The Crushing Weight of Holiday Traditions

For those of us with large families and social anxiety, the holidays are fucking exhausting. When I was a kid and even through college, having a variety of places to go for each holiday made it fun and exciting. With divorced parents and friends that are like family, there were usually two to three stops each holiday. Adding in a significant other and kids have added an absurd level of stress. The holiday season changed from being a time to cook and have cocktails and revel in the chaos of a big family, to a time when my husband and I argue more than the rest of the year combined.

When I was younger, I was a bit of a people pleaser, which may be shocking to those of you that know me now. Even if an event was something I didn't really want to attend, I would go anyway because its was expected of me. I always saw my older brother basically saying "Fuck off!" to everyone's expectations. I was halfway between thinking he was a total dick for not spending time with his family (he never had anything else going on, he was just being a "rebel") and envying him for always putting himself first. 

When I started dating my now husband, taking time away from my family during the holidays was a sore spot for me. I was used to a very large family with lots of kids running around, partying, and altogether too much nonsense. My husband, on the other hand, is an only child, has parents that are much more reserved than my crazy family (though in all fairness, it's not hard to be more reserved than my family), and it was quiet. To me, it didn't feel like a real holiday without all the craziness. We would get into arguments every year about whose family we were visiting for which holidays and who we did a certain holiday with last year. I finally got to the point where I was sick of the fighting. I wanted to know ahead of time and take the question out of it. We finally decided on Thanksgiving with my dad and his wife, Christmas Eve with my husband's parents, and Christmas Day with my mom and her big crazy family. At first this pissed everyone off. They felt like they weren't getting the time they deserved. But I finally started taking a page out of my brother's book. Sometimes you have to do what's best for your family and everyone else can get the fuck over it. 

I've also come to realize that while the big and crazy family events can be fun, with my anxiety it can also be overwhelming. With aunts and uncles, up to seven of my cousins' families, and a shit ton of little kids chasing each other through the house with Nerf guns and anything else they deem worthy of being a projectile, there is an excessive amount of noise. When it's summertime and we're having barbecues and all the kids are outside, it's a lot easier to handle. But when it's cold AF and the kids are all cooped up inside, the noise level is intense. This phenomena is not isolated to large family gatherings, just having my three hellions stuck inside can make the noise level intolerable. It amplifies my anxiety to a sometimes unbearable level. So last year, when it was time to join my crazy family, we opted outside instead. 

We did a low-key Christmas morning with my mom and then went for a long and very cold hike, just my immediate family. On the average day, treating our kids like sled dogs generally pays off. If we exercise the hell out of them, they're somewhat calm and better behaved for at least a short period, for the rest of the day if we're really lucky. The calmness of being in the mountains was much more appealing to me than the chaos of the family gathering.

But it's a trade off. I love my family and I know my kids love time with their cousins, but it's also not worth having panic attacks and being wildly uncomfortable the entire day every single year. This year we are hosting my mom's family for the whole, big fiasco. As with everything else, it's a balance. Saying "YES" when I'm able, but realizing that while the word "NO" might piss some people off when it comes to attending their holiday events, it can also be the best form of self-care to get through a stressful season.

To the parents of the rebellious, strong-willed kids, I see you.

Tonight as we told the kids it was time to get ready for bed, our house was utter mayhem, as usual. My 6 year old has a special talent for riling up any other kids in sight, making them all unruly little jerks. When I was finally about to blow a gasket, he decided that instead of getting his pajamas on, he needed to take a 20 minute dump. I was being pretty patient, giving him time to do his business, but for fucks sake kid, shit or get off the pot.

Finally, after approximately enough time had elapsed for the earth to orbit the sun, he got off the toilet, and I gently encouraged him to get his ass in his room and put on his pajamas. He started fucking around, completely naked, doing yoga poses (the crow pose is still his favorite) and watching himself in the mirror instead of getting his pajamas on. He then began complaining about how he really needed to pee, so would I move so he could get to the bathroom. My thoughts at this point went something like this: "Fuck that dude! You just sat on the toilet for 20 minutes and have been dicking around since you got in your room, the least you can do is put on your pajamas before you leave your room again." I told him a gentler version of that, but made clear that he needed to stop goofing off and put his pajamas on before he could vacate his room. He again, said he needed to pee. So I again, said if he has to pee so badly, then he should probably get on his GD pajamas more quickly. Apparently his instincts for self-preservation are terrible, because he looked me straight in the face and peed on the carpet in his bedroom. What. The. Actual. Fuck.

