Last night we drove.

As we do most years.

We drove around town, listening to Christmas carols and sometimes singing along (badly, I might add), looking at Christmas lights. Watching for the houses with the best displays. Admiring those that were especially colorful, or intricate, or retina-searing.

As we drove, “The First Noel” came on the radio. It took me a minute to realize that I was lost in the song, imagining playing it on the piano when I was a girl, singing with all my pre-teen heart. “The First Noel” was one of my favorites. “Silent Night.” “Greensleeves.”  I played, and sang, and probably tortured my parents.

It was beautiful.

Christmases were beautiful. I remembered when I was five years old and got my first bicycle, dark blue and white with a sparkly banana seat and streamers flowing from the handlebars. I remembered the year my mother, inexplicably, crafted Santa and Mrs. Claus out of Reader’s Digests and red spray-paint. I remembered the Christmas Eve my cousins and I all received sleeping bags from our grandparents, unwrapping them in the glow of the tree. I remembered a shopping trip with Dad, sitting in a Hardee’s restaurant on the first day of winter in 1977. Or maybe it was 1978. He explained the solstice to me over hamburgers.

I remembered the sleigh bells that hung on the back door, and the enormous artificial wreath that my mom always put in the family room. And spaghetti dinners on Christmas Eve. And the annual sugar cookie cut-outs, when I was allowed to sort through all of Mom’s cookie cutters: the ancient metal reindeer and gingerbread man, the red plastic Santa, the green Christmas tree. And so many more. More cookie cutters. More memories.

Last night my memories of “The First Noel” told me the beautiful lie that my childhood was perfect. There is no possible way, I thought, that my children will have such magical memories. I shrank inside as I thought about yelling at them the evening before. And about the messy living room, and how a Christmas tree doesn’t look very pretty in a cluttered room.  About how we didn’t take them to Breakfast with Santa because I was just too tired. And about how I’m never able to follow through with all my Christmas plans. I never get it all done. And I will never, I thought, ever make the kind of memories that my parents made for me.

As if on cue, Evan piped up from the back seat, “Looking at all these Christmas lights makes me feel happy.” His voice was quivering with excitement. Jensen added, “I love that we do this every year.”

Of course my childhood wasn’t perfect. Of course there were arguments and tears. There was even lumpy gravy at Christmas dinner. It happens.

Nor did my parents manufacture my memories for memories’ sake. The things I remember are artifacts of a content childhood that had moments of discontent, and of a loving family that didn’t always see eye-to-eye. The memories were never the goal. The happiness was.

As we drove last night, it was this tree that made Evan’s happiness spill over. This tree is the only source of light on its street. There are no other Christmas displays, and not so much as a streetlight. Just this tree, ablaze in the pitch-black night. This tree has a name. It is called The Magic Tree.

And I don’t know if the boys will always remember this particular tree, on this particular night, at this particular Christmas.

But that is not the goal.

I’m not dead. Or ill. Or any horrible thing. On the contrary, I am very happily Christmas-ing. Which seems to be taking time away from my blogging. Which is probably as it should be, no?

I know… it’s ugly. I’m making some changes, so don’t judge. Yet. I’ve already managed to break my blog once in the past 24 hours, and my heroic-genius-enormously-patient friend, Warren, fixed it. Without making fun of me. Yet. So, for today, just go read about him. Here. And here.  And if I don’t stop by your blog, just know that I’ll be back soon.

Getting kind of down to the wire on Christmas shopping… and Sarah & Jen had someone land on Momalom by Googling “gift for mother of three boys.” Obviously there’s a need for some assistance out there. And I am here to serve. I’ve compiled a list of things that might be helpful, trying to take into account a variety of tastes and budgets. The Mother of Three Boys in your life will be thrilled to find any of the following under the tree on Christmas morning.

