Category: Confessions

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Thanksgiving weekend nearly always coincides with John’s November 28 birthday, a fact which makes his choice of pear pie over birthday cake both a welcome and easy change of traditional pace. Not this year. This year, he was able to take advantage of Black Friday sales to get all his birthday shopping done. (Reasons our marriage works #76.) We’ve already eaten through the turkey leftovers and we are still a full month away from Christmas.

What sort of Christmas Elf wizardry is this?

I’m guessing it is some kind of planetary alignment that causes this to happen once every seven years or so, but I’m calling this extra week between Thanksgiving and Christmas the daylight savings of holidays, and plan to take full advantage of it.

Because, like I write about every single year, it is difficult to enjoy the magic of Christmas when you also must be the writer, producer, and creative director of the magic of Christmas. Let’s face it. I seem to have more mom-on-mom conversations about dreading the holidays than I do about looking forward to them. Maybe it was exactly this way for our parents, but it is a reality that is only getting worse with time.

Real Simple actually has a holiday prep checklist you can download here. Spoiler alert: the very last item on what appears to be at least 30 things to do is “Sit back and relax: enjoy your family and friends and relish the traditions you share.” Can we call flipping out once every 48 hours at our kids or spouse a tradition? Or must we simply resign ourselves to the fact that, like the actual eating of the Thanksgiving meal, the Christmas prep-time to enjoyment-time ratio is about 24:1.

I swear it doesn’t have to be like this.

But things aren’t going to happen on their own either.

A big part of it is changing my things-to-do attitude to a spirit of enjoyment. Can I be the first to admit that this is actually difficult for me? I’ve never been a procrastinator, but that doesn’t mean that prepping for major exams or tackling semester long projects wasn’t still a dark and very focused hole I went into and only managed to enjoy when grades came out.

If I’m ever going to truly appreciate the reason for the season, it is going to take a complete rewiring on my exceedingly Type A (and possibly OCD) brain.
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But this, I believe, is possible with practice. And practice it, I will. I am also somewhat convinced that if I am going to be stressed out by a seemingly endless list of things that probably should get done, it serves me well to enter my hole and accept the stress early, and potentially prolong the enjoyment of the grade. So here’s how I plan to make use of my extra week of holiday prep this year.

Claire’s Christmas Checklist:

A Guide to Eminent Holiday Happiness

1. Create and share my Christmas checklist on Quip with John, and avoid the impending burn out and resentment that used to happen before I chose to speak my husband’s language. Total time: 15 minutes.
2. Hike the scary hidden ladder to the bonus attic and select the perfect (only) artificial Christmas tree, adorn it, add some wreaths and candles to the windows, and deck the halls with our one Sterilite box of Christmas decorations. Total time: 3 hours.
3. Reserve Christmas picture books at the library. This was one of those little things I added last year and I’m so glad I did. I used this list for ideas and then found dozens more thanks to the electronic Dewey Decimal system. Total time: as long as I want.
4. Get the bulk (if not all) of my Christmas shopping done on Cyber Monday. I cannot stress this one enough, and in my experience over the last 5 years, unless you have one very specific good deal item for Black Friday, the Cyber Monday sales are exactly as good as Black Friday. On top of sales, lack of crowds, and shopping in my PJ’s with coffee, another bonus: Ebates rebates go up to 10% cash back for most stores. Total time: TBD.
5. Coordinate the calendar, and plan one fun family outing each week leading up to Christmas. The fact is, my kids are going to go bananas with or without any additional excitement leading up to the big day. But for us, putting something on the calendar each week (and not surprising them) gives them something to channel that excitement into. It also gives us some behavioral leverage when every single daily chore is filtered through undeveloped brains on Christmas crack. Nobody said memory-making cannot be effectively masked as bribery. (Or maybe “incentive” is a better word.) Total time: ongoing.

And that is pretty much it. I admit I only made one kind of Christmas cookie last year, despite all sorts of goals, and it turned out to be okay. We still do not have a “traditional” meal that we serve every year on Christmas, and that’s okay too (though stuffed mushrooms and Bloody Mary’s seem to make it on the menu every year without fail). This year my kids will likely be re-wearing their Christmas PJ’s from last year because they undoubtedly still fit, and purchasing the movie Elf was one of the better moments I’ve had in the middle of a summer on Ebay. I’m not sure it can be watched too many times.

