My Bullied Son: A Mother's Story

Recently a friend posed a question.  She wondered if it was wrong for a mom to hate a 6th grade girl. Now I don't have the details or the reasons for the strong feelings she is encountering, but the question itself reminded me of similar feelings I had a few years ago when we found out that one of our sons was being bullied severely.  What made that news worse was that when pressing for details, our son revealed that it had been going on for about two years.  When we found out, I experienced a massive jumbled mixture of emotions.  There was an incredulous/guilty feeling that it had gone on for so long and that I had absolutely no idea.  There were signs.  Oh my there were such signs!  He would  make himself throw up so he could come home from school.  He would cry in the morning or stall when it was time to leave.  He would have anger outbursts after school about little inconveniences like no milk in the fridge. Instead of disciplining him for those behaviors, I should have seen them for what they were; symptoms of a bigger problem.   There was also this feeling of deep sadness, almost mourning,  for my son who had to go to school everyday knowing that he'd end up being pushed, shoved, knowing he'd hear cutting words that made him feel worthless and less than the wonderful kid he really is.  The depression that engulfed me when imagining the many scenarios that he must have endured was overwhelming and swallowed me whole.  But the strongest feeling that I experienced was a rage like no other rage I have ever felt.  Every inch of me hated that bully, that child.  Loathed.  Detested.  One night I had a dream that I actually strangled the boy.  I woke up shaky and a nauseous.  The anger had taken over. 

Lately there has been a lot in the news about bullies and how they effect kids.  I can tell you from experience that what my son went through has had a profound influence on his self worth, on his self esteem.  It is very difficult for him to succeed at anything.  He self sabotages, doesn't do homework, doesn't try out for solos in chorus that the teacher practically tells him would be his if he'd just take the risk.  During his middle school years and into high school he relived the rejection he experienced in elementary school by setting himself up to fail at friendship again and again.  He set his sights on hanging out  with the popular of the popular.  I realize now that if any of those boys had accepted him into their group it might, for him, have erased the thoughts in his mind that he was unworthy of any friendship.  But alas, it never happened.  The stigma of being "the kid that was bullied" stuck with him for a long time and many kids didn't want to be seen with him.  So they didn't answer the phone when he called or wouldn't include him in trips to a football game or invite him to birthday parties.  He therefore has an extreme anxiety when it comes to calling or asking anyone to do something or go somewhere.  He assumes he will  be rejected.  Fear of rejection, of not being good enough has ruled his life since being bullied.

When my sons were little I remember conversations with them about how to handle it if someone was picking on them.  Looking back, I gave all the wrong advice.  Typically parents tell kids to ignore the bully.  To tell an adult if it continues.  I even did the old, "you catch more flies with sugar than you do with vinegar."  I actually told them that if someone is mean they should try over and over to be nice.  I even recall telling them that a bully is that way because there is something horrific in his or her life that makes them that way.  And all that might be true.  But I know now that it isn't how you teach your kids to handle a bully at all.  Not at all.

The thing is rationalization does work for adults but NOT kids.  For the most part we can remove ourselves from the source of the bullying, therefore not be subjected to it day after day.  Our adult minds are able to understand how truly pitiful it is to be a bully. We can almost sympathize with  abusers who use curse words as weapons because of their lack of verbal intelligence.  We understand how truly weak bullies are when they hide behind the anonymity of  emails or gossip spreading.  We can laugh at the pathetic use of blanket statements like "Did you know everyone thinks this or that of you?"  As adults, we know that those who bully and verbally abuse are damaged in some way and are looking to hurt others to make themselves feel better.  We can dismiss them as the small human they are, and by doing so force them to face that their hateful words and deeds truly are insignificant in our lives. Smart, evolved adults know to never give credence to the ramblings of unbalanced human beings.  

But children's minds are not as developed (now there is a revelation!) There is no time for understanding, sympathy, or empathy and there is certainly no time to laugh.  All that bullied kids know, all they comprehend is the humiliation and pain that they go through day after day.  The mental warfare that they experience at the hands of a menacing, seemingly maniacal meanie who is out to make mince meat of them is unbearable and life changing. As my daughter grows up, I will teach her differently. I will tell her that no one deserves to be bullied whether it be physically or verbally. I will tell her that she has a right to feel safe and to protect herself. Don't get me wrong. I won't encourage her to fight, but I will teach her how to be assertive. I will teach her to yell firmly, "Leave me alone!" and that stepping closer to someone and looking them in the eye while saying very sternly, "I am not afraid of you," is the best way to show that she is not someone to be trifled with, that she is not an easy target.

