Well he is. And he’s crazy talented – like “his work should be shown in important galleries” talented. And that’s not just the family love talking (okay .01% love – but the rest is strictly objective).

My parents’ shop participates in a Key West event called First Thursday (every first Thursday of the month, shops stay open later and serve refreshments to the patrons). And they always feature a special product or artist.

This month, Style Key West had a little art show for my brother! Here are some pictures my Dad took:

Don’t his paintings look great in the shop? I think they really work with those giant orange sea horses.

Seriously though - I can’t even imagine having that kind of talent… I’m a proud big sister.

Want to see more of Matt’s work? Check out his website.

And happy Valentines Day!

I didn’t know Susan well – only met her once. But we shared friends and acquaintances. And, of course I followed her courageous story through her writing.

When I learned that Susan passed away on Monday, I was overwhelmed by sadness for the people who loved her – love her – so much. And since then, I’ve spent a lot of time reading their words about this incredible woman.

And I’ve wished that there was something that I could do to help.

Then one friend, Stephanie or ”Minky Moo“ offered me two opportunities.

The first was a general call to action. She is putting together a book of memories for the Niebur boys, and asked that people share their stories. My immediate response was that this didn’t apply to me, as I had only met Susan briefly at a blogging event. So I did my part by helping to pass on the message – to let others know.

Then I actually read Stephanie’s post about wanting to give Susan’s children memories of their mother as others knew her. And something she said, made me think: “To me, stories of my father are precious jewels. I hold on to them like treasures. I can do nothing to heal their pain now, but perhaps we as a group can give them a gift to treasure.”

When one of my favorite people in the world lost her son last September, I learned a lot about grief. Particularly that there will never be enough memories, pictures, stories… That no detail could be too small to be treasured. And that anything new – previously unknown - is a rare gift.

And it occurred to me that I do have one small thing. One tiny detail: Susan’s smile.

Remember, I did meet her once.

It was a few years ago when DC Metro Moms hosted an event. I was late and didn’t see any familiar faces when I arrived. I don’t know what it is about walking into a room full of women who all seem to know each other, but I immediately flashback to high school and all of the associated insecurities and anxiety.

I can hide it well…but make no mistake – at times like that, I may as well be an awkward sixteen year old, worried that no one will want to talk to me.

Trying to find a seat in that crowded room - hunched over and apologizing - I cringed my way to an empty spot in the front. Then I sat down next to Susan.

The room was quiet – all attention on the speaker at the podium. It would have been entirely appropriate for everyone at that table to make room for me without any ostensible acknowledgement of my arrival.

But Susan did acknowledge me. She turned her attention away from the presentation and looked at me. Not just a quick glance…a distracted nod. She turned in her seat, really looked at me and smiled warmly. And just like that, I felt included.

It sounds like a small thing – a smile. But this one said, “there you are!” It was welcoming. It was in her eyes. It was genuine. And it immediately put me at ease.

I don’t remember meeting her when the presentation was over – though I know we were introduced. People I was looking for but didn’t see on my way in came up to greet me. Susan’s friends gathered around her. Pulled in different directions, we didn’t cross paths again.

I shouldn’t remember my brief interaction with Susan. There was nothing significant about it. Just a smile and companionable proximity. A few words of introduction… But I do remember it because she said more with one smile than others do in an hour of pleasant small talk.

In that brief moment, she told me that she was kind. That she cared enough to make others feel important. That she saw a potential friend in each new face.

She was so obviously that girl in high school who didn’t seek safety in small and exclusive numbers. She made room for one more – as many times as necessary. Or at least, she was that girl now.

She had a smile that was remembered. She left an impression. And I feel honored to have such a memory – one to give to people who can never hear enough about Susan. Who will treasure every small detail of the woman she was and the effect she had on others.

She had a beautiful smile.

…

The other request that Stephanie made was specifically to me.

