11 Years.

Recently, I met an engaging and bright woman at a party. She was my age, exactly.

We talked about how hard it was to turn 40, and we talked about our kids and Kindergarten and the fact that boys generally mature later than girls and eventually she shifted the conversation to work. And to me, specifically.

I told her the short version of my marketing turned mother turned Pilates instructor story. She seemed intrigued.

The details of "What do you do?" turned into "What do you want to do?"

I went on about career limitations in Sacramento. I gave her the same speech I'll give anyone who will listen: "Marketing jobs almost never come up in Sacramento and even if they did, I'm not sure how I'd handle the logistics of my son's out-of-the-way (but amazingly great) school. I'll probably teach Pilates for the next 11 years, and then figure it all out."

"Why 11 years?" she asked.

"Because Ben will graduate high school by then and we'll pack him off to whatever school gives him the best scholarship (I can hope, right?)."

She pressed on (I'm telling you, she was engaging!): "That's a long time - 11 years - but, what would you do then?"

I replied, "Sell shoes at Nordstrom, get my Nursing degree, teach more Pilates...who knows?"

"Well," she continued, "what were you doing 11 years ago?"

"Wow, she's good - no pregnant pauses in this conversation," I thought to myself.

And then I was the one who paused.

Eleven years ago? How do I even begin to tell her what was happening at age 29?

How I had just landed a highly visible and very coveted position at Visa and how my team there was charged with rolling out the Visa Check Card and how we had the most cache in all of Visa as the ambassadors for this fine new product that would hit the banking market with a frenzy and how the team manager would work me to the bone and how I'd make my way to the women's restroom at least once a day to cry my eyes out and how I'd never sleep because I'd be thinking of all the things that could go wrong with the damn card and how I'd fly to Chicago every few weeks and meet our agency there and how the Travel Department always booked me into the Monaco but one time reserved The House of Blues and how lucky I felt to have such a prestigious job but how I knew that if I stayed, I'd be popping Prozac by 30 and how I walked in and quit one day without another job lined up and how I didn't want to bail out but how was there another choice?

Or how, with all the physical risks I was taking, I was on the fast track to a major injury and how it felt when, flying down a ridiculous steep hill on my roller blades, in the remote hills, I snapped my pelvis - twice - and had to walk six miles to my car and how I drove myself to the ER and how the doctor was stunned by the severity of the fractures and how my mother, upon hearing the news, asked: "Can you still have children?" and how my dad had to drive to the Bay Area, pick me up, and keep me for two months - on his couch - while my bones healed and how I had all this downtime to seriously scrutinize my values and how I was not happy with myself at all.

How life in the "dot com era" was changing me and how everything was about money and how everyone was about money and how my friends were all "rich on paper" and how the outings were unbelievable and how materialism was affecting me and how I was going through a new car every two years and how I wildly spent everything I made on new suits and new make-up and therapy and how I went to the Canadian Rockies with thirty of my friends and how we all spent crazy amounts of money on food, wine and spa treatments and how I didn't like the person I was becoming and how I knew I needed a major change and how very scared I was of leaving the Bay Area and how I was even more afraid to stay.

And how, at 29 going on 30, I knew that life was going to be different, how it had to be different, how the move to Sacramento was oh-so-lonely but how I felt calmer and how the people I met here were down-to-earth and accepting and how my circle of friends would slowly grow and how the consulting work I was doing would become stifling and how my world would be altered forever with marriage and motherhood in just a couple of short years and how quickly my life in the Bay Area was forgotten and how blessed I was to close one chapter and open several more.

In response to this woman's probing question, I took the easy way out: "Oh, you know, at 29, I was working and having fun. 40 always seemed like a long ways away."

The woman looked at me intently - and with marked curiosity - and then we were interrupted by our children again. And in a way, I was relieved.

It's not that I don't appreciate the experiences that I had in my late 20s and 30s; on the contrary, I believe that the opportunities I had, especially professionally, were nothing short of amazing. I can remember being in many business settings, literally reminding myself that yes, indeed, important people wanted my opinion.

But things have changed so much.

Now, when I think of my career, I think of Ben first. That's why it's so easy for me to imagine myself teaching Pilates for another 3, 5, 11 years.

And when I carefully look at myself today, I see someone who wants to grow, someone who wants a healthy and fulfilling life that is rich in relationships and not necessary in wealth, someone who will make every concession possible to eek out just a few more minutes each day with her son, even if it means that there won't be a corner office, spendy client lunches or a stay at The House of Blues.

Although my convictions are strong on this, it's not always a comfortable topic for me to discuss freely.

So, naturally, after the kids were attended to at the party, I shifted my attention back to the woman and intentionally turned the tables.

