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07 Mar 2013

I fight Anxiety, Anxiety sometimes wins.

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I walked into my bedroom last night and started to shake. Not a full-on seizure kind of shaking, jut a slight shake that let’s me know I’m having anxiety.

My bedroom does not, as Oprah likes to say, “Rise up to meet me” when I walk into it. It does the opposite. It sits there, flaccid and sad, almost mocking me. It’s the bedroom of a college kid who still has her grandma’s furniture, painted green by her boyfriend 10 years ago. My boyfriend is now my husband. And the bedroom needs a makeover. Really quickly though…

KISS MY ASS, OPRAH! IF I WAS A BILLIONAIRE, MY WHOLE FUCKING HOUSE WOULD RISE UP TO MEET ME BECAUSE I’D PAY IT TO DO SO!!

Anyway, the state of my bedroom gave me a little bit of stress. I actually laughed out loud thinking, “I’m 41! When am I going to have a grown-up house?” My thoughts almost always thankfully, swiftly change to how lucky I am and how many things are far more important than the state of my bedroom. But the anxiety lingers.

Today I opened my bathroom cabinet and all of a sudden saw what was in there, not through my own eyes, but through the eyes of someone else who might open it. I am not exaggerating when I say 85% of the stuff in there was expired. And on top of the cabinet? TONS of products I haven’t used in over a year. Shaking, I calmly walked to the kitchen to get a large, black garbage bag. With each bottle I emptied into a ziploc bag, (so as to recycle and not put crap down the sink and into the ocean), my anxiety… Worsened. Thirty minutes later I was done with the medicine cabinet and a small drawer, still needing to tackle the big closet.

As I worked, anxiety-ridden thoughts floated through my head:

How does this happen?

Didn’t I just clean this all out, like six months ago?

Why did I buy THAT?

Do other people do this???

WHY IS THIS XANAX EXPIRED? AND WHY DID I ONLY TAKE A HALF OF ONE OF THEM????

I pace. I eat. I shake. I pace. I stop breathing. I force myself to breathe. I pace. I triumphantly fill the trash bag. I shake my head. I repeat.

As I pace through the house, and often head to the kitchen, I see everything else that I’m doing wrong. There’s a stack of papers on the dining room table. My office, which was spotless two months ago, is unorganized again. Then there are the tell-tale signs of college-living. The ripped couch. The mangled floors.

I beat myself up. I call myself stupid and lazy and pathetic.

I force myself to breathe again.

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I started cleaning out the bathroom about three hours ago. I’m a quick vacuum away from being done. It’s worlds better. Almost perfect, actually. But I’m sitting here on my laptop, shoveling kettle corn into my face, knowing I have to force myself to go back in and finish. I want to run away. I’m ashamed of myself.

I am not going to let the anxiety beat me today. I’m going to take five more minutes to finish my job, and then I’m going to take my dog on a long walk, until I can breathe again without having to force it, and without shaking.

I take full responsibility for the things I need to improve upon.

And I forgive myself.

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It’s nearly five hours later. I’ve walked into my bathroom several times to see what I accomplished. It makes me feel proud. But the rest of the house is still glaring at me. Not good enough. Not good enough. Not good enough.

I ate too much today and now I feel worse about myself.

But I took Bogie on a long walk and breathed. When Garrett got home, we set up a birthday party for Furby. I cooked a nice meal. We ate together as a family. G and I played Wii and laughed a lot.

I was on my iPhone too much. Something else I really need to improve upon.

I am a work in progress. It gives me great anxiety. But I am fighting to fight it. And breathing. And trying to keep getting better. And forgiving myself.

Do you do this too?

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It is now Thursday morning and I feel like a different person today. I thought I’d let you know that in case you are like me. I’m going to try a new tactic next time anxiety hits like that. I’m going to project myself into the next day and know that I will be fine. And I will force myself to breathe.

06 Mar 2013

My Kid is Gonna Marry Me

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My son wants to marry me.  He does.

I know your kid SAYS he or she wants to marry you. But mine really, really wants to. He’s got it all planned out. We’ll be married, (although he says I can still stay married to his dad), and we’ll live together forever and ever. And if he wants to get married to someone else and have kids, that’ll be okay. We’ll all live in a house together and be happy… ever after.

He really loves me. I know your kid SAYS he or she really loves you. But mine really, really does. He kisses my hand and tells me I’m beautiful. He tells me I’m the best mom in the world. I know your kid says the same to you, but Garrett really, really means it.