We are working together on a production of Listen to Your Mother, a show in which local writers read original essays on the subject of motherhood. This is the first year that the national production will be held in the DC area, and Stephanie and I are over the moon excited to be part of it (let alone producing it).

All Listen to Your Mother productions donate 10% of their ticket sales to a local charitable cause. We’ve exhanged several links to causes close to our hearts, and have taken far to long to choose one… But Monday night, Stephanie asked me if we could contribute to Susan’s cause.

You can imagine my response: YES – OF COURSE – SEND ME THE DETAILS – I’LL GET TO WORK ON THAT IMMEDIATELY…

Unfortunately, Susan’s personal cause, the Inflamatory Breast Cancer Research Foundation isn’t local. So we decided to make it local. Introducing: The Susan Niebur IBC Research Fund.

In addition to 10% of ticket sales revenue for the DC Listen to Your Mother show, we invite anyone who would like to contribute to Susan’s cause – her legacy of awareness and support for research – to donate. Whether you do so in name or anonymously, every penny of your donation will go directly to the Inflamatory Breast Cancer Research Foundation.

And we use it all the time in so many different ways…

“How could I be so stupid?…then the stupid coffee maker broke…don’t say stupid honey, it’s not nice…don’t be stupid, of course I’ll help with…that stupid dog was barking all night…please don’t say stupid sweetie, it hurts feelings…”

I’ve tried explaining that it’s okay to call a thing stupid, but not people…but that’s not entirely true either. “Your picture is STUPID – it doesn’t even look like a…” Sometimes calling things stupid hurts feelings too.

So we go back to the black-and-white-right-and-wrong-never-always world that makes sense to children.

And we NEVER say stupid.

Until we do. And get corrected or copied. And then remind ourselves that we’re doing the best we can. No one is perfect. And we try again.

A few months ago, Eleanor called Oliver stupid.

And what siblings don’t do that? Hurl that easy meanness back and forth without a thought beyond momentary anger? Feelings are hurt. Tears are dried. Sorries are said. And everyone understands that it’s not really true. “Of course you’re not stupid, she didn’t mean that.”

But when your daughter calls her older, special needs brother stupid, there is far more at stake than hurt feelings. Because at age six, Oliver can see that he’s different – that some things come more easily to his classmates. To his little sister. And he understands what stupid means.

Poor little sister…you’re just being a kid. Your cruel words have no agenda. And you don’t really mean it. Even when you do.

In this scenario, Oliver was throwing a blanket over her. Over and over. No matter how many times she asked him to stop. Because sometimes he doesn’t know when to stop. Sometimes he can’t…impulse control issues, you know. But regardless of the reasons, her anger was justified. And she retaliated with angry words.

“Oliver is stupid! ”

And a few minutes later, I heard the yelling and that word, “No YOU’RE stupid! No YOU are because YOU don’t listen. STUPID!” Stupidstupidstupidstupid….

So I sat them down, listened to sides, dried tears, defined words, explained cruelty, demanded reciprocal apologies…and ignored the ice that pierced my heart with that awful, everyday word that I misuse all the time.

We NEVER say stupid. It’s not nice. It hurts feelings.

Minutes later another squabble erupted, and this time it was Oliver calling his sister stupid. It was the first time I ever heard my sweet boy say that word, let alone say it about someone.

There were more tears and unreasonable behavior. Then arbitration. Then defiance.

Then Chris came in, saw all of the ugliness and disrespect for parental authority and sent everyone to their rooms.

This wasn’t a wrong thing to do, of course…but in this particular situation, with these particular children, it wasn’t the right thing either. So we gave each other the “okay, what do we do now?” look, and began damage control.

Since Chris administered the time out, I asked him to go talk to Oliver. Time outs don’t work with our oldest - and if I went to talk to him, then I would just be cast as the one who saved him from that mean asshole, Dad. They needed to work it out on their own. So I went to Eleanor.

She cried and explained. And I listened and agreed. But then I explained (and tried not to cry). And she listened. And finally understood. Why we never say stupid. Because it hurts feelings.

