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.

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.

I am not a morning person.

This is perhaps an understatement.

But I get up early to beat the child-rush and to quietly come to grips with consciousness, and after 15 minutes and a cup of coffee I’m good. Sometimes I even like being up.

I sit at the table (coffee in hand) and watch the deck get brighter as the sun comes up. And the daylight brings the birds to the feeders. And if I’m really lucky, Evan will creep down the stairs and crawl up on my lap and watch with me.

“Mom,” he’ll whisper, “there’s a mother red-bellied woodpecker.” Except he says, “muddah wed-bellied woodpeckew,” and part of me hopes he never corrects his pronunciation.

Evan is my bird boy.

With Jensen, it’s football. We sit and watch football for hours and may not even speak a word and we are content. Together. I used to do the same with my dad. I didn’t even understand the game. But I sat next to Dad and watched him watch and I was satisfied. The memory still makes me smile.

I don’t know what Caleb will be. But I know that we will share something that will make us both happy to the center of our beings.

And if whatever he is requires me to get up early, so be it. I will do it.

Because that is love.

In the light of the moon, an eight-year-old boy lay snuggled up in his bed.

One Sunday morning the warm sun came up and-pop!-out of his bedroom came a medium-sized and very hungry third-grader.

He began to look for some food.

On Monday he ate through a plate of barbequed chicken and mashed potatoes and turnip greens*. But he was still hungry.

On Tuesday he ate through a big bowl of pasta with roasted cauliflower. But he was still hungry.

On Wednesday he ate through a dish of stir-fried tofu and spinach and lima beans. But he was still hungry.

On Thursday he ate through a bowl of pasta salad with chicken and vegetables. But he was still hungry.

On Friday he ate through two cheeseburgers and some French fries. But he was still hungry. And he went to his Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

On Saturday at Grandma and Grandpa’s he ate through two waffles soaked in syrup, one Little Debbie Zebra Cake, one hot dog, one enormous soft pretzel, one package of Rolos candy, some Hershey’s kisses, a lot of Reese’s peanut butter cups, one juice box, one container of movie theater nachos with processed cheese food topping, some leftover popcorn, and three slices of pepperoni pizza.

That night he had a stomachache! Also, he puked.

The next day was Sunday again. He returned home and had a nice dinner of chicken and black beans and sweet potatoes and after that he felt much better.

Shockingly, he was still hungry. And, equally shocking, he was still just a normal-sized eight-year-old, even after the repulsive food orgy in which his grandparents allowed him to indulge.

That evening he rolled up into a cocoon in his bed, and he stayed there all night long. The next morning his mother dragged his whiney butt out of bed and he stumbled down the stairs rubbing his eyes and…

he was a grouchy little boy who looked at his bowl of oatmeal and growled, “Why can’t I eat Froot Loops for breakfast like all the other kids? You don’t love me!”

__________________________

*I assure you that this is our actual menu from last week. A little heavy on the chicken, but it happens. And, yes, my children DO eat tofu. Willingly. Spinach, too.

At the risk of sounding completely self-pitying, I must say that it was not awesome to cancel vacation on my kids last week. It was not anywhere close to awesome. It was a parenting failure of epic proportions.

But what did feel awesome? When my sister and her husband showed up, baby and dog in tow. I didn’t feel very good while they were here. But it was a whole new kind of happiness to watch them have fun. I cannot feel terribly happy right now. But I want my kids to feel happy. I want my husband to feel happy. I want the people I love to feel happy.  And I will settle for that right now, and hope that I will soon be able to rejoin them.

It is an imperfect perfection. Or maybe a perfect imperfection. I don’t know. But I’ll take what I can get.

And I promise I’ll get the rest of the staycation pics on my Flickr photostream just as soon as I can stay awake long enough to do so.

I love my husband. Even if he did say the other night, “Wow. I didn’t know your warranty was going to run out at 39 years.”

Yes. My warranty. Has evidently, in his view, expired.

I’ll grant you it has not been a good few weeks for me. The sudden and constant and searing pain that is accompanied by slurred speech and an inability to use my dominant hand is definitely a bummer. As are the medications that make me stumble and fall and sleep, say, 15 hours a day and make it ill-advised for me to drive or carry my children. As are the narcotics that didn’t control the pain (I’ve stopped taking them) (and I’d be a terrible addict because, frankly, I just puke too much). As are the bazillions of dollars of medical tests I am undergoing. As was the cavalier mention of something that sounded a whole hell of a lot like “brain tumor” and the tests that I know are for MS (even though the doctors didn’t feel it necessary to share that bit of information). (I don’t think either of these things is the case, incidentally. But, being semi-responsible health-care providers, they have to look.)

I do not fault Jeff for his observation. Even if I could, I don’t. However, it did inspire me to take a look at my out-of-warranty minivan. You know: the one that has two dings in the windshield and a dent in the side and a couple of gaping cracks across the dash and a bum hubcap that makes an alarming sound and (let’s face it) is dirty as hell. I looked at the van. Then I looked at myself in the mirror. And I decided that I could use a little retooling.

