Dearest Winter,

We hate you.

You have overstayed your visit and you smell like fish.

We have done puzzles, played cards, watched movies, built armies of snowmen, sledded countless hills and been in two mad rushes at the supermarket where we all seem to be looking for milk and bread though half of us are dairy intolerant and gluten free.

We have frozen day after day in your icy winds and even going to the mailbox seems like a punishment greater than death.

Our preschool age children are about to stage a coup d’etat if they don’t get outside to run around but instead they run like rabid squirrels around our first floors, the same route that we ourselves endlessly pace, stopping every so often to peek between the blind in search of sunshine.

We have argued time and time again with our tweenagers who all want to still wear shorts even though it’s below freezing and we haven’t felt our toes for four weeks.

Nothing has changed with our teenagers because we aren’t even sure they know it’s snowing unless someone texts them that fact.

We’ve had enough of plastering on a smile and trudging through the days pretending to be cheery.

We’ve had enough of frantically Googling indoor places to take our kids that hopefully cost less than a month’s worth of a college education.

We don’t want to defrost our cars and we can’t afford our heating bills any longer.

We’ve missed more days of school and work then we can count on our frozen digits. We are actually starting to miss them both in a sentimental way; we long for school bells and cafeteria lines and parking garages and paystubs and even the kids aren’t dropping ice cubes in the toilet or wearing their pajamas inside out anymore.

You have muddied our boots, ruined good shoes, trashed our lawns and put holes in our sleds.

You are a brute and half of Richmond has Seasonal Affective Disorder, appropriately called SAD.

Richmond is SAD.

So, Winter, be on your way.

We are looking for a spring in our step and the summer sun on our doorstep and when they come we won’t complain one minute about the excessive heat, the high cooling bills, the sweat that pools behind our knees, the smell of chlorine in our children’s hair, the insufferable allergies or the fact that all our children will be home every minute of every hour of every day for three months straight.

Promise.

Sincerely,

Richmond Moms

Trying to parent your kid while fighting with your ex reminds me of the poem by Robert Frost, “The Road Not Taken”, but in the fighting version of the poem where the roads diverge, each parent takes a different path as well as one arm of their kid.

Then they start pulling.

There was no handbook at age 22 when I got divorced and if there was I wouldn’t have read it.  For such a young and relatively selfish human being I managed to do more right than most would have expected of me but I did a lot of things wrong.

A lot.

One story ended up with me on a bar floor, a cigarette butt stuck to my cheek and police being called to restrain me as I fist fought with my ex husband’s new girlfriend. While I have never been afraid to tell my own stories or examine my own faults, I never thought it right to write about my ex’s.  That was one of those “me managing to do the right thing” moments.

My son is now 22 and I decided it was time to talk, but only if I had something good to say.

When my ex and I were married and my dad was dying outside our bedroom door, my ex spent countless hours drinking coffee with my dad who was at the time pretty much talking gobbeldy gook.

My ex went to work with my three brothers every day and threw pizza dough in the air starting at 4 o’clock in the morning to make money for our family.

I repeat, 4 o’clock in the morning.

My ex gave up his band, his house, the company of his friends, and life in the city to move back to the suburbs and into my family home with my entire family including my dying dad.

My ex was at times an amazing dad and he still makes my son laugh.

If you have nothing good to go back to then I’m sorry for you and your kids but don’t curse your ex anyway, instead, thank them for coming into your life long enough to create your kid with you.

Stop fighting over every little thing, such as the food your children eat, the homework they forgot to have them do, the L.L. Bean jacket that didn’t make it back, the amount of television time or what rated movie they watched.

Your kid won’t fall apart if they eat one un-organic yogurt or spend the weekend watching Wizards of Waverly Place.  In the matter of you versus your ex, it doesn’t matter who’s right.

In most cases, both of you are probably a little bit wrong, except for in mine where I was always right.

Wait, did I just write that?

See, it’s a work in progress.

Your ex’s family did not divorce you.  Foster a good relationship with your child’s other side of the family.  Be thankful that there are more people in the world that love your kid than just you and your immediate.