Later Chris told me that Oliver actually asked him, “Daddy, am I stupid?”

How do you continue to breathe when your special needs child asks you such a loaded question? How do you answer?

For the first, it takes a lot of effort. For the second, it’s as natural as breathing.  You say no. “No, you are not stupid. Never think that. Never worry about that. You are a very smart boy.”

And Oliver isn’t stupid. So that’s not an ambiguous response. It’s the truth.

But the rest of the truth is, he is different. He doesn’t learn the same way other kids do. Simple Kindergarten crafts are often difficult for him. He has a hard time sustaining the appropriate level attention. He falls behind easily. And he’s starting to see all of this.

During parent teacher conferences last November, I (again) brought up the issue of holding Oliver back a year. He’s currently in first grade and I was astounded that they didn’t think he should repeat Kindergarten. In fact, I would have objected if he wasn’t in a K-1 class. Knowing that he’d be in the same classroom and would spend close to 30 hours doing one-on-one work with a special ed teacher each week, made me feel comfortable with the decision. The only difference would be a label: “first grade.”

But now it’s February. And he’s so obviously not ready to move on to second grade, no matter how many hours he may spend in a resource room. He’s barely working on a first grade level, let alone second grade.

Don’t you have to master a skill set before moving on to the next level – the next grade?

Apparently not.

When I broached this topic, and questioned whether children simply “age out” of their classroom, I got the shocking answer that, yes – in fact, they do. And I suddenly understood what I’ve been hearing for so long. Why people have been talking about kids being pushed through the school system. OF COURSE no one was suggesting that my son repeat a year. All of this time, I’ve been missing the point.

The school’s goal is to advance students through each grade, giving them the support they require to reach their highest potential. And there is nothing wrong with that.

The only problem is that I may have different expectations for my own child’s potential.

Listen – I know that teachers care. I’ve seen this first hand. There isn’t one teacher, classroom aide or therapist working with Oliver whom I don’t implicitly trust to have his best interests at heart. In fact, I would go so far as to say that they love my son.

But he’s my son. No one will ever love him like I do. No one will ever have his best interests at heart like I do. No one will ever see as much potential in him as I do.

So it’s up to me.

There is only so much that his teachers can do. They can’t suggest that he repeat a year when the school system has created a means of him advancing through each grade with help. And now that I understand this, I know what I have to do to help them. Help them help him.

I don’t want Oliver to feel stupid. I don’t want him to think he’s stupid. And while I can’t control how he’s going to feel or think, I can help create an environment that will guide him to better self esteem. And the first step is giving him a little more time to catch up.

When he started Kindergarten, he could barely speak in full sentences. He would wander around the classroom, unable to sit still for more than minutes at a time. He hardly ever asked questions. He played next to other children, not with them.

All of that has changed. In only 16 months, he has accomplished more than I would have ever guessed possible.

His potential is vast.

I can’t predict what will happen next for Oliver, but I can do everything in my power to ensure that he’s given a chance. To see his own potential. To believe in himself. To never accept the label “stupid.”

It’s inevitable that my children will call each other names. And “stupid” is the least of it… But the implications of that one silly word that is misused and overused to the point of densensitization are far too harmful to be ignored by my family.

We never say stupid.

So I wonder where Eleanor picked that up anyway… School? Friends? Me?

Chris claimed it was a cartoon. He said that they were watching Tom & Jerry, and a female cat character – the object of Tom’s affections – said it. Jerry set Tom’s tail on fire during the cats’ date at a restaurant. And when the bewildered Tom wondered what was burning his girlfriend said, “it’s you stupid.”

I was skeptical. Such a common word…so easy to blame it on a cartoon. Far more likely for it to be something she heard at school. From a friend. From me.

But very soon after that, Eleanor was telling me about a funny cartoon she saw. Tom and Jerry…Tom was on fire…”it’s you, stupid.”

Huh.

Stupid cartoon.