"Enough about me," I started. "What do you do?"

"Oh, I'm a therapist," she replied.

Of course. Because no one is that interested in a perfect stranger at a party. And no, I did not save myself hundreds of dollars by monopolizing her time with tales of my divorce, parenting and dating.

But I was tempted.

Hurry Up, Life.

Recently, it was pointed out to me that I may have less patience than my 7-year-0ld.

Moi? Really?

In fact, I was told that it was an area - this impatience - that I needed to work on.

"But I don't understand," I protested. " I don't push people out of line at the store. I don't drive
aggressively. And I never read the last page of a book before I get there. In fact, I can barely manage the fast forward-ing function on the DVR. It drives my impatient 7-year-old crazy!"

"So," I ventured, "other than wanting to know exactly how my life is going to turn out right now, I have no issues with impatience."

Denial is a lovely thing.

I do admit that I experience impatience at times:

• I'm certain that my blood pressure increases when Ben procrastinates at bedtime.
• I can't stand loose Legos, our sucky vacuum cleaner (no pun intended) and Molly's hair; the three together are like a daily rite of passage that makes me question why Legos have to be so tiny, why I skimped on an appliance that ultimately would rule my world and why we had to choose "exploding fur dog" as a breed for our household pet.
• I have the typical scavenger hunt/obstacle course of lost socks, half-brushed teeth, forgotten lunch money, spilled yogurt and "leave the fur alone on that damn dog right now and get into the car before we are both late for everything," also known as "mornings with small children."
  

Daily impatience is definitely a part of my world.

After careful consideration, I suppose what I am feeling is global impatience. It's not so much that I tire of the coffee maker's slow pace each morning, it's more about the demands that I place on life to deliver on its promises: a warm and healthy family life, consistently good health and a home that will be ours next week and next year.

Being the spiritual - and religious - gal that I am, I do believe in trusting God for signs and direction. And I also know that patiently waiting for a plan to unfold is much, much smarter than pushing for a hasty - and often messy - outcome.

So it was affirming - and somewhat serendipitous - to open up my workbook of daily "lessons" this morning, and have this passage present itself for today's contemplation:

Or need to control can manifest itself as a need to know what's going on. We cannot always know. The lesson, the purpose, shall reveal itself in time - in its own time. It will all make perfect sense - later.

Today, I will stop straining to know what I don't know, to see what I can't see, to understand what I don't yet understand. Today, I will not be in such a hurry to move on.

Point taken. Adding to this, I will let my son be the impatient one. And maybe by doing this - just maybe - he will actually teach me about patience.

Everything And Nothing.

For my 200th post, I vacillated about what scintillating topic to write about and I came up with...

nada.

So, to commemorate countless hours of brain downloading on this blog, I'm going to write about what's been going on in our lives for the last six months. Don't hold your breath; it's not all that exciting and really, unless you're a blood relative you may just want to stop right here because - spoiler alert - this might be very boring.

Ben is seven and eight months now. But who's counting? Apparently, he is because the chatter in our house is all about the 8th birthday and whether or not an iPad will make an appearance in his birthday gifts.

His father and I decided that there would be no birthday party this year as we are really, really tired of the birthday excess (mind you, this was a conversation about Ben's birthday, NOT mine).

So since the birthday party is nixed, Ben wants to know if we can apply the birthday party funds to an iPad. His dad's answer was a resounding "N-O" but I'm a little more soft on the subject given the fact that my *second* Acer laptop is about to die.

I thought I had solved the problem free and clear for us, when I suggested that we both forgo Christmas gifts and instead ask for an iPad from the family. This went over like a lead balloon. Ben simply could not fathom the idea of giving up Lego sets from his Grandpa. Suffice to say, we will probably finish out the year with the cranky Acer and maybe Ben will settle on an iTouch.

Now, the reason that the iPad has become so coveted is because the iPhone - my iPhone - is the hottest commodity in our house. Admittedly, I was beyond excited to get the iPhone earlier this year. Elated even.

But then Ben got his little paws on it, and I'm lucky to squeeze a phone call in. Actually, it's not that bad as I limit his usage each day to whatever time I need to get things done without being accompanied from room to room hearing complaints of how boring it is to stay at home and when when when might Angry Birds come out because there are new seasons, new levels, new worlds, all these grand new experiences that enrich Ben's life so very much.

God help me.

All this inactivity certainly isn't stunting Ben's growth or hindering his appetite. He's almost up to my shoulders and he eats twice, sometimes three times as much as me. His new game, anytime I'm sitting on the couch, but especially at bedtime, is to pin me down and keep me there.

