If I lived in Spain, perhaps my nap-ish tendencies wouldn’t be all that abnormal. After all, the Spaniards do take daily siestas. Or so I hear (I’ve never been.) It’s a cultural thing. Maybe I was born in the wrong country. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had that thought. However, I really want all of my sleep within a 24 hour period to happen in a single spell. I know that for me, the dream portion of sleep is really important; my mind needs to regularly plunge to the depths of that realm of all possibility and no limitations- in order to feel positive and healthy during waking life. Somehow I can feel the subtle, glimmering magic of that mysterious state, supporting me through all the day-to-day challenges, the aspects of life and mommyhood which, at times, feel overwhelming.

In recent weeks, I’ve been following a low-to-no-sugar dietary regime (in addition to the gluten-free diet I’ve been more or less following for about a year.) That is because, in spite of the gains in energy I noticed after going GF, I still observed my brain crashing out on certain afternoons- forcing me to nap when what I really wanted was to get things done. It is so frustrating and depressing for me, when I want to stoke the creative flames and create something artistic, or even simply get housework or graphics work done, but on some days, my brain just shuts off instead. I can literally feel the state of my consciousness descending- plummeting toward dreamland. Mind needs to dream. Period. And I’m out for a couple of hours.

I started to wonder, Could it be the sugar? My sweet tooth. Oh Lord. Have I got a sweet tooth. I grew up eating candy whenever I felt like it, without much thought or concern. Milky chocolate was my favorite (yes, I was discerning and usually chose quality brands, but still.) I never thought twice about noshing on a beautiful, velvety brown brick if ever I was in the mood. I grew up with no restrictions on my sugar intake. My parents weren’t strict about it at all; in fact my mother bought candy for my sister and me all the time. Which may sound shocking or like poor parenting… however, our parents’ permissiveness toward sugar at least prevented the strange backlash experienced by certain friends of mine.

One of my childhood friends (actually there were a couple, both with very similar sweets-related back stories and identical reactions, but for the sake of simplicity, I’ll refer to them as one person) was strictly prohibited from touching sugar in any form during her childhood. As an adolescent, she turned into a sneaky little sugar fiend and bigtime candy hoarder. She would save any extra cash, and if we managed to get away from her parents for a while, her greatest delight was to walk to the convenience store and load up on goodies from the candy aisle. Mind you, this girl was not allowed to touch any sugary cereals, or candy, as a child. Cake was only permitted once a year on birthdays- and then it was a miniscule slice. She didn’t have diabetes. Her parents just thought that children shouldn’t eat sugar; that it was unhealthy.

I remember we used to sneak huge loads of candy into her room when her parents weren’t watching… chowing down on the junk until we felt ill and our teeth hurt. This happened rather frequently. Her insatiable yearning for sugar was the driving force for these wacky trips to the unhealthfood store. Even I, who took candy consumption for granted, would never have thought to engage in these almost ritualistic extremes of sugar-filled gluttony. If her parents hadn’t been so strict, she probably would’ve been a lot more casual about the fact that candy was available at the corner shop- within walking distance from her house.

For me though, having had sugar all the time as a youngster, I grew up thinking it was normal to have cakes, cookies, candy, or any other sugary treat one could imagine, just lying about the house. So my attitude toward it was that it was a pleasant, but not tabu, part of life. I don’t think I even had any awareness about sugar being ‘bad’ in any way, except when visiting friends’ houses and feeling uncomfortable about their parents’ scolding and finger-wagging when the topic of sugar-sweetened foods arose.

In retrospect, I’ve come to the opinion that the ideal parenting style is something in between those extremes. Not ultra-permissive, but not too restrictive either. No parent in their right mind could possibly want to produce this dreaded ‘Catholic School Girl’ effect on their child. This is true for most things in which we parents want to influence our children in a positive way: diet, fashion, music, video game consumption, dating, relationships.

I always find it odd when someone says, “I’m not really a sweets person. I don’t care much for desserts.” Or, “I prefer unsweetened, dark chocolate.” Initially, I feel offended and shocked. Then, I think, bullshit. I literally don’t believe them. However, these days I’ve been telling myself, You are not a sweets person. I don’t exactly believe myself, but I’m working on it. Because lately I’ve been aware of a wonderful, new, consistent energy. Something I haven’t felt since childhood, really- when my afternoons were about roller skating around the block countless times, then riding my bike, then going inside and doing homework or playing until bedtime. I was energetic- actually I suppose I could have been described as a rather athletic child (although that energy was never channeled into any organized sport.)

Since I’ve been eating sugar and gluten-free, I’m starting to feel that way again, even though I’m now approaching 40. Because my blood sugar is not subject to multiple daily spikes, my mood, my brain, my muscles… they are all seeming to work better. I feel pretty strong, actually! The weekly yoga has helped, too. I have more stamina now; consistent focus. I’m not flying one hour and collapsing the next. The deprivation is worth it. My brain and body are relearning what it is to feel good, to feel sated. After all, it isn’t natural to consume all that processed white stuff. Addiction to processed sugars, white flour, high fructose corn syrups and the like is an affliction of the modern, western world. None of it was ever an issue for our ancestors.