We still let them watch Tom and Jerry. It’s not my favorite - but it’s the least of my worries. I can’t shield them from the word stupid. And cutting them off from television isn’t the answer.

Better to educate them. Help them understand why that word can be so hurtful. When it’s okay to say it…when it’s not… Let them know that it’s okay if they make mistakes – hurt feelings. We all do the best we can. No one is perfect. All we can do is try again…

Right now my job is to give Oliver a chance to catch up. Help him see his own potential. Keep fighting for him.

And I am so grateful for the teachers we have on our side. While their power has limits, I now know how I can help them.

In fact, I just met with them this week. I asked questions and they offered a meeting. There were a few things to discuss, and I brought up my opinion that he needs another year in his current classroom. That he’s not yet ready for second grade.

They said that it isn’t quite as simple a decision as it once was…that administration would have to be involved in the discussion…but that the situation and the student in question would be given consideration. And that there are a number of reasons why Oliver should be given this consideration.

I think that’s a good start.

They love my son. I know this. And it means more to me than I could ever express to them in words.

I hear it in the way they talk about him. Their pride in his progress. Delight in his unique personality. Admiration for his strength of character – his sense of self.

They like Oliver as much as they love him. And they tell me stories about him. Particularly ones that make them laugh. The most recent one came from his classroom teacher who has been with him since his first day of Kindergarten.

She asked me if he was eating enough for breakfast since he often tries to open his lunch bag when he arrives at school. She wasn’t sure if this was because he was hungry or if he just wanted to eat his snack. We all agreed that it was probably the latter. It was noted that he does like his salty snacks…

And apparently, he’s quite partial to the soft pretzles that they sell in the cafeteria. Not that he should even know about them since he doesn’t buy a school lunch… But someone obviously shared a pretzle with him at some point because he does know about them. And he really likes them.

In fact, according to this teacher, Oliver must have made a friend who works in the cafeteria who also knows this about him. Because regardless of the fact that I have always packed a lunch for him – have NEVER sent money for the school lunch – several times a week, she will look over at his table to find him enjoying his own soft pretzle. The ones that you can purchase in the cafeteria lunch line.

So several times a week, my son who has these delays and IEP goals to improve his ability to communicate and relate to other people charms someone into giving him a free salty snack.

Smart boy.

I was NEVER one of those girls. I never took a riding lesson. I thought barns were stinky. When I looked at a particularly majestic specimen of equine beauty, I mainly focused on the huge teeth that could take off a finger or two. And possibly the flies buzzing around its rear end.

National Velvet? Never saw it. Black Beauty? Never read it.

I just never understood the the girls and horses thing.

This doesn’t mean that I dislike horses, of course. I just don’t really think about them.

I grew up in the city. I’m not much of an animal person. And this is totally fine with me.

But now – NOW – I have a daughter. And she IS one of those girls who is obsessed with horses.

Woe to the librarian who asks if she can help us… How could she know that a whip cracking pre-reader will have her searching the stacks for the infuriatingly few picture books featuring a horse on the cover. At least she doesn’t have to come home with us and sit with Eleanor as she goes through her check out pile, discussing each page in minute detail.

I’m just about as interested in this now as I was in third grade when my horse crazy best friend would make me learn terminology for horse anatomy and paraphernalia, and THEN quiz me on it. Hey – don’t judge. I was the new girl and thrilled that someone was actually talking to me. Whinnying across the playground with a jump rope around my waist was a small price to pay.

Back to Eleanor though… As much as I don’t share her fervor for equestrian life, I do feel a little sad for her. Because we live in horse farm HEAVEN and it would be easy to find a place for her to take riding lessons. She would LOVE it. And it’s never going to happen.

