Posted in Andshelaughs, andshelaughs writing, Christmas, Christmas Letters, Holidays, Meaning of Christmas, Mental Health, Middle Age, Midlife, Opinion, Parenting, Perspective, Uncategorized

How Are Your Christmas Lights?

giphy

In the darkness, the Christmas tree lights are a true symbol of advent. Mystery in the darkness. A sense of wonder.

Advent is my favourite season of the year, even though November is my least favourite month. Layers of grey permeate every hour, and the dampness makes everything, even the ethereal heavy. Besides being a Scorpio, November sucks.

Alas my friends,  then there are the Christmas lights! They’re the first thing that I attend to in the morning, getting down on my knees to find the plug and make the connection. As a young mother, I wanted my son to have the same sense of wonder that I did upon waking and seeing the tree illuminated in the dark, chill morning.  As the mother of a young adult, I want to continue that sense of wonder, the feeling that something wonderful can come of the darkness, that stillness can be a time of self-discovery and that there is joy in silent reflection.  As a partner and caregiver, I hope that my darling wakes up to the lights and feels the very same things.

Realistically, I live in a house with people whom I’m not sure have such a deep, symbolic appreciation of this season as I do.  Whatever.

‘Whatever’ has become a word that pops  up more and more in my silent thoughts. It’s the 80’s baby version of WTF.

The reality is that Christmas has changed for me. I’ve gone from a child waiting for Santa, to being Santa.  I’ve gone from a young woman excited about the romance of the season to an older woman who has officially let all hope of Christmas romance go. I do however find joy helping in any way that I can to fan the flames of that excitement in the life of my friends and family who are in the midst of that, ‘Hallmark Romance’ period of their lives.

This morning I woke up to an email from my Mumster about the energy of the fuss and muss of Christmas, and how this year, her sister will be hiring a cater rather than doing the cooking herself. In her wisdom, Mumster  has deduced that age 55 is the age at which you pretty much get tired of the foo-fur-ah (foo-fur-ah def. bullshit) of the Christmas season.  I’ll let you know if I agree when I reach the spritely age of  55.

Inevitably life changes as you know darlings. Our energy levels ebb and flow, as do our priorities. Health remains our  biggest asset, and it becomes more valuable the older we get.

Although I’m not the marathon baker, wrapper and Christmas-party-throwing woman I was ten years ago, I like to hope that I can keep my own sense of wonder alive through the season.  Sometimes it’s just wondering where the wine went, and how my ass got this robust.

Humor and wonder is what will keep me young. It’s what will keep my eyes open to the little twinkle of light in life that brings happy surprises, belly laughter and passion. This is the stuff of a youthful spirit. Let humor and wonder be your own Christmas miracles, regardless of your age or circumstance.

 

Advertisements
Posted in Andshelaughs, andshelaughs writing, Anxiety and Depression, Art of LIving, Fearless Living, Graceful Living, Gracious Living, Healthy Living, Joy, Joyful Living, Living, Middle Age, Mindful Living, Parenting, Simple Living, Single Parenting, Spiritual Living, The Art of Living, Uncategorized, Whole Living

Enthusiasm is Sexy

all hereThe older you get, the faster it goes; The only truth that my mother ever spoke.

We are at the end of the first quarter of 2018. Where the hell does the time go, and how on earth did I actually get this old?  The way I carried on as a teenager and twenty-something, it’s a small miracle that I survived at all. But here I am, a forty-something empty-nester.

One of my high school pals posted a little something on social media about the no-man’s land of being forty-something. If you’ve done it all correctly, you have some regrets about being a bit of a selfish jerk (before you knew better), and no regrets when it comes to sampling the libertarian things in life.

Forty is when you begin to realize that your contemporaries, like yourself, are tired. We’re tired of our career and the joy we once found in our hobbies has taken a back seat to responsibility. On top of all of that, our bodies are a little more…casual, our libidos are rarely in line with our opportunities, and our enthusiasm is pretty much non-existent. There are few things we haven’t experienced. We’re like teenagers – we  know it all.

