone they feel safe with to talk about stuff.”

My child paused, and I saw him shifting from anger to awareness of his world, as he listened to me trying desperately to find the gift for him. “I am grateful you feel deeply and are such a loyal and loving son. I am grateful that you are able to share your thoughts and feelings with me. I am grateful for the opportunity to be here for you when you needed me. I am grateful for this big comfy bed we are in. I am grateful for my cashmere blanket that you always try to steal,” and as I snuggled him a little closer, “I am grateful you showered.” That got him. The tears had stopped as he listened to my gift and gratitude list. He shifted into a state of calmness, and in the end laughter. “Your turn,” I said.

And for the next hour, we lay in the dark of the room, at first talking about what we were grateful for, and eventually, calmly, about where the tears and emotions came from, how to welcome them, embrace them and eventually, let them go. It may be awhile before they are fully gone, but we both drifted off to sleep knowing that as they come up, as anything comes up in the future, we have so much to be grateful for, and there is always a gift to be found, even in the most difficult of situations. And the journey of discovering it with another person, with a child, with your child, is a gift in and of itself.