If you hate your ex then wait till the day your kid becomes an adult and you look at him and all you see is your ex.  Your child shares attributes from both your gene pools, attributes from your ex that you once thought it appropriate to get in bed with.

If you can’t manage to like your ex, then go for neutral.

In divorce world, neutral goes a long way.

Never talk about your ex to your kid.  It isn’t right and once a year is one time too many.

You do not get a pass for bad behavior just because your ex is the spawn of Satan, if he is then one day your child will figure that out on his or her own.

It will not be a joyous day; it will be one of the saddest days of their lives and therefore yours as well.

After two decades of being divorced, the moments I am most proud of are those in which I did the right thing.  And the ones I did wrong linger always like a bad rash in my arsenal of guilt

You will have fights, disagreements, and arguments and it will be a work in progress but your kid is the masterpiece you are trying to protect so pull up your sleeves and sweat a little.

Try to treat your ex with as much respect as you can muster, he or she might not deserve it but there’s someone in your house who does.

“The self must know stillness before it can discover its true song.”  Ralph Brum

It’s okay this winter to let your kids get bored.

Really really bored.

I know in today’s world we think busy is good.  We think we need to have our kids on travel soccer and two swim teams.

We think it’s important to take music and karate and to improve, improve, improve, always improve.

We take our kids on educational trips and have them learn a second language and drag them from store to store to store or on organized play dates.

We arrange fun activities and do science experiments on our kitchen floor.

Stop.

Last time I checked you were not known as Cedric the Entertainer and you are not required to spend your every waking moment improving or entertaining them; in fact not only are you not required but also you’re not doing them any favors with you’re your frenetic scheduling and creative planning.

At some point later in their lives they will have vast amounts of free time; they will not have a mom marshalling their every move, arranging their social schedule and screaming at them to get off the electronics.

They will to, gasp, entertain themselves.

Youth is the time to pursue new things or find new adventures; to think wild thoughts; to get lost in the great outdoors with no purpose; to imagine; to waste time; to wander; to be bored and move beyond bored.

Don’t take that from them.

Great things happen beyond bored if you let them get there.

I don’t speak from a place of judgment; I speak from a place of experience.

As a new young mother twenty years ago I wanted to do right by my child so I played “small’ Batman and the Pokémon card game till I was ready to rip my eyeballs out.   I arranged play dates and activities.

We took trips and rode bikes and never once did my son have a free moment to figure out what he might want to do because I was constantly figuring it out for him.

So this winter, give your kids a break.

This winter, give yourself a break.

Stop orchestrating every minute of their lives.  Put a kibosh on all day electronics because as long as electronics are in the picture they will never ever be bored; they will fill their time with mindless blips and bleeps and online conversations and blank staring at screens until they disappear zombie-eyed into their beds.

Watch them scowl lounge suffer and smirk but whatever you do don’t fix it.

They’re bored.

And it’s a beautiful place to be.

It’s winter and let’s face it most of us are grumpy. There’s not a lot of sunshine; the days get dark before you’ve even come home from work; fevers stuffy noses and dry skin abound; we are depleted of sunshine and fresh air.

Grumpy.

But you still have a choice. The choice is when you go out into the world you can carry that grumpiness with you or you can be a little ray of sunshine and try to brighten the day of those you come into contact with.

I suggest the latter.

The lady who said, “Fifteen items I don’t think so, lady” as I mistakenly stepped into the wrong checkout line…….

Not brightening my day.

The lady who said, “Your child is much too old for a pacifier, girlie,” over eight years ago and I still haven’t forgotten……

Darkening my day for years to come.

The man who made fun of the way I said “Hello”…..

Once again, not brightening.

The countless people who have tried to get in line before me or let the door slam in my face or snuck into a parking spot seconds before me……

Eclipsing my soul, people, eclipsing my soul.

The stranger on the other end of the line at Comcast customer service who kept saying, “I cannot help you, I cannot help you, I cannot help you,” might as well have been saying “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”

Totally not brightening.

