-Anne Sexton

January 5, 1936- January 15, 1983

Happy Birthday, Daddy.

Man. You wouldn’t even believe what’s what with 2012.

Two things-

1)The Shuttle Program ended this past year. Thank you for waking me up in the middle of the night to watch the first ones go up.

2)I still won’t eat octopus.

Thanks for helping to make me who I am, even in the short time I had you.

Thanks so much.

Read your Catechism.

You’ve stated that only procreative sex is acceptable- within a marriage of course. While I do know that The Church is anti- artificial birth control, some couples actually do have the luxury of regular cycles and using the rhythm method to boink like mad without popping out kids every eleven months. Some of us, though, we don’t. And some of us had difficult pregnancies, health issues, or were so old and feeble that our eggs would probably be cracked in half before a sperm even hit them. Some of us love our partners and are happy without children, for many reasons. Yes, even married people. While I do understand that The Catholic Church views no marriage as valid unless it takes place within The Church, it’s not up to you to make that judgment.

Says so in The Bible.

I was confirmed when I was 13. I’m 40. Twenty-seven years? Yeah, I had to Google the specifics, but-

The Catechism of The Catholic Church states-

III. THE LOVE OF HUSBAND AND WIFE

2360 Sexuality is ordered to the conjugal love of man and woman. In marriage the physical intimacy of the spouses becomes a sign and pledge of spiritual communion. Marriage bonds between baptized persons are sanctified by the sacrament.

2361 ”Sexuality, by means of which man and woman give themselves to one another through the acts which are proper and exclusive to spouses, is not something simply biological, but concerns the innermost being of the human person as such. It is realized in a truly human way only if it is an integral part of the love by which a man and woman commit themselves totally to one another until death.”¹⁴³

 

Tobias got out of bed and said to Sarah, “Sister, get up, and let us pray and implore our Lord that he grant us mercy and safety.” So she got up, and they began to pray and implore that they might be kept safe. Tobias began by saying, “Blessed are you, O God of our fathers. . . . You made Adam, and for him you made his wife Eve as a helper and support. From the two of them the race of mankind has sprung. You said, ‘It is not good that the man should be alone; let us make a helper for him like himself.’ I now am taking this kinswoman of mine, not because of lust, but with sincerity. Grant that she and I may find mercy and that we may grow old together.” And they both said, “Amen, Amen.” Then they went to sleep for the night.¹⁴⁴

2362 ”The acts in marriage by which the intimate and chaste union of the spouses takes place are noble and honorable; the truly human performance of these acts fosters the self-giving they signify and enriches the spouses in joy and gratitude.”¹⁴⁵ Sexuality is a source of joy and pleasure:

 

The Creator himself . . . established that in the [generative] function, spouses should experience pleasure and enjoyment of body and spirit. Therefore, the spouses do nothing evil in seeking this pleasure and enjoyment. They accept what the Creator has intended for them. At the same time, spouses should know how to keep themselves within the limits of just moderation.¹⁴⁶

2363 The spouses’ union achieves the twofold end of marriage: the good of the spouses themselves and the transmission of life. These two meanings or values of marriage cannot be separated without altering the couple’s spiritual life and compromising the goods of marriage and the future of the family.

The conjugal love of man and woman thus stands under the twofold obligation of fidelity and fecundity.

Just a reminder. In case you’ve forgotten. You’re older than I am. Yes, The Church does want everyone to be populating like crazy, but maybe, just MAYBE, this Just God you kneel to is more concerned with the health and happiness of those that are already here?

Maybe.

-And we’ll see.

Having been on the Internet, what there was of it, since the beginning of the 90s, I’m pretty sure there are folks out there today bitching about the cost of the pyrotechnic celebrations in Sydney and all over the world.

I, myself, was watching them and thought, “Holy shit. That cost a fortune.”

Like, yeah, feed a bunch of starving people fortune.

Know what, though? People need these celebrations. Me? I stayed at home with my family, we ate junk food, we set off poppers out back, danced in our pajamas, and sang songs. But I made sure to get on the Internet and show our daughter the way the world sends the old year out with a bang and welcomes the new with an even bigger bang.

It was beautiful. It’s like watching a billion explosive hopes and wishes flashing in the skies. The time zones click forward, and nation after nation takes a foot and steps into the next with moments of joy and glee and big see ya laters to the old. Whether or not the new is better isn’t important right as that clock hits zero. Because it CAN be.