For those of us fighting the commercial and consumer driven comparison-culture to do and buy and be everything for our kids in the name of Santa, I appreciate any and all stories from the motherhood trenches of things that are working. And I hope that you will join me in spending this extra prep-week productively, especially if it means getting to that “relax and enjoy” checkbox a little quicker.

Some Christmas Books that Do Not Disappoint

Even if you don’t have kids, do yourself a favor and get this.

My all time favorite Christmas book.

A gag gift one year at my parent’s house that I can’t un-remember. So many funny lines in this book.

Is there any way to express the level of gratitude I’m riding on today, which is possibly the last burst of energy that is keeping me awake and going?

Yesterday was arguably one of the more difficult days of my life. I need to forget the weather for just a second, which was cold and rainy, and the number of hours so many people stood in it, plastered with smiles, hopefully expectant, but realistic. Forget even the fitful sleep I had the night before, and the day starting before sunrise, already full of things to do and people to coordinate, with several group text messages going to prove it.

I wasn’t exactly a wife brimming over with patience, pride, or grace for my husband at 5:47am.

Politics has never been an idea that I thought I’d be banking in the experience folder of my life. And I actually believe there are plenty of insane people who do. Listen, I watched West Wing and The Good Wife. I’ve even seen the first couple seasons of Scandal. And if you want to put aside fiction for a second, we’re all pretty well informed of the national news. If TV is doing anything well, it is scaring average people out of ever wanting to be involved in politics. And in case you missed my post about small town political races, you can read all about my experience here. This business isn’t for the faint of heart.

I can’t say that a mayoral race for a town of 20,000 people can be accurately compared to either the real life White House or not-real-life Olivia Pope, but my stress level yesterday would have indicated that they are in fact identical.

One thing TV doesn’t very accurately portray: the crippling level of emotions swirling throughout all of it. I like to pretend I’m not a particularly emotional person, but the fact is, I am a fortress made of toilet paper tubes.
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I spent the majority of the day at the elementary school my kids attend, greeting voters, handing out sample ballots, and thanking people for coming out. I should have been answering questions, but realized after a few that it was better if I just smiled and defaulted to one of the actual candidates to say what everyone wanted to hear. I brought candy. I didn’t wear warm enough clothes or have on any makeup. I felt weird and awkward and completely out of place. I was one of those people doing that thing that used to completely annoy me when I was just an average voter.

I hugged complete strangers all day long, genuinely surprised and pleased when they would approach and say they were voting for my husband. I took every icy stare of the “informed voters” as a prick to my heart and a confident and hard NOPE to my candidate. (You know, the people who–like me–make their way through the last campaign gauntlet visibly insulted by the suggestion that they would have dared show up in a position to be swayed.)

More than once, a neighbor came through with a smile and a hug, and to these, I just burst into tears. Like I was so hungry for even the tiniest display of actual kindness.

As the day bore on, John and I separate for much of it, I received periodic updates from others around our town at various polling places. Some places were downright contentious between the candidates I was supporting and the opposition. Insults were traded. Cutting last minute remarks were made, arguably on both sides, out of anger and that final exhausted desire to be done with all this.

It was by no means a gentleman’s competition.

I don’t even like sports. I’ve never been a particularly competitive person, and when it comes down to it, I like to fight battles with humor. It is maybe my only weapon. Not a lot of room for jokes on the campaign trail, I discovered. I’d actually describe it as downright hostile for anyone simply trying to be authentic. I was sick to my stomach for most of the day, and likely not hiding the general feeling of doom very well from my face.

Is it always like this?

Because John’s main opponent was a write-in candidate, the official results took an eternity to be released. But each polling place can do a print-out of their numbers as soon as the polls close. Each of these were collected. The results were an astounding landslide for all three incumbent council members and solid win for John as the new mayor. Walking in the freezing rain under the awning of Clemmons Elementary, John said, “We did it. We won.”

The feeling was almost identical to the moment I crossed the finish line in my first marathon and pretty close to how I felt when Eliott was finally born. Pride and excitement trickling through a thin veil of utter emotional and physical exhaustion. I typically only have one response to this feeling and last night was no exception.

We went to bed celebrating, while our phones, Facebook pages, and even email blew up with words of congratulations. We awoke to it this morning, and I had to stop myself from cut-and-pasting my thank you’s.