My detailing plan didn’t start well. I went to a stupid walk-in place in the mall to get my eyebrows waxed. “Not too thin,” I said. “Just clean them up.” Well. I walked out with eyebrows that looked like they each belong to a different person and are approximately the thickness of quilting thread.

But. That experience will not deter me. I am getting a pedicure (at a reputable salon). Also a haircut. (The haircut is on the same day as the test where they stick actual needles into my actual muscles but I am pretending it will be acupuncture and will correct my energy flow thus making me more beautiful, even if it is supposed to be painful). I haven’t entirely ruled out getting my hair colored. And, even though nobody trusts me to stay conscious at the gym or on a bike ride, I am satisfying myself with the Wii Fit in the safety of my own home just to feel like I’m doing something besides sleeping and waiting for my motorized wheelchair.

I’m shaking my head, because I’m not at all sure we can afford my extended warranty. And at this rate we’ll probably find out next week that I need a new transmission. However, Jeff drove his old Taurus until the mirrors fell off. He’s too tight to get anything new unless it’s absolutely necessary. So I’m pretty sure I’m safe.

I remember the day Elvis died. It was in the summer, and it was hot. And that night we went out to eat at The Longhorn restaurant, where I ordered my usual: pizzaburger. Elvis died and I could kind of tell my parents were stunned and I had one question: Was Elvis black? Because for some reason I was of the impression that Elvis was African-American. I was seven; I cannot explain.

And now I just found out that Michael Jackson died. And I feel how I remember my parents feeling the day that Elvis died.

I cannot help it. And I won’t argue the morality (or immorality) of his life or deny that his reality was a murky place or even make any arguments that he was the King of Pop. I have a feeling plenty of others will take care of those arguments.

The summer I was 13, I was in the hospital for a long time. I was sick. I hurt. I had massive surgery. I was in and out of consciousness. And my mom said, “Is there anything we can bring you?” and I said, groggily, “Michael Jackson’s new tape. Thriller.” And my parents indulged me and brought “Thriller” to me and you’d have thought it was made of gold, so ecstatic was I. Oh, and it didn’t hurt that they bought me a boombox, too. Sick? Yes, I was. But I still thought I was pretty damn cool. I listened to that tape so many times that my dad asked me if I was going to wear it out. It was 1983.

And later that year, the World Premiere of Michael Jackson’s earth-shattering video, “Thriller.” (Because that was when MTV actually played music. And videos.) I think my family was decorating the Christmas tree. But we all stopped and gathered ’round the tv and were mesmerized by that video. It. was. stunning.

And that was it for me. I didn’t buy “Dangerous.” I didn’t feel compelled to defend him in his public downfall and shaming. His plastic surgery debacles, frankly, disgusted me. (If I thought Elvis was black, I’m wondering if my kids think MJ was white. But you’d better believe the older two know all the words to “Beat It.”) The circus of his life meant very little to me. So it went.

But that year? 1983? I adored Michael Jackson in a teenage-girl way, and listened to him during some sick and lonely moments. And tonight I am sad. I think it’s time to listen to “Beat It.” Really loudly. Just this once.

[steps up on soapbox. clears throat. meekly begins speaking.]

Shortly after my sister adopted her son, she called me. He was almost nine months old and he wasn’t sleeping. Aren’t babies who are that old supposed to sleep all night? What were they supposed to do? Some books said they should go in and comfort him when he fussed. Some books said they should go in but not pick him up. Some books said they should sleep with him. Some books said they shouldn’t go into his room at all. And each book not only offered its own method, it said that other methods were wrong. Just plain wrong.

Thus began my sister’s hazing into the cut-throat and slippery world of parenting. It is a judgemental world revealed in pediatricians’ offices and at playgroups and in hot-topic parenting books that outline a clear path to a perfect child. Parenting is easy, if you follow the advice you read and are told. But there is a catch. There is something that no doctor or book or well-meaning experienced mother will tell you. It is impossible to do it right. It is impossible to be a good parent.

When I had one kid, I read some parenting books. When I had two kids, I kept a couple of parenting books around for reference. Now that I have three kids, I’m not sure we even own a parenting book. We get by on children’s Tylenol, occasional phone calls to the doctor, our own judgement, and maybe a drink when things get dicey. There is the occasional day when my kid misses the bus and I have to drive him to school while I’m still in pajamas and I forget to brush my teeth and I take my other son to preschool looking like a freshly-bathed cat and the baby has crayon all over his face and other parents look at me and think I am incompetent and then later all the kids simultaneously start whining before dinner and when Jeff finally comes home I don’t even bother to say “hello” because I am too busy heading to the beer fridge to get a drink or three. There are days when I slam my kid’s hand in the car door. There are days when I have to take the baby to the emergency room. There are days when I am a bad mother.