I’ve defeated other addictions in the past (that is for another post. Or maybe not.) I will say that sugar is the hardest addiction I’ve worked to conquer yet, as almost everyone around me partakes in it. It is so ubiquitous. Not even my husband is not going to change his eating habits for my sake. I will give him some credit, as he has cut down on his cheeseburger intake in recent years. He used to wolf a few of them down every time he went to a fast food place; now he aims to order a grilled chicken sandwich instead. Although most of the time, they add bacon to these fast food chicken sandwiches, so I’m not sure there’s much benefit there.

Regardless, I try not to focus too much on the food he’s eating; or the fact that on some days, he seems to possess the dietary wisdom of a teenager with the munchies. Years of my demonstrating and explaining about nutrition really haven’t had as much of an effect on him as I would hope. Sometimes I even start to feel slightly envious and resentful when I ruminate on the way he chooses to eat. He can eat whatever he wants, and he doesn’t get tired like I do. He is three years older than I am, but he doesn’t have a single gray hair. He is lucky in some ways. Honestly, I do wish he’d mature a little bit in his attitude toward junk food consumption. But, I don’t want to engage in the food policing dynamic that, while growing up, I observed in my parents’ relationship (with them it was my father trying to control my mother’s choices.) I witnessed the ways in which it backfired. She rebelled; again with the sneaking. She became a wife sneaking sweets when she got away from her husband (rather than a pre-teen sneaking them from her parents.) Ultimately, my dad’s self-assigned spousal role as treat watchman did more harm than good.

So.

I focus on my own meals and make sure that the rest of the family is fed. I offer them the healthy fare, but I don’t force it on them. If they don’t want broccoli quinoa stir fry (and they never do), they are welcome to go with ramen noodles and potato chips instead. My kids eat certain raw fruits and vegetables each day. They’ll have apples, bananas, carrots. I’m trying. Doing the best I can, with them and myself. I teach them what I know by word and example.

I offer, but don’t impose. I believe that locking up all unhealthy foods is not wise policy. If they end up with negative associations to foods that are good for them, due to being told to sit and finish a plate full of vegetables that they detest, they very well could become young adults who despise healthy foods. Which to me, equates to a poor result.

Tell me… what are your dietary restrictions? Is your family agreeable? Why do you choose to eat in the manner that you do? Is there anything wrong with the Standard American Diet, (a.k.a., SAD) in your eyes? Hit me up with your comments!

I remembered that I’d used a storebought honey almond facial scrub on my face when I was a teenager, so I decided to try and make one.

Ingredients:

1 cup almonds
¼ cup whole oats
½ cup plain organic yogurt
2 tablespoons honey

First, I put the almonds in my blender and hit pulse about 20 times. I just wanted to break them up a bit, so they’d be in pieces instead of whole.

Not so tough now, are you, almonds?

Next, I added the oats and pulsed again about 15 times, to try and incorporate the oats.

Then I added the yogurt and honey and pulsed a few times, stopped to mix everything with a spatula, and then blended the whole mixture on the blender’s lowest speed for about about one minute.

I transferred the mixture to an old jelly jar that I’d washed out and saved. It will keep in the refrigerator in a sealed jar for three to five days. You can get more than one application for your efforts!

Apply

I went into the bathroom, pulled my hair back and massaged the facial mask into my face and neck. The texture was quite sticky and lumpy. It smelled like muffins. I noted a definite feeling of exfoliation and skin moisturizing/ softening going on.

I left the mixture on my face for 10 minutes before I used a warm washcloth to gently remove it. My skin felt silky soft and refreshed afterward. It also looked a little more glowy, probably due to increased circulation.

Moisturize

It’s a good idea to apply your fave moisturizer after a thorough exfoliation. When the dead skin cells are sloughed away and fresh cells are all exposed, the skin is prepped to absorb moist goodness.

Rinsing It Off

I’m the person who unclogs the household drains when they get slow, so I’m not a big fan of chunks of anything going down the bathroom sink drain. This facial treatment is fairly lumpy, so you might want to rinse the mask off over your kitchen sink drain so the almond & oatmeal matter goes down the garbage disposal.

Youth Endorsement

My twelve-year-old daughter tried it out as well. She’s been having some of the typical issues that accompany hormonal teen skin, so she’s been trying different treatments- mostly mass produced, popular brands marketed to her age group (until this point). I couldn’t say immediately whether it cleared her skin at all; however a couple of days later I noticed her problem zones do look pretty good! Perhaps more importantly, she enjoyed using it. Yay! A youth endorsement!

The Boys

Even though the main guys in my life have nice complexions, they’re not big on exfoliating to achieve a radiant glow. If you do have a guy in your household who is into this sort of thing, I say, lucky you!

The ingredients are edible, but I did let my hubby and sons know it is intended to be used as a facial scrub. Perched on a shelf in the fridge in its little jar, this stuff does look pretty yummy!

I really like the idea of making my own mask because there are no preservatives. It’s fresh, natural and I know the exact ingredients. I reused an old container, so there’s not even any packaging!

Next time I make this, I might add some chia seeds (which I eat all the time anyway) to the mix. They are tiny, hard and beadlike, so I think they would be a perfect addition to kick the exfoliation factor up a notch.

Used as a full body scrub, I think this scrub would feel super luxurious. It would be great for the back, where my skin tends to feel a bit neglected. I’d simply apply it with a back brush. I’ll have to have my husband hose me off in the backyard when I’m finished. Just kidding. I’ll risk a hot shower.