We’re going to live in a big, beautiful house. I’m going to cook him all his favorite foods. Any silly face I make will send him, even at 40-years-old, into a fit of giggles so pure people will be watching it on YouTube for years to come. His wife will love me and tell me all the time that she wishes she could be half the woman I am. The grandchildren will secretly tell me they wish I was their mom. In our old age, he will treat Russ and I like a king and queen. And as I lie comfortably dying, in a long white, cotton gown, Garrett will once again grab my hand and say to me, “Mommy, I love you more than anything in the whole world. You have been the best mom anyone could ever, or will ever have. Now, go to heaven knowing that you have loved, and you are loved, completely.”

Then I’ll float away and he will cry with all of his heart. His wife and children will console him, all of them missing me more than anyone has ever thought humanly possible.

The end.

Okay, I get it. Your kids say the exact same things to you. They look at you like you hung the moon and they tell you they want to live with you forever. I know it’s their age. I know it’s a phase. And I know they mean it with every fiber of their being.

But, if it’s okay with you, I’m going to pretend that I’m the only mommy in the world whose son loves her enough to marry her. And I give you permission to do the same.

05 Mar 2013

Listen to me Complain

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I just spent a full fucking hour of my day on the phone will creditors. Medical creditors. One bill had already been paid, one needed to be paid over the phone with my credit card, (I was on hold for 17 minutes), and one had tried to go through my insurance but said my insurance was unavailable at the time of service, which it most certainly was NOT. When I called to figure this out I listened to horrible, loud, muzac for a full eight minutes while being told to press 3 if I wanted the voicemail, but otherwise to stay on the line. At minute 8 I was transferred to voicemail ANYWAY, where I left my name, account number, phone number, and death threats.

Then I think “There before the grace of God…” when I realize if GOD FORBID someone in the house was really ill… Not only would it be devastating, but the amount of paperwork that would have to get done, and the money that would be flying out the window. Then I realize how lucky I am. Then I get back to the following complaining:

I wonder how we’re supposed to get any real shit done with our days when half of our days are filled up with shit that should be done by the person whose job it is to do it!! I mean, can’t you just take the extra second to check my insurance? Or take a minute to call me and see why my insurance is saying it’s not mine anymore?

Why, for instance, do I have to gather every pay check I get through my union every year, tally it all up, and tell that union how much money I made??? They want to “make sure I’m getting my pension credits”, but aren’t they paying people to check records?

And if Target charges me a late fee when my check to them was ON TIME, should I really have to spend 13 minutes on the phone convincing them to drop the $25.00 late fee??? (Okay, it was 24 HOURS late. Seriously. And that has never happened before. It was a holiday week. They shouldn’t have charged me.)

I have enough trouble figuring out what I’m going to cook, defrost, or order for dinner, how I’m going to make my husband feel appreciated, and if I’m going to be able to muster the patience to play one more (imaginative) game of “follow the pirate map around the house” with my (adorable) son WITHOUT all the extra work I have to do during the day because other people aren’t doing their jobs right.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to gather my son’s t-ball gear, a snack, and head out to CVS where I’m hoping they sell flasks that look like iPhones. And don’t worry, I’ll just fill mine with chai tea. I’m one of those moms who wishes she was a heavy drinker, but isn’t. I should probably start now, though. Maybe I’ll realize I just need to calm the hell down a bit.

P.S. I really do enjoy following the pirate map. I’m just tired from all the bullshit phone calls.

01 Mar 2013

Romance

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The definition of romance has changed for me over the years.

As a little girl, it was seeing my father bringing flowers home for my mom, or giving her a jewel-encrusted bracelet on Valentine’s Day. It was the image of a prince on horseback, rescuing a princess from her sleeping prison.

As a middle-schooler, romance was a Journey song that I quietly wept to in the back of my parents’ car, thinking about the boy I had a crush on.

In high-school, romance was a secret kiss at a friend’s party, or a boy I liked telling me I looked “hotter than I usually did”. And it was still a Journey song I wept quietly to.

As I got older and relationships got more serious, I defined romance as something surprising, like a gift I wasn’t expecting or a note under my pillow. It was a special dinner out, or a candlelit dinner in. It was flowery words and passionate sex.  It was youth and fun and… Journey.

I’ve been with my husband for 15 years, and in April we will celebrate our 13th wedding anniversary. We’ve never been big on celebrating Valentine’s day or exchanging opulent gifts. We don’t tend to go out for many fancy meals, and we’re not really the “carriage through the park” people.