There's no lesson here. I'm still in awe of his chutzpah. Don't get me wrong, I was pissed (no pun intended) and immediately left the room to cool my rising temper. But after I walked away I also laughed really fucking hard at how ballsy that kid is. I'm trying to figure out the exact right consequence for the little jerk and also trying to determine how many years this kid is going to take off my life from the stress of dealing with his shit.

And FUCK, if this is six, how are we even going to make it to the teenage years, much less survive them...

When You Just Don't Want To Juggle It All

My life is a complete clusterfuck. We have three kids under the age of 6 and all the chaos that goes with that. The twins are still in full time preschool/daycare and my older son had been at TK at the local elementary school and the Discovery Club program before and after. We were out of the house with all the kids by 7:15 a.m. and generally didn't pick up until 4:30 or 5:00 p.m., many days rushing to some activity/practice for the oldest. The thing that made our life work, was the flexibility of my job. I schedule my own appointments and when I'm not in the field, I'm generally working from home writing reports. This schedule allowed me to throw in loads of laundry while I was between conference calls or prep dinner on my lunch break. And prepping dinner is a big deal for me. I'm not generally the mom that volunteers in class or does crafts with my kids, but it's important to me that we eat dinner as a family, together, every night. And I enjoy cooking, so the time that I spent cooking was about the only "me time" that I was likely to get during the week.

All of that was upended when my oldest had to change schools for kindergarten. We had open enrolled for the school where he attended TK, but he didn't get in, which meant we were going to our neighborhood school. I will be the first to admit that I was THAT parent. I did no research other than to look at test scores online. I didn't meet the principal, I didn't tour the school. I made a snap judgement from knowing it was a Title 1 school that had shitty test scores. I was distraught about my kid attending this school, tears were shed. I also wasn't comfortable with him at the Discovery Club at this school. When we thought he'd get into his TK school, my mom volunteered to be the "backup" care for him if he had to go to the neighborhood school. She volunteered because she's nice and wants to help her family in any way she can. But I never intended to take her up on it. These are my kids and not her responsibility. I don't like relying on others for that level of help, but that's what it came down to.

The first couple weeks of school were tough. My son went from having a solid group of friends and support system at school to knowing no one. We were all adjusting to a new schedule, new school, new hours, and new people. Then we got an email home from the principal that changed my outlook on the school. It said something to the effect of, "If your family needs food, please come to Room 18 on Thursday afternoon and take whatever you need." I don't know about you, but our previous school never sent out anything like that, nor had any of his friends' schools. I immediately responded to the email to the principal to see what I could do to help. She indicated that the food was provided by a local food bank, but she could connect me with the Neighborhood Resource Liaison, who is the staff member that coordinates the services for all the homeless families. Let that sink in. This school has enough of a homeless population to need a staff member to coordinate the services. I immediately contacted the liaison to figure out where I could help. I volunteer with an organization that works to provide feminine hygiene products to women and girls that can't afford them, so I thought that might be a good fit. I met her at her classroom one day and dropped off period products. Probably because I had contacted her to help (and actually followed through), the principal asked me if I'd be willing to join the school site council, which is a group of staff, administrators, and parents that help spend the budget for the school. Once again, I'm not generally that parent, but I figured at this school I might be one of the few willing to do it, so I signed up. The first meeting was depressing as hell and I went home and cried. Let's just say the statistics for this school made me realize that families like mine are needed at this school. Families with resources that can provide support. This, along with a few other recent developments, made me go home and take a really long, hard look at how I want to be spending my time.