Now I just have to figure out what to do with the rest of those pricey, organic, too-tough-to-eat almonds.

*If you have allergies to any of the listed ingredients, do not use.

The pile of ornaments we removed from our tree.

Our 10-foot beast of a tree. It requires use of a ladder to assemble/ disassemble.

Strings of unplugged Christmas lights waiting to be put into storage until next year.

I finally got up the gumption to straighten up the room. I took down the tree, organized the ornaments, and wound the lights onto their storage rollers. I arranged the furniture back to the way it was before holiday madness took over.

Red Lantern and Champagne Colored String Lights

A shot of the little seating area with the lighting I hung.

Pillow Detail- one of the pretty pillows I picked out to go on the funky chair I found on Craigslist.

Detail of the bejeweled pillow. Beautiful, no?

After cleaning, vacuuming & rearranging, I smudged the room with a sage stick
picked from the desert by a dear friend of mine.

It could be said that burning dried desert sage is a spiritual practice. It is believed to clear out stagnant/ negative energy from the area in which it is burnt. This space really needed a good sage smudging. The smoke is fragrant and slightly sweet, and somehow smells cleansing. Still, I made sure to open the windows as a safety precaution for the kids’ lungs. And of course, be careful if you try this! Use a bowl underneath the burning sage as you walk around so it doesn’t burn your floors or furniture.

The handmade bowl I keep the sage in and use to hold under it as I walk with the lit bundle.
This bowl has the teals and earthy reds which coordinate with the color scheme of the room.

Detail of the sparkling teals on surface of little magazine side table.

The living room somehow doesn’t seem complete yet, but at least it’s no longer in a state of total chaos.

I am happy that the foyer/ front room is finally ready to face the new year. I still think it needs something more; definitely more artwork, certainly a cool rug, more lighting and a different shade of paint the walls… to start. And I call myself a minimalist! I would love to get hardwood or stone tile floors throughout the house. But for now, carpet it is. Still, I’m happy to be able to relax a little bit about this particular space; it is the first area one sees when one walks in.

My son and our dog relaxing on the double papasan.

I didn’t have time or any food to cook dinner with (haven’t been able to get to the grocery store in a few days); so I ordered pizza. Again. The laundry and dishes have piled up.

My gluten free diet has been harder to maintain lately;  in fact I have slipped and eaten glutenous foods several times since the holidays began. I knew the holidays would be too much temptation for me! It also feels rude and fussy and slightly insulting to refuse to eat the delicious treats that relatives make and bring over during that time of year. I need to get back on track, healthwise.

We’ve hardly even been out of doors all month.

On Saturday, I finally went back to yoga after skipping for almost a month. I am still sore and that was 3 days ago.

This morning, we started to remove the Christmas ornaments from our 10-foot beast of a tree. Now there is a pile of ornaments in the front room to greet us when we walk in. Great, more piles of stuff for me to deal with!

At least the tree & ornaments haven’t been left up so long that they’ve gotten all fugly and dusty, like last year.

Januaries seem to hit me like a post-holiday anticlimax slump hammer. I have a lot in store for the blog; but for now I’m just trying to make it through the month and drum up some inspiration for this beautiful new year.

**Update** I just wanted to add something… I have so very much to be grateful for. It is beyond my ability to express. I’m even grateful for all of the work. It’s just that things are feeling a little stagnant lately. Note to self: you can change your reality by shifting your perception of it. Keep an attitude of gratitude and watch everything lighten up.

Logical side of my brain: Oh, be quiet already. You’ve had enough of those.

Creative side of my brain again: *Siiiiiiiigh*  (pouts)

So, I’ve been wanting to have another baby. Even though the hubs and I have taken fairly permanent measures to prevent this, I can’t watch TV anymore because they are always showing cute, chubby-cheeked, snuggly babies on it. (Maybe I should watch more of the Spike network. Pretty sure the only babes they display are of the scantily-clad, buxom, 17-24 variety.)

I also can’t go to malls or grocery stores anymore because there are always women there pushing strollers filled with same. (Babies, not babes.) Although I’ve many times been one of those stroller-pushers myself, these days I get all envious of other baby-mamas. I covet, if you will, their station in life; their bundles of joy. The raccoon-like bags under their eyes, the milk leakage stains on their rumpled blouses. No, wait. That was just a memory of my own super-fly postpartum style.

Sometimes, when we’ve completely run out of food and toilet paper, I am forced to go to a place where the toothless cuddlewumps will be sitting adorably in their little paddy seats. I find myself mindlessly approaching their moms, before rational thought has had a chance to kick in, to ooh and ahh and tell them in a cooing voice how cuuuute their babies are (of which I’m sure they are already aware). The mommies have all been polite and gracious about it, considering the fact that when one is postpartum and trying to shop, one probably doesn’t want to be accosted by every dried-up empty-nester in a 100-foot radius.

OK, so I’m not an empty-nester… yet. In fact my youngest, Gryphy, (namesake of my blog) has just turned 5. Perhaps this is the catalyst for my current state of baby yearning. He won’t stay little for much longer. I still co-sleep with the just-turned-5 year old. When he was smaller I looked forward to the day when he would sleep in his own bed and I could get a good night’s shut-eye- although I consciously chose to continue with the co-sleeping. Now I find myself contentedly hunkered down with him as I fall asleep at night, my arms wrapped around his toasty little pajama’ed form.