But in my son's case, I must thank the universe for the resilience of the human spirit.  That bullied son of mine is slowly learning through very hard work of his own, that there are kids out there who like him because of who he is and he's befriended them.  He's learning that there are very specific rewards for being the nice guy.  His new girlfriend is evidence of that.  He's learning that he has talents that make him special.  He hones them daily and seeks out where those talents are appreciated.  But the brightest light, the very most illuminated illumination of this whole rotten "getting over the big bad bully thing" is the fact that my son didn't let the bully win.  He is pushing on with his life.  Making the bully's words and deeds insignificant by dismissing him for the small human being he was back then in elementary school.  Head held high he can say with a wink, "I never give credence to the ramblings of an unbalanced human being."  You and me both kid.  You and me both!

Can't We All Just Get Along? Authoritarian Vs. Permissive Parenting

The last Muddled Mother post espoused the virtue, the necessity, the urgency of continuing to move even though we're mothers.  That is--to be sure that we remember that we are, or that we SHOULD be, more than that sacrificial role.  We should remember or begin to consider who ELSE we want to be in addition to mom, mama, mommy.  It was a controversial post to say the least.  Many who agreed or had never thought that way left beautiful sentiments in the comment section below.  Some wrote me private messages disagreeing or offering another view point respectfully, civilly in a manner in which educated humans converse. There were also those who vehemently disagreed.  I live in a small town so, of course, through the perpetual grapevine I heard the drawl and tsk tsk of women who believed that I should be ashamed of myself lamenting publicly my role of mother.  "What would my children think?"  One woman-who isn't a mother-spoke with an authoritative stance and gathered in all who would listen to share her "enlightened" perspective that "my whining" was due to my erroneous view that my children were put on this earth to make me happy.  She asserted that I didn't understand that happiness came from within.  She posted quotes about happiness and responsibility on Facebook. She convinced friends who were mothers to remove themselves from the Mudder website in order to spare them the downer I perpetuate on the good name of motherhood every week.  She even went as far as trying to insert herself into my sons' lives in order to perhaps "fill the void" that they must feel having me as a mother.

However, believe it or not,  I welcome it.  I even expect it-the mess (the righteousness too.) It's inevitable when discussing a polarizing, passionate subject like motherhood.  After all, it's a messy topic. As with any sacred subject like politics or religion, most people have strong, deep rooted ideals that are as unwavering as Mt. Everest.   Did you know that there are over 700 billion ADULTS in the world?  (I looked it up.)  I am willing to bet that every one of those adults has an idea of how a mother should act, think, speak.  Unfortunately ALL 700 billion opinions can't be right, but they ALL can't be wrong either.  I would assert that it's a little of both.  Hear me out on this.

I am sure by now you have heard of the "Tiger Mom."  If you haven't, let me fill you in.  Amy Chua, author of  Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother has been lambasted online, on television and in print media for her "harsh" discipline and parenting techniques that she touts in her book and her article "Why Chinese Moms Are Superior." Tiger mama's children never went to a play date, never slept over at someone house, weren't allowed to have chocolate and couldn't even be in a school play. Venomous vitriol spewed out of every corner at these revelations.  More permissive parents called her strict methods abuse.  When she admitted that she once called her daughter "Garbage," know-betters and tsk tskers came out of the wood work calling her a wimp and a poor excuse for a mother.

Now I'm not saying that I agree with everything that she did.  But let me just say, both of her daughters are Ivy League bound.  They have a clear reverence for their parents, and most of all, it is distinctly obvious that they are driven to be successful.  My sons are not Ivy League bound, they don't typically have a reverence for their parents and they both have said that "As long as they pass, they're good." And I will be the first to admit that in moment of ire or great sadness the words that have come out of this mother's mouth have been giant mistakes that I could only apologize for and vow to never say again. So...who am I to question her parenting?  Who am I to dissect it?  Her daughters seem poised for a stellar adulthood.  I 'd settle for my boys having an average one.  Her parenting worked for her.  Her parenting worked for her family.

Then there's Spock who has touted the idea of permissive parenting--a life where the child gets to explore his or her environment and learn logically from life's consequences without the constraints of a mother or father's constant "no's".  This parenting philosophy has been around since the early 50's.  Many parents sing its praises.  They believe that this popular philosophy encourages children to be brave within their environment, and because of that, permissive parenting has helped to create a nation of thinkers and inventors leading our country to the technological boom we're experiencing today.  On the other hand, many opponents of permissive parenting complain that its created a generation of spoiled entitled children and a culture of youth who are soft and rebellious.

Once again, I don't espouse that I agree with all that is involved in permissive parenting.  But as a mother I would love to ensure that my children were able to see the possibilities in life without fear.  And, well, those who know me well know that I am not shy of a rebellion or two.  Where would we be without the likes of Steve Jobs or writer Augusten Burroughs, the innovators and free thinking artists?  The permissive parenting they received worked for their parents.  It worked for them.