Now I've been wrestling with this concept for a while. Work has always been exceedingly important to me. I have an engineering degree and I'm a technical person, so at my current job, I've always strived to be a top performer. But between the demands of working a full-time job, my oldest no longer in a before/after care school program, and feeling a pull to focus more time and energy at his school, I could feel my priorities shifting. I came to the realization that with him home in the afternoons, I couldn't work from home like I had been in the past. He's always been in daycare and has two siblings, so he SUCKS at entertaining himself. Even with my mom trying to occupy him, when I'm home, he was constantly wanting my attention. I obviously had to get work done, so I was continually telling him that he needed to go play, or go occupy himself, or just get out of my face so I could finish one damn report! Which, let's face it, are shitty messages to be sending to a five year old. I'm sure all he was hearing was that my work was more important than him. So I made the decision to work at my office instead of working at home. That decision also took away the flexibility that made our life work. No more throwing in a load of laundry between conference calls. No more prepping dinner on my lunch break. Things were piling up at home, my husband and I were both exhausted, and I was fucking miserable.

I started toying with the idea of part-time work. What if I could find a job doing this... What kind of salary would I have to make if we weren't paying for childcare anymore? This was probably the first time in my life that work wasn't high on my list of priorities. Sure, there were other sacrifices that I could make to get our lives in order again, but I was finally admitting that I didn't WANT to make those sacrifices. Yes, I enjoy my job well enough, but in the big picture, is that really fulfilling? I just kept thinking about how if I was working part-time, I'd be able to spend time cooking again, which is a creative outlet for me. I would be able to focus more energy on this school, in my own community, where I could have a positive impact. 

After discussing everything with my husband, he was ridiculously supportive. He was totally taken aback that I was ready to upend our life and make some big changes, but he also recognized that I wasn't happy and that how we were managing our lives at the moment wasn't sustainable. After a lot of discussions and back up plans, I went to my company (that as a rule doesn't offer part-time work) and said that my home life was too much right now, that my priorities have shifted, and that I don't have the capacity to be a stellar full-time employee right now. I said that I'd love to stay with the company, where I've spent the last almost ten years, but that I can't do it full-time anymore. I needed part-time work or I will be looking elsewhere. I finally came to the conclusion that while I still need to work, I also need to have my priorities set in a way that don't make me upset every morning when I'm asking my mom to drop my son off at kindergarten and pick him up everyday. It's not just that it feels like a burden on her, it's that I WANT to be the one doing it. I want to be the one helping him figure out his homework or reading with him or cooking with him. 

Moms are fucking excellent at making things work and figuring it out. We can juggle a lot, family, schedules, cooking, households, volunteering, exercising, self-care, working, and a plethora of other things that are expected of us on such a regular basis. But fuck that. Just because I CAN juggle it all doesn't mean that I WANT to. 

The Anxiety of Talking About Anxiety

Imagine getting ready to meet friends for a drink. You've been looking forward to it all week. As you look at the clock, you start to get uncomfortable. Maybe you just need to go to the bathroom one more time before you leave, so you go again. As you walk from your apartment toward downtown, getting closer to the bar, the queasiness in your stomach grows. You review everything you've eaten that day, wondering if it was something you ate, but a part of you knows it’s not from any kind of food you had. You get to the bar and walk inside, when it hits you. You can barely breathe. You break into a cold sweat but somehow still feel hot at the same time. Something is very wrong. You find your friends, but you can hardly concentrate on what they're saying because all you can focus on is your measured breaths and how you absolutely cannot throw up on the table. You haven't had any alcohol, so it can't be that. You stick it out for what seems like an eternity (in reality about ten minutes) before excusing yourself to walk outside for some air. The relief you get once you get outside is overwhelming and the thought of going back terrifies you. You try to reason with yourself. Your inner dialogue goes something like this "What the fuck is going on with you? You have had zero alcohol, there's no reason you should be feeling sick. Why can't you just sit down and have a couple drinks with friends like every normal fucking person in that bar? Everyone is going to think there's something wrong with you, it's like you can't even have fun." Too much time passes, you can't go back now. You text your friends that you aren't feeling well and you walk back to your apartment. You breathe a little easier with every step, but by no means are you okay. You get home, put on sweats, and park yourself on the bathroom floor with a pillow knowing that sleeping on the cold tile is inevitable tonight. The rest of the night is spent alternating between throwing up and trying to catch a few minutes of restless sleep, because you know your stomach will be heaving again soon.