And since he's got me beat on physical strength, my only leverage are those damn birds. At 9pm each night - sometimes later - here's the line that gets me an hour or so of uninterrupted adult time: "Benjamin, get off me right now or there will be no Angry Birds tomorrow!" Don't believe me? Ask the neighbors. Ask anyone in Carmichael. They'll tell you.

During the day, Ben is currently going to two camps: golf camp in the morning and day camp (at my club) in the afternoon. You'd think he'd be too tired to hold me down each night in what always results in a major physical tangle (so not my thing!).

Recently, an acquaintance with a 7-year-old daughter used her Facebook status to report the following: "Seven is heaven." Seriously? Because I was thinking that one was heaven. Really. There wasn't all this attitude and brute force. Granted, there were a lot of diapers and sleepless nights but the pay-off of having a sweet baby who would curl up for hours in my arms was well worth all the inconveniences of babyhood. Those days are so gone.

Now my sweet baby boy is tripping me when I walk by him. He plays "chair gymnastics" each night at the dinner table, and I'm certain that he'll split his head open any day now. He won't take a bath unless I bribe him. He gets into my dark chocolate stash. He shoots at me with his Stampede. He plays "fly the ottoman" across the wood floor and smashes into the glass slider repetitively. But he still asks me to cuddle nearly every night, so I guess there's some semblance of heaven here. Oh, and he'll still hold my hand in the parking lot, too. That's heavenly, for sure.

On the subject of heaven, I believe that Ben and I have broken up with my church. It pains me to write this, but, we - or I- am just not fitting in and I think that church is a place where you have to feel welcomed, or at the very least, comfortable. It's not happening. I don't know why. I really hate that I feel this way.

Also on the subject of uncomfortable things, my childhood BFF is moving to Boston. I'm totally crushed, but also elated for her. It's not like I didn't see this coming. She and her husband have maintained a very jet-setty lifestyle of flying back and forth for months and I believe that the breaking point was finally reached. I can't say I blame her: who wouldn't want to trade the Central Valley for downtown Boston?

Nevertheless, I'm still reeling from her news. This is, after all, the girl who picked up the phone at 10pm over eight years ago, when I called with a positive pregnancy test and 1o months later, in the delivery room, exclaimed, "He smiled! I swear, he just smiled at me!" I don't think I can continue on this topic without crying so I'll move on.

Dating. Now there's a happy topic. Not. The general consensus among my friends is is that "it's time for Janeen to start dating again."

Le sigh. Repeat. Repeat.

It's not that I don't want to date, I simply do not know where to begin and I don't think that the answer lies in my computer (ie - Match, eharmony, etc). Soooo, the friends all have other friends who could be potential set-ups. UGH.

God help me. Again. Please.

There's a single dad in my neighborhood. I've known him for nearly five years, maybe more. He's taking the old 'cat and mouse' game to a new level. "Drive by my house," he texts, "and I'll go out and get the mail and we can talk."

Really, God? REALLY? Is this punishment? I'm sorry I broke up with the church. I'll go back.

I think I like my world of Netflix and Molly time better. It's served me well for months. I sleep better in this world and I don't have to worry about blind dates with gills and the single dad who is scared to be seen with me.

I can't believe that dating, at 40, has come to this. Or maybe I can. Because nothing, in the area of my love life, shocks me anymore.

But a routine visit to the doctor does. It's never good when the doctor barrels in to the exam room saying: "Your cholesterol jumped 101 points this year. Your total number is now 301! You're going to die!" Well, he didn't say the last part, but of course that's where my brain went.

Just in case you didn't read that correctly, let me clarify: THREE - OH - ONE!

OH MY FREAKING GOSH.

The doctor went on to explain the breakdown; that the "good" number wasn't good at all, and that the "bad" number was indeed very bad and did I know about oatmeal and vegetables and fiber and nuts and Cholest-Off and heart disease and stroke and clogged arteries? I asked him to please refer to the occupation listed in my chart (that would be "Wellness Consultant") and to kindly get off my back because my favorite relative lived to 93 and had cholesterol in the 300s and no, I do not eat red meat. Or eggs. Or butter.

Needless to say, there is a Lipitor prescription waiting for me in three months if I don't get my numbers down. So now instead of four vegetables a day, I'm eating eight and instead of a small bowl of oatmeal each day, I'm filling a horse trough. And suddenly dating doesn't seem so concerning.

On a final note, after months - and I mean months - of applying, re-applying, begging, and crying, my mortgage file is finally on the desk of an underwriter. What does this mean? It means that I run to my nearest B of A branch at least twice a day with paystubs, W2s, letters from my ex (really!), and bank statements from last week, last year, last decade.