Because right now, I’m nothing if not thankful. Grateful, is probably the better word. And not because John won. I mean, yes, I’m pretty grateful enough people came out and voted to make this win a reality. Yesterday I was genuinely worried and believed he might, in fact, lose.

But more than that, I’m again, overwhelmed with the outpouring of help and support we received. I guess that’s how it always is. When we are most under attack, we find that our people are still there, still fighting for us and with us. Still praying, offering food, keeping our kids (and feeding them), and then showing up at odd hours in unfamiliar places, rock-steady smiles encouraging us despite the internal storm that only John manages to hide.

So here it is. My husband is officially the mayor of Clemmons, words I never expected to utter, not in my lifetime. Full disclosure: I didn’t feel any different when I woke up this morning, and John and I both keep sort of checking in and saying, “Nope, hasn’t really kicked in yet.” Listen, I’ll try not to let it go to my head. In the meantime, I’m ready to settle down for a just a bit, to dust my boots from campaigning, and to have my husband back on the weekends.

Clemmons, you don’t actually know and will probably never appreciate the full measure of this good decision that you collectively made yesterday, but I have no doubt you will not regret it.

This post may contain affiliate links. Read my full disclosure here.

My husband is running for mayor. People keep asking me how it’s going. And I keep wondering if they really want to hear the answer.

The fact is, it’s going. In every single direction, every single day, and most evenings. And it isn’t easy.

Some Background Information

From the mouth of a mostly uninformed average resident, me, I give you what I knew of small town politics before I invited any of this into my living room.

Clemmons is a village of about 20,000 residents. It has a mayor and five council members who meet twice a month to make governmental decisions about super important small town stuff: management of leaf and limb pick up, recycling, street lights and road upkeep, where to put the new library, the putting up and taking down Christmas lights and American flags during holiday seasons, cutting ribbons for new businesses, setting and balancing the budget every year.

I don’t actually think we even have any parades.

This year, an off year in terms of elections, the mayor seat is open, and three council members are up for re-election. One of these council members has been serving for the last 26 or so years, and if I’m honest with you, up until this year, I didn’t know a damn thing about who she is or what she’s done.

Also, I didn’t vote in 2015, the last time one of these small town elections took place.

In fact, only 1500 out of 20,000 people did vote. And that is the reality of small town politics.

A whole bunch of decisions are being made on a biweekly basis, and the majority of the citizens are taking for granted that the people in charge of these decisions are actually doing what is best for the good of the whole.

This is where you and I get to be surprised that small town politics is not the innocent well-oiled machine we all naively assume it is.

The Current Issue

Certainly, it is not the only issue, but the primary concern of this year’s election has to do with a plan to build a median down the middle of the main road in our town. The reason? Some say safety. Others say efficiency.

What’s not being said: “Whatever, we don’t have to pay for it. At least it is something.”

In September of last year, our council approved a plan to go ahead and slap down a median, which would be built in 2025, and more than partially funded by NCDOT.

I don’t know how many average residents knew this plan existed. I certainly didn’t.

Until several small businesses along that main road started making it public. Because they are against it. Because a median would likely kill their business.

As knowledge of the plan became more widespread, several citizens also voiced disagreement, in the form of petitions and a Facebook page that grows by the day, citing that, yes, traffic is indeed a problem, but a median would only make things worse.

Not everyone holds this belief. But several do.

As for where I stand? I don’t want this median. I want something. But I don’t want this median.
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It Started with Some Signs

John’s decision to run for mayor was made neither lightly nor quickly.

I had two conditions. One, I wasn’t erasing anything on my social media or my blog. Two, I wouldn’t allow us to pretend to be something we are not in the name of votes, or popularity, or, dare I say it, silence.

John agreed, and got to work. He and the three candidates running for council seats are all opposed to the median.

They, along with an independent political action committee who wants to stop the median, went out one night after dinner, several weeks ago, and spent a number of hours putting their political signs up and down the road in question.

The next morning, I went out to see how it looked.

Every single sign stating “Stop the Median” had been removed before 9am.

It only escalated from there. Several of the new council candidates were noticing their signs being stolen from area businesses and even residential properties.

John had received permission from every business owner before placing signs on their property, but then he noticed his own signs being stolen.