On the other hand.

The person who left beer, soup, salad and bread on my doorstep…..

Brightening.

The mom in carpool who took the time to tell me I was a fabulous writer…..

Ray of sunshine.

My co-worker who planned a birthday celebration for me because my five day after Christmas birthday gets lost in a sea of Christmas presents and holiday flurry……

Like a candle in the night.

The little kid who held the door for me despite his mother’s protest…..

Oh hey there little ray of light.

You only have one chance for a first impression and sometimes you might be the difference between a good and a bad day for someone who crosses your path.

So this winter let’s stop hanging out in the shadows and shed a little light as we walk through our day because sometimes when the days are dark and the temperature is hanging out around twenty degrees, it’s the only chance for warmth we’ve got.

He got his wish, dying a decade earlier than that.

All my life I wanted to be just like my dad but after he died all I wanted to do was live and I couldn’t believe he had talked so carelessly about his time here.

I became a hypochondriac mercilessly scaring the wits out of myself on Internet search sites.  Life seemed so precious and tenuous.  It could end any moment as it did for my dad who was the youngest fifty- year old I knew.

I wanted to grow old.

And I still do; senile if necessary.

I want to wear whatever I damn well please.  I want to dye my hair pink because I don’t have to show up any where at any time to collect any check.  I want be able to see my children have children and maybe even more than that.

What I learned from his death at fifty was that getting old is not the end; it’s just the beginning, of another part of your life.  My dad never got that other part and I’m pretty sure he might have missed out on something.

He never got to be grandpa.  He never got to teach Beau how to do his go-to hook shot or show Matt what it means to put in a hard day’s work or teach Elizabeth how to drive with one finger on the wheel or show Donovan how to play poker or bet on a horse.

They never got to see him smile.

He never got to sit back and say, ”I did good and all is well.”

Inside my heart and my body and my brain I am carrying the memories of other people including my Dad that I have known and loved fiercely.  They aren’t here anymore but I am and as long as I live to see another year, well then, so do they, sort of.

So, as I turn 43 this week I go into it knowing that every year is a victory not a curse, every year is an accomplishment, not a punishment and every year I’m going to be happily dragging a whole host of memories and others along with me.

If I get my wish, we’ll all be sticking around for a while.

“A boy is the only thing that we can use to make a man”. – Unknown

As we head towards December I decided I wouldn’t write a rant about the Christmas elf; mainly because I don’t care about the Christmas elf one way or the other.  I won’t talk about how much we spend on Christmas presents; I won’t talk about Christmas peace and tranquility; I won’t talk about avoiding stress for the holidays.

I will talk about boys.

If I hear one more parent say, “Boys will be boys.” I might scream and ruin Christmas for all of us.

Let’s be honest, when people say, “Boys will be boys,” it is usually an excuse for inattentive behavior, for insensitivity to those around them, for physical shenanigans, for not following the rules.

It’s baloney.

You don’t have to tell me that boys are different.  I grew up with three older brothers, I’ve had two husbands and have given birth to two boys.

I know boys.

I get that boys can be different from girls.

It doesn’t mean they can’t be sensitive or sit still.  It doesn’t mean they have to roughhouse as a way of forming friendships.  It doesn’t mean they have to use wrestling moves instead of words.  It doesn’t mean they can’t behave or be kind.

By saying “Boys will be boys.” you are giving up on your boys.

You are saying it’s too hard.

You are saying it’s acceptable of your sons but not your daughters.

I expect better out of my boys; they aren’t perfect and they won’t always do the right thing but at the very least I won’t laugh it off or accept it from the sidelines.

Boys will be much more than just boys if you just show them how; if you just expect more from them.

You fail to do that and you fail them.

If our boys are the only thing we’ve got to make men then let’s make some good ones.

It might be the most important gift you give this Christmas season.

We wear our busy schedules like a badge of honor; committed to twelve committees, room mother, kids on several soccer teams, participating in after school activities, music classes and cooking.

We are at every event and everywhere all at once.