Last night, the underwriter sent a message marked "Urgent" in the middle of dinner. "Urgent" in B of A terms means that someone lost the fax and could I please send it for the 9th time? Now. You can bet that I did not leave my prime seat outdoors at Zocalo's with three of the loveliest ladies I know and excellent conversation about love, sex, Paris and Viagra to attend to B of A's idiot-ness. No way.

Suffice to say, I've had a bit of anxiety as we come into this final step of the modification process. I figure that at best, I could know the outcome in a week or so, but definitely by the middle of August. I guess the situation was easier to stomach before, because I was just another file hanging in limbo, but now there is a very real possibility that we could be packing next month. Everyone keeps asking me if I have a gut feeling of how this will go. I really don't. And maybe that's what makes it so hard.

What also makes it hard is that I've been unable to shield Ben from the process. Each day he asks me what will happen to Molly if we have to move. I think he has overheard too many adult conversations on this topic and given that his love for Molly is so over-the-top right now, her whereabouts is a top priority for him. I don't have an answer for this - obviously - and can only re-assure him that everything will be fine.

So, while we hang out in this weird space of total uncertainty, I'm trying to keep us both busy. Ben has another week of golf and more day camp, and we'll head to my sister's, and also to the beach in the next few weeks. I've found that pool time is great to calm the persistent thoughts and so is time with my wonderful friends. Molly has become a sweet companion when Ben is away, and when the house is quiet, she must sense my need for company because she never leaves my side.

I will be grateful when things are more solid for us. Being on unsteady ground isn't easy, particularly for someone like me who thrives on planning and known outcomes. But, I still hold on to the notion that The Plan is in the works, and that it will unfold in due time on all fronts: with work, our home, health and love.

Often, in the classes I teach I'll play something that comes directly from my heart. Tonight's choice was "Let It Be."

And when the night is cloudy
There is still a light that shines on me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

Let it be. Let it be.
There will be an answer
Let it be.

I'm letting it be. What other choice do I have?

Alice and Me and the Journey Down The Rabbit Hole

I've been working on this post for months. Months!! It's been re-written a dozen times. Two dozen times. Too many times. The content has been expanded and altered. I've vacillated between saying too much and saying too little. I've been in that space between "Publish" (Go!) and "Save" (No 'effing way!) nearly every day for the last five months. I'm making myself crazy.

I don't think this post is perfect now, but that's okay. The story is here and it needs to be told and I finally have the courage to do it.

Here goes.

Back in December, I turned 40 with very little fanfare.

I was surrounded by my family. My dad took me for a drink at the same place we celebrated my 21st birthday (The Desert Marriott). We rode the Palm Springs tram. I didn't have a cake. But I did have a deluge of birthday texts and calls. My sister and I laughed so hard that our stomachs hurt. I redeemed my free Starbucks drink for a Venti Cappuccino (low fat, half caff, light foam, extra hot). It felt like it was just the right amount of celebrating. I felt lucky. Grateful. Loved.

And tormented. Conflicted. Scared.

While writing this post, I was reminded of a childhood favorite, "Alice In Wonderland." I've always been fascinated about the rabbit hole experience. It seems to me that the rabbit hole was so symbolic and yet so overlooked. Innocent, pristine and lovely Alice, tumbling into a dark abyss of fright and terror. Such a juxtaposition. And yet a perfect comparison for my own sordid story.

I told everyone that I was gracefully stepping into a new decade. But in reality, I was actually losing my foothold and had been for quite some time. Nothing was eloquent about my transition from 30-something to 40. Nothing at all. In fact, the whole segue way was downright ugly.

But you wouldn't know it. Not by how I looked or what I said. I became extremely practiced in the facade of "everything's fine."

I weathered a tough divorce and my ex still wants me back. But everything's fine.

I can't afford my home anymore and, in fact, I'm months behind on the mortgage. But everything's fine.

I can't sleep at night. I lay awake for hours on end. But everything's fine.

I don't know how to be a "good" single parent; I fear I'm failing my sweet son at every turn. But everything's fine.

My heart was broken in Florida last year and I don't know how to fix it. But everything's fine.

I don't think that God loves me anymore. Why else would my prayers go completely unanswered? But everything's fine.

Nothing was fine. Nothing at all.

On the day of my 40th birthday, I was staring down my own rabbit hole and by January, I was falling into it. Rather quickly.

In another moment down went Alice, never once considering how in the world she was to get out.

The mid-life crisis that everyone warned me about - "You know, Janeen, it's coming. No one makes it to 45 without one"- that midlife crisis, indeed had found me.

And I fell further. And faster.

The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well.

Despite the rapid descent into an inky black space, I knew exactly when it all came apart and I knew precisely what I had to do. I honestly don't think that there is a better gift from God then the knowing - without a doubt - what your work is and when the time is right to do it. My work was very clear, and the timing was as simple and as urgent as "now."

Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for Alice had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything.

When you are falling down something as dark and dirty and dismal as a rabbit hole, there is a horrible sense that you are moving away - very quickly - from everything you knew to be true, everything you knew about peace, resiliency and hope. And even though the fall can seem so very long, there is time, so much time - like Alice explains - to peer around and to not know; and it was in that unknown space where my own fear began to emerge.

I don't want to get into the details. Not yet anyway. We all have financial issues, disappointments in relationships, challenges with our children. Life sometimes feels like a lesson in crisis management, and I believe that it is, to some extent.

Down, down, down. Would the fall never come to an end? `I wonder how many miles I've fallen by this time?' Alice said aloud. `I must be getting somewhere near the centre of the earth. Let me see: that would be four thousand miles down, I think--.'

The rabbit hole is like a vortex; you quickly lose sight of the light and the journey to the bottom seems so very endless. There isn't room for anyone else in the confines of the rabbit hole. The tunnel is narrow and harrowing and a place that no one else would voluntarily want to be.

Down, down, down. There was nothing else to do, when suddenly, thump! thump! down Alice came upon a heap of sticks and dry leaves, and the fall was over.

I too, landed on the bottom - after the longest tumble of my life - and it was only then that I could appreciate the eager, willing and loving hands that would be there to scoop me up. Like Alice, I knew that the most painful part of it all - the fall - was over. I felt the "thud" of my own rock bottom place and when I looked up, there was a circle of people who handed me tissues, who picked up my son from school and who told me that everything would be okay, that it really, really would be.

Now, in the midst of my own personal ascent, I'm realizing the payoffs of simplifying and the rewards of quiet, reflective space.

I've stopped putting pressure on myself to practice my writing, to be at the gym every day and to eat eighteen varieties of fruit and vegetables at every meal. I haven't rolled out my yoga mat in weeks. I'm saying no to most social invitations. I'm avoiding Target. I'm making some new friends who are in similar life situations to mine. I'm letting go of the burning need to accomplish everything and to settle for nothing less than perfect execution.

I'm feeling - at last - a calmer mind, a more settled sense of being. And I'm sleeping. A lot!

But I have a long, long way to go. The rabbit hole has become my own metaphor for strength and resiliency in the darkest of days. This was no mere gopher hole.

It's such a long way, that when I'm closer to my destination, I'm convinced I'll have a story to tell. And although I don't know quite how that story will unfold yet, I do know that I'll want to share the experience.

In the meantime, I know that what I'm doing is going to make me a better mom, sister, daughter and friend. I have all the faith in the world that subtle shifts turn into big changes and that every day and every moment of progress equals big steps toward becoming the person I want to be. I believe that God has a hand in all miracles and that I'm witnessing my own. And it will be amazing.

Indeed, year 40 will go down as one that is permanently etched in my memory. It will be the year of sisterhood between Alisa and me. That part is way overdue, yet so very welcomed. It will be the year that Ben saw me the least. That's the part I grapple with most. But there is so much goodness, so much truth to be had on the other side. And my Mom is an awesome stand-in for me.

Now I can look up to the small space where light sparingly peers its way into the rabbit hole and there is solace in the sweet glimmer of of its rays. I'm coming into the warmth. It's closer - every day the narrow space becomes a little wider and I'm starting to believe that the way out is right before my eyes. I just keep looking for the light.

And then Alice opened a secret door and found that it led into a small passage, not much larger than a rat-hole: and she knelt down and looked along the passage into the loveliest garden you ever saw.

PS - If you got this far in the post, congratulations! And thanks for hanging in. The next post - my 200th - will be lighter in nature, I promise.

Mea Culpa, Mom

My mom has always told me, "Kids take their moms for granted."

She's never stated this in a discouraged or disappointed way; it's more matter-of-fact, as in: "this is how it is and not only am I OK with it, I'll also never complain about it." And she never does.

Because that's the type of person she is.

My sister and I can emotionally throw-up all over her and my mom will be there, holding the space and offering empathy. We can toss just about anything at her - and we have.

Because that's the type of person she is.

My mom can babysit for hours on end and never once turn on the television or resort to the Nintendo player. Instead, she'll bust out every crafty thing imaginable and have Ben collecting leaves and rocks. She's better at getting Ben to do homework than I am and she's quick to volunteer to drive across town to retrieve him from school so that I can have a little downtime at home.

Because that's the type of person she is.

Our dog is forever bonded to my mom because she is the one who walks her every day. She also dog sits when I'm gone overnight and I so don't deserve this but she also treats the dog's ears and picks up the dog poop.

Really. Because that's the type of person she is.

