So, I need advice from the nail biters among you. Cody has been biting his nails since he was a tiny thing. They now look like this:

The nails are just about halfway gone and yet, he continues to bite them! We’ve had discussions about the necessity of him stopping, or he won’t have any nails left, but he still does it. When I see him biting, I remind him to stop, but my guess it that a lot of this goes on, without him even being aware, during school. Short of forcing him to wear gloves all day (I’m sure that wouldn’t create cause for ridicule by his classmates at all) or soaking his fingertips in vinegar (he hates the smell), what can I do? Will he chew away everything that’s left if given enough time?

Any advice, thoughts or help would be greatly appreciated!

You see, this particular holiday season has found me far, far down, where the sun just don’t shine. Normally, I adore Christmas and everything it brings, means and stands for, but this year was terribly difficult for a variety of reasons. I’m coming through the darkness onto the other side, finally; to my usual optimism and innate ability to thoroughly enjoy my morning cup of coffee, a beautiful, sunny day and listening to my kids’ chatter.

I don’t know when or why I stopped writing when I am unwillingly visiting The Dark Side (my term for clinical depression). As a tween and teenager, I filled journals with angsty prose, but as an adult, I’ve tended to avoid writing during these trips. Maybe it’s because I’m afraid of what will come out. After all, like so many other writers, my hand seems to have a stronger connection to my emotions than my brain does. It can be pretty scary to not realize quite how you feel about something until you write about it.

Then too, there’s the guilt over knowing that in the whole scheme of things, whatever I am going through is nothing, NOTHING, compared to what other people in my life are. This knowledge makes me go inside myself even deeper, because I have no room to complain. I just don’t. I have blessings galore, more than I can even name or realize, and I should be deeply grateful for each and every one of them. And under normal circumstances, I usually am.

But that’s what depression does. It lies to you. It thunks you over the head with despair and self-pity, and when you feel ashamed and guilty for being forced to indulge yourself in it, it lays you out flat with more. It’s ruthless, searing, yet at the same time, incredibly dulling. You go through periods of sharp, spiky emotional pain and others of feeling like someone ripped everything that makes you YOU away. There’s no joy, only brief periods of pseudo-happiness that barely touch the surface.

Thankfully, I haven’t taken a journey to The Dark Side for quite a few years and I’m beyond grateful that the trip is at an end. Depression isn’t something I’m proud of, but it’s something I struggle with from time to time, just like other people deal with diabetes or an overactive thyroid. That many people don’t understand it as an illness, even in this age, is sad and terribly uneducated.

Depression doesn’t define me, but it is a part of who I am. I’d like to think that it has made me a more empathetic person, as well as a stronger person. It has certainly forced me, at times, to work harder than most people have to in order to accomplish the bare minimum.

Here’s to a long, long vacation from The Dark Side, and a light-filled, productive and peaceful 2012 for us all.

Do you struggle with depression? How do you deal with it (medication, therapy, exercise, etc.)? How does it affect your family?

No comment on the misspelled last name.(He and I have been over it many times.)

As I began reading the writing journal, which contains tiny gems in both pictures and phonetically-spelled words, I said, “Awwwwwww…” out loud when I got to this one:

My translation: The most important manners is always be kind. Being kind is nice. It is fun too. I like being kind.

What elicited the “Awwwwww…” from me was the picture, in which Logan drew himself opening a door for other people and saying, “Ladies go first.”

“What?” said Logan, who was sitting across from me, doing his homework and heard my sigh.

“That’s so gentlemanly of you,” I said, showing him the picture.

“Aw, Mom, you’re making me dashful,” he said.

“Dashful?” I echoed.

“Yeah, you know, when you’re embarrassed? You’re dashful,” he explained.

“Oh, you mean BASHFUL,” I corrected.

“Yeah, DASHFUL,” he nodded.

My ex-sisters-in-law (I prefer to call them my sis-out-laws) and I decided to get together in Minneapolis for the weekend. There are three of them, and the youngest of the bunch is attending school in St. Paul, so we drove the 6 hours or so it takes to visit her.

We had so much fun! We shopped, went on a long walk by a waterfall (in the middle of St. Paul!) and spent some happy moments in a candy store aptly named “Candyland,” where I purchased, among other things, candy Legos that actually fit together.

