You know those families that only get together for Thanksgiving and Christmas?  Well, our family isn’t one of those.  Our family welcomes any opportunity to gather up and sit down for a loud, opinionated meal, and we make all sorts of excuses to come up with a next meeting.  Unless, someone is out of town, our family Sundays start soon after noon when church let’s out, and they last for a good four to five hours.  We meet in our parents home, the house we grew up in, ushered in from the outside cold by the aroma of soup on the stove and a roast in the oven.

The lady of the house (my mom, or sometimes myself, as I go earlier to help) is responsible for the soup and the main course.  The rest bring the bread, the beverages, the salad makings, the dessert, and the flowers.  We set the table, without skimping on the details, and sit ourselves down with much deliberation as to who sits where.  Somehow we always end up in the same seats we had occupied the Sunday before.

After generous compliments to the chef and a word of grace from the oldest grandchild, we start our meal.  And what do we talk about?  All sorts of things, really, but we especially love politics.  Some of us are liberal, others more moderate, and yet others conservative.  However, we agree to disagree because we love each other, and regardless the heat generated by our discussions, we respect the other enough to listen and concede when the other is right.  The one thing we all cannot stand though, is the moronic repetition of the closed minded.  Every subject brought up needs to permit logical scrutiny.  There’s enough unexamined thinking everywhere without adding on more to that pile, isn’t there?

A couple hours into the meal, we retire to the living-room where we deposit our stuffed selves on the velvety couches and chairs, or prop pillows under our heads and roll ourselves out across the floor, cushioned by the thick persian carpets.  The discussion by this time is much lighter.  We recount stories of our childhood and jokes, and grandpa (my dad) hands out a weekly allowance to the grandkids that has been in effect since the first grandchild was old enough to know what money’s for.  The little kids are quite enthralled with grandpa’s method of throwing money up in the air.  They scramble this way and that to get their little hands around the floating dollar bills.

It often appears that time has quite stopped while our laughter and merry voices ring out the opened windows. And when it’s time to leave we do so with a bit of sadness.  These intergenerational repasts sustain us all in the week to come, and as we leave and pack ourselves in our respective autos, toting plates of leftovers, and buckling children into their car-seats, we call out to each other, “What are you doing this week? Let’s get together for coffee!”

I would like to announce that this Mother’s Day Sunday, my house has officially become the Sunday dinner house for us all. I am so very lucky that my husband does the majority of the cooking. He is really one of the most naturally talented cooks. Ever. Thank you, baby!

Sex is beautiful, is good for you, and it sells like hotcakes. I have a friend who’s a sexologist, and she told me recently that no matter how dire the economy, women will continue buying their lingerie, and men will continue going to strip clubs.  I find this fascinating.  It says so much about our roles.  Men are happy with who they are, so they spend their money on getting aroused.  Women, on the other hand, think they need improvement, and as such spend their money on ensuring that they arouse their men.

If that doesn’t objectify women, I don’t know what does.  Why am I writing about this?  I certainly like to look pretty and lounge around in my underwear.  I like make-up, big hair, and lace. I also believe in common courtesies between the sexes.  And I’m vain and enjoy getting attention.

I was at my mom’s and watched Oprah and the show had to do with the sex industry. I was watching the women in the audience.  Everything about them was self conscious.  They were behaving like giggly teenagers.  I thought to myself, sex still belongs to the man.  The sex crimes going on in the world against women and children.  Men’s doing.  Our children and the lessons they learn from the media.  Men again.  Finally, I thought, what if we as women begin to fully own our sexuality?  And ‘not tonight dear, I have a headache’ does not apply.

But really step up.  Embrace it.  Speak openly about it, without fidgeting and turning every shade of red.  Lipstick and hot pants on, we do it for ourselves and not for any man.  Our boys and girls need to see that.

Does this sound crazy?

When I was a child, every March 8 dawned fresh and glistening.  In our country it was a national holiday, a celebration of being a woman, a mother, a wife, a colleague.  Children at school worked on crafts and wrote letters to their mothers.  Men brought flowers and chocolates for the females in their lives.  Mothers sent children to school with bouquets of spring flowers for the female teachers, and after saying, “I kiss your hand,” the obligatory child to female adult greeting, we would give them the flowers.