Yes – I’m aware that it’s not just a fun activity – it’s also wonderful exercise. In fact, it would be fabulous for all of my children. Especially Oliver. I know this because my old friend who force marched me through Horses 101 lessons in third grade is now a pediatric physical therapist in Hippotherapy (a practice of integrated intervention for various disabilities, utilizing ”equine movement” in physical, occupational, and speech-language therapies). There are so many reasons for us to get our kids in to riding: easy accessibility, health benefits, fairy godmother-like wish granting for our daughter…

But it’s too expensive. Maybe if we only had one child. We have three, though. And we already spend more money than we have on therapies for Oliver.

I’m not poor mouthing or saying anyone should feel sorry for me. Nothing more than stating facts. Riding lessons just aren’t in the budget.

Luckily – Eleanor is still young enough to think that a pony ride is actual horseback riding. So I don’t think she’ll lament her lot in life with the non-equestrian family too much… And she IS only five. Next year, she could be into theater. Or soccer. Or Wicca. Whatever – as long as we can afford the associated fees, we’ll do the best we can for her.

Unless it’s Wicca. Didn’t I mention that I’m a city girl? I’m not driving her out to the woods to collect lichen and mouse skulls.

It’s one of the less fun aspects of responsible parenting…knowing when you have to draw the line.

I don’t know Susan well, but I’ve been inspired by her courage, strength, beauty and grace since I found her blog a few years ago. She’s fought long and hard. She shines brightly. And she’s in my heart and my prayers.

I was busy with family in town over Christmas, and assumed that I’d be back to wish you a Happy New Year on January 1. Or at least by January 7.

What’s that? February is right around the corner? I noticed that too. And for the life of me, I don’t know why I’ve been so resistant to the idea of just writing something already.

Or actually – I do know why. I have been experiencing an unusually high level of anxiety lately. I say “unusually high” because while I admittedly always have one toe on the ledge, OHMYGOD who AM I and WHERE did my talent for dissociation go? Every morning I wake up feeling paralyzed – only propelling myself into motion because three small people require it of me. Luckily, it gets better as the day goes on and the beds get made and small tasks are accomplished. And exercise helps. And Prozac.

But it’s not normal. I haven’t had this deer caught in headlights perspective since my brush with PPD after Oliver was born. I remember that well. I also remember coming back to reality and thinking, “what the hell was that?” Unfortunately, knowing that I’m on the wrong side of the looking glass doesn’t make it feel any less dark.

This has been going on for well over a month. Or at least it was. Because a few days ago, I started watching a TV show about zombies.

If you know me well, you will think this is incredibly out of character. Because I LOATHE everything about the horror genre. Especially anything having to do with The Undead. I have never understood the appeal. Why is “scary” fun? What is it about grisly scenes of fictional carnage that make people shiver in delight?

You’re gathering a group of friends to order pizza and watch The Amityville Horror on Halloween night? Me? I’d rather give your grandpa a pedicure while watching back to back episodes of the Power Rangers.

So The Walking Dead isn’t a show that I would have expected to watch. Like – ever. I mean, post-apocalyptic terror CAN’T be good for my psyche on the best of days…

But the other night, when Chris and I sat down for some necessary escapism via Netflix streaming, the options were limited. Chris didn’t want to watch anything BBC or Sci-Fi (or Sci-Fi BBC) and I wasn’t up for action hero movies. Then we happened upon The Walking Dead, and in some weird combination of Chris’ friends telling him how good it is and my recollection that Tom and Lorenzo always write about it (I love their TV recaps), I lost my mind entirely and watched the first two episodes.

I’m surprised I survived.

But here’s the weird thing – as much as it kind of makes me want to light the television on fire and throw it out the window (don’t worry, this will never happen – I’m not crazy…and we only have one TV), this horror story that comes straight out of my worst nightmares has done wonders for my anxiety.

I mean HOW can you possibly see the current world as a bleak and depressing place when you hold it up alongside one where dead people roam the earth sniffing around for living flesh to devour? My life may have its challenges, but it’s not that bad.

So is that all I needed to snap out of my funk? A zombie intervention? Probably not. These things ebb and flow on their own. And as with anything else, there are other factors at play. I have a new project that has been incredibly motivating…I’m feeling so hopeful about the progress that Oliver has made this year in school and what that might mean for his future… More and more, I find myself spending less time worrying about what might happen and more time looking forward to all that is possible.