Holiday Gift Guide for Mothers of Three Boys

Pink. Anything pink, because there is a good chance that there is nothing pink in her entire home. Bubble gum. Handcuffs. Cadillac. Use your imagination. Just get it in pink. Cost: $0.59 and up.

The Idiot’s Guide to Pokemon and Bakugan and All Those Other Stupid-Ass Trading Card Games with Weird Japanese Cartoon Characters that Elementary-School-Age Boys Love. These games make absolutely no sense to adults. Or females. Cost: paperback $16.95; e-book $9.99.

Plane Tickets. To anywhere, provided they are one-way. Cost: $87 and up, plus about $302 in airline fees.

Four-Shooter Rotating Liquor Dispenser. I know, I said I didn’t want this. But as I thought about it, I realized it was The Perfect Gift for a totally strung-out mother who has three boys running around shooting Nerf guns and farting all the time. Cost: $17.88, plus booze.

Valium Salt Lick. I stole this directly from The Kitchen Witch, because it is an awesome idea. You could also get a Junior size, guaranteed to chill those boys the hell out. If you get both this and the liquor dispenser, you might urge her to exercise caution in using both simultaneously.  Cost: No idea. Maybe a little pricey. Couldn’t tell you what Valium is going for these days.

Georgia O’Keeffe Print. Let’s just say it: there are a lot of penises in her house. This might provide a little balance. And if you don’t understand this one, I’m not gonna explain it. Cost: $22.99; $129.03 framed.

Noise Cancelling Headphones. All she wants is a little peace and quiet, without the constant roar of boy-children yelling out of anger. Or joy. Or hunger. Whatever. Get her a pair of these and she’ll be able to relax no matter what’s going on. (Disclaimer: not responsible if mother fails to hear screams when boy cuts off his brother’s hand with a chainsaw.) Cost: $27.68-399.99.

Imaginary Bullet-Proof Vest. To protect her from all the imaginary bullets that the firearm-obsessed little Rambos are constantly shooting from their imaginary guns. Cost: Free.

Prostitute. For him, not her. To satisfy whatever needs he may have. Because when she goes to bed at night, all she wants to do is sleep. Trust me on this one. Cost: Varies by region. Check Craigslist for current rates in your area. I would advise you to avoid bargain-basement prices, however.

Bathroom Renovation. Toilet training one boy makes your bathroom disgusting. Toilet training two boys makes it unusable except in emergencies. Toilet training three boys results in the need for a floor-to-ceiling decontamination, and requires the use of biohazard suits to enter. Reclaim your home and gut the bathroom. Cost: I dunno. Probably at least a couple grand.

A Year’s Supply of Air Freshener. In case the renovation isn’t in your budget. Cost: $168.

So there are just a few ideas to get you started. Ho. Ho. Ho.

(Oh, and many apologies for the rampant gender stereotypes in this post. In my defense, there is a reason for most of those stereotypes. I know this for a fact.)

I am not proud of these days.

These are the days when I wander inside myself, knowing there is something I should be doing, something I want to do. But I can’t figure out what that is, cannot identify what I want. I am lost inside my head.

The children are hungry. They ask for a snack and I allow them to forage for whatever they want. I have no idea when was the last time they ate. Maybe they had some cereal a while ago? Yes, maybe.

They ask me a question. I know they are asking me something, know I should answer. I say “yes.” And then they are doing something that is not allowed and I tell them to stop and they look at me, confused. “But you said we could.” Did I? I guess so.

Dishes are stacked on the counter. The dishwasher is full of clean dishes, and I know I should empty it, know it would take just a few minutes. But I don’t. I don’t care. I just don’t, and dirty dishes multiply.

I cannot engage, cannot respond, and most certainly cannot initiate. The kids become clingy, seek my attention, misbehave. I know it is because they want me. But the more they want, the more obvious it becomes to me that I am inadequate. I can’t be needed. I turn on another movie and hope it will hold their attention for a while. So they don’t notice that I cannot pay attention.