Mudders, we try our hardest.  We do our best.  We cry.  We laugh.  We love. We hurt.  We slip.  We fall.  We get back up.  We make mistakes and we apologize.  We go to bed defeated and awaken refreshed. We try again. We hold on tightly to a sense of hope and we vow to never give up on our children.  Sometimes our decisions are spot on.  Sometimes we spit in the wind. We all know the elation of success and the sting of failure.  It is a precarious role being a mother.  We are forever reminded that several wrong moves or even ONE could damage those that we love the most for an eternity.  The uncertainty of what we do, when we do it and the veritable HOW weighs heavily on us daily, by the minute, by the second.  We are mothers.  We may choose to do our jobs in different ways.  We may disagree on the guidelines one follows to raise children in an appropriate manner.  But one thing I am sure of, one thing that is the same for all of us who call ourselves mamas is that we love our children and our decisions are made out of the adoration that we have for them.  Whether permissive or authoritarian, whether chipper and cheerful or full of lamentation, all mothers want the same thing for their children--to ultimately grow into adults who live in a state called contentment.

My Christmas Gift to You, Mudders.---A Reminder to Move.

I'll start with one of my favorite quotes on motherhood penned by Robert James Waller in his stunning book Bridges of Madison County.  "When a woman makes the choice to marry, to have children; in one way her life begins but in another way it stops. You build a life of details. You become a mother, a wife and you stop and stay steady so that your children can move. And when they leave they take your life of details with them. And then you're expected move again only you don't remember what moves you because no-one has asked in so long. Not even yourself."

Bear with me...I'll get to the quote...

My friend leads a full life.  She is one of those moms that I envy.  The role of mother seems to fit her like a glove.  (With the help of her husband) she seems to always make the correct choices for her family and it shows.  Her kids are consistently on the honor roll. They are polite and kind--you know--right out of Leave It To Beaver or Little House on the Prairie, the kind of kids every mom dreams that her own children will turn out to be. This friend, let's call her Superwoman, has a large posse of women that she calls her own.  She has received laudation after laudation in her career.  Her cooking rivals Rachel Ray.  She is the quintessential sports mother cheering for her daughter and son at their year round sporting events.  Superwoman even chairs charity events while taking classes to get her counseling license.  All of this she does at the perfect temperature never burning out or freezing up.

That is why I was so surprised when during a phone call last week she happened to mention that with all that she does, (as fulfilling as it may be) she just needed something for herself.    As I listened intently (something I try hard to do because along with EVERYTHING else she is good at, she is also an extraordinary ear when you need to sound off.) she began to muse about activities and skills she wanted to acquire just because...well...just because she WANTED to.  I did and said all the things that a friend of 36 years would and should do and say, agreeing with her that cooking classes would  be a perfect avenue for her to follow, (eating her meals is one of life's pleasures.)  But what I didn't do, what I couldn't say to her (after all the phone conversation wasn't about me) is that at the other end of the phone I was choking back tears.

It was an interesting phenomenon and one I had to analyze.  At first I couldn't quite put my finger on the reason for my tears.  But as I stood outside myself and observed with the clarity of a scientist I realized that there were many reasons for the drops on my cheeks and the quiver in my chin, the biggest one being that despite having it so together, this mom, this mom who happened to be one of my best friends experienced the same longing for independence or MOMENTS of independence as I did.  This yearning to be me without the mom label has plagued me with guilt and therefore the urge has been pushed aside more often then indulged.  Yet here was my definition of a truly salt of the earth mother wanting the same thing, and well...that made my yearning for fulfillment outside of being a mom legitimate.

We try hard, don't we Mudders?  We toil away to be the hub of a wheel holding tightly to the many spokes of motherhood.  We remain in one place while school work, and meals, doctor's appointments, the rolling eyes of a teen, the tantrum of a toddler, our careers, and our husbands spin around us using our stationary status as support.  Sometimes the spinning makes us dizzy.  Sometimes the wheel squeaks and needs grease.  Sometimes the pull of so many spokes weighs us down and our strength wanes. But we smile even though we're sad so our children aren't scared.  We learn to listen intently even though the pressures of our role may be screaming in our ears.  We get used to blank stares when we request help and stomach the fact that ultimately who we are is invisible to our children who look at us (especially when they are older) as mere cash machines, taxi drivers and good old fashioned nags.  Through it all, we stay steady, unmoveable so our children and loved ones can move.