We lack enthusiasm.

So, we’re a quarter gone in 2018. The new year is no longer new. Are you enthusiastic about anything my darlings?

While I was trying to figure out what the hell was missing after my awesome kiddo left the nest, I realized after a couple of months that it was my enthusiasm. There wasnt’ anything that I allowed myself to get excited about.

So I rediscovered a few of the hobbies I had let slide. And I got enthusiastic about getting better at them.

What I learned is that there is nothing more sexy than enthusiasm. And that my darling middle-aged friends, is golden.

Posted in Advice for Women, Creative Life, Learning, Life, Life Lessons, Meaning of Life, Motherhood, Professional Women, Religion and Spirituality, Single-Mothers, Spirituality, Uncategorized, women, Women's Issues, Working Women

The Art of Surrender in the War For Ourselves

what is your whyAt the beginning of this new year, I enrolled in a new course. I had my sights set on accomplishing something.

But the universe had different ideas. At least that’s the way I choose to perceive it. Instead of bemoaning the shitty administrative capabilities of the school where I registered, deep down, I believe that this has happened for a reason.

New year, new me.

Or not.

When I got the unexpected bad news, I was dressed to take a little trip in to the school and take a look at where I would be spending some significant time. At first I was angry, and then I thought I should cry, and then I just put my hands up in the air and let it go. It was a full two second wave of emotion. And that was that. I surrendered.

Today has been a humbling reminder to practice what I preach; to allow myself to both have faith in and be vulnerable to my purpose. I can’t pretend that I’m not discouraged, and quite honestly, I feel a bit lost.

But what is my purpose dammit?! Is it the work that has left me feeling burnt out? Is it continuing to create a warm, loving home? I don’t think it’s either one of those things, but I think they are part of the greater whole for me.

But every woman needs something to call her own, the trick is to find the answer to the question, ‘what is my purpose’, and to keep finding that answer with every incarnation of ourselves as we age.

Finding our purpose is a living art of surrender in the war for ourselves.

 

Posted in Art of LIving, Education, Fatherhood, Fathers, Fearless Living, Graceful Living, Gracious Living, Healthy Living, Joyful Living, Life, Life Lessons, Living, Meaning of Life, Mindful Living, Motherhood, Mothers, Parenting, Simple Living, Single Parenting, Single-Mothers, Student Life, The Art of Living, Uncategorized

First Day of School for Parents of Intelligent Boys

backtoschool

You will cry, and they might cry,  but everyone will be fine.

Trust me, I know this.

He will be curious. His first report card will subtly let you know that he talks… A LOT.

He will be bored – because you taught him his ABC’s, and how to write and colour and explore. For this you will be rewarded with years of him finishing his work early and wiggling around in class, likely getting into things, and making you worry he’s going to end up in jail.

He won’t.

Your boy will comfort others who are struggling, and get away with all of the activity he can.

And all of this because you loved him like crazy before our world was ready to tame him.

Stay strong mom and dad. He will be just fine, and so will you.

Posted in Advice for Women, Art of LIving, Fearless Living, Graceful Living, Gracious Living, Grandparents, Healthy Living, Joyful Living, Life, Life Lessons, Living, Meaning of Life, Mindful Living, Motherhood, Mothers, Parenting, Simple Living, Single Parenting, Single-Mothers, Spiritual Living, Sports, Sports Moms, Student Life, The Art of Living, Uncategorized, Whole Living, women, Women's Issues

Tailgating Moms:Not Who You Think We Are

tailgate banner

When my son was younger, I was running helter-skelter trying to try and get him here and there, barely managing to make ends meet, but encouraging his athleticism. I had little time to socialize with other parents, but enjoyed their company while I sat in the stands and watched. I lived for our stinky drive home, and hearing all about the highs and lows of his game.