I know now what this is. This is not laziness. It is not depression (though there is that). This is multiple sclerosis. While it slowly paralyzes my body, MS also paralyzes my mind. I cannot focus. I am distracted. Didn’t I want to make a phone call? Yes. To whom? I don’t know. Lost. I cannot make it through a recipe. Somewhere in the middle I realize I have no idea how to get to the end. I try to remember a word. Not a difficult word. But I cannot find it, anywhere. I need to tell someone my address. I tell them my old address. My in-laws’ address.

Meals lost. Words lost. Home lost. And I do not have the energy to care.

I am lost in my mind.

Fortunately these days are not frequent. The kids don’t regularly have to parent themselves and each other. Jeff doesn’t come home to apathetic disaster every day. Many days I remember that laundry needs folded, and I even have the motivation to do it. Most days I can attend to conversation without forgetting what I am discussing. Many days I can accomplish. I can care. But there are days when all I can do is wander from room to room, inside myself.

It is called lassitude. It is a form of mental and physical fatigue unique to my disease. And Jeff assures me it is much more apparent to me than it is to anyone else. He assures me that I am not dangerous to the children or to myself, and that it does not matter if I’ve haven’t found the motivation to shower or take the kids to the park or to eat anything but ice cream. He says that it’s okay. That I’m okay.

I tell him it is not okay. I do not want to be this wife, this mother, this person.

He tells me to forgive myself.

I can’t.

Because on days like this, I can’t find a self to forgive.

This post isn’t mine. I am honored today to host an anonymous post from Momalom’s Half-Drunk Challenge. I am doubly honored to host a beautiful and daring piece of writing. I don’t know who wrote it. But I commend her.

Sometimes I wish my mom were dead.

And I wonder what kind of mom that makes me. (Yes, there are bigger questions to be asked. Like, what kind of daughter—OK, what kind of human being—would wish their mom dead? And, should someone call the authorities?*)

As a child, I feared my mom. She beat me. Sometimes with her hands. Sometimes with her silence. Most often, with her words. Stinging words that included “stupid,” “selfish,” “disappointment” and “shithead.” Words that stung, because, and I say this in all honesty and without any trace of conceit, I was a really good kid. Take my word for it. Actually, take my mom’s. Today she is happy to tell all kinds of people what a wonderful kid I was. At least that’s what she tells me she tells other people.

But here’s why I sometimes wish my mom were dead.

My dear hubby and daughter Z have never known my fearsome, cruel mom. Somewhere along the way, mom changed. There was no turning point, no crisis or epiphany. Just a gradual deterioration from a scary but strong mom into something else entirely: a bat-shit crazy mom.

Mom no longer hits. She no longer yells. At least as far as I can tell. She just says and does outrageously inappropriate things.

Like?

Like blaming me for my miscarriage six months ago. “I think maybe it happened because you are doing too much,” she said, as if my balancing work and family—something she had done—had snuffed out the life the fragile little being inside me.

Like not once in the hours, days, weeks or months following my miscarriage, stopping by or calling or dropping off food or giving me a hug and asking, “Are you OK?” despite living 8 minutes away from me.

Like never in Z’s three years of life taking her out to lunch, taking her to the playground or attending an event for her at school. Forget about babysitting—I have tried to get mom’s help a whopping three times when we couldn’t find a sitter. “Maybe you’re not paying enough,” was her response.

Like saying no when, the day Z came down with pneumonia, I asked her to pick up a prescription so I could keep my kid indoors, where it was warm, and not drag her out to the drug store in the cold. “Do you go to the store near you?” mom asked. “Oh, that’s too far away.” (8 whole minutes.)

Like falling apart over every challenge life throws at her. Whether it’s a tick on her dog. (“I can’t handle this!” she yelled at me when I suggested it was no big deal.) Or asking me to water her plants. (“I know you’re too busy, but,” sob, “I just,” sob, “don’t know,” sob, “who to turn to…”) Or a herpes scare. (“I never even had an orgasm until I was 46,” she wailed. “And now God is punishing me.”) I can’t hear her quavering voice or look at her quivering mouth, dripping nose and watery eyes without feeling disgust.