Which of course brings me to the quote with which I began this post.  Although I read the book several times, it was when Meryl Streep playing the role of Francesca,  uttered the quote so passionately to her lover, Robert, in the movie of the same name, did I weep with  fervent agreement.  If we are not careful Mudders, if we remain the steady hub of a steel wheel, we will forget what moves us...what moved us BEFORE we were mothers.  If our role as "mama" encompasses entirely our very being then who will we be when our children leave and our role is diminished?  What does it teach our children if we don't think of ourselves every once in awhile?   As Francesca says so adeptly in Bridges, when we are able to move again, to shed the hub status, we won't remember what moved us if we lose ourselves in this complicated albeit wonderful parenting process.  After all how long has it been since you've thought about what moves you Mudders?  How long has it been since any one asked?

Well Mudders, I'm asking.  What moves you?  What are your life dreams besides the well being of your children?  This holiday season give yourself a truly priceless gift will you?  Not only do I want you to think about the answers to these questions, I want you to find a way in the next year to begin to fulfill some of those dreams and wishes.  Let us not get so bogged down in our life of detail that we are unable to move.

Homework--'Nuff Said.

Regrets...I've had a few....All right...I mean come on, let's be real.  I am forty one.  There are more than just a FEW regrets.  Oh...now...stop tsk tsking...We all have those moments that we wish we could do over in a different way.  Some are bigger than others.  Some aren't worth the thought.  Some are always with us and will be until we are old and gray.  My list is lengthy.  Some of the ruefulness is what you'd expect...the angst that comes from being young...and stupid.  You know what I mean.  Like--I wish I had the chutzpah to tell my prom date that our strong friendship had become so much more--to me.  Instead, for the next month I tear-soaked my diary lamenting his prom night hook up with my mortal enemy.  I wish that I wasn't a shallow teen consumed with popularity forsaking-- even down right humiliating--those who weren't part of the crowd I deemed important.  I wish I valued my education and wasn't embarrassed by my intelligence, dumbing myself down to attract the "right" kind of boy.  (Those of you who know me....pun intended.) I wish I was more independent.  Being alone, even for the smallest amount of time feels scary to me.  Seems kind of weak if you ask me.   I wish I hadn't felt a compulsion to grow up so fast, and that I experienced the world in all the ways that a 20-something experiences it when not married and a parent of two young children.  Not that I regret having my boys.  No.  The way I see it, they are the REASONS for my twenties.  However, an abundance of my regrets are ABOUT my boys or how I parented them.  One of the biggest regrets when it comes to them has to be the GINORMOUS mistakes I made pertaining to homework.   Uh....cue the foreboding music please.  Ah yes, homework.  The bane of any parents' existence.

Mistake number one: My belief that the boys DESERVED a break when they got home.  And by break I mean playing video games, watching TV, chatting on Facebook, etc.  I no longer hold this idea to be true.  Here's why;  I think it would have been much more effective to teach the boys that homework was their job or responsibility and that free time and recreation come only after their responsibilities were fulfilled.  Hear me out on this one.  In REAL life we work.  We come home to more work.  We cook.  We load the dishwasher.  We run errands.  We read to our children.  We sweep the floor.  And it is only when all the work is done do we sit and watch Grey's Anatomy with our box of tissues perched on our knees.  It is only when our responsibilities are complete do we check our Facebook page to play a game of Christmas Crunch (my guilty pleasure!)  By teaching the boys from a young age that old adage "business before pleasure"  I believe that we would have avoided so much drama.  If I hadn't set up from the beginning that they were "entitled" to that all powerful fun before homework, I am sure there would have been a lot less of me screaming phrases like, "I DON'T CARE HOW MANY MORE LEVELS YOU NEED BEFORE YOU CAN SAVE THE GAME...IT IS TIME TO DO YOUR HOMEWORK."  or "NOOOOO YOU CAN NOT WATCH ANOTHER EPISODE OF FAMILY GUY.  I DON'T CARE IF IT IS A NEW ONE.  IT IS TIME TO DO YOUR HOMEWORK!"   Rule number one to try this time around with Ila:  Work comes first.  Play comes next.  That's the norm.  (I'll let you know in fifteen years if that works out!)

Mistake Number 2:  Lamenting along with the boys the pitfalls of homework.  I can't tell you how many times the boys asked for my help with homework that I inadvertently rolled my eyes at a seemingly ludicrous or laborious assignment.  Then of course there were the times that I put to words my disdain for homework saying, "I know homework is boring, (or hard, or stupid) but you HAVE to do it." Yeah...I know...I should never try to sell a product.  Pretty great mom huh?  Feeding right into the "why-do-I-have-to-do-this-crap attitude that my boys had. My consistent message?  "Yeah.  You are correct.  Homework bites.  Just suck it up and do it."  Rule number two to try this time around with Ila-sell the virtues of a job well done.  Push pride. Hold dear the importance of trying your hardest and completing a task.  How does that song go?  "You've got to accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative...."  (I'll let you know in 15 years if rule number two works out!)