This is how the last couple years of my college career were spent. At the time, I had no idea that what I was experiencing were panic attacks. I kept trying to make sense of what was going on, but there was nothing logical about what was happening to me. I couldn't figure it out myself, much less explain it to my friends. I didn't know how to say, "I'm sorry, I know we had plans. But I can't make it this weekend because the thought of being at someone else's house and sleeping on their bathroom floor is too much for me to bear." And how could I expect them to constantly put up with my flaky behavior? I had a lot of internal conversations about how I should be feeling or acting, which contributed to the downward spiral. 

I lost the majority of my friends from college because I didn't know how to communicate what I was going through. Looking back now, had I trusted the friendships and just opened up about it, some of those friendships would probably still be intact. But I was embarrassed because what triggered me seemed so inconsequential. I didn't think anyone would understand and I was utterly miserable. But I was still scared to get help. 

I moved back to my hometown after college and my cousin pushed me to go see the doctor. I have a fucking mountain of gratitude and appreciation for that cousin. It couldn't have been an easy thing to bring up to say, "I love you and I mean this in the nicest possible way, but you're a miserable person right now, go get some help." I finally went to my primary care doctor and tried a laundry list of different medications, daily medications as well as acute (take in the moment) type of medications. I really wanted there to be a pill I could take to make it better because that would be an easy fix, but nothing seemed to help. I had begun to accept that this was how life was. I had gotten to a point where I didn't know what "normal" felt like anymore and I truly didn't believe that I could get back to a better place. After all, I had been feeling that way for four or five years already. It was isolating as hell. I began losing weight because I got sick so often. I wasn't sleeping and I felt exhausted all the time. I had tried going to a few different therapists, but none felt like the right fit. I hadn't made any tangible improvements. That same cousin, again, pushed me to try going to a cognitive behavioral therapist, one more try. After some major coaxing, I agreed. I was hesitant, not only because I didn't think it would work, but also because the appointments weren't covered by my insurance and it was going to be SO expensive. She finally told me that if I had a broken arm, I wouldn't hesitate to get whatever treatment was necessary to fix it, no matter the cost. Why the fuck wouldn't I be willing to do the same for my mental health, especially when it was having such detrimental impact on my life. That was the perspective that I needed to finally make the appointment.

I couldn't even call to make the appointment. I had to email the therapist because every time I tried to talk about what was going on I started sobbing uncontrollably. Unfortunately, there were no quick fixes for the anxiety and panic attacks that I was having. I went to an anxiety treatment center once a week for over a year. The therapist gave me reading and "homework" activities to do, and it was a LOT of hard work. I had to put myself in situations that would generally have triggered a panic attack and just sit there with those wildly uncomfortable feelings. For example, I had to sit at a bar and not flee when I began to feel queasy and started sweating. This seems like such a simple thing to the majority of people, but to me it felt arduous. My brain had to be retrained to react properly, to not go into fight or flight overdrive. And eventually over the course of a year or so, it started to get easier. I was able to wean off of all of the different medications that I had been taking, which was a HUGE deal. I began going to the therapist less often, knowing that I could have check-in type of appointments when necessary, which I still do occasionally, almost 10 years later. 

When the twins were almost two and I was going back to my full-time job, I got back on an anti-anxiety medication. After multiple appointments with my therapist, we came to the realization that I was doing everything I could possibly do to keep my anxiety at bay on my own. But the reality of being me: the ringmaster of our fucking circus, working a full-time job with travel and needing to present myself as a (borderline) professional, trying to raise socially conscious humans, cooking daily, and pretending that I do housework. It was too much to manage on my own. Taking the medication has given me the edge I need to maintain some semblance of sanity in the chaotic mess we call our daily life. 

The words "self-care" are thrown around a lot these days and I have mixed feelings about it. Had someone told me that I needed to practice self-care years ago when I was in the throws of my dark period, it would have meant nothing to me. There was no amount of exercise my tired body could have done, no amount of healthy eating I could have managed that would have eased the burden on my wearied soul. The mix of finding the right therapist and finding the right medication was what had the biggest impact on my wellbeing. Only after I started to claw my way out of the dark (with the help of my therapist and medication) did I have the energy to focus on other self-care items like exercise and healthy eating. 