Yes, my mom has turned into a stupid, selfish shithead, and a disappointment.

And I wish my hubby and daughter didn’t have to know this. I wish that my mom were just a memory, a story I could tell them with a catch in my throat. A photograph I could share with a sigh. Because having her in our lives is killing us.

My hubby has seen the crazy—the woman who pees with the bathroom door wide open when we visit. Who cancels Thanksgiving when we tell her we’ll be there Wednesday, Thursday and Friday but not Saturday and Sunday. Who tries to commit suicide and then, the next day, insists we all go shopping. He has seen me try to reason with her, to talk to her the way he talks to his mom. He knows it can’t be done.

Still, I feel him draw away from me a bit every time mom pulls one of her stunts. As if he’s wondering how long it will be before I turn into bat-shit crazy mom. I don’t blame him.

As for Z, someday she will ask me why she sees her other grandparents, who live three-plus hours away, as much as she sees Grandma L up the road. Someday she may ask me why Grandma L doesn’t spend any time alone with her. Or why Grandma L says nasty things for waiters or postmen or neighbors to hear. Or why Grandma L is crying—again.

And I am not going to know how to answer. Because as much as I sometimes wish mom were dead, I know Z deserves a chance to love her. They deserve a chance to develop a relationship with each other on their own terms.

I guess in the end that makes me a good mom. Maybe a crazy one to hope that things will be different between Z and my mom. Just, I hope, not a bat-shit crazy mom.

*Do not call the authorities. I’m not plotting my mom’s death. And, for the record, mom has been seeing a therapist for years and has been on and off medication during that time. I have tried to talk with her about our relationship, but—you can ask my hubby, the great peacemaker—it’s impossible. So thank goodness for blog opportunities like this one, because I wouldn’t DARE write any of this down in my journal.

That thing I wrote the other day about not knowing if I regret having a daughter… remember that?

This is my fear (rational or not) about raising boys exclusively: I just don’t think, eventually, that I will understand them entirely. They are going to grow up with a different cultural reference than I have. There will come a day that Jeff will implicitly understand something about their maleness, and I will feel confused and left out.

Actually I think that day may have already come. On Wednesday, to be precise.

Within about an hour on Wednesday evening the boys:

· Used colored pencils as guns and ran around pretending to shoot each other (including the toddler);

· Upon being told that wasn’t safe, turned the pencils into swords and swash-buckled around the house;

· Rearranged the furniture (these are the same kids who claim they aren’t strong enough to carry in groceries, by the way), thus transforming the living room into an indoor football arena, and played a full-contact game with a regulation-sized football, using the Christmas tree as a goal-post;

· Cranked up the stereo and flattened an enormous cardboard box which they used as a dance floor, which was totally fine until they

· Turned dancing into a game called “Push Each Other Off The Box,” whereupon Caleb—at a distinct size disadvantage—was plowed into a wall and started crying;

· Turned the sofa into their personal stunt-man-training-facility, which also resulted in Caleb crying. And bleeding;

· Placed the flattened box at the top of the stairs and helped Caleb lay down on it and said something about “…sledding!” and were clearly planning on launching the poor baby to his death until I intervened.

They accomplished this destruction in under one hour.

The sledding incident pushed me over the edge. I may have yelled. Okay, I did yell.

And Jensen, offended at being told (in nicer words of course) that he was a complete bonehead, threw up his hands and rolled his eyes and said, “But, Mom, there isn’t anything to do that doesn’t involve hurting each other!”

I fell into stunned silence and looked at Jeff with pleading eyes. “What is wrong with your children?” I asked silently. And he smiled. And shrugged. And he understood them with absolute clarity. I was the only one not in the loop.

It has happened.