Mistake Number 3:  Coming to the rescue every time an "oh-my-gosh-I-didn't-finish-my-project-that-I-had-four-weeks-to-do-and-it's-due-tomorrow!" happened at 9:00 at night.  I mean don't get me wrong the first time it happens...okay...any mom would help out by running to Walmart to get bow tie noodles, pipe cleaners, water color paints, and red cellophane.  The first time it happens any mom would sit at the kitchen table meticulously gluing over 100 bow tie pastas to the various colored pipe cleaners until her fingers cramped.  But the second, third, fourth and even fifth time, it would have been smarter to let. my. precious. babies. hang.  Sound harsh?  Let me explain.  It is just in the past few years that I learned the valuable lesson that logical annoying irritating consequences can sometimes...maybe most times..be more effective than artificial consequences that we place on our children.  For instance, I no longer fight with my kids about wearing coats.  When they don't have coats on and it happens to rain, the long walk home or to Grandma's will be wet, cold and miserable.  Next time they will wear a coat.  The same goes for unfinished homework.  Sparing my boys from the glowering disappointment of their teachers didn't do them any good.  It would have been better for them to be a little uncomfortable from time to time, especially if their decisions warrant the discomfort.  Discomfort is by nature...well....not fun, and had I let them suffer (I know this SOUNDS harsh) they may have developed habits that were more organized and diligent.  Instead they rely on mom to save them.  Rule number three to try this time around with Ila-let her suffer the natural consequences of not doing homework.  Instead of rescuing her each time, I'll try to help her find ways of being organized so that she is equipped with the tools to avoid the "oops I forgot my homework" syndrome.  (Again, and for a final time, I shall let you know in 15 years whether or not this works!)

Victoria Holt once said, "Never regret.  If it's good, it's wonderful.  If it's bad--it's experience."  I am lucky to be able to use my regrets as experience to mother Ila in a different way.  Lots of moms don't get another chance to do it all over again more than a decade later.  But do a girl a favor...don't make me wait for 15 years to see if my homework hypotheses are correct.  Let me know what YOU think by commenting below!

It is Thanksgiving and I'm taking a break from writing this week.  But my friend sent me this wonderful essay on motherhood today and I thought, "What a gift this is for any mother."  And since, dear readers this is the week to give thanks, I'd like to exuberantly give my heartiest appreciation to you all who read and comment and support my writing.  I am so grateful for you.  Your readership, wisdom, and wonderful friendship warms my soul and helps this sticky road called "motherhood" feel a little less lonely.  So please accept the following essay as a token of my thanks to all of my Mudders.  Happy Thanksgiving!

Invisible Mother.....By Anonymous

It all began to make sense, the blank stares, the lack of response, the way one of the kids will walk into the room while I'm on the phone and ask to be taken to the store. Inside I'm thinking, 'Can't you see I'm on the phone?'
 
Obviously not; no one can see if I'm on the phone, or cooking, or sweeping the floor, or even standing on my head in the corner, because no one can see me at all. I'm invisible.. The invisible Mom. Some days I am only a pair of hands, nothing more! Can you fix this? Can you tie this? Can you open this??
 
Some days I'm not a pair of hands; I'm not even a human being. I'm a clock to ask, 'What time is it?' I'm a satellite guide to answer, 'What number is the Disney Channel?' I'm a car to order, 'Right around 5:30, please.'
 
Some days I'm a crystal ball; 'Where's my other sock?, Where's my phone?, What's for dinner?'
 
I was certain that these were the hands that once held books and the eyes that studied history, music and literature -but now, they had disappeared into the peanut butter, never to be seen again. She's going, she's going, she's gone!?
 
One night, a group of us were having dinner, celebrating the return of a friend from England . She had just gotten back from a fabulous trip, and she was going on and on about the hotel she stayed in. I was sitting there, looking around at the others all put together so well. It was hard not to compare and feel sorry for myself. I was feeling pretty pathetic, when she turned to me with a beautifully wrapped package, and said, 'I brought you this.' It was a book on the great cathedrals of Europe .

I wasn't exactly sure why she'd given it to me until I read her inscription: 'With admiration for the greatness of what you are building when no one sees.' In the days ahead I would read - no, devour - the book. And I would discover what would become for me, four life-changing truths, after which I could pattern my work: 1) No one can say who built the great cathedrals - we have no record of their names. 2) These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never see finished. 3) They made great sacrifices and expected no credit. 4) The passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the eyes of God saw
everything.
 
