Christmasy Stuff

DISCLAIMER: The following post contains frank discussion about my beliefs and feelings regarding religion. I don’t often discuss serious things here and I’m sure I’ll go back to posting silly stories soon. Please read with caution.

I knew in elementary school that my family was different from other families because if a sleepover at a friend’s house ended on a Sunday morning I would be dropped off at home early so my friend could go to church. Sometimes though I tagged along; I sat on the hard backed benches and watched the people around me. They were always dressed up like they were going to a wedding. It made me uncomfortable because I was not and I knew that I was the odd one out. I stared at the stained glass windows in awe at the beauty of them. I followed along with what my friend did. If she stood or sat or kneeled, so did I. But I didn’t understand a thing.

I knew who Jesus was. We celebrated his birthday every year. And I played with the Nativity every year. I loved the little sheep and donkeys. I loved moving baby Jesus around, trying him out in different places before finally putting him back in front of Mary. I knew the basic story – I watched all the Christmas specials each year and Linus explained it succinctly every single time. I loved Christmas time. It was the only birthday party I knew of where the guests got all the good presents! And boy did Santa bring me great gifts.

I started paying a bit more attention in middle school. My friends talked about church and I listened. They went to Sunday school and confirmation classes. They spoke of accepting Jesus as their Lord and Savior. I wanted to understand. I wanted to belong. One night, I took my mom’s old King James Bible with its fancy thou’s and ye’s and I read it. Well, I skimmed it to get the general idea.

But I was skeptical about the whole Jesus is God thing. Actually, I was skeptical about the whole book. None of it made sense to me. Right about that time I was big into archaeology and paleontology. I was dumbfounded that the bible made no mention of dinosaurs. That it didn’t explain cave paintings and artifacts from civilizations that came ten thousand years before. I put the King James Version away and left it at that. It didn’t make sense and therefore it was of no use to me.

By eighth grade I knew. Well. I didn’t know, know. I had an inkling, a tickle in the back of my mind that I was somehow different from my friends. I didn’t know there was a name for it but I knew. I was a nonbeliever.

In college many of my friends were quite open about their religious beliefs and after learning about my skepticism, encouraged me to attend church and mass with them. I willing went along. I wanted to understand and maybe, back then, I wanted to believe. I mean I believed in aliens, Bigfoot and the possibility of a Loch Ness monster so why was it so hard for me to believe that an all powerful, all knowing, all loving being watched over us? Why was it so hard to accept that Jesus was the Lord and Savior? There wasn’t any real proof of aliens yet I readily jumped on that bandwagon. So what was the deal? It wasn’t until I dropped out, pregnant with Ashleigh and moved home that I really started looking at my beliefs.

Maybe I was searching for a meaning. Maybe I was confused by my sister’s sudden interest in the church when we were raised to look for answers in ourselves and in facts. I tried to understand. I went to midnight mass at St. Joseph’s on Christmas Eve that year thinking that I would find something in the pomp and circumstance of the night. And though I was near to bursting with excitement over the holiday and Ashleigh’s impending arrival, I felt more awkward then ever before. I didn’t belong in this building, I thought, with all these believers. It was hypocrisy. I didn’t…couldn’t…wouldn’t believe and yet, there I was.

When Ashleigh was three and I went back to college I decided to study religion, philosophy and history alongside with my English curriculum. Maybe, I thought, if I understood religion from a factual sense, then I…I don’t know what I expected. But the more I learned, the more I questioned and the more I questioned the more I realized that religion would not be something I would ever benefit from.

History showed too many problems sprouting from religion, too many misunderstandings, too many battles, too many deaths. It didn’t matter what religion or beliefs one espoused the end result was bad. Philosophy introduced me the Euthyphro dilemma – is something good because it is inherently good or because a god says it is good? My religion professor, a deeply religious man himself, made us dig for the historical aspects of the biblical text and asked us to question each verse.