In our house, my dad prepared the breakfast on March 8.  We usually had a simple one of chunks of homemade bread liberally spread with sweet butter and homemade jams or clover honey, a boiled egg on the side, and mugs filled with hot milk in which a dark chocolate bar would be broken into several pieces and stirred in until all melted. It was a delicious breakfast made even more so by the anticipation of handing our gifts to our mother.

In honor of this day I am having a giveaway for each of the following books:

This is an international giveaway, open to all my female readers from every beautiful city and village on this planet.  Leave a comment on any post between today and Thursday at midnight, and you will be entered. The winners will be announced in Friday’s post.

Happy International Women’s Day to all the beautiful, amazing females out there, be they young or old, single, married, divorced, or widowed.  We have come a long way, and yet we have so much more to accomplish.  And although I know that stopping violence against women and children was the theme for 2009, as long as I am a mother and I have children, that will continue to be my goal. What will be yours?

I was about thirteen, the first time I had ever attended a bridal shower, when one of the women there announced to those gathered around the room that nothing made her happy.  Not even sex with her husband.  She said it so loudly that everyone stopped what they were doing, their plastic forks lifted halfway to their open mouths, clearly wanting to hear more, yet not knowing how to solicit the conversation.  On the one hand, sex was a taboo subject. On the other, the woman was a loose cannon.  Who knew what she would say?  Moreover, there was too much propriety amongst them all, and no one wanted to be seen as lacking good manners.

So mouths were quickly stuffed with food, furtive glances sent her way, and everyone got back to their own conversations.  A few months later, she was committed to a psychiatric hospital.

Of course back then I didn’t understand.  That her outburst had been a cry for help, I only understood in college.  I had never heard of depression, nor had I seen it.  We were all an emotional bunch, even my mom cried from time to time, but it was short lived and our smiles were so much more brighter.

The church was the most unkind.  Calling all that their small minds couldn’t comprehend as the work of the devil, they shunned her and instilled fear in the women, preaching from the pulpit submission onto their husbands as onto Christ, so that such a fate would not befall any of them.

I spoke with a friend battling cancer, earlier last week. And with another one who has a teeny, tiny newborn.  And another one who has lost her job after 20 years.  Stress in their lives, hormonal changes going on, left and right.  Dejected, listless, angry.  Yet despite it all, reluctant to admit that they are suffering from something.  Reluctant to grasp the outstretched hand.  Do they fear shunning?  Or perhaps lost friendships?  Why is there such a stigma still attached to depression?  Why can’t we discuss it?  Woman to woman.  Friend to friend.  Can we give our support without judgement?

When my mom was diagnosed with cancer, and I was going through miscarriages, very few friends asked how I was holding up.  Only the love of my husband and family kept me going.  I was an emotional mess.  Many pulled away as though my sadness was contagious.  Perhaps it was. Yet a kind word would have been so welcome.

Can we be that ear, that shoulder, that word, to another one of us who is suffering?

I spent a quarter of my waking hours in Kauai chasing roosters, just so I could snap a picture of them. They run rampant all over the island, crowing at all hours of the day and night, their internal clocks haywire.  For all their cheeky behavior, they are quite shy, or maybe just terrified of the high pitched squeals of the children chasing them, yet I did get them in the end.

This trip to Hawaii was for my baby sister’s wedding.  She is unbelievably beautiful to begin with, so you can be sure she made a stunning bride.  The wedding was on the beach, as all weddings in Hawaii ought to be.  We were walking around barefoot, digging our toes in the golden sand, laughing and crying, and hugging each other.  My daughter and my niece had the time of their lives being flower girls.  I watched them remembering how I used to wish I had been a flower girl as a child.

I missed my blogging pals and can’t wait to catch up with all of you!  The internet connection was terrible, though.  Which isn’t all that bad, I suppose, as I had ample opportunities to watch the violet tinted sunrise on my early morning walks through the enchanted forest, coffee in hand.

The bright, cloudless days, I dozed away on the beach, smeared in a tick layer of sunblock, yet still somehow managing to get a burn, while the kids played in the sand and the water.  As the sun set and the skies quickly darkened, we gathered around an outside table and had dinner and conversation by flickering firelight in torches and candles, dreading our return to the cold, damp Northwest.  Still, we are highly grateful for a chance to warm up our bones, and the lovely reminder that summer is coming.