So I’m not giving The Walking Dead full credit. But I’m also not undermining the power of a reality check via bloodthirsty corpses. Either way – it makes me feela lot less anxious about the bad economy.

Happy New Year!

I like to call this picture “The Island of Misfit Christmas Decor Characters”

Pictured: Hallmark Snowman (unmasked to reveal that he’s really a robot), Nutcracker ornament with
a broken head, one-armed Dancing Santa and nose-less Frosty the Snowman
Gone but not forgotten: singing Douglas Fir, Hallmark Moose with colorful string of lights and
Coca Cola Polar Bear playing the bass (I’d like to buy the world a Coke…)

Run Dancing Santa! Run as fast as those jolly little legs can go!

Don’t let them take your other arm.

But enough about the plight of the Hallmark holiday crap that my children have mauled over the past few years… Sunday was Christmas! Here is what ours looked like:

BEFORE

AFTERMATH

And here is bonus picture of Chris very carefully pouring the buttermilk I bought for making biscuits into the quiche pie crusts (he thought it was heavy cream).

Fun fact: buttermilk doesn’t ruin quiche – but it’s definitely a little different.

It was a good Christmas. Both sets of grandparents were here, as was my brother. A few friends dropped by to visit. And there were minimal displays of poor behavior on behalf of the children. Or at least, we thought they were fine and everyone else talked about us behind our backs. Both scenarios suit me well enough.

Yesterday the tree started smelling and I was all set to take it down. But the public outcry against dismantling the tree before New Year’s day convinced me to live with the smell of old cheese for the rest of the week. Then my mother came to the rescue with the suggestion of pouring some bleach in the water, and the day was saved! Of course there is nothing to do about the fact that needles sprinkle to the floor every time one of our neighbors walks up or down their stairs…so we’ll just have to live with threat of a fire hazard for the rest of the week.

All in the name of holiday cheer. As it should be.

Hoping that all of you who celebrate Christmas had a very merry one – and that everyone else enjoyed a fabulous “thank god it’s almost over” Sunday!

See you in the New Year…

Kim from Mosey Along and her sister, Lianne wanted to do something for our good friend Anna and her family this holiday season.

“Since we both love photography and have been so touched hearing how the Donaldsons’ friends and neighbours having been using blue ribbons as a way to remember Jack, we decided that might be a way we could offer our love from afar.”

They started a Flickr stream, Blue Ribbons for Jack, for all of the blue ribbons outside of the Donaldson’s neighborhood. Okay – so mine are of the ribbons IN the neighborhood – but I thought people might like to see those too. These three are all tagged “love at the bridge” since that is exactly what they depict: the love that friends and neighbors have shown the grieving family at the bridge where Jack was found after that horrible river swept him away.

Visit either Kim or Lianne to see how you can show your love and support through photography. Obviously talent is not required (see images above). And if you are overwhelmed by the idea of setting up a Flickr account, Kim says in her post that she can upload them for you.

Much love to your and your families this holiday season!

I know – other people write touching annual posts in honor of their children on their birthdays. But not me. I write annual taunts about how my Christmas tree kicks your Christmas tree’s ass.

Because tree decorating is my thing.

I won’t re-write my Christmas Tree Nazi post, but if you didn’t read that and don’t feel so inclined as to link over – just understand that I take my tree very seriously. Maybe a little too seriously. Okay – maybe A LOT too seriously. But you know how it is when someone has a problem: they need to want to get better before you can help them. And I have no interest in getting better. All I want is a perfect tree.

Last year was the first time that my kids really expressed a desire to participate in tree decorating. So being the good mother that I am, I put aside my perfectionist attitude…and bought them their very own fake tree from Target. I even let them believe that theirs was much better than mine (as if!)