Ten things. Ten things you do not know about me. Fair enough: there’s probably a lot you don’t know about me. But remember the 25 Things thing that went around Facebook a while ago? I didn’t do it. I had no desire to do it. I couldn’t do it.

I’m going to do this, but I have to do it my way. My painfully (pathologically?) introspective way. The way it makes sense to me. I’m going to write Ten Things I Don’t Know About Myself.

_______________

I don’t know how to act my age, which is 53 days shy of 40.

I don’t know when I became obsessively thin.

I don’t know if I regret not having a daughter.

I don’t know if I will be able to walk tomorrow. Because MS is terrifying. And it is my reality.

I don’t know why I changed my name when I got married. I regret it.

I don’t know what to do. At this moment, I have no goals, no dreams. Nothing beyond making it through today.

I don’t know if I would have been pretty, if this hadn’t happened. If. But I like to think so. If.

I don’t know, in response to Big Little Wolf’s post, if I am hot.

I don’t know why I am not a vegetarian.

And I have absolutely no idea why I am an irrepressible optimist. Why, in spite of it all, or perhaps because of it all, I know deep in my bones that my life is painfully beautiful.

_______________

And where, you ask, is the bravery in this half-drunk list? It is, I suppose, in not explaining, not excusing. Not to you or to myself. The courage is in just letting this be what it is. In letting these questions answer themselves. In being patient.

The courage is in letting myself be who I am.

This post is brought to you courtesy of Momalom and their Half-Drunk Challenge, Big Little Wolf and the Sugar Doll Award, and Bailey’s and my coffee pot. And my husband, who is kind enough to be entertained at the sight of me getting buzzed at 9:45. In the morning. Thanks to all.

This is the kind of week it’s been: birthday craziness. Christmas chaos. Being told my newly-minted two-year-old has a speech delay. Jeff gone until tomorrow. A very sad death in the family.

Plus some other stuff which isn’t my story to tell but which, nonetheless, has left me doubting my faith in the general rightness of the world.

It’s only Tuesday.

{shudder}

But this is also the kind of week it’s been. Big Little Wolf, at her Daily Plate of Crazy, passed along the Sugar Doll Award. For, as she put it, delightful and thought-provoking writing. Recognition from anyone is lovely. Recognition from her-the woman can write-is flattering in the first degree.

I humbly accept. Which means that I have to follow the rules. Which are that I am to compose a list of Ten Things You Don’t Know About Me. And that I am to pass the pink little Sugar Doll on to one or more deserving bloggers.

Happily, happily I pass along this bit of sweetness to the following:

• The Kitchen Witch. I get her… I just do. I am thrilled to have found her. (But actually I think she found me. Still thrilled.)
• Jen and Sarah at Momalom. There are no words. None. Except these: they are hosting a Half-Drunk Blogging Challenge this week. And you should seriously consider grabbing a bottle of Bailey’s (or Kahlua) and playing along.
• And Ali. She’s my sister. And she has an adorable blog called Ears Eyes Nose [Tail]. And how could I NOT give her a Sugar Doll?! Plus I want to see if there are ten things that I don’t know about her. I highly doubt it.

So. Look for my Ten Things soon. And some unfortunate alcohol-fueled blather. And mostly, go read the people I mentioned above. Because they all make me happy to the tips of my toes.

Even when it’s been this kind of week.

Two years ago today you completed us.

Two months you waited until you decided to grow.

Two sparkly blue eyes which are flecked with gold.

Two dimpled hands that hold my cheeks as you kiss my nose.

Two chubby legs that carry you away from me. And bring you back. For now.

Two syllables to say my name. “Ma. Ma.”

Two tragic minutes in time-out when you hit.

Two older brothers to get you into trouble and maybe even get you out of it.

Two parents, one of whom gave you blonde hair and the other who made it curly. Who love you. To the moon. To the sun. And back. And again.

Two.

You are perfectly two.