On Friday mornings, I usually hear the garbage trucks rumble by and sit straight up in bed, panicked. Then, I remember that I have no reason to panic because my mom always drags the cans to the curb on Thursday nights.

Yes, she does. She really does.

When I optimistically plant a garden in the Spring months, my mom is the one who waters the whole project all summer. I also catch her vacuuming on occasion and she has a real penchant for Cloroxing my sinks. And if you ever have a moth problem in your kitchen, my mom's your girl. She knocked out a whole colony for me. Twice. It was pretty remarkable.

Because that's the type of person she is.

I get headaches. A lot. My mom brings over medicine, she cares for Ben, she makes food. Last month, when I missed the school holiday performance, my mom took the treats I had made to the classroom and stayed for the show - in my place.

Because that's the type of person she is.

A busy month like December means that there is constant movement and quite a bit of chaos in the background. Ben needed to be watched when I rushed off to my birthday dinner. He wanted constant entertainment on cold weekend days when I had stacks of cards to address and piles of gifts to wrap. The Christmas tree would still be standing in my front window had my mom not stepped in, with Ben's assistance, and dismantled the whole thing while I closed the books on my business for the year.

Because that's the type of person she is.

I should have done a little shout-out to my mom in the previous post because most of December would not have been possible without her. Right up until the last day of the year, when she came over to help with Ben before she volunteered at a homeless dinner, her presence gave me just a few short hours to begin the conversion of a new invoicing system.

In the midst of my divorce, I never would have imagined the crushing responsibilities associated with maintaining an older home, running a small, service-oriented business, carting a child to and from an out-of-the-way school and still carving out time for everyone to have a good meal, clean clothes and a little fun once in a while. The daily tasks are still daunting and only do-able with the extra set of hands that belong to my mother. She is, indeed, the backbone of this whole operation.

So, I'll say it now and I'll keep it simple:

You rock, Mom. You really do. I couldn't do all that I do without you. It just wouldn't work. I may always take you for granted, a little, but I'll always appreciate you - more than you'll ever know.

Thank you for being the village that we desperately need. You do it so very well.

Love,
jan.

Blessed January

Hello, New Year's Day. You have no idea how glad I am to see you. Not that the last two weeks weren't brilliantly fun, but I am toast. Supremely exhausted. Genuinely and positively wasted.

You did this to me, December.

All fatigue aside for a moment, I want to re-cap the last two weeks of the year because they were, despite all the chaos, perhaps the greatest two weeks ever.

In the middle of the month, my girlfriends threw their annual birthday dinner party for me. I am wickedly lucky - I know - to have a group of lovely, lovely friends who plan this for me especially during the busy month of December. The food is always yummy, the wine is great and they bring extremely thoughtful gifts. Having spent my entire life with a birthday that's completely overshadowed by Christmas, I'm always moved by the generosity of my girlfriends. I'll say it again: I am oh-so-very lucky!

The weekend before Christmas, I celebrated a high school friend's 40th birthday at a winery in Livermore. We played bocce ball, drank wine and lamented the fact that we're all "on deck" for the 40 club. My childhood girlfriend came with me and we took an entire day to shop in Pleasanton, while my dad and stepmom took care of Ben. It was a great time.

The week before Christmas started with opening a big Nordstrom box containing the Uggs that I wanted. They are even better in person. I still don't feel deserving of such a great gift.
Following the Uggs was a deluge (really!) of sweet gifts from my clients. I never, ever expect presents from any of my clients and when they come bearing gifts at this time of the year, I'm always taken completely aback at their generosity. The gifts ranged from a massage certificate to a Costco sized bottle of really good vodka. Did my holiday stress really show that much?? What always touches me is the gifts that come for Ben. (Those do not include the vodka! Or the masssage, for that matter).

I started my vacation mid-week with Ben which made for uninterrupted reading, drawing and movie time. The morning of Christmas Eve was perhaps the best day with hours of pajama time, opening a few client gifts and enjoying the anticipation of Christmas.

On Christmas Eve, we went to Mass with friends (their child was singing in the service) and then had dinner at their home. Ben set a new record among the kids by wolfing down two whole burgers (buns and all) and asking for more. God help me when we get to age 10. What's next? Three burgers??

Late on Christmas Eve, Ben set out chocolate chips for Santa and I worked hard to draft a letter "from" Santa, explaining the issue of traveling on Christmas morning and the whereabouts of our gifts. The letter, I have to say, was quite good. All bases were covered.

Early Christmas morning, Ben awoke to chocolate chips scattered all over the living room, his letter from Santa and two gifts to open. He read the letter carefully - eyes widening with every word - and he bought it all: hook, line and sinker. Even the part about Molly eating most of the chocolate chips. We then set off for Palm Springs.