A story of legend in the book told of a rich man who came to visit the cathedral while it was being built, and he saw a workman carving a tiny bird on the inside of a beam. He was puzzled and asked the man, 'Why are you spending so much time carving that bird into a beam that will be covered by the roof, No one will ever see it And the workman replied, Because God sees.'

I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place. It was almost as if I heard God whispering to me, 'I see you. I see the sacrifices you make every day, even when no one around you does.
 
No act of kindness you've done, no sequin you've sewn on, no cupcake you've baked, no Cub Scout meeting, no last minute errand is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building a great cathedral, but you can't see right now what it will become.
 
I keep the right perspective when I see myself as a great builder. As one of the people who show up at a job that they will never see finished, to work on something that their name will never be on. The writer of the book went so far as to say that no cathedrals could ever be built in our lifetime because there are so few people willing to sacrifice to that degree.
 
When I really think about it, I don't want my son to tell the friend he's bringing home from college for Thanksgiving, 'My Mom gets up at 4 in the morning and bakes homemade pies, and then she hand bastes a turkey for 3 hours and presses all the linens for the table.' That would mean I'd built a monument to myself. I just want him to want to come home. And then, if there is anything more to say to his friend, he'd say, 'You're gonna love it there...'
 
As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot be seen if we're doing it right. And one day, it is very possible that the world will marvel, not only at what we have built, but at the beauty that has been added to the world by the sacrifices of invisible mothers.
 
Share this with all the Invisible Moms you know... I just did.

Tradition! Tradition....Tradition! (Think Fiddler on the Roof)

We stripped Ila down to just her diaper and plopped her in the middle of the dining room table.  Aidan sat at one end, his eyebrows furrowed paging through the Jack-o-lantern pattern book trying to decide on just the right one to carve into his pumpkin.  "They have some new patterns this year mom."  he said excitedly.  "But I am not sure I want to do one that is difficult.  Which one are you choosing for Ila's pumpkin?"  I answered, "Oh something easy.  We won't keep her attention long."  While Aidan and I decided on simple faces, Jeff cut off the tops and then he and Aidan began scraping and emptying the contents of the pumpkins.  They each delighted Ila by dropping the ooey gooey innards all around her on the table.  She grabbed them with her chubby hands, squeezed them through her fingers, and yes, ate quite a bit as well (much to her mother's chagrin and father's delight!)  We all giggled when Ila curiously peered into the hollowed out gourd.  And when she looked up at her father quizzically and asked, "W'sat Da Da?  W'sat?"  we all answered in unison, "That's a pumpkin Ila!"  When time came to light up the jack-o-lanterns, we took them out into the dark night and placed them on the front porch.  At the sight of their glowing faces Ila's squeal was so high pitched that we were sure we heard dogs start to howl in the next neighborhood over. We each took turns taking pictures with the finished products basking in the Jack-o-lanterns' light, smiling from ear to ear as the trials and tribulations of the week seemed to get swallowed up into the darkness beyond our front porch.

For 16 years, (Yikes! 16 years!) this Halloween tradition has been played out--albeit in many different ways--but played out none the less.  When life changed around us and within us, whether it be the boys' dad not living in our home anymore, the presence of a new man in our lives, friends coming, friends going, scary medical problems, new siblings, the tradition of jack-o-lantern carving has held constant, comforting us with its presence every week before October 31st.  And isn't that what traditions are supposed to be?  Family traditions are a reliable presence in our lives that help define who we are and what we value. Traditions are steadies in a world where "change" seems to be the only OTHER constant. 

At this time of year traditions seem especially prevalent in our household.   It starts with the jack-o-lantern but as autumn turns its face to November and then December my children, my husband and I look forward to the things that makes this season...well...predictable, comfortable, familial, and special.  Each tradition--whether large or small--is utterly essential.

Music starts my family on the right foot when it comes to the holiday season.  Christmas music--to be exact-- is a large part of our holiday traditions.  Every year on November 1st you can find me in the kitchen cooking dinner with John Denver and The Muppets blaring from my I-Home.  Their A Christmas Together album has been a tradition since I was 8 years old.  The songs define the holiday for me.  It wouldn't be Christmas without Miss Piggy warbling "Christmas is Coming," or John Denver singing "A Carol For Christmas" sweetly and serenely after reciting the poem "Alfie the Christmas Tree."   It is so popular with my sons that it is the cd that is most requested when opening presents on Christmas morn or driving in the car to shop for gifts.  A little tradition that I do for myself is to buy new Christmas music every November 1st to add to my comprehensive library.  However, when it comes right down to it, without the oldest cd's Christmas couldn't happen in my house...probably wouldn't happen in my house without the familiar melodies that remind us of all the Christmases that came before.  Music--a tradition that sings us into the new year. 