I don’t even really mind the feet that inevitably start pressing on my kidneys at 3 am. I simply take an amused moment to scootch him back to his side of the bed. And even though I know it’ll happen soon, I kind of don’t want him to go away to his own room at night.

My husband is OK with the co-sleeping. G-man has a room where he sleeps in a bed that’s bigger than he needs, which he gets all to himself. He can watch TV or play his audio books on high volume, all night long. He can snore ultra-loudly to his heart’s content without me shaking him and asking him to roll onto his side. I don’t think he’s too eager to go back to sleeping next to me with my fussy insistence that he wear Breathe-Rights and my need for absolute darkness and silence in order to be able to sleep well.

Our relationship is replete with physical intimacy. We manage to find time to be together “that” way, which has little to do with sleep! Of course we’d always like to have more, but we’ve got a good rhythm that works for us. I will now stop disgusting you with my perverse sex talk.

One would think that since I’ve already had 3 babies who are getting bigger, my craving for babies would be sated. However, the fact that I have fully experienced the presence of babies in my life only to have them replaced with larger children who no longer really want to snuggle (with the exception of the littlest), in a way makes the current lack of babies more poignant. Perhaps had I never had babies, I’d be blissfully unaware of what I am now missing.

If you are a person who is struggling with infertility, I do sympathize. Of course I feel for those who have difficulty with conception. Still, there is always the promise of adoption. I believe that through adoption one can lovingly accept a beautiful baby or child into their world, whom they love just as much as they would their own. On top of that, there is the reward of knowing you’ve helped a human soul who otherwise might not have had such a good life. It’s an amazing act of kindness and fulfillment.

I personally would love to adopt a baby or toddler. It isn’t just my baby greed, either. I hate the fact that there are children out there who need a loving home and don’t have one, meanwhile there is a potential loving home right here with potential adoptive parents who have so much love to offer to such a child. Only problem is, my husband doesn’t want to adopt. He doesn’t want to take on that responsibility. Then again, he wasn’t exactly keen on the idea our own kids either, at first, but he always came around eventually. He’s turned out to be an amazingly great parent.

But what can I do? Force him to adopt because I want to? Divorce him so I can adopt as a single parent? I’ve considered this. Yet it doesn’t make sense because I love him and he is the father of our 3 already existing kids.

For now, I know that I should focus on raising my 3 no-longer-babies. They will still always be my babies.

As they move into their different and somewhat more complicated stages of childhood, at least I won’t have to constantly apologize that I can’t pay as much attention as I should because I have to nurse/ bathe/ rock/ play with/ change the baby.

Diapers.

Yes. I should contemplate huge piles of soiled, smelly diapers.

What do you think? Am I turning into some mutation of an Octomom? Is there a cure for this strange, unwanted baby-craving (besides making more babies)?

The only problem is, the drive to the nearest snow, at Mt. Charleston, is about an hour’s drive from our house. So, something like 2 hours both ways. A lot of driving to commit to, for what would be a brief playtime (I mean, we use socks for gloves.) It was a Sunday, so everybody in town would be trying to get up there with their kids. That would mean traffic, and crowds, and trouble finding a place to play, to chill, which was really what we needed. Not trouble. To chill.

I was willing to risk all of that. Just to give them a chance to look at/ set foot in Snow and/or throw a snowball. My dad stopped over for a visit. He suggested brilliantly that opposed to Mt. Charleston, we simply drive up the road near our house, to the Mountain Springs area, which is a place of high enough elevation to have Snow On The Ground. I thought it was a fine idea. I was too depressed to argue anyway. So off we went in GaGa’s sturdy, four-wheel-drive Honda Ridgeline.

We arrived at snow in 15 minutes! We pulled off the main highway onto a side road near a rather charming, if rowdy biker bar. We passed that and continued a little ways, pulled over & parked. And then I visited my offspring upon the land.

Gryphy immediately began to wail the moment his hands touched the snow. I guess he hadn’t been prepared for its cold sting on his soft baby skin. My dad and I couldn’t help but laugh at this as I brushed the white powder off of Gryphy’s icy little hands and slipped a pair of socks, the makeshift mittens I’d brought, onto them. As you can see from the photos, we don’t own much gear to properly outfit us for snowy environments.

My kids had snowball wars. They screeched and laughed and ran and unleashed their (ridiculously abundant) energy on each other.

I told the kiddos, it was OK with me if they sampled a bite or two. Normally I wouldn’t allow it, but I was feeling all carpe diem after the tragic events. Who cares. Nature’s snow cones. I sampled a few scoops too, from a really clean-looking place on the pristine blanket. It looked and tasted delicious. Fresh.

It occurred to me how the children who died that Friday were pure as snow. I noticed as if for the first time how soft snow is, how it sparkles so brilliantly in the sunlight. It is like crystallized bits of angel wings that drift softly to the earth. I said goodbye again, silently, to them in my mind.

After surmising that the biker bar was probably slightly too wild a place to bring the kids, (it did have a wooden sign with the words Bikers, Babes and Beer etched upon its face, which captivated me, but my dad pulled seniority and better judgment), we drove on to Bonnie Springs Ranch.