My favorite part was eating at The Happy Gnome in St. Paul the evening of my birthday. Here’s a picture of us taken by our waitress just after she served our food. (Bet you can’t tell which one is me — ha!)

Amy, me, Kim and Ann

I don’t know why the date on the camera says 2010, but of course I didn’t realize that until after the weekend was over.

This is what I ordered:

It. Was. Amazing.

That’s cheese, Capriole O’Banon, to be exact, wrapped up in leaves, served with fruit preserves, bread, crackers and nuts. It was not a huge serving, by any means, and I even shared it with everyone at the table; however, it was so savory, rich and wonderful, the small amount was plenty (plus I had crab cakes too). That cheese was one of the absolute best things I’ve ever tasted.

Also new to me at The Happy Gnome was pear cider (can’t believe I’ve never had that before!) and a draft called Magic Hat #9, which had a light fruity taste. If all beer tasted like that, I’d drink it a lot more! The whole experience left me wishing I had more opportunity to try food and drinks like this because I enjoy it so very much.

I’ve decided since then that I’m going to incorporate more savory/rich foods into my diet, like flavorful salads topped with apples, feta cheese and dried cranberries. I’m going to splurge for expensive cheese once in awhile and enjoy it with a glass of wine. Most recently, I had some Havarti cheese with my Cabernet Sauvignon — mmmmmmmmm.

Little pleasures like this are what keep us appreciating life. I think we should all make more of an effort to incorporate something(s) we truly enjoy into our lives more often, whether it’s food, drink, taking a little time to watch the stars or dancing in the rain. Whatever it is for you, create those opportunities.

Enjoy.

What do you consider the small pleasures in your life? How could you incorporate more of them into your routine?

All of these factors came crashing together last night when Cody flung the door to my office open, on the verge of tears, clutching the book I had tucked him in with nearly an hour beforehand. The book was this:

Cody has become so fascinated with history, particularly ancient Egypt, I purchased this book for his birthday in August. It’s a really cool book, with tons of fast facts and illustrations about different ancient civilizations, designed for kids ages 8-12, though I spent a happy while flipping through it. (Incidentally, right now, Amazon also has it at a bargain price of $8.)

Back to the story, Cody silently brought the book to my desk, laid it in carefully in front of me, and pointed to the five sentences and the small picture that had given his night such a bad turn.

The section was titled, “Human Sacrifice,” and it described how the Incas sacrificed people to their gods. The picture was of the remains of a sacrificed girl found in 1999.

I scanned the paragraph, not completely realizing how shaken he was. “Yep, that stuff happened,” I confirmed, trying to figure out how old the girl might have been. She seemed young.

I heard a choked sound and looked up to see tears forming in Cody’s eyes. “How could people do that?” he said, and burst into sobs.

I comforted him the best I could, hugging him tightly and assuring him that he was safe. It wasn’t fear that gripped him though; it was anguish over the capability of human beings to engage in such a horrific act.

“How can I forget about this?” he pleaded with me. “How will I be able to not be creeped out by it ever again?”

I knew just what he meant.

As I held him close, I remembered the moment I really understood what people could do to each other. It was probably quite a bit less dramatic, but equally powerful and disturbing. It was the very late 70s or very early 80s (yes, I’m dating myself) and I was fairly young. My mom was watching something on TV and I happened to come in the room just as on the screen a jilted wife walked into the room where her husband and his lover were in bed and shot them both point blank.

It haunted me for days. I think it was mostly the fact that it was a woman that fired the gun that really got to me. I found the scene horrifying and reprehensible, maybe because at that young age I perceived all women as nurturing and caring. It was shocking and horrible to me that anyone, much less a woman, could shoot someone else in cold blood like that.

I remember the feeling of losing my blind faith in humanity well. It was like tiny pinpricks all over my skin, yet complete and utter silence and stillness inside, allowing for only a very slow thump of my heart, making my breath catch and hold every time I thought of the scene I had witnessed. The scene that represented the loss of my innocence.

How can I unlearn this? I remember feeling, and that’s just what Cody was asking me. How do I cope with this knowledge that humans can be so evil?

I sighed. “You can’t forget,” I told him. “But it’ll get better. It will fade in time and it’ll become less and less upsetting.”

I comforted him a while longer, until his tears had subsided and he had a different, much more upbeat, book in hand.