One of my favorite traditional outings this time of year HAS to be the Fisher's Thanksgiving get together.  For those of you that don't know, my husband is one of ten brothers...(yes I said TEN boys.  Shouldn't THAT Mrs. Fisher be writing a blog too???)  My sister-in-law, Sandy, is brave enough to hold Thanksgiving at her house.  She tends to be the glue that holds the entire family together.  In a way, Thanksgiving at her house is a manifest of her--welcoming and warm, full of happiness and smiles.  But that holiday gathering is also a manifest of the Fisher clan itself; always raucous, laughter shaking the rafters, conversation ringing from every corner of Sandy's elegant house.  There isn't any POSSIBLE way not to feel like you belong to something special when that family (that family????) No, MY family gathers together to celebrate another year, another child, another grateful meal.  My boys and Ila are blessed to be part of it.  Thanksgiving at the Fisher's--a tradition that provides warmth in the cold month of November. 

Family traditions can cut through strife and worry.  Last year after being diagnosed with a heart condition, I have to admit that I didn't have the energy to fulfill many of our holiday rituals.  But the way that my boys counted on and pleaded for the continuation of our holiday traditions was evidence of the fibrous strength they had woven throughout their very beings.  That was clearly evident last year when Gannan, then 13, and perhaps past the age of admitting that all things Christmas was cool, gently asked me if my heart condition would stop us from traveling to our favorite tree farm to cut our Christmas tree down.  You see, it was his turn to use the saw.  He carried that knowledge with him for a year....looking forward to his chance to be the one who caused us all to cheer and whoop a hearty "HUZZAH!" when at last the tree that was meticulously chosen landed with a thump on the soft snow.  That gentle pleading, the hopeful look in his eyes, made me realize how very vital for our family our traditions were, that those annual moments both large and small were absolutely positively fundamental and part of the definition of what family was to my sons.


It isn't difficult to establish traditions.  In fact it doesn't take much more than doing something two years in a row for your children to consider it a "must-do" every year.  What's more, I think that a year of great change is the perfect time to start a new tradition, especially one that takes family togetherness.  My boys favorite traditions were started just a few years ago when what we usually did on Christmas Eve came to an end for reasons beyond our control.  Instead of wallowing in sadness and loss, we instead brainstormed new traditions.  That was the year that we decided that the boys would be the ones to plan the menu and cook on Christmas Eve and Christmas.  Jeff and I help them by following their instructions to a tee (after all, they are in charge) and I am happy to say that our holiday meals have been scrumptious, decadent creations since we started this tradition.  Each year is a new recipe and another chance for us to bond as a family.

Just two years ago, Jeff and I thought that the years of traveling to Albany to drive through Washington Park's Holiday Lights in the Park with the boys oooing and ahhing in the back seat would soon be over.  We thought that in the near future we'd be sitting at some restaurant on Christmas while the boys went to their girlfriends' homes to celebrate with members of someone else's family.  But, miracles happen, and we have been blessed with Ila and a chance to not only extend the time spent on our old family traditions, but time to establish new ones with her and for her.  And dear readers, I would love your help in doing that!  Please share with me your holiday traditions so that they might become ones that Ila experiences someday!

Le Petit Bonheur (The Little Happiness)

"Cultivate le petit bonheur (the little happiness) until courage returns. Look forward to the beauty of the next moment, the next hour, the promise of a good meal, sleep, a book, a movie, the likelihood that tonight the stars will shine and tomorrow the sun will shine. Sink roots into the present until the strength grows to think about tomorrow.”

Ardis Whitman

These past two weeks this quote and I have been intimately connected.  Written on a piece of scrap paper it has sat on the bathroom sink and waited for me to finish my shower.  It tarried patiently on my vanity as I straightened my unruly long hair.  It has been wrinkled and smushed into my sensible teaching slacks waiting for my hand to grasp it, grip it, crinkle it in my white knuckled fist when desperate thoughts wove within my daily routine; in between my reading lessons and correcting spelling tests, when walking down a quiet hall or standing robot-like waiting for the copier to finish spitting out the day's assignments.

It's that french phrase that makes the quote stand out for me:  Le petit bonheur--small moments of happiness.  Such a simple but profound idea and one I am sure we could all lean on every once in awhile.  When the thought of tomorrow is worrisome and heavy--concentrate instead on what is good and satisfying even if it is small.  It is the precious present that will get you through until you feel strong enough to tackle the "unknown tomorrows" that we all have.      

So that's what I did this week. I marked, noticed and counted my petit bonheur, and if you'll indulge me, I'd like to share with you some of the happiest moments if not only to remind myself of the joie de vivre, but also perhaps to help someone else who may be in the "deep downs" find some light even in what seems the blackest of times.   