We enjoyed the rustic warmth of the huge fireplace and the pretty, festive holiday lights as we ate lunch. We were famished as we’d worked up quite an appetite running around in the mountain air. Our table was a huge, glossily varnished slab of wood. I glided my fingertips over it appreciatively. We watched ducks cruise around in a big, circulating pond outside the window. We ate heartily. Everything felt more solid, more heavy, and I felt heightened gratitude for those moments.

Two peacocks strutted past us as we walked back to the car- one a gorgeous teal male, the other a more subdued, white-feathered female. They eyed us coolly. Perhaps they wanted some of my dad’s leftover bison burger. Eww. We looked up to see a majestic orange mountain with powdered sugar sprinkled on top. Surprise dessert.

It was a perfect Sunday afternoon escape, to get me out of my head. The kids needed it too. A moment to touch nature, to feel free, and to escape the indoors. I’m still going to be forever sad about the tragic Connecticut school shooting. But we were fortunate enough to have this little moment of reprieve, where all of the world’s sickness, idiocy and grief fell away for a couple of hours. We were simply in the moment, enveloped in the pure, natural sparkle of snow.

Help Create a Winter Wonderland of Paper Snowflakes for the Children of Sandy Hook! Let’s Make Their New School Beautiful!
http://www.momendeavors.com/2012/12/snowflakes-for-sandy-hook.html

Of course it was, and worse, and it wasn’t until I saw the video of President Obama weeping on a friend’s Facebook feed that I realized how bad it all truly was on an emotional level. Of course, logically I’d understood. It was very, very bad. But the tears didn’t come until I’d seen the President’s tears, and then somehow that made me able to finally get in touch with my own emotional reaction to the event.

I believe that was Friday evening. Saturday, I alternated between crying, numbness, watching the news on 3 or 4 different media outlets and then shutting the news off in a state of disgust and despair. It is so hard to see that kind of pain. My empathy for the victims’ families was so strong, I felt the pain sharply within my own soul. That is not to say I can imagine what they are going through; I cannot. It makes me sad and mad, though, that their Christmas/ Hanukkah/ whatever holidays they might celebrate this time of year have been ruined. The events of 12/14/12 may be what these families must remember, every year during the holidays, from now on.

Each year since I’ve been an “adult”, I’ve worked to rekindle that festive Christmas spirit that used to visit me automatically when I was a child. I try to recall that innocent place of blinky pastel lights and tinny carols echoing from somewhere, vividly drawn cartoons, the mysteries of lovingly wrapped boxes. Oh, the flavor of candy canes! The crisp scent of fresh fir tree! The indescribable feeling of elation. The sweet happiness that kids feel, simply because it’s holiday time. That’s what I wish those kids were still around to experience right now.

I was just beginning to barely feel that fleeting holiday spirit again this year, when the Thing happened. The Thing that had the power to rip away everyone’s holiday joy. Knowing that those sweet peoples’ festive season is ruined, makes me feel somehow selfish in even wanting to enjoy, guilty for indulging in the richness, the color, the vibrant magic of the season.

But then something occurred to me. If everyone gets depressed and saddened to the point where we say no to joy this season- if we just give up on it, maybe go through the motions of festivity but feel dead inside- we are not honoring the precious angels whose lives were taken too soon. We are not making the country, the world a place worthy of their memory.

Out of respect for the beautiful pure lives of the dear little 20, as well as the heroic adults whose time on Earth was cut far too short, I will to try to be as happy as possible for the rest of this year and into the beginning of the next. I’m grateful for the very breath of life. I am going to allow myself to laugh, and yes cry when I need to, but also grant myself permission to experience joy without guilt. I’m going to give every ounce of strength and love within me to those around me.

I believe there is a ripple effect in this existence, and if I can still allow myself to be lit up inside by Beauty then maybe some of the light will ripple outward and other people will be able to experience it too. Let me plate up a healthy serving of humility here. I’m not saying ‘I’m special‘; I’m dowdy and a housewife with thin hair that I am loathe to style and most days you can find me in jeans and sweatshirts that need laundering. I don’t have anything great inside me that everyone else doesn’t have. Anyone can choose to try to stay positive. It isn’t entirely selfish to feel good, despite an impossibly bad situation.

“Thousands of candles can be lighted from a single candle, and the life of the single candle will not be shortened. Happiness never decreases by being shared.”
~A quote attributable to Buddhist teachings

I believe that the sweet precious little angels would not want any of us to be sad for too long. They wouldn’t want to let whatever form of mental illness that the person (I can’t bring myself to call him a man, and person is a stretch, too- idiot, maybe?) who took their lives was going through to sicken our spirits this holiday season. I am not saying to forget about these sweet babies. We can honor, respect and cherish them as our own children. The purest of souls would want for us to enjoy this holiday with empathy, gratitude, love and light.

Here are some ways to donate to the families of Sandy Hook Elementary school. There is also a link to Ann Curry’s blog post detailing her bright idea of committing to 20 acts of kindness for each of the innocent lives lost. (Or 26, to honor all the victims including the heroic adults.) I am currently thinking up ways to do this, and will report on it soon. I’d love to hear about what you’re doing or planning to do.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/12/14/connecticut-elementary-school-shooting-how-to-help_n_2302760.html

http://usnews.nbcnews.com/_news/2012/12/18/15999109-if-you-do-good-youll-feel-good-ann-curry-explains-origins-of-26acts-of-kindness?lite

Peace.