2011 was pretty shitty in a lot of ways- for me and mine- for the world…

So this is what I leave you with as the calendar flips-

See that path? It wasn’t there when we moved in. Over 2011 my kids wore that path into the yard by running and walking from the front yard to the back yard, over and over, on each day it was nice enough to play outdoors. When I was small parents would get ticked at kids doing that type of thing, and I’m sure some still do. But when I look at that path right now I have memories of this past year outdoors. Little moments that trump every damn-big-horrible when you add them together.

My wish for 2012 that I’m sending up with the fireworks is for everyone to have enough little goods to at least balance out the big bads, if not punt them aside.

Have a very Happy New Year.

And go wear yourself a path.

Dear daughter-

This is probably our last year for this. Your mind is getting ever more analytical, and I just don’t think it’s going to last.

That’s why instead of getting ticked off that you’re not going to sleep tonight I’m remembering every time I come into your room to see you lying there, awake, eyes wide and hands clenched. Waiting. Waiting for Santa.

I didn’t have this. By the time I was your age I’d read in my mother’s PARENTS magazine that Santa was not real. The Christmas Eve that I was five I went to bed sad. It was over. It was over before I was ready for the magic to end.

The magazine cover said, “How I Told My Child There is no Santa Claus.” I could read. I could read a lot. I read it all. My mother came home from work to find me thrusting that magazine at her face and sobbing, “Is this TRUE??!”

She canceled her subscription.

With a nasty letter.

That year, and for several more, my presents had tags that said, “To- Julie Love- Mommy-Santa.”

I am your Santa. So is your dad. We weave this world around you in so many ways right now. We shut off the news when shit gets rough, we halt conversations that you won’t understand yet…

It took so long for you to talk and for you to even get the idea of Santa- the magic, the wonder, the reindeer who can fly- that we’re not ready yet. So this year- this year that you lie in bed, and I walk into your room and tell you Santa won’t come until you’re asleep-

THIS Santa. St. Nick. The Holly King. Keep him as long as you can, but if this is the last-

Santa is not a lie. Santa is in Mommy and Daddy.

My Mommy-Santa is 81 now.

The magic is still there. Because I grabbed it.

Our daughter has been having a tough time going to sleep. The dog in her room helped for a bit, but she says she’s lonely.

Tonight I handed her a library book, one of her favorite books, and told her to look through it as she fell asleep. I told her that reading in bed helps me fall asleep sometimes, and I told her that when she felt sleepy she could either lay the book next to her or put it on the floor next to the bed.

I left the room, and she was asleep within minutes.

I just went in to move the book, and I couldn’t find it. It wasn’t on her bed. It wasn’t on the floor anywhere. Not even under her bed. I stood up and glanced to my left, and I saw it.

My daughter got out of bed, placed the favorite library book carefully on her bookcase, got back in bed, and zonked out.

Print cannot die. Not totally. That’s really all I have to say about that.

Llama Llama Holiday Drama is available at Amazon or in any fine bookstore. A copy you can hold. Maybe even snuggle with.

Go get one.

Today I checked multiple dictionaries for the definitions of two words.

“Happy,” and, “Content.”

When a person isn’t in a state of being happy, you see, others have a tendency to assume that means they aren’t content.

Trust me, there’s a difference in the two.

Most dictionaries seem to define, “content,” as a feeling of satisfaction. Most seem to define, “happy,” as a feeling akin to joy.

Satisfaction is quiet, you see. Joy is usually, well, loud?

People accuse me of being an unhappy person. At times, sure, I am. I get angry. I get disappointed with situations. I get aggravated by things. I get scared, and I get sad when things aren’t going well for people, including my family.

No matter what, though, when you pare away the emotions of the moment, at my core I have that sense of contentment. Could things be easier? Sure. Could I be happier with more sleep and less stress? Absolutely. Could I do without one damn thing after another befalling the people I care about? Yes.

Thing is- as I get older I’ve learned that most emotions are a flash in the pan- WOOOOO GOLD!!!! if you’re talking about being happy. Anger? Flash in the pan. Sadness can last longer, depending on the cause. Grief, for sure, can last awhile. But…

I wake up in the morning. I have some coffee. I catalog my aches and pains. I have some annoyance at the fact that my back still hurts after years. I take stock of what’s around me. In my case it’s two headstrong, obnoxious, yet fabulous kids. I have a husband. He’s stressed. He’s in pain. He has a job he hates, and it’s probably killing him if he keeps it, but we have food, we have a warm house. He’s great with the kids, and despite the fact that he’ll drop dirty clothes on the floor next to the hamper, he’s great with me. I still have my mother. She’ll be 81 in December. I got to eat excellent stir-fry that I made the other day. My dog loves me. There’s a ring of the phone, and it’s someone I love, and not a, “courtesy call.”