And I have been judged. I have been judged for breast-feeding for too long. And for not breast-feeding long enough. For letting a child share our bed until he was quite old. And for making all of our kids sleep in their own beds. And for shopping at the natural foods store. And for not shopping there enough. And for swearing. And for not swearing enough (because, you know, that means I’m uptight). For letting my kids eat too much junk food. And for being too strict with what they eat. For working and putting my kid in daycare. And, later, for being a stay-at-home mother. I have been criticized for all of the above. And more. Much more. Just as everyone feels free to pat a pregnant woman’s belly, everyone feels free to comment on a mother’s mothering choices. My parenting is, apparently, everyone’s business.

I make some bad choices. And I make some good choices. And some days I feel so defeated that I don’t make any choices at all. No different than just about anyone. It is life. It is parenting.

And so the media has identified this embracing of “bad” parenting as a trend among parent-bloggers. I don’t know anything about it except that, as usual, the journalists are a little late to the party (and so am I, with this post). And as far as I’m concerned, I’m following a much more significant trend. I am a mother in a sea of mothers. We dare to hope for the best for our kids, try to find our way to that goal, and hope to survive until we get there. It isn’t always pretty and it’s almost never perfect, and maybe– just maybe– we should focus our energies on something other than criticizing each other’s choices. In the end, I am a mother, trying to identify the mother in myself and hoping to also recognize myself in motherhood. Good, bad, or in between, this is what I’m doing.

[steps down from soapbox. tells kids it is time to turn off tv.]

Am exhausted.

And not in a “oh, life is just so busy and I’m just plumb wore out and so happy and isn’t life good?” way. I’m exhausted in a “life in the form of three children wrestled me to the ground and sucked all semblance of motivation out through my nose and left me for dead” way.

Can. Not. Move.

This weekend we went to Pediatric Lollapalooza (that wasn’t the name of it, but that’s what it was, minus the intoxication and tattoos) and got really hot and played in fountains and ate ice cream and watched They Might Be Giants and some other fun bands* and stayed too late. And the next day we layered more sunscreen onto our sticky bodies and went back out into the sun to a gigantic barbeque competition where we ate our weight in pork ribs and beef ribs and brisket and chicken and some other meat and washed it all down with snowcones and somehow managed to drag our stuffed and burned selves home.

Throw in an extremely fun aunt and a pathologically energetic uncle (but I mean that in a good way, Greg) and an illegally adorable cousin and me losing my cell phone and me contracting a food-borne illness (shocking, I know, given our eating patterns over the weekend) and probably some other stuff I’m forgetting, and you know what?

It was awesome. Sure: today I feel defeated and lifeless. But I would do the weekend again in a heartbeat. Because that’s what parenthood is.

________________

*Fun bands to which middle-aged, suburban fathers who used to fancy themselves iconoclastic danced with reckless abandon, using their toddlers as excuses to get down. These are the same fathers who were too cool (or uptight) to dance with their brides at their own weddings, even after many bottles of champagne. I am not bitter. I am just saying.

**There is no second footnote, but because I included the first footnote I feel like I need to give credit to Literal Dan, the (exceptionally witty) parent-blogger who actually invented the asterisk. It’s true. I read it on Wikipedia. Or something.

We didn’t know if Jensen was a boy or a girl, when I was pregnant with him. I kind of had a feeling I was carrying a girl, which destroyed my faith in maternal intuition from the get-go. But, boy or girl, we really didn’t care. I don’t do nurseries, couldn’t really care less about pink or blue, and, besides, we were going to raise this kid without regard to gender stereotypes. Boy with doll? Fine. Girl with tractor? Also fine.

Then he was born and his himness declared itself early and loud and clear and to my (admittedly naive) shock he fit the stereotype. Trucks and tractors and peeing in his face with diaper changes. Then sandboxes and dirt and worms and Legos. Construction and its evil twin, destruction. Sports. This kid? All boy.

Jensen’s interests are subtly taking on a bigger-boy tone and the stereotypical interests are now partnered with just-beginning physical changes, which are enough to make me slightly weepy and more than slightly crazy. But: the shoulders are getting a bit broader and my kid is undeniably growing himself a pair of Man Hands. He’s obsessed with rap. And rock. And likes to listen to both really loudly. He giggles around girls sometimes. And he has a baby (but growing) attitude.

But still. I never saw this coming.

The other night he asked Jeff to play football with him. Jeff was busy, so I offered. I’m always up for a game of football. But Jensen said, “No.” And don’t think for a minute his surliness escaped me. When I wondered why he suddenly didn’t want to play, he muttered, “Because you’re a girl.”

Seriously, kid? Did you just say that? All I can say is: beware the stereotypes. Sometimes they work, but in the end they’ll get you every time. And if this is the start of a larger trend, I will take you down. Like a girl. Or maybe not.