But yesterday, my husband took me in his arms and hugged me with all his strength. He thanked me for being his partner and for going through this life with him. And I am telling you, with all my heart, that that was the most romantic moment I have ever had. And Journey wasn’t even playing.

10 Jan 2013

Finding What Used to Be There

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I’ve been given an assignment. It’s none of your business who gave it to me (my therapist).

We (she) discovered an important factor in the mystery of why I’m not writing. I thought it was just pure fear. I thought it was because I was afraid to visit that part of me because it’s easier to just go on about my life as if I never was a writer. Were a writer? (See? I can’t write!) I thought it would just be easier to push down the creative part of me and move on. But here’s the part I was missing: I equate being creative with being a part of the entertainment industry. I was shocked to discover that I was doing this.

Every time she asked me about my writing I would reply with some answer about whether or not it would be marketable, or if would make me money, or if it would get me on TV again. I guess I didn’t really see the problem. I mean, what IS the point of being creative if it’s not going to make you rich and famous?

DUH!! Really??? The point of being creative is (are you ready for this?) BEING CREATIVE!! When I was 16, 17, 18 and on, I would drive to a restaurant and sit for hours, picking at my food and vigorously writing in my notebook. I’d write sketches and monologues and thoughts and poems. And yes, a lot of it did end up on stage. But I wasn’t writing for that PURPOSE.  I was writing because I had to, because it was inside of me, because it was who I was.

But then I think my writing just became a means to an end. I wrote to be in the sketch show that lead to me booking Mad TV. Then I wrote to try to get on the episodes. Then I wrote to see if I had a marketable story to tell (I couldn’t find one). Then I became a mom. And by that point, Russ had already been asking me FOR YEARS, when I would start to write again… SO I DID NOT STOP BECAUSE I BECAME A MOM. I stopped long before that.

Being a mom did complicate the issue, of course. I mean for the first time in my life I was channeling my creativity elsewhere. I was thinking less about what would be funny on stage or on TV and more about what would make a two-year-old laugh, or what a three-year-old would find DELECTABLE for dinner, or what game could keep my four-year-old and I occupied for a while. And the more I thought about that stuff, the less I thought about the part of me that used to pour out words just because they were inside me.

So, my assignment is to sit here in this coffee house, just five minutes from home, and to ignore the carpet that needs to be vacuumed, leave the dishes in the sink, and write. I’m supposed to write anything I want that DOESN’T have to do with “The Industry”.  This is my warm-up day. I can write words on a page, like they’re scales on a sheet of music. Or write a series of words describing how I feel about my life or my career. I can write anything as long as it’s not with a mind toward seeing it performed or posted or printed anywhere.

It’s not gonna be fun or easy. That’s the point. And I have to do it at LEAST three times before I give up. It has to be for no one else but me.

And yes, I realize I am writing right now. And I realize you are reading this. But this is not the stuff that scares me. This is the stuff that satisfies the part in me that I try to push down. This writing is just enough to make me feel like I haven’t totally forgotten, but not enough to make me feel threatened or scared. And this writing, although immensely important to me, barely scratches the surface of what I have to say, deep down inside, somewhere I haven’t visited in nearly a decade.

I’m going to go do scales now. Cover me.

09 Jan 2013

Snowmen and Snuggies

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Here’s how it started:

G had a chocolate snowman from his Christmas stocking that he’d been saving to eat. Today he put it out on the dining room table, proclaiming this would be his dessert after dinner tonight.

Apparently, while I was out at my audition, G smashed the snowman with his fist… Just to see what would happen. The snowman was now pretty much crushed, a big hole where his jolly stomach used to be. Russ put him back on the dining room table.

After dinner G opted for another dessert, but insisted he’d eat the chocolate snowman tomorrow. Russ and I decided it was better to throw him out, as he was smashed and flakey and probably covered in little pieces of colored foil.

This did not go over well.

G started to cry. Hard. He had so wanted to eat the snowman, and the snowman in turn was excited to be eaten. The trash can was not the proper place for the snowman to end his days, and G was inconsolable. As he carried him to the trash, he hugged and kissed him, crying harder. Russ hugged G. I hugged G. G cried. Then I suggested his stuffed animals (or snuggies, as he calls him), might want to talk to him to make him feel better. He agreed.