A lovely, blessed week to all of you!

When I was young I wanted so badly to be considered a grown up. I would dress and talk like an adult, thinking I was fooling everybody else not just myself. I remember being fifteen, already wearing 4-inch heels, certain that my destiny involved early marriage and a house full of kids. I met boys, had crushes, and once or twice even deemed myself madly in love. I believed the fairy tales, the happily ever after.

The spring of my first year at the university, a boy I had just broken up with committed suicide. For a long time I thought it had been my fault, after all he had promised to, would I ever break it off. I laughed his words off, of course, because what did I know? I was just a kid pretending to be an adult. But a few weeks later a mutual friend met me for lunch and told me that he had in fact drowned himself.

And then, not much later, I met a boy who was so jealous that he punched me in the nose and gave me the only bloody nose of my life. I remember sitting there in shock. Up until that point I believed that although harm could come to those around me, it would never touch my being. I was special.  I was a princess. Was I ever wrong!

Being a grown up was not as swell as I’d imagined. I got serious about my education and pushed the thought of marriage away. I had no need for boys and their tantrums. I became such a mean cynic. I found fault with everyone and everything. I walked around telling all who would listen that the beast would always remain a beast and the frog would forevermore croak and the princess was nothing more than an impostor. Stories lied and parents lied.

And then I met my husband and questioned my new philosophy on love and life. But didn’t quite give it up. Because I learned some truths along the way. Life is vulgar, sad and trite. Only being aware of that, could I appreciate the beauty and the miracle of it.  I suppose that is why I cringe when I see young girls rush into marriage.  Into the destiny they are so adamant is theirs.  I want to tell them to take a deep breath and see if they are ready to accept the struggles and the heartaches.  Those are guaranteed.  It is the joy and the remaining love that are unexpected.

I am working on a huge project which has taken my creativity hostage. Some new thoughts, but the majority of this is a re-post.

I spend my days looking into mirrors others hold up. Am I doing the right thing?  Am I saying the right thing?  Am I wearing the right thing?  Am I a good enough wife, mother, friend, sister, daughter, neighbor?

So much concern with driving the right car and living in the right house. This anxiety to please.  To become what those around me want me to be. I’ve become enslaved to the opinions of others.  And aren’t I taking this inane obsession of comparing myself to others, a little too far?  As if all that matters is that I am approved and liked and put somewhere on a pedestal. The top of the invisible hierarchy is a nice place to be.  But it’s safe and boring and exclusive.  And it isn’t me.

But what is? I hardly recognize my true self these days.  Don’t get me wrong.  What I am: wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, I enjoy to the utmost. But I feel I have given up so much of that life inside me, that life that hasn’t had a chance to breathe, that life that hardly got to see the light of day.  And for what exactly?

I am reminded by something I’ve read in The Zahir by Paulo Coelho and it goes like this: No one should ask themselves: Why am I unhappy?  The question carries with it the virus that will destroy everything.  If we ask that question, it means we want to find out what makes us happy.  If what makes us happy is different than what we have now, then we must either change once and for all, or stay as we are, feeling even more unhappy.

Not an easy choice to make.  How do you tell your husband that you’re ready to sell everything, get the kids out of school and travel the world? How do you explain to your friends that you’re truly happier in a 1000 square foot house (provided that it’s gorgeous, of course), without seeing their eyebrows reach their hairline? How do you tell those who feel so entitled to making the decisions for you, to step back and let you act like the adult you are? And how do you tell your parents that all the questions they didn’t bother to answer raised even bigger doubts?

I am a little afraid of hostility, disappointment and lost friendships. But I need to free my true self somehow before I asphyxiate on the banality of the everyday.  And I need to find a way to do it.  Soon.

That’s what I said last year around this time. And still, I am stuck. Because roots grow deep, I guess.

(Huge Congrats to Karen of Surviving Motherhood for winning the $25 giftcard giveaway!)

little miss has something to contribute to every conversation

Since my mom had been diagnosed with cancer, it had become my duty as firstborn to prepare the Thanksgiving day dinner.  With a few years worth of experience under my belt, and the misguided sense of confidence that brings, I no longer worry whether the turkey is moist enough or cooked through.