There's also a financial component to treating anxiety and panic attacks. I'm privileged as hell that I was able to afford the THOUSANDS of dollars that those therapy sessions cost. It's easy for people to say, "prioritize your mental health" or "you can't take care of others if you don't take care of yourself first." But for many, the reality is that they can't afford steep therapy bills of over $100 per session. Especially when, for many parents, they would also be paying for childcare on top of that. I'm distraught thinking about all of those people that are going through something like I did, but that don't have the family support or the financial freedom to get the help that they need. Every time I think about it, I get pissed off that our healthcare system is so fucked up that people have to go without, because their choices are seeing a therapist or feeding their family. 

Seeing the emphasis on self-care out in the world is an excellent step, but it needs to be more than buzz words. With all the pressures on people today (not just parents, but kids, teenagers, students, and young professionals alike) we aren't going to see a drop in mental health issues unless we start providing resources so that not only the privileged can get help.

Mountains of Privilege

Standard dinnertime scenario

Dinnertime at our house is a complete clusterfuck. It's a rare occasion that even one kid, much less three, sit and eat without causing a ruckus. There are kids bitching about who gets to sit where or what color plate is at their seat. Adults sternly telling them that yes, they have to at least taste the vegetables, and that no, they can't say they hate bibimbap if they can't even give a vague description of what it is. Meanwhile there are two huskies trying to sneak under the table to snatch dropped (thrown) food and growling when a kid inevitably kicks them. Add on top of that, young kids that NEVER STOP TALKING.

The other night at the dinner table, my 3 YO son (one of the twins) was being a total dickhead. He is in the (hopefully short) stage right now where he purposefully does shit to push everyone's buttons. He was calling everyone an “IDIOT” and laughing like a total lunatic about it. His twin sister was simultaneously talking about community helper day at preschool and how a police officer came to visit and talked to all of the kids. Her brother didn't skip a beat and started saying “COMMUNITY HELPERS ARE IDIOTS” and “POLICE OFFICERS ARE IDIOTS,” because, well, he was being a dickhead. We had almost reached that time of the evening where threats are made, kids get sent to their rooms (over and over again), plates of food get taken away leaving kids STARVING at bedtime, and my food gets fucking cold.

Out of nowhere, my 5 YO son interrupts this downward spiral of events and says, “Well, it’s true, some police officers are idiots.” I was totally taken aback. Generally speaking, I don't give a shit if my kids say "adult words" at home. They know they can't say them outside of the house and they're pretty good at abiding by that rule, so I'm not strict about it. What I am strict about, is calling a person any kind of derogatory name (which is why the 3 YO knew he'd piss me off by calling everyone an idiot). For some reason, the look on his face made me think twice before yelling at him. Instead of jumping to adult conclusions, I asked why he said that. This was his response:

“Well, way back, there were bad white police officers that were rude to black people. They were really rude and there was a lady that was riding a bus and some rude white man told her to get out of a seat, but she didn’t want to because she shouldn’t have to. So, then a bad white police officer came and E-rested her and took her to jail. But that wasn’t fair because she didn’t do anything wrong. So that police officer was an idiot.”

Now keep in mind, this is a five year old. And although he mispronounces the word “arrested” every time he says it, that was a pretty impressive turn of events at the dinner table. It was a proud moment. While his brother was being a total jackass and pushing everyone’s buttons, he was listening to the nonsense his brother was spewing and thinking critically about it. But here's the thing. That wouldn't have happened had we not regularly spent time reading books and having discussions about racism and discrimination and privilege.

Pages from the book Martin's Big Words The Life of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. by Doreen Rappaport, which is in our regular rotation of books.

Uncomfortable topics are just that, uncomfortable. Finding a way to simplify topics to explain it to a child can seem daunting, especially because we as parents want to shelter them from the negative aspects of the world. But on the other hand, it’s SO MUCH EASIER to have these discussions now, when they are small. Explaining racism in simple terms to my 3 year olds, is so much easier than trying to explain the nuances to an older child after they have more of their own experiences. And growing up in a predominantly white suburb, their experiences aren't going to be representative of the world at large. Also, let's be real, it's total privileged bullshit that it's even a choice to talk about it, considering people of color are forced to have those discussions (and much scarier ones) with their children starting at a young age. 