Today he is a scholarship player and represents our country on the national team. I go to his games, but I drive home without him.

My job now is to love unconditionally as mom’s do, and stay out of his hair.

The Parents-of-Players group at his school was surely developed by some mom-genius, who, like me, missed her kiddo more than anything, but realized the need to leave him the heck alone. Leave him the heck alone – yes, but still be there when he needs to look up and know at least one person is cheering him on.

And thus my tale of parent tailgating begins.

This morning I got up, prepared to cook,  before heading out on a roadtrip to support my boy and his team.

Thanks to the ridiculously photogenic food on Pinterest, I decided to make mini-corn-dog poppers and puff-pastry taco bites. Both seemed like good finger-food options, and anything that keeps me busy as I adjust to an empty nest is a good thing.

I set out this morning chopping weiners and rolling pastry.


I’m not sure whether the mini-corn-dog muffins look more like buttholes or nipples, and furthermore, I’m not sure a food label Bum-Bites or Nipple-Nips would help their popularity or my place in the hierarchy of respectable parents. The taco bites ballooned into something much larger than I expected.

I’m a little disappointed in my contribution to the party, but determined.

As the parent of a first year player, I’ve been welcomed with open arms into this group, who are teaching me how to celebrate the letting go, and next year, I want to be able to do the same for another first-year mom.

I have my second-hand red pants ready to wear, my ‘mom’ jacket and my air horn ready to go, along with the lawn-chairs, banner, flags and blankets.

Being around other parents proud to be part of their children’s lives is a joy.  Tailgating moms are not the hard-core, screaming fans you think they are. They are moms, with hearts as big and generous as the sky.

 

 

 

Posted in 60 Minutes Life, Advice, Advice for Women, Aging, Andshelaughs, andshelaughs writing, Anxiety, Anxiety & Depression, Art of LIving, Fearless Living, Graceful Living, Gracious Living, Healthy Living, Joyful Living, Life Lessons, Living, Mindful Living, Motherhood, Mothers, Parenting, Simple Living, Single Parenting, Single-Mothers, Spiritual Living, Sprititual Living, The Art of Living, Uncategorized, Whole Living

To The Next Family Who Moves Into Our ‘Ghetto’ Apartment

Home-Quotes-21Dear Family,

My son and his friends often referred to our little apartment as, ‘ghetto’.

As in; not the mortgaged palace of a dual income family, decorated in the safe fashion of the day (grey/beige).

It’s the home where I raised my son.

It’s  the home where I painted his childhood room the brightest shade of lime green imaginable, and where we wandered outside into the courtyard , wearing our pajamas,  to look at the full moon.

I left our little ghetto pad to move closer to work when my kiddo launched into young, adult life. I moved to a three bedroom, townhome,  where homes sell for well over six zeros.

 

The ghetto apartment that you are about to move into is as much a home as any finer four walls that you will ever find. I daresay, that it’s likely the place where I spent the very best years of my life,  relishing every moment of motherhood.

We roasted marshmallows over real wood fires in  the fireplace, hosted full houses of friends at Christmas and Thanksgiving. We had nightly rendez-vous to the kitchen for tasty midnight snacks, and it’s where we knew we could come and close out the badness in the world when we needed refuge. By the way, I left you some dry firewood in the shed so that you can enjoy some fires this winter, when the wind whips wildly outside the patio door.

During the finer weather, we had ‘happy hour’ together; Gatorade, water, or whatever else we nursed while talking about the events of the day. It was a plain patio, but it was good therapy.

You are moving into the home where the kitchen doorway is marked in pencil with my kiddo’s growth chart. It’s small, but every night I could poke my head outside of my bedroom door into the darkness and listen to the soft sound of my kiddo sleeping safely.