We went to his room together and I made several of his snuggies hug and kiss him. He smiled, but then remembered how sad the snowman was, alone in the trash. I assured him chocolate snowmen don’t have feelings, but I also told him that his dad and I understand him, because we’re exactly like him, and we also assigned feelings to every inanimate object when we were his age. Then I suggested reading a book. He liked this idea, but wanted each of his snuggies to be read to as well. About 10 minutes later, all of his snuggies were in a semi-circle on the floor. I’d say there’s about 23 of them. G and his white bear picked out two books; The Hungry Caterpillar and Snuggle Up Sleepy Ones. G made sure I showed each snuggy each page, as I read it. This took a while. He was busy tending to the snuggies that needed a drink or had to take a nap.

Then we were on to the second book and G had to run out to the living room to talk to Russ. Five minutes later, he hadn’t returned.

And that’s how I ended up reading an entire book to about 23 snuggies with no one else in the room. Yes. I read them the whole book. I even showed them most of the pages… Until I realized I didn’t have to, and read the last few pages without showing them. And then I felt guilty, but just for a second… Because I remembered snuggies don’t really have feelings.  Although,  they probably have more feelings than chocolate snowmen.

G’s fine now. And his snuggies really liked the second book.

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07 Jan 2013

Good, Bad, Better

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The other day, a friend of mine very casually said that we have our best moments and our worst moments when we become parents.

I have not been able to get those words out of my head. She’s so very right. I have had the best moments of my life, been the best ME I’ve ever been, since having Garrett. I’ve also had some moments that I felt ashamed, mad at myself, or just plain stupid.

I thought it might be a good time to reflect on what I like about me as a mom, and what I don’t. So I can do more of the good stuff, and less of the bad. And maybe you can chime in about what you’re brilliant at and what you’d like to change?

I am good at:

Letting G know how loved he is.

Letting him know how smart and special he is.

Making sure he’s well-fed.

Keeping promises.

Scheduling play-dates, so he has a ton of time with other kids.

Teaching him things.

Answering any questions he has about… Anything.

Letting him know how important it is to laugh and how cool it is to be odd.

Being a very big part of his school, knowing all the kids and parents, helping with important functions, and setting up fun things for him and his friends.

Being strict. Sticking to my guns even when it’s hard. And helping him to be a good person.

I am not so great at:

Being patient.

Not exploding over little, unimportant annoyances. In front of him. Which is scary.

Playing games that he’s created 35 hard-to-follow rules for. (see patience.)

Saying nice things about our home. I complain way too much, in front of G, about the mess and the things I’m unhappy with. This is such an awful message to send. I want to change it to one of gratitude for all that we have. This is taking a whole lot of work in therapy.

Teaching him to clean up and be organized. I’m still learning these things myself, and I’m afraid I’m passing on the “messy” (but very clean and germ-free) gene.

Things I’m getting better at:

Saying, out loud, when I need a break to re-charge. Then taking that break and coming back strong.

Being spontaneous and extra silly.

Having people over, even when I’m not thrilled about the way the house looks. G won’t remember the rip in the couch. He’ll remember that his friends were always welcome here.

These are the things I could think of quickly. I know there are many more, in each category. PLEASE share your thoughts. These are the things we need to talk to each other about so we feel less crazy.

11 Dec 2012

The Giving Kid

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Tonight G wanted me to read The Giving Tree to Him.  This never goes well. I cry. I can’t freaking help it. The boy starts out playing with the tree and loving her, and ends up taking everything she has (which she is happy to give him), then comes to her when she has nothing left but a stump. He sits there to rest his old bones. And she is happy.

COME ON!

So, tonight I was bound and determined not to cry. And, with a few well-placed pauses and breaths, I achieved my goal. Got all the way to “The End” without shedding a tear.

Then G got in to bed and I covered him up with the comforter I knew he would kick off moments later, in favor of his little blue blanket. I gave him a kiss and told him to remember to never stop playing, even when he got really old. He promised he would never stop. Then he asked me if I would still visit him when he had his own family. I told him I would visit whenever he asked, and that I would always want to be a part of their lives.

Then he wiped tears from his eyes and said, “Why am I crying while I’m talking to you? This is so weird!” And I told him it’s because he’s such a sweet and caring kid, and that’s why he’s so special.

“You’re a good mom”, he said.

I almost made it without crying. And then I didn’t.