“I just never knew people could do that,” he said, his voice full of sorrow and resignation.

“I know,” I said softly. ”I’m sorry.” I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. I’m sorry you found out. I’m sorry I don’t have anything more comforting to say. I’m so sorry for your loss.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Is there a particular event in your and/or your child’s life that marks the time when you (or your child) understood what people could be capable of?

Perhaps the biggest relief? The cessation of hearing my name called so often each and every day that I began to tire of the sound of it quite early in the summer. Some days, it seemed like one of my four children was calling me every few minutes.

It’s also quite funny (and I don’t mean funny-ha-ha) how they seem to need me all at once, or at least 2 or 3 at once. Almost nothing drives me quite as crazy as multiple children yelling my name at the same time because then I don’t know with whom to start. Inevitably, someone is frustrated because I didn’t deal with her first.

“Moooooooooooommmmmmmmm!!!!!!!” I’d hear from downstairs, as yet another child, seemingly bent on getting my attention at the same time, would yell, “MOM!” from the next room.

When the reason for calling my name was something like, “Will you (come downstairs from your office where you are working, even though I’m sitting in the dining room, which is right next to the kitchen and) get me some milk (because I don’t want to actually have to get up to get it myself)?” it was hard not to be angry.

Sometimes I’d hear my name yelled so loudly and sharply over and over (one particular [male] offender comes to mind here) that I’d ignore the yeller just to make a point. I’ve told my kids over and over that they shouldn’t yell anyhow; that if they need something, they should come to me and ask. It’s funny (again, not funny-ha-ha) how often they evidently don’t need anything that badly because if I don’t respond to the above-mentioned yelling, it usually stops. I guess it’s too much trouble to actually walk up the stairs to talk to me.

Or else they come to the realization that it’s just easier to get the milk themselves then to spend all that energy trying to get me to do it and going hoarse in the process.

Do you have times when you feel like your kids are “taking your name in vain?”

This year will be no different.

L-R: Rachel, age 13 (8th grade), Cody, age 9 (3rd grade), Logan, age 7 (2nd grade) and Andrea, age 13 (8th grade).

The wisps of gray that you see are courtesy of the cloud that had apparently settled over our area, perhaps reflecting the majority’s feeling about school starting once again. The air was practically dripping when we all went outside to take pictures and wait for the bus.

I just compared this picture to last year’s (one reason I like to take these annual pictures), and wow, these kids have grown!

When asked how they liked school, the results were mixed.

“I LOVED it!” exclaimed Logan, who has the wonderfully entertaining and wise Mr. Duncan as a teacher.

Rachel’s response was, “Long. Hot. Homework. Million forms to fill out.”

Andie’s: “Good. Hot.” (The temperature, acting on Murphy’s Law, which states that since it was cool and nice last week, the first day of school should be HOT, was 96 and muggy, and our school has no air conditioning.)

Cody was in agreement with Logan and declared school “good.”

We’ll see what they say in a few more weeks.

Have your kids started school yet? How do they and you feel about it?

Roughly an hour and a half later (yeah, I know, I’m not the most speedy shopper), as we dragged our tired selves over to the shoe section to find skids for the four of them for activity period, the boys had asked me a thousand times if we were done yet.

“Not yet,” I answered mechanically, also for the thousandth time, wishing I could somehow magically transport us all back home without having to actually drive the 40-minute trip. “We still have to get shoes.”

A tedious task at the best of times, finding shoes that each child would like when they were already cranky didn’t seem like a fun prospect at all. Our small town is notorious for having fairly small selections in terms of style, and even smaller selections for size. Unless a person doesn’t mind stopping at every store in town with four tired kids in tow, one must reconcile herself with the choices put in front of her.

The girls’ shoe hunt went fine. They were flexible with their selections and their size, finally the same as mine, was easy to find.

Phew.

So we traipsed over to the boys’ section and located the Spider-Man shoes. (If I haven’t mentioned it before, Cody is absolutely obsessed with Spider-Man and has been since he was about 3. Needless to say, Logan shares the fondness, though not nearly to the same extent as Cody.) I found a pair for Logan.

Perfect.

But there were no Spider-Man shoes available in Cody’s size.

“Shoot, Cody, I guess you’re going to have to pick something else,” I told him.