Your ghetto home has some colourful neighbours; the man with dementia who hollers like the devil, the young ladies whom I think may be prostitutes, the fitness fanatic, and the little old lady who pokes her head out of her second floor patio door to let me know she appreciates the beauty of the flowers that I plant every year. Please plant some flowers for her and put up some Christmas lights – she’s lonely.

I spent some of the best years of my life in that ghetto apartment, and I think that my kiddo did too.

Not only did I pack up boxes and boxes of our stuff, but I also took the important things with me when I moved too; heart, attitude and love.  All of this so that I could make the new four walls home. Home is about heart and not place.

To the family moving into our ghetto home, my wish for you is that your time there is as deeply satisfying as it was for me. Spend time there. Sit on the edge of your child’s bed and giggle with them. Give them a cool soak in the old, worn out bathtub when they get fevered, and be sure to  run out into the courtyard in your pajamas to look at the moon.

Posted in Advice for Women, Art of LIving, Creative Life, Fearless Living, Feminism, Feminist Culture, Feminists, Girl Stuff, Graceful Living, Gracious Living, Healthy Living, Joyful Living, Lean In Girl Stuff, Life, Life Lessons, Living, Meaning of Life, Mindful Living, Mother's Day, Motherhood, Motherless Daughters, Mothers, New Feminism, Professional Women, Simple Living, Single-Mothers, Spiritual Living, Sprititual Living, The Art of Living, The New Feminism, Uncategorized, women, Women's Issues, Women's March on Washington, Women's Rights, Working Women

Maternal In Memorium & Mother’s Day Manifesto

IshtarToday marks the second anniversary of my mother’s death.

Ours was an unusually complex relationship, with  complete estrangement over twenty years ago. Despite the common cry of making amends by well-meaning acquaintances who do not know the depth of the family’s dysfuncionality, I have no regrets when it comes to this relationship, or lack thereof.

My mother was a victim of her times and of abuse. She was the poster child of body loathing and repression.  I grew up surrounded by women’s magazines, and I confess, I still regularly take Woman’s World for their feel-good stories and their little strips of inspiration. It reminds me of a simple time when my paternal grandmother would clip the posts and pin them to the fridge, or tear out the Ziggy comics and pin them to her inspirational bulletin board in the sewing room.

My paternal grandmother was in touch with her power as a woman. She was wise, fierce, kind and strong. She lived fully and taught me what it meant to be my own person.

ziggy Times have not changed so much, and maybe even for the worse. Not only are we expected to manage our homes, but bear the burden of less feminine roles as well.  We are still surrounded by racks full of magazines, air-brushed images of the female form, with covers that imply we are flawed; how to be thinner, how to be happier, how to please our men, how to de-stress so we can be all of the above. We are ingrained in a culture who continues to devalue the natural life-affirming work of women.

You may wonder what this has to do with the anniversary of my mother’s death. Everything.

I was raised by a woman who was  estranged from her own beautiful, glorious and powerful self. I had a choice as a young woman, continue the trauma, or claim my own glorious divine feminine. I chose the latter.

So many of us hate our ankles, our bellies, our hair or our skin.  We punish our bodies and ridicule our own needs. We ignore the call of primitive intuition, and we diminish the great power of fertility and motherhood.

We live in the world of magazine promises; to create a common, submissive self that perpetuates a world where our value and spiritual gifts are damned.

As the years passed and I healed into my own femininity, into my own woman, forgiveness came. My mother was not a bad mother as such, she was  truly a victim of her times, of her inability to seize her own power, and grow into her own, always determining her own worth by the praise of abusive men.

On this Mother’s Day weekend, I hope that all of the women in my life,  spend some quiet time, reflecting on their own beauty and how their body has served them well, their own natural, intuitive intelligence, and their own power to embrace the fullness of what it means to be a woman.

More than that, I hope that whether maiden, mother or crone,  that all of the ladies reading this live each stage of life and every transition fully.  I believe that is the secret to a well-lived life. That is the secret to having no regrets.