We are frantic; we are on the phone; we are in our cars; we check our email while we help with homework run a load of laundry and cook dinner all at once.

We work and work and work some more.

We get one vacation a year and we are so tired and exhausted that it’s hard to have a good time.

We aren’t happy with our busyness. We don’t love our busyness but we do it anyway because we don’t want to get behind.

We don’t want to be out of shape or miss out on the latest activity and we don’t want our kids not to get in THAT school or be second best ever.

When was the last time you asked someone what they were going to do this weekend and they said something like, “Just sit in silence replenish my soul and watch my kid smile.”

I know…never.

Life is full of distracting detail and before you know it the distracting detail has taken up twenty years of our lives. Don’t keep making plans for “someday soon” because your “someday soon” may come sooner than you think.

My Dad died when he was fifty years old; “someday soon” was sooner than we thought and if any good came out of his early death it is just this:

He is the reason I walk into cold oceans and try to run six-minute miles.

He is the reason I do things backwards and upside down and will bet it all on the fourth horse in the sixth race.

He is the reason I don’t give two craps about what the general public says about me my kids my husband my immediate family or my friends.

He is the reason I have always tried to put family first even when it meant we had to miss out on other things.

I’m just sorry he had to give up his life for me to begin to realize how to live one.

Life is not a race. You don’t get a reward for crossing off the most things on your to-do list and even if the world around you is spinning like a top with various accomplishments and certificates of completion and honors and certificates and awards doesn’t mean you have to move with it.

Back off the calendar and breathe.

Spend some time doing nothing but enjoying your kids, your partner, your friends or yourself and if you’re too busy for that then you’re too busy.

As I get older I have been afraid dismayed and amazed at the private pain that is endured around me; both strangers and loved ones whose faces carry the heavy weight of life.

I have always managed to come out on top of my pain, sometimes barely, sometimes after a time. My way is to wear it like a badge; to conquer it and to face it head on; sometimes admitting publicly to things that make my family cringe and myself cry behind closed doors but it has worked, for me.

But for some the only way is to hide behind alcohol, drugs, pills, painkillers, food, cigarettes and a million other things that keep them in a cocoon; safe from the world we inhabit and to them I say this:

You are someone’s only person.

For someone you are the only person who remembers that treacherous family picnic where everyone got sick from the tainted potato salad and Uncle Ted got drunk and dove into the fish- pond face first.

You are the only husband who watched your wife as she delivered your slick black haired baby boy.

You are the only second cousin who will ever remember playing freeze tag on an abandoned school bus and kicking out a window to escape getting caught.

You are the only son who put red hand prints on a platter for your dad that fifth Father’s Day you celebrated with him.

You are the only mother who held your third daughter every night for six months because she couldn’t get to sleep when her stomach was hard and tight with colic.

You are the one; the only one. You are someone’s someone, and it is enough.

And we stand by while you poison yourself, and hell, sometimes we offer you another beer because after all you are a functioning alcoholic. You get up for work and drink coffee and pay the electric bill and cook a tasty meal.

And if you are eating yourself to death what do we do? Do we still bring our favorite five cheese macaroni to Thanksgiving every year?

We wake up everyday and we go to work. We listen to voice messages and balance checkbooks. We water grass and go through the drive thru at KFC while our someone is dying a miserable slow daily death.

Let’s not sit still any longer, let’s say something. It might not work, but I’d rather try than sit around a sidekick to something like that.

I love you, stop hurting yourself. Fix yourself before you never see a baby’s gum-toothed smile again; before you never taste that first burst of juice from a navel orange; before you never walk on streets plastered with pink cherry blossoms on that first fresh spring day. Come out of your cocoon. Do it now. It is urgent because someone needs you and someone loves you.

Whose someone are you?

One thing I would like parents to know is that your children begin by thinking you wear blue tights, can fly and are capable of making yourself invisible.  They depend on you for their food supply, their blankies, their reading time, walks and talks and everything they find wonderful and special.  There’s nothing you can’t do and it’s a special time.

You are taller, smarter, wiser, funnier, and more capable and outweigh them by 100 pounds or more.