Studying made me question all over again but this time it wasn’t about finding faith it was about how I was raising my daughter.

I gave a few brief thoughts about not celebrating Christmas anymore. I thought if I could eighty-six it when Ashleigh was young, she wouldn’t feel like she was missing out on anything. But then I thought about all the fun that Christmas is: the decorating, the celebrating, the presents. Sure there is a religious meaning behind it all, but Christmas is a conglomeration of different traditions that early Christians adopted to get the so-called pagans to convert. What farmer leaves his flock out in the fields on a winter night? Where in Luke does it mention an evergreen tree lit with candles or a Yule log? Guess who else was begot by a god: Hercules, Helen of Troy, and Julius Caesar.

Once I started thinking about Christmas in that sense I felt better about celebrating. In fact, I probably celebrate Christmas more enthusiastically now then I did before I got a degree. I decorate the house, I make ornaments and gifts, I love giving presents and spend a good part of the year thinking about and planning for Christmas. I start singing carols as early as August and despite my very vocal complaints about stores putting Christmas displays earlier and earlier each year, I secretly love it.

My sister a year or so ago shook her head at my while I was decorating my house, making room on the shelves for ceramic Santas that my mom painted. I was singing, giggling and just about spazzing out with joy that Christmas was coming - something that I have never outgrown.

“What?” I asked.

“You.” She said. “I don’t get how you can love Christmas this much and not believe in Jesus.”

I’m not sure how I responded. Maybe I made a witty comment or just shrugged but as the years have passed I have come to terms with my love of Christmas. Christmas isn’t just about Jesus anymore. Not really. It's about hope. The story of Jesus offers people hope. You don’t need faith to have hope. And in the middle of winter when nights are long and cold it is good to remember hope.

I will never claim that Jesus didn’t exist. There’s factual evidence. And I will never claim that I know all there is in the universe because really? It’s just too big for us to understand. And that’s alright. Besides, who am I to pass up on Birthday Cake? Yes, I celebrate the commercial side of Christmas and next to my beautiful Nativity are Santa Claus’s, nutcrackers, mistletoe, a decorated tree and many other things associated with Christmas that actually predate Christianity. When the girls ask about them meaning of Christmas I explain to them the religious and the secular, the biblical and the incorporation of other beliefs. I may not believe that Jesus was or is the son of God, I may not believe in an omniscient god and my point with this post is not to spark religious debate; in fact, I’m pretty sure that this post has moved entirely too far away from my original point I wanted to make which is:

OMFG!!! IT’S CHRISTMAS EVE!!!!!!

Out of Commission

So remember when I posted a bit about my teeth a couple of weeks ago? Here and Here and also Here.

Yeah. I'm having some work done. Surgery-like work. In the morning.

(Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.)

I've prepped some photos to go for the next couple of days.

(Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.)

So. Once I stop hyperventilating, I'm sure I'll be fine.

Fine. Just. Freaking. Fine.

There's a bright side here somewhere, but I can't see it over my panic attack.

(Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.)

I read somewhere once that a smart person learns from their mistakes but the truly wise learn from the mistakes of others. Today, I think I am neither. Today, I teach a lesson. Teeth are important. Fears can be conquered with enough anesthesia. Accepting the consequences of your actions may be one of the hardest things to do but it is vital that we own up and take responsibility.

I accept that my teeth troubles are my own fault. I accept that my fear has kept me from doing something about it sooner and now I have far worse problems. I accept that I am a big chicken and wonder if the dentist will think it odd if I bring a stuffed animal with me for comfort. I accept that I will not being enjoying the fabulous turkey dinner I cook unless it is liquified (but I will be all over that pumpkin pie).

Do you feel better yet, Self?

Yeah...I didn't think so.

A Funk Explained.

Before I even push back the covers and sit up, I know that my period has started. In the bathroom, I confirm it, slightly pink-tinged underwear and blood on the tissue.

I start to cry as I wash my hands.

Scott calls through the door, “You okay?”