I have learned one thing about becoming the new family cook, and that is to never vacillate.  If the meat is a bit pink, it is so because I meant it to be so, and not for any other reason.  There are always a lot of cooks in my mom’s kitchen, and you can bet the opinions fly.  Thankfully, no one has gotten food poisoning as a result of my time spent wearing the apron of honor.

Thanksgiving this year has been poignant as my youngest sister and my youngest brother could not attend.  Based on our collective recollections, this has been the only Thanksgiving that we didn’t celebrate together.   As my nephew said grace and prayed for their safety, wistfulness took over and we spent the better part of the meal reminiscing about other Thanksgivings gathered together around my parents dining table.  And perhaps because they were not there, we decided to forgo the pie eating contest at the end of the meal.

Regardless, it was almost three hours later that we pushed our chairs back and retired ourselves to the family room couches and chairs where more of the same talk of politics, relationships, literature, religion and good times continued, while golden pools of light from the lit lamps shone on the blessed faces of loved ones far into the night.  Outside the cozy and comforting embrace of our childhood home it was cold and drizzly, a sort of desolate world of wind and water.

And as everyone said their goodbyes and goodnights promising to meet again in the new day, I offered up a little prayer of gratitude for those people that mean so much to our lives, whether they be family or friends, that we cannot imagine a life without them.

Because I am busy eating away at leftovers and spending time with family, I will not write about any particular subject today, but rather I will introduce you all to a post of one blogger that I admire.

Before I do that, please take a moment and revisit the post titled Violence and Shame.  In the last two hours I have had an interesting comment/question.  I have answered it the best I could, but would welcome all your input.  Thank you!

Also, I am taking this opportunity to announce that I am having the first of my three Christmas giveaways. Any comment on any post past, present or future will be eligible to win.  You have until noon Friday, December 4th to enter. The winner will be announced the following day, Saturday the 5th of December. The winner will have the opportunity to choose from a $25.00 gift card at either Target, Barnes and Nobles, or Toys R Us.  Good luck to you all!

Now… Throughout my year of blogging, I have written bits and pieces about my son.  Needless to say, I have fears about his growing up.  The world is so cruel and he is such an idealistic boy.  As parents we do the best we can to prepare our children for the future. Although, oftentimes we are at a loss what that ‘best’ is or could be.  Maggie May (#mce_temp_url#) has written about this struggle she is going thorough with her 15 year-old son. Please take a moment and visit. If you are a parent, you will understand her despair, and will cry alongside.

Thank you for visiting me!  Have a fabulous weekend!

watch?v=_HDUCLXA0wE

(Wordpress is misbehaving.  Please click on the link above.)

There are babies all around me.  Mine, to be sure, although they are growing and technically aren’t babies anymore, and others.  Babies of friends, cousins, neighbors.  I remember a few days before my son’s birth and how stressed I was, feeling unprepared and unfit to be a mom.  And oh, the fears I had.  Not about the birth itself as much as about wanting to do what was right by him.

It’s a selfish act, this desire to have a child.  Regardless of what our reasons are, we fall prey to romanticizing them.  Suddenly I understood something I had overheard my mom say back when I was young.  She spent half the time praying for us and the other half praying for guidance.  Hmm… That really doesn’t leave much time for anything else, now does it?

Parenting is hard work.  If it’s done right, that is. There’s more to it than putting three meals on the table, and stopping by the playground daily.  It involves patience, dedication, unconditional love, being present in the moment, and a huge sense of humor.

Inevitably the marriage takes second place and that guy you used to feel you couldn’t live without, is suddenly a nuisance.  Poopy diapers, endless crying, and sleepless nights, are just a few of the things you must deal with before you deal with him.  And no one really wants to have any sex bleary eyed and smelling like vomit.  Thankfully, this is a short lived stage and you move on (hopefully… really, you MUST), making up for lost time, and reconnecting with your love.

If you do it right, the bonds between you and your children will weave themselves into a beautiful tapestry of love, friendship, and respect, that will withstand the test of time.  That is what I aim for.  And that is what I wish for all the mothers, fathers, and babies around me.

Congratulations to Laura and Peter!  God bless little Dante with good health, a lifetime of love, an overabundance of joy, and the wisdom of the ages.  Love you guys!