My kids are privileged as hell. They're white, two out of three are boys, middle class, English-speaking, blond-haired, blue-eyed, mountains of privilege. It's imperative for them to grow up knowing what that means and how to leverage it for others. Our dinnertime fiasco the other night showed me that they are listening, we just need to keep the conversation going.

The Importance Of Losing Early and Often

My kids come from a long line of sore losers. Both my husband and I grew up playing competitive sports and that mentality has never really left us. It doesn’t matter what it is, card games, video games, darts, or corn hole at a BBQ, we get into heated competition and the loser is always kind of a bitch for a while afterward. Unfortunately for my kids, they seem to have picked up that embarrassing habit. Now don’t get me wrong, healthy competition and learning to be a team player are high on my priority list for my kids. But when my four-year-old playing U6 soccer starts screaming at his teammate because the other team has scored a goal, it’s gone a bit beyond healthy competition.

My oldest has a natural athletic ability that many young kids don’t seem to have. He has gotten a lot of praise from a young age for his strength, coordination, and balance. Which has also led to his unrealistic expectation that he will be the best, or near to it, at any kind of athletic activity. His first year of soccer, he had a great time, but he was also INTENSE. There’s a video floating around somewhere of him trying to tackle a kid on the other team after they scored a goal, then the parents from our sideline exploding into action to stop him before it actually went down.

I would say that for the majority of kids, activities and obligations year-round from a young age are not necessary or advised. But for my oldest, he needs regular physical exertion to be a normal functioning human. He seems to be on par with high energy dog breeds like our huskies. If he does not get enough exercise, he becomes a destructive asshole. So, after the soccer season ended, we began looking for the next activity for him to try.


His birthday is in November, so he had just turned 5 when the basketball camp began. The camp was a mix of kindergarteners through second graders on each team and though my son was only in TK (transitional kindergarten), we figured he was athletic enough to join in. The first day there, he got his ass handed to him. Not only were the majority of kids on his team newbies, but the opposing team contained multiple kids that had been playing for a number of years. We spent the next few days (what seemed like weeks…months…years…) explaining that the best way for him to get better is to play with kids more talented than him. Trying to get him to take this lesson to heart has been tough, and we're still working on it. He fucking HATES losing. 

Baseball was a whole other fiasco, mostly because it’s boring AF and he was stationary for most of the games. And seriously, why the hell did we sign him up for a sport where he doesn’t get any energy out?! He was either sitting on the bench in the dugout or standing around in the field watching other kids strike out. Then after the game he had the energy I would expect an ultra-marathoner to have, which needed to be burned off before we could wrangle him into the car, but I digress.

We realized that we needed to find something where he could lose more frequently, but on a smaller scale. After a lot of research, I landed on Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. I specifically picked BJJ because it was a martial art where they wouldn’t teach my little hothead how to punch or kick better than he already does (he's also got some anger and impulse control issues, but that's a post for another day). He has been participating in the jiu-jitsu classes at least twice per week for almost six months, and the change in his attitude has been drastic. There’s something to be said for a place where he gets his ass kicked daily. It seems nothing is more humbling for him than having someone much smaller pin him to the mat in the blink of an eye. 

Now don't get me wrong, he hasn't given up his competitive spirit, far from it. But losing more often has helped keep his anger about losing in check. While he gets frustrated when he’s not the best, he has started to learn by watching his peers. Instead of getting pissed that he didn’t win, he will take pride in one move that he did well during the game. Even playing his second season of soccer with a U8 team, where they have lost almost every game, he hasn’t had any unruly outbursts on the field. Last year that would have been unheard of.

I'm not saying that martial arts, or even sports, are necessary for kids. Every kid is different and as a parent, it's important for us to recognize that each kid will thrive in different settings. But the lesson is the same no matter the activity. Having smaller scale losses/failures on a more frequent basis can help them to adjust to the fact that they will not win at everything in life. It shows them that sometimes you have to work your ass off to succeed, even when you have natural ability. It shows them that many times they can learn how to be better at something by failing, even spectacularly, the first time around. And maybe, if I'm lucky, they can learn from their parents that while competition can be fun, being a sore loser just makes you an asshole.