There was one meltdown which was the result of a brief interaction between my father and my 12-year-old daughter, as she attempted to help me with some of the cooking. She was doing a fine job, stirring the onions and organic chicken broth for the stuffing, when my dad stepped in with some of his well-intended cautionary advice on how to properly hold the pan while on the stove so as to avoid it, or its contents, falling upon her and burning her.

I don’t think he realizes what a tentative person she actually is, or how accident prone she is not. Even as a toddler she rarely made reckless moves. She has always stepped gingerly into most of her endeavors. That is not to say she lacks courage. She simply has an innately strong sense of self-preservation. Regardless, she, somehow in her twelve-and-a-half-year-old mind, interpreted her grandfather’s sagacious safety demonstration as criticism and turned on a dime, in less than 10 seconds, from a joyous and proud ‘I’m-helping-Mom-prepare-the-Thanksgiving-meal’ mode to a tearful ‘I’m-feeling-picked-on’ mode.

I didn’t blame her for this particular mood crash, as I was witness to the moment and for the most part empathetic to both parties about what occurred. My dad felt terrible of course, once he’d realized (too late) that he’d hurt her feelings. I am still trying to grasp exactly why it wounded her so deeply. I wondered in astonishment, Are you really crying about this right now?! I have been trying to get her interested in cooking lately, as I feel that having some skill in that arena does enhance one’s life. Not you’re a young woman, so you must learn to cook for your man but rather,when you know how to cook, it can cheer you up on a bad day, to be able to take a few simple ingredients and transform them into something delicious. Even if it’s a gift you give only to yourself. So for this whole incident to transpire, on a day as monumental as Thanksgiving, when I didn’t seem to have a moment to fall out of line to console her, felt like a pretty big setback to the cooking-as-life-enrichment path I’ve started her on.

I tried to quickly explain that she should essentially be patient and understanding with her Ga-Ga, as truly, he means well and knows not what he does. However, I was also literally in the heated midst of bringing the entire Thanksgiving food orchestra to its crescendo; I felt I couldn’t take a time out to soothe her injured psyche. Looking back, maybe I should have done so anyway. Would it have really mattered if the stuffing was burned or the potatoes were cold? I did feel badly for her although I didn’t entirely grasp the intensity with which she was feeling this emotional bruise. Fortunately, her dad took her aside and counseled her, gently helping her to breathe through the moment and to calm down. Somehow his kind spirit brought her back to a happy place. I acknowledge that as nothing less than a miracle. She seemed to have a great time for the rest of the day.

Signs point to her making a full recovery from this episode. She baked chocolate chip cookies the night after Thanksgiving with no prompting from anyone. We used to bake together when she was a little girl and apparently that left a positive enough impression on her. She actually bakes as a hobby now. She’s pretty good at it, too! Sometimes her cookies rival mine. Even though I’m trying to eat gluten-free or at least low-gluten, I’ve sampled her baked goods and they are impressive.

I certainly have high hopes for my daughter and her future relationship with her GaGa. (Sorry Lady GaGa, my kids have been calling him that for 12 years- since long before any of us had ever heard of you.) I know he cares about her and she knows he is just overprotective. “If he made her cry in less than a minute,” I told my husband, “imagine what it was like for me, growing up with him.” I was half-joking. Greg laughed. Actually my dad was a great parent overall, but there were certainly moments where his temper, his confusing views about the role of a human female in this world, or his overprotective nature sometimes made me cry and/ or full of angst.

Now that I’m older, I feel very close to my dad. If something were to happen to him, I’d be devastated. It’s strange how you get to know someone over a lifetime and if they care enough to stick around, which I’m grateful that my dad did, you can even justify many of their faults to some degree. I know he is trying his best and I wish I could do more to help him. I hate that he worked himself to the point of near physical breakdown for his entire life to support us, and is still working his ass off at a job that he doesn’t like much in order to live in a tiny one-bedroom condo.

I am grateful for the fact that he is getting to know my kids- and that despite any bumps in the road and the generation gap, a road does exist for them to tread together and learn about each other.

Mom said she liked the yoga, but as a Christian, she felt uncomfortable with what she considered to be the “religious” aspect of yoga. Golden calfs (calves?) and all. But I do have vague impressions of seeing the yoga people, and my mother with her petite figure in her blue leotard. It must’ve been in the late 70s. Those initial impressions were positive. Mom seemed happy on the days she spent at her health spa.

Then when I was 18, I moved to Santa Cruz, California for the first time. I was basically an unemployed waif, drifting and unable to cast anchor, though I desperately wanted to build a home and a life there. It didn’t happen. I did attend a couple of yoga classes that must have been offered for free, as I was essentially penniless and near homeless at the time. The classes were fun, but I didn’t feel that they were the right fit for me. I think it was because they were more Kundalini style classes, with lots of meditation and less emphasis on the physical body. I remember something about the instructor there also didn’t resonate me. She didn’t smile. She was probably the same age as I was, but seemed to lack joy and friendliness. I don’t know what my basis of comparison was, but either way, it wasn’t something that I kept up with.