This year though, I made the mistake of pulling out their tree a week before we bought the “real” one. So they thought they were on round two when the new one came in the door.

In their defense, Chris’ tradition of taking one of them with him to pick out the tree would definitely cloud the whole “ownership” issue. Luckily, they have very short attention spans, and after 10 minutes of watching me hang the lights, everyone got bored and wandered off to watch TV or sled down the stairs in pillow cases. A good move on their part. This year’s light hanging wasn’t pretty. Because our tree? Is HUGE. At least for us, it is.

We live in a tiny townhouse, and typically get a six foot tree. But this year, Chris took Oliver who imprinted on this particular one the minute he saw it. No other tree would do. It was a tree soul mate thing and Chris couldn’t keep them apart. So this year I had two more feet of tree to decorate.

Doesn’t sound like a lot, but that was one beast of a tree trimming project. I swear it kept getting bigger as I circled around it, lacing lights in the branches. Then several strands blew out and I had to search for connections to remove them. And full of joyous holiday spirit, I alternated between internally swearing like a sailor and glaring at an infuriatingly jocular Chris, who was puttering around the kitchen, singing along to Santa Baby.

And of course, the minute I decided that the lights looked as good as they were going to get, the children sensed my hand moving toward the ornament box and came at me like a pack of Christmas-obsessed velociraptors.

I was able to fend them off with some candy canes, but it was a near thing. It seemed prudent to wait until they were in bed before I continued.

This is what I generally do anyway. So I finished the tree later, listening to holiday CDs and sipping wine with Chris. For a second he forgot that he had met me before and tried to hang some ornaments, but I put an end to that. I mean – filler ornaments like that random ceramic chili pepper on the front of the tree?! Do you see what I’m dealing with here?

But when all was said and done, I was able to stand back and look at this:

I think it’s our prettiest tree yet. Admittedly, this larger size could do with a bit more bling than just lights and ornaments… Insert Joan Cusack’s Queens accent for one of her best Working Girl quotes: “It needs some bows ah’ somethin’.” Next time, there will have to be some sort of a garland.

One of these days, I’ll have to get over the “my tree” thing and let them (gulp) help. Then, perhaps schizophrenic ornament placement and ineffectual bow tying will be balanced out by joyful faces and holiday cheer…and a Valium. And an extra bottle of wine. That should do it.

My mother tells a story about how she once spent the night before Christmas assembling 100 tiny plastic escalator steps in Barbie’s shopping mall. Her parents were both in the hospital and she didn’t actually start shopping for presents until Christmas Eve. She says there was nothing left in the stores—she had to buy the last of the picked-over toys. She was exhausted, defeated, and very unhappy about the pathetic display of junk that greeted her children that Christmas morning.

Here is what I remember: “Barbie’s shopping mall? YES!”

A perfect example of how much parents can beat themselves up over things that children don’t even register. We see cheap plastic—but they see fun. We see amateur attempts at festive decor—but they see holiday splendor. We see failure—but they see magic.

We are obviously missing something…

And isn’t this the season for it? Whatever the gift giving holiday, we are decorating and shopping and planning. And all the while, feeling like we could be doing it all SO much better.

Of course, we have these feelings of insecurity and inadequacy year-round. But there is something about the month of December that dials it up a notch…or twenty.

So the very first thing that you MUST do, is purchase some lifestyle and entertaining magazines. Already feeling like crap about your annual inability to adorn your front door with garlands? Martha Stewart is sure to make your holiday decor attempts look like those preschool crafts that you surreptitiously toss in the garbage when the kids aren’t looking.

I don’t know about you, but this overwhelming pressure to make things perfect gets the best of me far more often than it should. Starting with Thanksgiving, I find myself lamenting our lack of nice serving spoons. Then on a less superficial note, I also wonder when my children will be able to sit at the table for more than fifteen minutes and actually eat the holiday meal instead of requiring their own grilled cheese sandwiches. Our holiday dinners have never quite lived up to the ideal Norman Rockwell images of tradition.

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