This is your teaching time.

You have the advantage.

You are the Superhero.

I’m telling you this because I’ve have been to the other side of Superhero and I know what it looks like.

There came a point where my child WAS taller smarter, wiser, funnier, and outweighed me by 100 pounds and not only did he know it, but I knew it.

The neighbors knew it.

The postman knew it.

All I had to hold over him was, well, keys and a phone charger and my own sheer will because let’s face it, I wasn’t Wonder Woman anymore.

He didn’t follow orders because I said so.  He questioned authority.  He wanted to do what he wanted and it wasn’t anything like what I wanted.

He didn’t think I was a Superhero; he thought I was a Superzero.

At some point they’ll believe in your abilities and ideas about as much as they believe in the Easter Bunny and there you have it; you have gone from being a Superhero with all encompassing knowledge and strength to the Easter Bunny; silly, foolish and wearing a costume with rabbit ears.

When my son hit teen-hood, he left me for hours at a time and did, well, who knows what he did.  I didn’t get to go or know unless I was willing to pay for a GPS tracer and a private detective and let’s remember I can’t really fly and I’m poor.

In those terrifying moments when you realize control is futile and all you have to fall back on is the groundwork you laid more than ten years ago when they looked at you with unadulterated awe you better hope you used that time wisely.

You better hope you didn’t let them run rampant over the main adult influence they had.

Did you teach them that there were actually boundaries and that they did have to follow rules like talking quietly in the library or sitting down the entire dinner with the family and eating?

Did you let them run you around like a short order cook, prisoner to their every gastronomical whim?

Did you teach them that if they threw a big enough tantrum that they would indeed get what they wanted at Target?

I hope not, because a tantrum at two might be bordering on amusing while a teenage tantrum with hormones is akin to a small hurricane.

So put on your tights and fasten yourself in your Bat mobile and take control, while you can.

It’s going to be a bumpy ride and it won’t be long till your not always in the driver’s seat.

It’s powerful stuff that hero worship, don’t waste it.

I am sorry we had the opportunity to meet.

Oh wait, we didn’t really meet.  Sure, we had a great phone conversation and you loved me from behind the cell phone.  You heard a well-spoken women talking about moving into your apartment with her firefighter husband and honor roll student son.

Betty, you heard me talk about working as a preschool teacher and holding my job at the VMFA for fifteen years.  You heard me say we were selling a house to get into the right school district so you knew we had some means and were trying to do the right thing for our family.

You couldn’t wait to meet that woman.

But when you pulled up that day and saw my husband and I, you couldn’t wait to get out of there.  Our conversation drifted away like a puff of dirt because indeed my husband was covered in dirt.  He left his second job doing lawns to meet you.

All of the sudden the idea of us having a kid wasn’t heartwarming it was repellant and you quickly told us that a third party was not allowed as you shuffled us out of there within two minutes flat.

By the way, we didn’t want your place.  It was small and clean but it had no character.

And while we are speaking of character

Let’s acknowledge this.  YOU were late, very late.  We would never be late because we are responsible and we are kind and we value other people’s time.  That’s who we are.  But you wouldn’t know that, Betty.  You didn’t care, because all you saw was dirt and tattoos and the beat up cars we drove.

At first I was mad at you Betty but mostly I feel sorry for you.  You will never have the opportunity to know my lovely family.  You will never get to admire my husband’s work ethic or my love of children or Donovan’s witty repartee unless of course you have a fire or I wait on you at the VMFA or my son becomes the lifeguard at your pool.

Maybe then, Betty, you will wish you had been kinder but you shouldn’t worry because we aren’t like you.  We serve all people the same, we treat all people the same, no matter what they look like or how they have acted.  It’s called being a professional.  It’s called being a good human being.   It’s called giving someone a chance.

You have plenty of years left and I hope you learn this simple lesson I’m working on with my own son.

“Don’t judge a book by its cover,” because, Betty, there might be a beautiful human being might be lurking beneath, you never know.

Sincerely,

Rebecca and my three beautiful human beings