Then in college back in my hometown of Las Vegas, where I’d had to return in order to move back in with my parents, I found a wonderful teacher who taught a beautiful class right between Biology and Anthropology. UNLV has a large physical education sector with all sorts of gymnasiums and sports playing fields. It was in one of those gymnasium rooms, which held a dance studio, where the classes were held. The instructor at the college taught Hatha yoga. Her college students got a great workout for both mind and body. Once I stopped going to that college, I took a couple of classes by independent teachers who owned small studios. I bought books on the yoga and continued home practice for a few years in solitude. Then came the period where I really didn’t practice much- after my kids came along, when my focus turned toward caring for infants and finally finishing school, this time attending the local community college, which lacked yoga courses.

When I recently started to consider going back to a yoga practice, it was hard to believe that over fifteen years had elapsed, although it had. Of course, I had practiced occasionally over those years at home, going by memory and occasionally recording and playing back fitness TV programs such as Inhale, with Steve Ross (which was a really cool program but has, unfortunately, since gone off the air.)

However, the yoga-from-home method had a way of fizzling out quickly, when I’d become distracted by goings-on with the kids, etc., and so I fell back to using the treadmill a couple of times a week as my main fitness routine. Treadmill work has helped me to maintain at least a basic level of fitness over the years, throughout the lengthy course of three pregnancies, childbirths and the corresponding postpartum and infant care periods. Those of us who have survived postpartum years know that it is not easy to take premium care of oneself when one is thoroughly wrapped up in the care of another totally dependent, tiny and helpless human. Who really hates it when one sleeps.

But back to the present day and the somewhat recent development of pain. The pain seemed to descend upon my shoulder from nowhere and settled in. Made itself at home. It has been my constant, unwanted companion for the past 8 months. It was really tough for the first 3 months- completely limiting my movements and making it hard to do simple tasks like washing my hair, hanging clothes, or anything that required me to lift that arm above my head.

I haven’t ever had chronic pain before in my life. I thought I would just be one of the lucky ones whom it somehow skipped. Although I’d seen my father suffer since his early 30s with debilitating arthritis… I somehow thought that condition wouldn’t settle into my bones. I still don’t know if my newly acquired shoulder stiffness and pain is an arthritic condition or something else, but it was real and definite.

I am the type of person who really wants to do something about it. I don’t want to go to a doctor and get pills to mask the symptoms or have my joints injected full of steroids. Call me a DIY’er if you will. Not that there’s anything wrong with having a doctor to take care of all your health issues, and by all means if that’s what works for you then do it. It’s just that if I have any capacity for dealing with such issues myself, I personally would rather pursue that course of action. To that end, I suspected that returning to a yoga practice might help me, but I was scared. I felt timid, and in the back of my mind I thought that I probably couldn’t do it.

It was hard to admit that that was the truth.

I began to come up with rationalizations, explanations as to why I couldn’t get myself into a real yoga class… and I’d start concocting these excuses of sorts, in my head. I’m too busy. I won’t be able to find the time. My spare time should really be spent with my kids or cleaning house. The drive to the class is too long. It costs too much. On and on. Finally I forced myself to admit that I was, in a weird way, trying to lie to myself. The real truth was simple: I was allowing fear and intimidation to hold me back from doing what I really wanted, needed to do.

What if I was terrible this time around? What if I fell down? Repeatedly?* What if I looked stupid? What if one or more people were rude to me or laughed at me? The what-ifs nagged and prodded at my mind and I almost let them influence me to just stay home and forget about it. *I actually have since fallen down in yoga class, on more than one occasion. It isn’t really a big deal at all. The fear of it was far worse than the reality.

The pain continued to push me a little bit harder than the doubts and insecurities. I also realized I was mad at myself for letting fear rule me, decide for me. So I forced myself to go. To think as positively as I could about it. I had read The Secret around the time I started going back, and it reminded me of the power of visualization. So I started to imagine myself successfully getting through a class. I allowed myself to picture feeling good about it.

My yoga teachers of late are all really wonderful ladies, kind & patient. Able to find humor in most situations. There was an undeniable element of exhilaration and fun, even in those tough re-beginning days. My “main” yoga teacher, the one I’ve taken most of my classes from, is a total goddess. Also, though it’s no fault of her own, totally intimidating. Suffice it to say there is long list of experiences and talents in her rich and vibrant background. She is a rare person- multi-talented, beautiful inside and out and generous of spirit.

The enormity of my instructor’s amazingness was one of those things that freaked me out a little bit, so I just tried to somehow put it out of my mind. I simply focused and tried to inhabit the present moment when I spent time in her presence, in her classes. She has a calming ease about her so that helped me to slough off the intimidation factor. One of her many gifts is to help people who are a bit shy to lose self-consciousness, ditch the inner critic, and gain self-confidence.

Still, the first few classes were pretty tough. I wasn’t exactly fit to be a “pretzel person”. Despite the few years of yoga experience, I was almost like a beginner again. But an “older” beginner, because I’m in my late 30s now. I had stiff muscles in addition to the painful shoulder and the whole concept of yoga felt different than it had when I was in college. In my teens and 20s, I could bend and twist myself into almost any pose with barely any effort. There is a noticeable difference.

I took heart in noting that there were ladies of all ages in the classes, some younger, some older, some practicing with greater ease and some with less than myself. I reminded myself that yoga is never supposed to be a competition, and whatever level you are at, is OK.