I’ve woken him with my tears.

“Fine,” I sniffle, “I’m taking a shower.”

“Alright.” A moment’s pause and then, “You need a towel?”

I nod, knowing he can’t see me but not trusting my ability to talk without crying more. I know the pause was his sleep clouded head registering why I am taking a shower. I never take a shower first except on days when I have my period.

I turn the water on and steam soon fills the small room. Scott taps on the door just as I pull the shower curtain closed shutting me into my own private space. The door opens a crack and without him saying anything, I know he is hanging a clean towel on the rack for me. He pushes the door shut with a soft click as he leaves.

In the shower the hot water beats on my back and I let the sobs I was denying take over. My eyes sting and I can’t seem to catch my breath; I gasp and lean against the tiles letting the water wash the tears from my face. I know that if Scott hasn’t gone into the kitchen yet, he can hear me. Although he is use to the tears now, I try to stop.

This is ridiculous, I tell myself, we aren’t even trying. 

But every month it is the same, hoping against hope that an accident will happen even though I monitor my cycle like a scientist with an experiment. I chart, I take my temperature, figure and refigure, count days and track symptoms. I have to. It is a habit now forged when I took medication that would have damaged or killed any life within me.

Eight years I spent taking rat poison daily until finally I had enough and begged my doctor to help me find an alternative. When he refused, I stopped seeing him and started a holistic regiment of vitamins and minerals that achieve the same results.

Eight years I spent knowing I couldn’t…shouldn’t do what I so desperately wanted to do. I stopped talking about it after the first year. It hurt too much. I focused on work and crafts and anything else just to not think about a baby. I told myself all manner of lies to make myself feel better about not having more children.

A month ago, I was out to dinner with my mom, sister and nephew, when my recent back trouble was at the most painful. I squirmed all through dinner – sitting hurt far more than standing. As we were getting ready to leave, my sister suggested that I try leaning on the railing of the deck where we ate and let my hips and legs just dangle to alleviate some of the pain.

Willing to try anything at that point, I did as she suggested to no avail. By back hurt just as much and I felt silly hanging on the railing.

“You and your odd hips!” my sister joked.

“They aren’t odd,” I said patting my hips as we made our way back into the restaurant proper, “I’ve got good child birthing hips.”

She gave me a funny look. “You do,” She said. “You should have had more children. You’re a good mom.”

Thankfully she looked away because otherwise she’d have seen the tears start to well in my eyes.

This morning I wake up after, once again, a night filled with dreams of pregnancy. I have them four and five times a month, usually between ovulation and the start of my period. I touch my stomach and sigh. The clock reads 6:21. I must have hit the snooze a half dozen times trying to stay in my dreams. Scott is making noise in the kitchen and soon I know he will come in to drag me out of bed.

While he is dressing, I tell him of my dream; he shakes his head and tells me I need to find a job or more hobbies to keep me occupied. But his gaze doesn’t meet my eyes. He tells me this because he too wants another child and it is easier sometimes to ignore the yearning. 

We’ve talked about it before, having more children. Had I not been diagnosed with PE shortly after Cyra was born neither of us doubt there would have been more children.

Twice in the past year, when alcohol muddied our senses and gave us cause to not think or worry, we played the two week waiting game. Twice I spent two weeks holding my breath, hoping, dreaming, thinking about names, picking out color schemes for a baby afghan. Twice Scott spent two weeks asking me how I felt, looking at my stomach, telling me “it is what it is,” then grinning as he suggests boys names.

In a few months Cyra will be 10, a few months after that Ashleigh turns 16. Maybe I am yearning now because my girls are growing up and I miss the babies and toddlers and little girls that they were. Maybe, as oft cited in magazines, my biological clock has kicked it into overdrive…hyper-speed. Maybe I am already anticipating an empty nest.

Maybe.

But I doubt it.