One airport shuttle, one ride on the (very full) airplane, one trek in the rental van (with a few tears from the backseat) and six hours later, we were, at last, in sunny Palm Springs.

We were joined the next day by my brother, my sister, her husband and his mother. I hardly ever get to see my brother. He lives in Orange County and I adore him.

In just a few short days, we managed to go to Christmas services, shop, walk the desert, go up the tram - hike a bit - and then come down, shop some more, celebrate my birthday, dip into the cookies - the cake - the wine - the chocolates - the vodka, drive to Joshua Tree National Park for a hike, open gifts, shop again, open more gifts, and return to the site of my first "legal drink with my dad: the Marriott.

I also opened my second pair of Uggs. Thank you, Alisa!!

The addition of my sister's mother-in-law was seamless and welcomed. She took care of Ben in the early morning hours so that I could sleep in, she cooked my birthday dinner and she told us how much she loved our family. We rode back to the airport, wedged into the back of my sister's Acura. The entire way, Ben leaned into her. When we arrived home, Ben asked me to guess who is new favorite person was. I didn't have to; I already knew that she had won him over and vice versa. We love you, I. You are our family. Please come again.

It was indeed a great trip, thanks to my Dad and to my stepmom and to everyone who made the long journey to the desert. The best birthday celebration ever. In retrospect, I think that everyone should be lucky enough to have a 40th birthday celebration like mine. I will always treasure the memories from my 40th. Thank you again, Dad. Let's go back to the Marriott in another 10. In the meantime, we have your now infamous birthday comment about getting the dog's "claws trimmed" or as you said it: "the dog needs her traws climmed!"

Ben and I ended our month, and our year together with my stepmom and her family. We were invited, or we invited ourselves - not sure which - to their home in North Sacramento for a traditional New Year's dinner of posole. Posole is a stew that cooks for hours. It is a basic, yet very core part of Hispanic celebrations. We enjoyed the company of my stepmom's extremely gracious family and we were home by 10pm and asleep by 10:30pm.

At midnight, I woke up to what sounded like the entire neighborhood setting off every explosive imaginable, but I'm sure it was all contained in my neighbor's - the Griwalds - yard. To my own surprise, I was supremely pissed off at the racket.

I really must be old.

Lastly, I have dozens of photo files to upload and download and unload. Our time in Palm Springs was well documented by everyone but me and I'm anxious to share the images from our trip.

But first, I need a nap.

Happy New Year!

Damn You, December

As per its usual course, the month of December is kicking my ass.

This year it's a little more intense because my ex "gifted" me an extra twenty-three days with Ben. Not that I mind the extra time with my son. However...

Ben is totally amped out over Christmas, even more so than in years past. He is incessantly dipping into extra Advent calendar candies and into my own private stash of Hershey kisses. He's also ripping into my coveted Christmas cards the second the mail comes through the mail slot and he manages to tear at least two-thirds of the cards before I even see them.

"Who's that in the picture?" I'll ask. "I don't know; I ripped their head/heads off," Ben informs me.

Grrrrrr.

As for other fun December antics, Ben's already peeked into his stocking when he thought I wasn't looking and when I offered to pay him to help wrap client gifts, he spent the better part of three hours crouched behind the couch - sniper style - aiming the Nerf gun at me. At my butt, to be more precise. And then he wondered where his payment was once I finished wrapping twenty-three presents. When I denied him payment, he shot the dog. In the butt, of course.

Tonight, he's threatening to sneak out of bed and eat all the Advent candy. And if I hear the words Nerf Stampede Gun (which is an extreme upgrade from his current Nerf gun) one more time, I swear I'm going open up all the wine in the house and drink steadily until December is over and that's a lot of wine: I'm well stocked.

Yay, Christmas. How I've missed you.

My family and friends know that I can't stand the holidays.

Christmas went south for me back in my early 20s when I had a relationship with someone whose family glorified the gifts to no end. I never recovered.

But now, since I have a kid, I can't get all Grinch-y every year.

So I drag the tree out of the rafters right after Thanksgiving and make a big fuss over the ornaments and then we make cookies and gingerbread houses and this year, a giant gingerbread man, and I make a fuss out of how creative my child is when in actuality I know he's going to be sneaking bites out of all the culinary projects and we'll all suffer from the imminent sugar highs and lows.

I send out 75 Christmas cards and then freak out because once again, I don't have enough. I take Ben to see Santa and wait in a long, ghetto mall line and pay too much for a picture. I agonize over what to buy my ex "from Ben" and open his gift to me "from Ben" (to me) before Christmas to get an idea of what to spend and then hurriedly re-wrap the gift so Ben doesn't notice. I worry about Ben getting too many presents because last year was a complete fiasco and I had a wickedly spoiled child on my hands come January.