The kids fight. I get angry. I still love them and wouldn’t trade them for the world.

Rich has a bad day and is short with me. Having been that person being short over a bad day many a time, I’m learning to let it go. Even though I’m upset at first.

The dog stole food from the table, but her poop is still normal. The birdseed poop is a different story for a different time.

If being a “happy” person means not acknowledging that some shit actually sucks, well, I prefer to be content.

As the poster says, “Shit Happens.” Good shit, bad shit…

I’ll keep rolling the waves of emotions in the deep sea of contentment. Today I found it in a bright blue sky and deep orange leaves. A smile here. A correctly-pronounced word there. The stubble on my husband’s face.

I am very For*tu*nate. I am very Lucky. I am very Grate*ful.

And I’m very, very content.

I turned my dog over to my daughter tonight.

We’ll have to see how it goes.

Livvie hasn’t been sleeping well, and with no kids around other than those she sees at the library or on play dates, she’s lonely.

Tonight she told us she needs to sleep, “with people.” She begged to sleep on the sofa. She asked to sleep with me in the guest room. The thing is, when I’ve crashed with her in the guest room or living room she’s just chatted. For HOURS.

She’s exhausted, and she needs sleep. Chatting isn’t going to work.

I put her to bed tonight. She was sad. Verge of tears sad. So as I walked through the house my ( yes, MY) dog was at my heels, and I thought, “Wait.”

My dog is a Catahoula Leopard Dog. They have one owner. They live in a family, and love the family, but they bond to one person most of all, and that person is me. I brought her home from the shelter. I’ve been the human who was always around and upright. I give The Food. No matter where I end up sleeping due to circumstance- be it living room, Jonas’ room, guest room- she sleeps with me. She’s on the floor next to me no matter what. When I walk, she walks. She’s my shadow.

So before her dinner tonight I took her into Livvie’s room, and I told her to stay. She thought it was play time and raced around Livvie’s room. Livvie hadn’t expected me back in. I told her I was going to feed the dog and then bring her back. Which I did.

When I brought her back I also brought a handful of busted up biscuits. I rested them on the coverlet and told Livvie to give them to Ginny. Then I looked at Ginny, and I said-

“Livvie needs you. Tonight she really needs you. I’ll be back later so you can go out, but you need to stay with Livvie for awhile tonight. Can you do that for me without freaking out? She has cookies.”

When I left the room Ginny was gently taking biscuit pieces from my daughter while she lay in bed.

I haven’t heard a single peep.

I’m not stupid enough to think the dog will suddenly transfer her loyalty. That isn’t the point.

The point is-

My daughter needs companionship. Not from me or an annoying little brother. She’s now on her way toward getting that from, well,

The Best Freaking Dog Ever.

Regardless of whether or not she steals food from the table.

Ginny is lying in there on the small rug next to the bed. I’ll let them rest awhile before I take her out to pee. Livvie won’t even wake up. It doesn’t matter. Ginny stayed with her on her way to Dream Town.

And when we come back inside the dog is getting like, five baby carrots.

To start, the dog was all, “What the HELL are you doing?”

Livvie had her first, “campfire,” tonight.

She’s been lying in bed at night getting herself worked into a state before she sleeps, so we figured it was time to push her bedtime back to 8pm. She goes to bed at 730, usually. Jonas has been more of a person and more intrusive in her life, and the attention split has led to behavior issues with Livvie.

Tonight worked out well. Jonas was dog-tired from running around and climbing outside for hours this afternoon. He went to bed by 630. Livvie had asked if she could go see the stars tonight before bed, and I’d said yes. Once I got Jonas into bed I got Livvie suited up for going outdoors-

And I had an idea.

I’d pulled weeds today in the garden to prep for putting it to bed for the winter. Lots and lots of dead weeds, grasses, branches. The yard is full of dead branches and fallen logs that have been here for years anyway.

So I built a fire.

Some of the weeds were too wet at first to catch, so Rich helped out with a small amount of gas. Tiny bit dabbed on some cardboard. After tonight we’ll be buying some fat wood.