30 Nov 2012

You Can’t Spell Christmas Without “Guilt”

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I was raised Jewish, so the only real holiday-related lies I was told were about giant arks and burning bushes. There were no Hanukkah characters like Bernie the Gift Guy who magically came to our house, or Yom Kippur elves to help us atone. The closest thing we had, or have, is Elijah… And all he does is come in for a minute during Passover and have a few sips of wine. He doesn’t leave presents. Hell, he doesn’t even close the freaking door behind him when he leaves!!

So now I have a son and we celebrate Christmas and Hanukkah, and sure Hanukkah is great. But Christmas is FANTASTIC!  Christmas also has all these little white lies tied to it. With those white lies come a barrel-full of holiday magic that I never got to experience. But it also brings its own brand of horrible guilt about lying to my kid.

Sure, we’ve been telling him about Santa since his first Christmas. Santa comes down the chimney, he leaves gifts, we leave him milk and cookies. He even comes to the mall to find out what we want, PERSONALLY, because he cares so much. Whenever we’re somewhere Santa happens to be, G will ask if it’s the real Santa. I always say the same thing: It might be. It also might be someone Santa hired to be Santa because Santa can’t be everywhere at the same time. But every Santa that Santa hires has Santa’s ear and will tell him exactly what you tell him to tell him. (Say that 10 times fast!)

Last night my friend was telling me stories about when she and her friends were around seven or eight and found out there was no Santa, and how truly sad they were. I never really thought about how devastating it will be to him one day to find out this is all bunk. But do I want to rob him of the Christmas Magic of the Present, just to save him from the Christmas Pain of the Future? I mean, everyone makes it through okay, right? I don’t know because I NEVER HAD IT TO BEGIN WITH! (Christmas magic, that is. Are you following?)

Today my dear friend brought us The Elf on the Shelf. From what I understand, this is a rather new tradition and it’s one I only heard of last year. I was SO EXCITED we were getting to experience it! To sum it up, the Elf comes to your house sometime around Thanksgiving. He watches you all day, waits for you to sleep, then flies to the North Pole to have some mulled wine with his elf buddies and tell Santa how you’re doing. Then he flies back in time for you to wake up, and he’s never in the same spot twice. When you get up in the morning, you must find your Elf and start your day. You are not permitted to touch your Elf, and your Elf is not permitted to speak to you. But you may share with your Elf all of your secrets and wishes, and he will tell Santa anything you want him to know… As well as anything you did well or completely screwed up during your day. Your Elf flies back to the North Pole on Christmas Eve and doesn’t return until the next holiday season.

When my friend was reading the book that comes with the Elf to G, I ran to his room to put the elf atop G’s shelf. The book ended, and we started to look for him. When he was found moments later, we followed the first rule and named him. G called him Zizzy, initially, then changed it immediately to Bicky Zizzy Itchy. He likes formal names. He then excitedly began to tell Bicky everything about everything and ask question after question, which remained unanswered.

As the evening wore on, G mentioned Bicky frequently. When his friends came for dinner, he introduced them to Bicky and found out all about their elf, Elvy. When his friends left and G was about to brush his teeth he said, “Mom, please don’t joke now. Did you put Bicky on my shelf?” I paused for a brief moment, every ounce of Jew in me wanting to scream, “YES! YES, OF COURSE I DID! But even though we know the truth, Garrett, we can still pretend that Bicky is real and we can still tell him our secrets, okay?” But instead I said, “I didn’t, buddy! I’m telling you, I think that book is magic!”

And then I instantly felt sickening guilt.

I’m just the worst liar ever. I hate the way it makes me feel.

But why did I make that choice? Is it peer pressure? Or did I know that if I told him I had put Bicky there, he would instantly be a little less kid and a little more cynic? Is it because I want his childhood to last a little longer?

I think one of the reasons is that I want him to have the kind of magical, mystical holiday I never had as a kid. And I want him to believe in, I don’t know… Fun stuff? But I’m truly terrified to my core that when he finds out the truth, and puts together that we lied to him… I’m terrified a part of him will stop trusting me. Because I never lie to him about anything else. Ever.

When we went to his room so he could get in bed, we read the book again. G told Bicky how happy he was to have him and that he was really, really going to miss him come Christmas Eve. He asked me if Bicky would always be his Elf, even when he was a grown up. And I told him he would be. That wasn’t a lie, at least.

There is a lot about Christmas that plays on, even takes advantage of, the innocence of a child. And I know we do it to see the looks on their faces, and because there’s so much less magic when you get older, and lose your innocence. I’ve seen the look on G’s face on Christmas morning when there were presents in the living room that weren’t there when he went to sleep. I love that look. I love all that is heart is willing to take in. I just don’t want to crush it in a few years.

