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Love Letters ... To Camp

Truth Thursday

One of the few visceral memories I have from my days at Camp Hillcroft was the time I received a long letter from my father, in which he spoke to me as if I were already much more grown up than I felt.  I don’t remember the actual words or content of what he wrote, only that it made me feel special and loved and very, very close to him.

I believe some of his thoughts were about how much I prattled on about the boys at camp, and how he was worried that such trivial thoughts would trample my intellectual acumen and even more importantly, get me hurt. He was and is a quiet philosopher, my father, even though, as anyone who knows him knows, he couches it in biting sarcasm and quotidian wit. But underneath it all, he is a deep thinker who deeply loves and cares about those few people he lets into his life. 

I’ve been thinking about that letter, long lost in the detritus of many moves, as I write to my almost-12-year-old son at camp this summer. This is his third summer, and his longest stint yet – he will be away from home for six weeks.

We are into Week Three, and to date I have sent him one letter that was mailed in time to be there when he arrived, one letter right before I left for an overseas trip, one postcard from said overseas trip, and another letter just today.  None of the letters I sent were deep or meaningful. They were newsy, breezy.  All the experts tell you not to tell your child you miss them when you write to them – and the fact is, I don’t. Not really.  As I tell my family anytime I go on a work trip, I don’t miss anyone for the first week. Then, in the second week, I start to get a little ache.

Popsicle Toes

Truth Thursday

I’m peering down at my not-yet-chipping ice blue toes, painted this past weekend with a new color from the fabulous Butter London makeup line.

Blue. Since when did one paint one’s toes with blue nail polish? It seems so teen-y, so young, so un-me.

But over the past few years, I have discovered that I really enjoy the alternative looks in nail color. For a few years it has been really dark browns and purples, close to black, that feel a bit goth. I’ve gotten used to these dramatic colors on my toes, and just this year, I actually let them migrate up to my hands a couple of times, both times with exhilarating results. I like how much they look like a young, cool person’s nails. 

And how far a cry they are from my mother’s Misty Lilac and Strawberry Pink nails.

For the first decade of my life, my mother did not use nail polish at all. She barely wore makeup, except for the bright gash of Revlon’s Persian Melon lipstick (which sounds a lot prettier than it was – a pinkish orange, which was the exact wrong color for my mother’s olive complexion.)

Then one day, when I was about 10 or 11, my mother started painting her nails. Never a real manicure. She was a do-it-yourself person, always at home, with cuticle sticks and emery boards and pinks and reds and berry colors galore. Once she started, she never stopped. To the day she died, she had one of those colors on her nails, in the dim hope that they might distract from the ropy blue veins that pervaded her slender hands.

I was not impressed. As a teen who preferred overalls and Earth shoes to dressing up of any sort, I thought painted nails were anti-feminist, a product of the male-dominated military-industrial complex, and as a result, not for me. Also, anything that my mother did at that stage of my life was anathema to me. So I continued to bite my nails and ignore any siren call of adorning them.

Alone Again ... Naturally

Truth Thursday 

As I write this, my husband and my two younger children are enjoying a winter break vacation in sunny Phoenix, Arizona. They are gone for almost two weeks, leaving me and my oldest son (nicknamed “the tenant” this year, for we see him about as often as if he were simply leasing his room) alone in the house.

Yes, I was sad not to be able to take a long vacation because of work responsibilities. Yes, I am truly sad not to see my in-laws, whom I love and only get to see once or twice a year. Yes, I am sad not to be in Arizona, which I also love – I derive great inspiration and peace of mind from the Southwestern desert. And yes, I miss my family and it feels a little off kilter and quiet in the house.

But that quiet is enough to cause a great echo and reverberation in our empty front hallway when I kick up my heels and scream,

“Yahoo!!!!!”

For I absolutely, positively, unequivocally love being alone.

This Christmas, Learn the Fine Art of Saying No

Guest post by Kim Kash

Does your holiday season consist of rushing from craft fair to Christmas party to shopping mall to family gathering? Are you feeling overcommitted, overstimulated, and overstuffed? Then it's time to learn the fine art of saying no. People think saying no is so ... negative! But a kind-hearted no often creates more relaxation and joy during the holiday season, for the giver and the receiver. Let's talk about how to say no without causing hurt feelings or offense to your loved ones. It's a wonderful thing, no?

• No drama. Sometimes there are holiday get-togethers that just don't interest you. When Cousin Mary Lou invites you to her yuletide singalong this year, you can respond with a simple no. Just say, "I'm sorry I won't be able to join you," or "No, I can't be there, but thank you for inviting me." Don't waffle about it. Don't say yes and then fail to make an appearance, as that can cause hurt feelings. Don't say you'll try to stop by, because that sends poor Mary Lou the message that her big shindig is on your B List. Most importantly, don't go overboard with a bunch of drama about how bad you feel to be missing the event. It's just not necessary. (Plus, if your performance is really convincing, she may change the date so you can be included. Nooooo!!!)

Parting Ways

Therapy Tuesday
Photo by: dcjohn

"All good things come to an end."  

"Parting is such sweet sorrow."

The Long Goodbye...

As tried and true as these phrases are, there is a reason that they endure. Something humans are innately poor at is saying goodbye. We avoid it, we deny it, or we convince ourselves that it's just "see you later."

There is something final about goodbye. And our goodbyes build on one another throughout our lives. There is an aspect to parting that is akin to a loss. Perhaps its temporary in terms of timing, or more permanent. (By the way, loss doesn't have to equate to death, although those are very deep losses that we feel).

We lose something when we part ways. It might be company, memories, fun, or something else. Yet we also gain. Saying goodbye can mean emotionally paring down of who matters to you. And not all goodbyes must be sad or fill us with longing. Sometimes, we can't wait for goodbye (like leaving a job that we have not enjoyed, or family that we don't get along with). No matter the reaction, goodbyes are telling.

So why is it important to make a deal of goodbyes? For the superstitious there is the rationale that you might not see that person again. For the sentimental, it might be getting your feelings across. Both of these positions can be potentially vulnerable. Human beings don't seek out to be vulnerable. It's uncomfortable to say the least. I would argue that saying goodbye helps to neutralize feelings of loss and to normalize them. It allows us to practice being uncomfortable (even for a second) so that we have tools to call on when the goodbye is of a more permanent nature.

It is in the spirit of goodbye and wanting a definitive ending that I let you all know that this is my last post as a regular contributor for CurrentMom. I'm leaving open the possibility of being a Guest Blogger, but in looking at my schedule, I am unable to continue regularly blogging. I have enjoyed (as I hope you have) blogging and my forays into the blogosphere. Hopefully my words have been helpful in some way.

I wish everyone a peaceful holiday and a wonderful new year.