I built it near the top of the second “driveway” that we don’t use. Mostly sand and rock. Far from our house and the neighbor’s house. Close to the hose.

Livvie was beside herself. Once we got it going she stood or sat and stared at it. She’d go get more branches. The seed pods from mimosa trees make great kindling. She’d help me get the fire nice and bright, and then she’d park herself in her chair and tell us how wonderful a fire is at night. Rich and I would stand there and stare, too. The smoke was drifting northwest, and we’d use long branches and pieces of dead bamboo to poke some air under the blaze to jack it up again. The dog stayed away at first, thinking we were nuts, but then she moseyed over and hung out with her family as the wood popped and cracked, and the smell saturated our clothes and hair.

And we hung out. We hung out without anyone getting antsy or upset. We hung out without the television, which is the poorest excuse for a hearth ever, and without anyone doing anything but either enjoying the blaze or working to keep it going.

At one point I was tempted to leap over the flames, but Livvie is five and a mimic, and that’s not a good idea right now.

Mostly we just warmed ourselves, hypnotized ourselves, and stared at the stars and the waxing moon. But the stories poured out, too. Rich and I discussed old fires we’d been around, we talked with Livvie about the holidays, and Livvie told imaginary tales that she made up on the spot.

We’ve been on this earth in some form since fire for a floppity jillion years, and fire is still important. It inspires reflection, and it inspires closeness. It keeps us warm outdoors and gives us something to focus on as we slip into our memories. It’s beautiful, and it’s deadly, and knowing those two things inspires respect.

I’m so thankful we live somewhere we can burn in our yard.

We’re going to use our anniversary money to buy one of those fire table things, and those are beautiful, for sure. They’re not the same, though, as finding that patch of flat ground and monkeying around with everything almost frantically for the first five minutes before you get that camp blaze going. Safety first, though.

We have many more nights this fall and winter to light a blaze and sit with our daughter and talk. I’ll even buy marshmallows. Teach her the art of the perfectly singed S’More.

When it was time to go in to get Livvie ready for bed I showed her how to scoop up sand and dirt and pour it over the dying flames, and then we bundled her off to bed with no fussing. She fell right to sleep. Rich doused the coals with the hose.

I smell of wood smoke.

It’s soothing.

Do they still trade candy on the corners?

We did. We got to the end of a street and opened our sacks and divvied up the stuff we didn’t like for the stuff we did. I was a companion’s dream, as I freaking loved Mary Janes, Bit-O-Honey’s, Sugar Daddies…

Freaking Pixie Stix.

There was the moment on the way home when I’d stop and stuff a couple of Reese’s away, hidden, because I knew my mom would filch them. Most of the candy was no big deal. My mom, and I’m 40, still jokes that every Easter she’d throw away the rest of my Halloween candy.

Two days ago I threw away the rest of my kid’s Halloween candy from last year.

The Nerds, the Laffy Taffy. The junk that never gets eaten. Yeah, I like Nerds, but it easily slips from my radar after The Big Day.

Livvie loves lollipops. Me? I could live without them. I’d take my pocket change, walk up to Parker’s, and I’d buy Swedish Fish. Sometimes root beer barrels. Most often wait until I had enough for Lik-em-Aid or Pixie Stix.

Effing Pixie Sticks.

Wax bottles with colored sugar water in them. Candy buttons. Candy cigarettes that we could blow powdered sugar into the faces of our best friends. Holy crap I blew money on candy.

Halloween. Carrying a pillowcase up and down street after street. That lady is giving out homemade popcorn balls. I always loved the thought, but they never tasted good. Apples the next street over. No razor blades. Just- what- CANDY APPLES? This person made CANDY APPLES for the entire town-full of kids?

Sucker for candy apples. The sheer, red shine on that globe on a stick. The sticky crack beneath my teeth. Examining the way the skin had turned brown when the heat of the syrup enveloped it. The plastic wrap around the apple itself. It would condense inside- take a finger and dab up the red water.

My mother gave out nickels. Mom- if you’re reading this- no one wanted to come to our house.

I did. Money meant more candy.

Odd that there was so much in the way of sugar that I spent money on, and yet the candy I collected each year would sit until stale.