So, tell me. Are we doing the right thing, letting them believe in all this stuff? Are we actually FORCING them to believe in all this stuff?? I want G’s Christmases to be spectacular. I want him to remember them as warm, and filled with family and friends, and I want him to learn how to be generous and giving, and that the holidays are about…. Well, magic. And I don’t want him to be the only one of his friends to not have that gift. I just wish so much that we could give it all to him without the lies, big or small.  And I even think we could. It would just be a different kind of magic.

I’m at a bit of a loss here. And it’ll take a Christmas miracle to sort this all out in my head.

I think I’ll ask Bicky to ask Santa for me. I hope he hasn’t already flown off for the night.

19 Nov 2012

Rules are Rules, People.

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This is a week for being thankful. And I am. I am so thankful I could burst at the seams.

But I’m also pissed. I am truly sick and tired to the CORE of thoughtless, self-involved assholes who care about no one but themselves. In short, I am sick of people who don’t follow the rules.

Sure, there are times when rule-following is not the way to go. For instance, had I followed the rules and NOT called the casting-director myself, instead of using an agent, I never would have had an audition for Mad TV. Had I followed the rules and NOT dated someone on set, I never would have married Russ. These are rules that are meant to be broken, and hurt no one.

Besides those examples, I am a major follow-the-rules-ist. At parties in junior high, I would take beers out of my friends’ hands and tell them they were too young to drink. I never snuck out of my house. I never missed curfew without calling. I never skipped a class (until senior year, and then I really made up for it).  Today, I use my blinker when I drive so people know which way I’m turning, I hold doors open for people, and I wait my turn in line.

Because I’m such a stickler, it makes me endlessly angry when I see people doing anything they want with no regard for the rules.

Saturday I tracked dog shit all over my mom’s ivory carpet because people never pick their dog shit up from the lawn in front of our house. Today I went out to our trash cans to throw out THE DOG SHIT I PICKED UP and found one of our cans completely filled with other people’s trash.  This got me so angry, I had a huge outburst upon coming back inside. “What is WRONG with people??? Why is no one considerate of others anymore? WHAT THE HELL?????”

Russ nodded in agreement and went back to work on the laptop. Apparently 15 years of these rants has gotten old.

Even now, though, I’m in a bit of a tizzy. I’m angry. I don’t like that there are so many people whose true natures are to be thoughtless and rude.

And I think it’s getting to me even more now because of Garrett. Not only do I want him to grow up in a world where people are considerate, I also want him to not walk around hating people all the time… Like I do. Because, you see, G-Man is a big ol’ rule follower. So much so, that he’s always telling on other kids who are not following the rules.

Mom! Jason is licking the playground! Mom! Matthew is hitting Samantha! Mom! Megan just took three more m&ms even though you said we could each only have five!! MOM!! AUSTIN IS ON THE TOP BUNK AND THERE ARE NO ADULTS IN HERE TO SUPERVISE!!!!

He is a huge tattle-tale, my son. But I know exactly where it’s coming from. Us rule-followers can not stand it when other people are eschewing the rules. (God, I hope that’s the proper use of “eschewing”. I really don’t feel like looking it up. But I’m going to, because I’m a frigging rule-follower.) (I checked. I think I’m okay.) I’m not sure if we are jealous and angry because we feel like we HAVE to follow and these people clearly do not. Or if we are just mad because we feel safer in a world where things have an order to them, and the order is only present when rules are being followed. Either way, G only got five m&ms and Megan got eight. That’s not fair, right?

My son is tortured with doing the right thing.  And I am very pleased and incredibly grateful that he is the way he is. But I hate it for him that so many around him are rule-breakers. And maybe the worst part is that they get away with it. Because it makes us rule-ists wonder why we continue to follow the rules.

Well, hopefully it’ll be of some comfort to G to know that his mom and dad are also rule-ists to our very souls, and that we turned out okay. Or maybe it won’t be comforting at all. Maybe he’ll walk around screaming about the idiots who cut in line, take three free samples from the lady at Costco, and  throw litter out of their cars as they’re driving. And maybe, just maybe, every once in a while he’ll see one of those jerks get their comeuppance, and he’ll smile to himself, proud that he was smart enough to follow the rules…. (Except the ones that are meant to be broken!)

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