Ma Petit Bonheur

1.  Ila has taken to imitating a rabbit when the bunny picture shows up in her favorite book.  It is the most precious thing I have ever witnessed.  Her chubby cheeks move up and down  in tandem with her rosy pink nose and her eyes get squinty.  Le Petit Bonheur...

2.  This weekend my sixteen year old asked...I repeat....ASKED to accompany us on a shopping trip to The Christmas Tree Shop.  He sat in the backseat with Ila, sang Sesame Street Songs with her and had several easy conversations with us about school, about Christmas, about his future.  

3.  The same 16 year old told me last week that our house was "a home"...a home.  Two words never sounded so good.

4.  The crock pot...YES I said the crock pot.  DEFINITELY a petit bonheur.  Especially when my hubby uses it.  This past week I feasted on spaghetti  with homemade sauce and meatballs the size of baseballs.  I came home today to the creamiest cheesiest potato and ham soup that the world has ever eaten.  It was paired with thick slabs of farmer's wheat bread that he grilled with cheddar cheese; a perfect meal for a rainy fall night--Yes?  Le petit bonheur!

5.  Then of course there is bath time with Ila.  There are SO many petit bonheurs during this daily 15 minutes I am not sure I even know where to start.  How about that Buddha belly so full after a delicious crock pot dinner.  Before putting her into the warm bath water there's nothing like the squealing giggles she lets loose when I blow raspberries on that sweet round tummy...le petit bonheur.  Each night she does this incredibly endearing thing where she grabs her rubber ducky, points her chubby finger at me and grunts.  This is my music cue and at that moment I begin my rendition of "Rubber Ducky," my voice echoing off the white tiled wall.  She leans against the back of the tub and twirls her yellow duck interjecting her rudimentary language where she can.  But the happiest part of the bath has to be towel time.  Wrapping her in that purple heavy cotton "princess" towel with a crown for the hood, she squirms and wriggles happily in my arms.  The warmth of her body seeps through the towel right into my soul.  I put my nose on the top of her wet hair and breath in deeeeeeply.  When drying her off on the bathroom sink's counter I kiss her shoulders, her round knees, the bottoms of her tiny feet, her hands and right on up her arms to her arm pits--all with no resistance ( a rare moment!)  She anticipates this routine sitting mesmerized with each kiss and then bursts out into her heartiest belly laugh when her arms get kissed. That delightful sound floats up out of her mouth into the steamy bathroom and strokes my cheek like a soothing hand.  Best of all, she'll snuggle into the crook of my neck all the way down the hall to her room.  I almost hate to put her down on her changing table.  Bath time...le petit bonheur.

6.  Le petit bonheur, a small happiness, doesn't seem to fit this next one.  I mean my Facebook friend, Suz, must have the most giant personality that the world has ever experienced.   I am not sure if she knows of the jovialities and super smiles she spreads throughout the world of Facebook.  To those who don't know her or have never read her statuses, I call her the female Robin Williams.  This woman is freaking hilarious.  During one teary wallowing moment, I turned on my computer to read this status posted by my friend, " So I'm checking out at the grocery and the comedian/cashier dude holds up the 2 pack of dog bones and asks, "for your husband?"  I replied, "well, he gets bored when he's in the dog house...plus it gives him clean breath."Or how about this one "So. my 17 year old big dude is trying to pick a 'sexy' name for his car.  hubby has googled 'sexy names' and is reading htem off in a strange(ie. sultry) voice.  we're actually having a debate in the kitchen over this.  seriously.  ::eyeroll:: " --If you ever need a moment of laughter be sure to visit her world at suzpatrick.blogspot.com!  

And now for some truly tiny petit bonheur!

A.  Palmer's Cocoa Butter Oil massaged into my tired feet at the end of the day.
B.  A husband who knows that talk is cheap but massaging my feet is PRICELESS.
C.  A full tank of gas when I am in a hurry.
D.  A call out of the blue that showers me with understanding and advice from a best friend in Tampa.
E.  Grape infused vodka, Dole All Natural Pink Lemonade, Perrier...together....yum!
F.  Nestle's Tollhouse Ice Cream Sandwiches...nothing else to say about THAT one!
G.  The Sunday NY Times Book Review.
H.  A virtual trip to Amazon.com after reading the book review.  This week I bought --To the End of the Land by David Grossman.  Each day I look forward to a jaunt to the mailbox to pick up a prized possession--a book and devour its words.

Le petit bonheur.  Le petit bonheur.  Le petit bonheur.  Look for it.  Listen to it.  Learn from it.  Love it.  I guarantee that those small happinesses will add up to Le Grand Bonheur--a great big ginormous contentment-- that outshines those scary tomorrows and gives us palpable energy we need to take us forward.