Faithful

I don't believe in the Easter Bunny. Or the Tooth Fairy. Or even Santa Claus. And around this time, my disbelief of that jolly old man is the equivalent of running a crack house. Sigh. I have tried to believe. Really I have. But somehow it just never rang true for me.

When Natalie was born, Gary used to do the whole Santa thing. He loved it. Truly. He would strategically place pieces of cotton balls in the fireplace grate (to make it look like Santa kissed the fireplace grate I guess?) and make boot marks with talcum powder on the carpet. He would leave out cookies and milk for that hungry guy. And one Christmas Eve at midnight, Gary even went out into the yard and rang a sleigh bell, and actually shouted "Ho, ho, ho", so if Natalie was awake at that precise moment, she would hear Santa riding off to deliver more toys to sleeping children. (Well, only good sleeping children apparently. Humpf. See? I just can't go with it, can I?) And all of this time, I probably sat in the in kitchen listening to Bob Dylan making plans for Christmas dinner. Humpf. Bah humbug indeed. I remember he used to make me wrap SANTA'S gifts in different paper, as not to tip off our unsuspecting daughter. That used to make me crazy too. That Santa man got all of the credit. I THOUGHT. I SHOPPED. I WRAPPED. And then he gets all of the accolades. Humpf.

Please, don't get me wrong. I decorate for Christmas. I wrap. I bake tons of cookies. The girls and I make homemade candy and give them as gifts. I sing carols. I send out cards. Over the years, the whole Christmas thing has grown on me. Really.

But Santa?

Nope. Can't do it.

Now with the divorce, the girls spend every Christmas in Dallas with Gary, which means I don't have to worry about the whole Santa Claus dilemma. Gary and new wife Trica (with the help of Jack and Freeda, Gary's parents) believe. They REALLY believe in Santa. They still write letters from Santa BACK to the children. They still do the footprints in the carpet. They still fill stockings. And they still use different wrapping paper. They believe, and so the girls believe. And I am off the hook because they always leave BEFORE Christmas...so all of the gifts they get before they leave for Dallas come from me. Santa does his thing in Dallas, not here in Virginia Beach. Whew.

I do wonder sometimes, am I simply a scrooge? Am I jaded? Pessimistic? Grouchy? Well, yes, I am all of those things. (And are we sure that grouchy still isn't sexy?) But I am not sure that has anything to do with believing in Santa. Someone said to me once that believing is simply having faith.

But faith? In Santa?

Look, I know I am not religious, but I do have faith. I believe in many things. Strongly believe. In my heart believe. Never doubt believe. That kind of stuff. I believe that honesty in a relationship shouldn't be selective. I believe that children are given to you to help you heal. I believe that in order to really forgive, you must forget. I believe that laughter, is in fact, the best medicine. I believe that true friends are necessary, just like the air we breathe. I believe that every woman is beautiful. I believe that at this point in my life, my life's purpose is raising my kids. I believe that everyone deserves to be happy. I believe that Christmas decorations shouldn't be out in OCTOBER! I believe that your family loves you no matter what (even if you don't exercise with them when you're on vacation). I believe you should never buy olive oil at The Dollar Tree. I believe that dogs know when you need a little love. I believe that my children are the light of my life, and the laughter in my soul. I believe that love can be blind, but should never be punishing. I believe that "The Sopranos" goes too long between seasons. I believe that nothing smells better than the top of my girls' heads. I believe that my parents did the very best they could. I believe that single mothers need free babysitting once a month. I believe that he's out there. I believe that life is short but also wide. I believe that kindness and generosity should come straight from the heart. I believe that skinny jeans don't look good on anyone. And I believe that everyone has the right to believe in something.

See? I am full of faith.

And there are only 29 more days before Christmas.

Ho. Ho. Ho.

What's Love Got To Do With It?

Is the goal of a relationship always "love"? Does that always have to the desired end result? Can you just skip over the love part and still do happily ever after? Or better yet can't you be just happy for the now?

Dammit. What's love got to do with it anyway?

We toss around the word "love" like it is salad dressing. I LOVE that movie. I love your hair. I LOVE those jeans. I know that I say it all of the time. Love. Love. Love. Here's the thing. The girls and I are not allowed to say "hate", because I feel it's too strong of an emotion to use on such things like, MEATLOAF. So at our house, we are stuck saying "strongly dislike" instead of "hate". Yes mom, I strongly dislike the meatloaf. So. We can't utter the word hate. But love? Tossed around here like crazy. Love. Love. Love.


So maybe in my mind because I am surrounded by this LOVE thing all of the time, I wrongly assume that I need to experience it outside of the girls and I. Okay, so maybe with the Zen-like man I really did truly believe that I loved him. But maybe I just thought that it was time for me to love? (Like some Tick Tock Love Clock or something?) Maybe I simply strongly LIKED him and mistook it for love? Maybe two other "L" words, "loneliness" and "lust" tricked me into thinking I was in love? Hmmm.

But I remember the first time I said it to him. "I love you, Zen-like man." And he looked horrified. Which is never a good look when discussing the finer points of love, eh? Sometimes I wonder why all of the red flags didn't hit me squarely in the face while I was dating this man? Or maybe they did and I ignored them? Nonetheless, he looked horrified. And we all know once the words are spoken...they are out there. There are no do-overs. I love you. Kidding. I don't think it works that way. Don't get me wrong, I didn't shout them out in a moment of passion or anything. Because we all know that that is way too easy. Sure, sure, sure. When we shout it out then, we ALL know what we really love. But I digress.

I told him I loved him and he looked horrified and slightly nauseous. Wahoo.

Love. At 43 years old, it's a damn tricky thing. I wrote a piece once called "The Snoring Dog", all about learning to love again. Yeah, it was about Abbey, my Boston Terrier, but Abbey was written as a metaphor for love. Learning how to love after a failed marriage. But, the funny part? When it was published, not many got the metaphor. Maybe that was my fault as a writer? Maybe I wasn't clear about the love stuff, because I still didn't know about the love stuff? (For me? Can't write about it unless I know it.) And when it was published they edited out the opening line...which I shameless stole from the Beatles.

"And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make."
The Beatles

I love that line. I love that line because it's true. I love that line because it's beautifully written. I love that line because it speaks to me. And everyone knows I love the Rolling Stones more than the Beatles. Yeah, don't get me started on that tonight, it's late.

But here's the thing. You can't take love if there is no love there, right? You have to give part of yourself to take part in a relationship. It isn't all about the giving. And it certainly isn't all about the taking.

And how could I want to love someone who certainly didn't have love to give me?

So. Maybe all of the writing about love isn't like experiencing the love. Perhaps there's a reason why my opening line was edited out of The Snoring Dog? Love. A very tricky thing. I can say that I will guard myself against getting hurt again, but who really knows what will happen? I can promise never to fall in love again ("and so for at least until tomorrow..." Damn, who doesn't love Dionne Warwick?), but that could just be a lie. Or I could just keep loving my girls, and myself (the jeans, the movies and the hair) and not worry. Hmmm.

Because what's love got to do with it, right?