Before Cody could protest, Logan piped up in his helium-infused, 2-year-old-sounding voice:

“Cody, that’s OK. I won’t get Spider-Man shoes either since you can’t, because that wouldn’t be faaaaaaiiiiiiirrrrrrrr,” he said, drawing out the last word like he does when he’s intent on making a point.

And he didn’t. They each picked out Iron-Man shoes instead.

When I related this story to the kids’ uncle the next day, echoing my thoughts, he said, “You just can’t teach that, can you? They either have it, or they don’t.”

I’m so proud that Logan has it.

How have your kids impressed you with their innate personality traits? What do you admire the most about your child/ren?

To say his birth was as exciting to me as my own babies’ births would not be at all an exaggeration. The reason I feel so strongly about Tristan’s entrance into the world is because my sister, Trina, asked me to be there for his arrival. Having always been the one in the hospital bed groaning, moaning and otherwise oblivious to most everything around me as I tried to cope with the pain, I wasn’t sure what it would be like to be on the other side of the delivery, but I was excited to pieces that Trina wanted me there.

I got to be there with her and Troy, her husband, pretty much from the time she got to the hospital. It was hard to watch her in labor, especially as it progressed, because I wanted to do something to ease her pain, but knew I was completely helpless other than to encourage her. I wasn’t any more a fan of seeing my little sister in pain than I am seeing my kids sick or injured.

The most amazing part was, of course, when the little guy popped out. I was touched suddenly and rather unexpectedly by the enormity of the miracle this event was and tears came to my eyes. It was one of the most emotional and best moments of my life. When you’re the one trying to get the kid out, your teeth gritted, your eyes clenched shut and your whole body straining, you just can’t appreciate that moment like you do when you’re witnessing it physically unattached and pain-free.

The end result:

My end result:

Horrible, unrelenting baby fever.

Again.

Nothing on this great, green earth brings me joy like holding a baby, particularly a newborn baby, does. I’ve already held Tristan as much as I possibly can and each time, I’m so happy, I want to cry.

So, really, it’s probably the joy that I’m craving more than the actual baby. Because babies turn into toddlers, who turn into little kids, who turn into bigger kids, who turn into teenagers, etc., etc.

I’m not saying my kids don’t bring me joy; they do, on a pretty regular basis. But there’s just something about a baby that is unlike anything else. It’s my form of crack, I guess.

I’m starting to come to terms more with the reality that I’m going to have to enjoy my baby nephews and nieces and, eventually, in the WAY distant future (I hope), my grandchildren instead. My time is over. While that’s supremely sad for me, I’m not going to dwell on it and miss all the cool and amazing moments in my kids’ lives, which are completely different from, but no less important than, a baby.

Maybe it’s time to get the companion dog I’ve been wanting for years.

Do you get baby fever? Are you done having kids but sad that you are? Share here!

My dear friend, Amy, a freelance writer who is currently fighting her second battle with breast cancer and has a gorgeously-written blog on the subject, It’s in the Genes, once told me that she gets crabby when she’s not writing regularly. At the time, I wasn’t sure exactly what she meant, even though it was when I was working in the Herbalife club most of the time (and NOT writing) and I was, in fact, becoming crabbier and crabbier.

It has now been around a year since Amy’s crabby comment and I think I now finally and fully understand what she means. Even though it was crazy trying to blog every single day in May during the Blogathon, I was happier because writing brings me such joy. I know it may not seem that way, considering how often I have actually blogged since May, but I’m coming to terms with the fact that no matter how busy I am, I must, for my peace of mind and well-being, write for fun at least several times a week.

This probably stems from the pile of journals I started keeping at the age of 11, along with the stories, poetry and songs I was always penning. Writing is a huge component of who I am, and that’s something I need to remember, not stifle.

Truth be told, writing of any kind has been difficult to squeeze in these days what with the kids being home almost 24/7, plus my office job for LOGIA, which I love and am completely grateful for, but which does not afford me the time to write that I used to have. I miss my freelance writing business dreadfully and hope that someday, when the economy is better, I can get back to it, at least part-time.

In the meantime, plan on seeing me here much more often. I need to carve out a bit of time here and there to write, and this is the best place to do it.

Plus, I have so much to write about, I can’t even decide where to start!

What activity in your life is essential to your mental and emotional well-being? Why?