Awkward

You know how when you haven't seen a friend in a while and then you see them and say something innoccuous like, "Oh yeah, I'll totally give you a call next week and we'll get together" and then a week passes and you think, "Hey! I need to call so-and-so," but you don't because you get distracted by everyday living and other shiny things.

And then another week slips past.

And then a few weeks become a month or longer.

And then you kind-of feel awkward about picking up the phone to call because, really, did you actually have a valid reason for not calling? And how do you explain you couldn't call because...you know...laundry and junk.

So more time passes and it gets easier to justify not calling but you feel like a total heel because you are supposed to be friends.

And then other people tell you you really need to call so-and-so because they miss you and you feel even more like a tool.

Yeah.

Blogging is like that.

Exactly like that.

But stay tuned, my friends, I am writing again. Finally. And recent fun has resulted in a better mood and a lifting of the funk curtain that has been blocking the sun.

Quiet Time

I’ve been quiet lately. Censoring myself, really. Because I am not writing an anonymous blog there are things that I will not and can’t write about. Well, write about and post here, anyways. Sometimes I think that maybe I should have instead created an anonymous blog but then I remember that many of the things that I like to write about – the Girls, my family and friends – are things that I want my family and friends to read.

So I don’t often put up too much of my feelings here. I try to stick with funny, silly stories about little things that happen, my experiences with the girls, the world through their eyes. But I also don’t want to be just a mommy blogger because I am more than that too. I like to bake and craft, explore the world and discover new…stuff. And I like sharing that as well. I blog about quiet things, daily life and adventures. I’m good with that.

Except sometimes.

Sometimes there are so many problems running through my head I’m sure that I’ll explode if I don’t talk about them. Sometimes I get so mad at the girls because of something they did or didn’t do (in the case of the teenager) that I want to yell and scream and rant at them. Sometimes my family irritates me to no end and I want to complain. Sometimes life throws me such a curve ball that there isn’t anyway I’ll be able to hit it in time.

All those times I write down. I tell.

But not here because that stuff, those emotions are private.

I don’t rant about work because even if I was working, it wouldn’t be professional. I don't set out to upset or offend anyone with my words and I try not to write anything that I would be embarrassed if my Mom read it.

So, for the past few weeks I’ve just been keeping things to myself. Problems and emotions that are mine will stay mine. No emotional rants, No bits exposed. Having a gazillion followers was not my intention when I started out as a blogger. I had ideas of just keeping in touch with friends and family but then I discovered something: an amazing community of people with stories and tales of their own. Bloggers who develop dialogues and friendships. Bloggers who expose me to new ideas and new ways of thinking. Bloggers who, although from different corners of the world and different backgrounds, can relate to something that I wrote.

So even though it wasn’t my intention, I’ve found that I quite like the friends that I’ve made here and I hope that they don’t mind too much while I’m quiet, because I promise – I’ll even pinky swear – that I don’t stay too quiet for long. I’ve got stories and plan on telling them…it’s just taking me a bit longer than I anticipated.

March Photo A Day - Moon

I love the moon. I mean who doesn't? Mysterious, unique, shiny. It has a Dark Side. I bet there are cookies over there too. It is really, really hard to take photographs of the moon with a point and shoot camera. As such I present two quick peeks at some recent attempts.

The one is the first full moon of this year. I took a series of snaps as it rose up out of the Atlantic. My peeps and I were goofing around after a seriously delicious dinner and I didn't even know that there was a full moon! Luckily, I never go anywhere without my camera!

This one I took this month. Again another unsuspected full moon. Unless you pay attention (which I really don't) I think the full moon rather sneaks up on a person and then acts all surprised by the response.

"What!" says the moon. "You think I'm so very pretty?"

"Umm? Yeah? Why else would I be all like, 'ohh full moon! Sweet!'" I tell it.

"And these clouds don't make me look...plump?"

"No. Of course not! If anything they are rather slimming."

"Shucks!" the moon says blushing just a bit.

"Ugh!" I mutter, "Such an ego!"