Perhaps a bit of social awkwardness ensued here and there, which is simply part of the phenomenon of being me. If all my conversations and encounters flowed effortlessly, I would think I’d stumbled into an alternate universe. But no one was ever cruel or condescending about my yogic inability.

By the fourth or fifth class, I realized that some of the moves were getting a little easier. I could actually maintain some of the poses without collapsing into a sweaty lump.

I noted that I was finding the strength in the poses, relaxing into the sensation of the stretches, touching upon the mind/ body union.

The flow was getting stronger and I liked the flow. Liked it a lot.

The shoulder pain is still present, but no longer debilitating. I have pretty much 100% range of motion now, and although some shoulder stiffness is still there, it is compensated for by increased whole body strength, including upper body strength. In fact yesterday, after yoga, I stayed for a handstand class, and found that, as impossible as handstands used to seem, I can see how they are not really all that hard with the proper training, practice and alignment. I haven’t achieved the point where I can do handstands without a spotter. Headstands, yes. After one handstand class, I’ve progressed from not being to kick up into a handstand at all, to being able to kick up into one pretty easily as long as there is a spotter or a wall close.

Whether you choose to make fun of it or not, there is sometimes talk from the yogis, during class, of taking mistakes or negative circumstances and turning them into opportunities.

Pain, in certain forms, can be viewed as a message from the Universe, the Divine or however you relate to that infinite force (if you believe in that sort of thing) letting us know that some sort of change is needed. Silently, yet insistently telling us that we need to work a little harder at maintaining balance. Even if we don’t recognize it, at first, and it just feels like a major inconvenience.

Disclaimer: I understand that not everything that happens contains a lesson, necessarily. Sometimes, pain is just pain and some beings get unfair amounts of it for inexplicable and confounding reasons. For which I am sorry and I do feel empathy and/ or sympathy.

Still, when I think about it now, I have to say that in a way, I am grateful that the shoulder pain visited me in early 2012. If it hadn’t, I would have missed out on a whole new and exciting chapter.

Namaste.

I keep warning them that we’ll have to start making the adjustment soon, but they seem to go into some kind of kid denial. Not wanting to acknowledge that they’ll have to start settling in to bed early again. Not wanting to think about the back-to-school rigmarole. I join them in their impossible and childish blocking out of reality. Clocks, calendars, thoughts of the near future, I push them all away, out of my mind’s eye and my literal field of view.

When I am out shopping and I encounter vast store aisles lined with pretty displays of shiny new notebooks and crisply stitched backpacks, looking so preppie and classic as they hang soberly upon their shiny hooks, free of holes or scuff marks, I quietly close my eyes, turn my head and think about… the beach. My kids this past May, splashing carefree in the waves. Their awed and breathless smiles at Disneyland when we visited the theme parks in Anaheim, armed with a family six-pack of three day park hopper passes- including one for my mother-in-law. It was our special way of kicking off the season this year.

I find myself getting teary-eyed and lump-throated. I want to go back to then, to a couple of months and a couple of weeks ago. When the promise of summer spread out before us like a luminous tapestry floating in the breeze, its edges disappearing into the fog that rolled in gently off the water, giving the illusion of timeless, eternal freedom.

I don’t want to think about the homework, the struggles to be on time, the retellings of little meannesses on the part of other students and even school staff that the kids, unfortunately, do come home with from time to time and which hurt me perhaps more than them.

But there are good things. In a week or two, I will make myself think of them. Really awesome things about school for both kids. Today, I can’t bring myself to linger on those. I am so the opposite of a tiger mom. If it were up to me, my kids would probably end up learning mostly about computer art and fairy tales. Painting and sculpture, when the feeling might strike. Maybe they’d believe in magic powers (due to all the fantasy literature I’d have them reading.) Perhaps they’d be a bit out of touch with the subjects of education regarded as being the most important.

They are exploring their talents and learning some unexpected things, even at home with me during these “lazy” days. Z-man, for example, has been coming up with “scripts” which are actual strings of computer programming code that he is implementing on his favorite video game. Most of what he is doing, I wouldn’t know how to code myself, but I can look at the code and decipher what it is supposed to do on the game. Usually I guess correctly, or pretty close. His “if, then, else” and “true, false” statements and command lines are properly written and actually quite impressive. This I know because they function when deployed. I’m not sure what programming language he’s currently working with, (I should ask) but it’s similar to ActionScript. He tells me he is going to be a computer programmer when he grows up- which is pretty interesting! I told him that I actually do some coding from time to time for my work, (mostly HTML and/or a little bit of ActionScript) but since he is starting so young, by the time he is grown up he might have some serious ability to program on a whole different level.

Perhaps attending actual school is a way of maintaining the status quo. After all, it’s the way I was raised, the way their father was raised, plus all of their grandparents as far as I’m aware. It’s a pattern that’s been established and that we jumped into when they were 5 years old and now it seems impractical to interrupt.

Inertia.

Right now the middle child is riding his bike with the neighborhood boys. The oldest is just settling in to sleep at 3:00 pm. At this moment I’m trying to think of some last-ditch activities that will make us forget the fall, the way it is lurking with its sharpened #2 pencils pointed at us, fanglike, ready to devour our relaxed summertime freedom, and its stodgy long sleeves eager to constrict our slightly suntanned arms.

Trying to think of something that will let us feel all summer-sunny again. For a just a little bit longer.