And for what? To commemorate Christ's birth? I do that quite well on my own, during every month of the year thankyouverymuch. If anything, the consumerism and sheer excess in December detracts me from the essence of the season and that realization puts me in a very bad mood.

Over the Thanksgiving weekend, I stayed at my dad's and went shopping on Black Friday with my stepmom. We left the house at 4am, something I vowed I'd never do. Admittedly, the ads sucked me in.

It was a manic experience, to say the least. So manic, in fact, that I got a make-over at the Clinique counter at 5:30am (hey, a full face of make-up is always great on Black Friday!) and I bought two pairs of leggings, three shirts, a sweater and a skirt. All this for the girl who could give the Kardashians a run for their money in the clothes department. But hey, it was Black Friday; the motto for the day being: "More! More! Even More!"

I wound up taking half the shit back the following week. Because Black Friday is a big seduction for evil December. Yuck.

Well, apparently that's what my body thought too because as soon as we came home from our manic shopping trip, my body was burning with hives. And so it went into December. Shopping = itching. Wrapping = more itching. Merely flipping the switch for the tree lights each morning caused my body to immediately flush.

The Urgent Care doctor said to wash everything in the house with special detergent, change to Ivory soap, lay off the scented lotions and perfumes. To no avail. Itch, scratch, itch. Steroid pills. Steroid injections. Bendadryl around the clock. Good times.

You did this to me, Black Friday. I know you did.

So last week I saw a third doctor who is sending me to an allergist. The allergist is a friend of the doctor, who made a special call on my behalf, and of course he's not on my insurance plan

Because it's December and I'm cursed.

My theory is this: I'm allergic to Christmas and to the entire month of December. How else can the sudden onset of itching hell on Black Friday be explained?

I'm envisioning the prescription to be something along the lines of:

Patient must refrain from most holiday related activities including, but not limited to:

Stringing lights on her house (like I would ever do this anyway, I've got tacky neighbors who put enough crap up for our entire block)

Destroying her kitchen with homemade cookies (yes, that happened last weekend with Ben; don't let the 7-year-old loose with the flour)

Battling long lines at Wal Mart (I only went because I was desperate for Benadryl, but then I saw the brown leggings and the matching shirt and the sale on Weight Watchers frozen entrees).

Patient may steal Advent candy from her child's calendar on the days that the child is with his dad (great, that gives me two whole candies).

Patient may also dip into wine that is otherwise reserved for client gifts (started that on Dec 1)

Patient is excused from all holiday parties (there were none to put on the calendar anyway) and also from constructing a gingerbread house that caves in immediately upon completion (it's a yearly tradition, and an annual meltdown).

Why? Why do we do this to ourselves? Help me understand. What happened to the quiet, peaceful, somber spirit of the manger and the clear, starry night, and the wismen and the advent of new life? Now all the advent that's celebrated in our house is the daily fight over 5am Advent candy. And it's not even that good.

Come January, I'll have gained several pounds from the discarded gingerbread walls and the copious amounts of wine (but not from the Advent candies). We'll have a tree that hangs out in our living room far past its welcome. I'll still be apologizing to the friends who didn't get our Christmas cards.

All the while trying to discern our friends' identities from the headless Christmas cards. (And those of you who used Shutterfly or Tiny Prints totally wasted your money at this address. Just so you know).

The horrific gifts will go into the horrific gift box, otherwise known as The New Client Welcome Kit. Ben will shoot the dog with his new Stampede gun and I'll take "that damn gun" away for a week. He'll shoot me and I'll roll my eyes and wait for the next dart. I'll dip into his college fund for the fourteen "D" batteries required to fuel "that damn gun." We'll all suffer from my anti-carb diet.

Ah yes, this is what is known as The Christmas Hangover.

Last week, Ben began his daily plea for a dreidel and I couldn't be happier. Judaism, at least during the holidays, is looking pretty good. We'll light a candle each night, open a dollar store gift and eat matzoh ball soup. F the tree, the lights, the POS gingerbread house, the overpriced toys and the neighbors who think they're the Griswald family.

I know my mom and my sister will be on board. They both recently said, "Christmas should only come around every four years."

God bless my family. They are so smart and logical. Mazel tov. Or whatever.

If this were to happen - this Christmas every four year thing - my skin would "cool down" (as the dermatologist says), my jeans would fit all month, my son wouldn't whine and I might even enjoy the tacky lights and the annoying music. I could even be convinced to bring a dead tree in and let it shed, along with the dog, all over my living room.

In the meantime, word from the North Pole is that there isn't one Stampede en route for Ben. No, there's two which means someone should shoot me now.

Oy vey.