We took our kids trick-or-treating tonight in the pouring rain. My daughter was gathering, not my son, and the first place she hit was a pottery shop downtown- the place that had given her her very first treat last year. Few kids were out tonight, and even fewer homes participated. It was a nasty night. The lady at the store loaded up Livvie’s bucket. “More. Take more. Nope, take more.” They wanted it gone.

She went for the lollipops. Dum-dums and Tootsie Pops. Chocolate everywhere, but she went for what she loves. The woman tossed in Butterfingers and Crunch Bars. Just about half-emptied her bowl into Livvie’s bucket.

All Livvie asked for when she got home was a lollipop.

Her companions will love her, if they trade at the corners. I only wish we still had small stores around that sell “penny” candy.

I also wish she’d gotten more than one box of DOTS tonight.

And someday she’ll hide the extra boxes from me.

Happy Halloween.

You’re singing now, aren’t you?

Yes you are. If you’re between like, 35 and 45 at least, you’re…

So one day in August of 2008 I peed on a stick, it Turned Blue, and after informing my husband I called my mother in hysterics. We had been one and done, right? And our one had been, “Difficult.” No sleep the first 12.5 months. No talking as of yet. Headstrong. Crabby. Pissy eater.

My mom? I cursed her yesterday. She had said, as did others, “Well, the second one is easier.”

No. The second one is NOT easier. Let me tell you why not.

Two days ago my son stuck his finger in the grounding hole of a three prong outlet. It did not fit in, so he did not fry, but what the EVER LIVING FUCK. He moved furniture to get to it.

TWICE in the past week he has upended his chest of drawers and somehow gotten out of the way of certain death. Drawers hit floor in a staggered pattern, he steps back, the crashing sound draws me (yelling, JONAS!!!! I might add) and he’s standing there all, “What?” After the first incident I shimmed the crap out of the dresser, wedged all tight, and still he turned it over.

Sometime over a month ago, I’ve blocked it out I think because I was so pissed, he removed three keys from Rich’s work laptop and I got two back in. The third one is missing the second component of the white thingy that holds the key thingy to the laptop itself. So my husband’s work laptop has no “W” key, and he works in IT. No “W.” He pushes REAL hard on that little rubber nubby that sticks up. But then-

This week he pried eleven keys off of Rich’s personal laptop. I was on the phone with my mother-in-law, realized Jonas was quiet, and walked into our room. Eleven keys gone. I found them. I got ten back in place before Rich returned from his camper/home office, put Jonas in bed, and then finally managed to get the SHIFT key back together and in once Livvie was in bed.

It’s not a boy thing. It’s not.

Yes, I know. Boys are this and boys are that.

There’s this chick at the library who has a 4? year old daughter and an infant son. Her daughter WAS Jonas.

We’re doomed.

My son has called long distance, dismantled the Wii, taken apart the kitchen table, sits and unplugs and re-plugs the appliances (Where am I you ask? PEEING. It happens. Screw you.), uses the remotes, in lack of remote uses the television buttons, pries buttons out of computer keyboards, and also flushes the toilet while I shower. On purpose. Because one time I said, “NO, JONAS!” after he busted in and put his hand there.

He sits and sits until he figures stuff out, and if he doesn’t he brings it to me, waits for me to fix it, and then later I watch him try to do the same.

And none of this is NEW. It’s just progressions based on his mobility and height and whatnot.

When my uncle was somewhere around three years old he dismantled an alarm clock and then put it back together. He then worked for Edmund Scientifics as a kid and then went on to Drexel to become a Mechanical Engineer.*

I’m looking for toys. That’s your assignment. I’ve ordered some K’Nex from my mom for Christmas, and also the Snap Circuits Jr. from Santa. Yeah, it says eight and up. The boy is sticking his finger in sockets. And shoving items in. An AA battery or two isn’t going to hurt.

I need engineer toys. I need things that someone who wants to know why, how, and what the hell OH COOL**, but not kill himself in the process can play with at essentially age three.

My daughter is going to Mars. My son is sending her there with his fuckwallery. BITCHIN’ fuckwallery what will get her team there faster than in thirty years. Especially if it like, beeps and flashes and shit.

Toy ideas. Please. If you’re mechanically inclined, what would YOU want that would keep you out of trouble and/or a casket?

*My mom’s testing in high school indicated she should also pursue an engineering program in college. She went to secretary school. She was a secretary for a total of like, 60 years, because my grandparents could only afford to send my uncle to college. This is NOT a boy thing. My uncle stayed the hell put when left alone. My mom did not.

**HELP