He was able to let this roll off his back a lot easier than me. “I have a lot more signs, I’ll just replace them,” was his casual response.

“Screw that! Those things are $3 a piece and we paid for them! I want them back!” was mine.

I’m nothing if not fiscally conservative.

But here’s the sentiment that is a little harder to convey. Three-dollar-sign-stealing aside, the real blow here was knowledge of the fact that someone doesn’t like us. Someone doesn’t like us enough to go out and do something illegal in order to make that point.

It is a weird feeling, to realize that someone who doesn’t even know my husband could possibly care enough to hate him. Or, at the very least, to send that public message.

It Continued in Writing

So the sign stealing could be seen as small and petty. But things started heating up in a more intellectual realm as well.

Because in addition to some campaign signs and car magnets, my husband, the attorney, the writer, the fact-checker, and the definition of Type-A, created a website.

There, he took to writing about what is not very widely publicized in small town politics. He started explaining more than a few of the decisions that have been made over the last couple years, not just about the median, but about sidewalks, and business growth, and money.

It turns out I’m not the only one in this family who is somewhat good with words.

Things started getting dirty.

Dirty, how?

Jabs in the local newspaper, for one. Then there is the ongoing and impolite though sometimes full attack-mode Facebook commentary, directed at John and other anti-median candidates.

If you’ve never been a victim of Facebook trolling, you should know that even things said by complete strangers have an almost embarrassing ability to cut very deeply. And, I am positively astounded by the number of people, most of them strangers, who can manage to present themselves as both victim and attacker in the same breath.

Apparently we live in a world where we can no longer agree to disagree. Disagreement equals attack, and everything is suddenly very emotional and very personal.

It also doesn’t feel especially good to be judged by these same strangers with their inexperienced opinions of my husband’s “lack” of experience, or his youth, and the fact that because he was not born in Clemmons, he cannot be trusted.

I very wrongly assumed we had all graduated from middle school.

Surprise kids. You might grow up, but you never fully outrun middle school bullshit.

Perhaps not ironically, smack dab in the middle of all this, my 5th grader comes home with the word “duplicity” on her vocabulary list for the week. Duplicity: deceitfulness in speech or conduct, as by speaking or acting in two different ways to different people concerning the same matter; double-dealing.

The number one thing I announced from the outset that we would personally avoid. And likewise, the as yet undefined standard that I was holding everyone else to. The standard that doesn’t exist anymore.

It turns out I wasn’t supposed to be surprised by this.

Political rhetoric. Double-speak. He said, she said, nobody said, nobody did.

I was surprised by this. I still am. Because like so many of my neighbors, I have been living in relative harmony with my town, and I have been assuming that the friendliness and non-fakery we’ve experienced from most people, is in fact, completely normal.

Since when did we as a society lose the ability to stand up for what we think is right, even if if others disagree?

At this point, median or no median, it isn’t personal, but if you are in favor and you are facing a crowd who is not, have the courage to simply state your position and stand by it. And if you take back your original opinion in light of new information, simply state that you were wrong and are willing to make things right.

But that doesn’t happen anywhere, does it? The actual taking of responsibility for actions. Words. Beliefs.

I’m not claiming to be perfect. Obviously. But one thing even my own kids can all tell you, if I come to believe I’ve done something dumb, or screwed something up, I’m going to admit it and move on. And if I don’t think I’m wrong, I’m going to fight for what I believe is right, OR, not fight. But then I understand I have no right to complain when nothing changes.

The End is in Sight

I’ve been told by more than one experienced person that all of this ugliness will magically disappear come Wednesday morning, the day after the election booths close.

John is confident that no matter what happens, he’s going to move forward next week the same person he is right now.

But I can’t help but have this looming feeling of distrust and that bitter taste of reality mixed with a little disappointment left in the back of my mouth. Disappointment in humanity, maybe. Disappointment in a system that should work and should be civil and should be treated as a privilege, but isn’t any more.

18,500 people in Clemmons couldn’t even be bothered to vote in 2015, and I was one of them. I’m embarrassed to admit that even I can do better.

But a pretty big part of me is still saying, It doesn’t have to be like this.

So. Claire. How is it going?

For a while there, I was tired. My spirit was weary.

The king of our castle, who still holds his full time job by the way, and has managed to eek out my Dadderday despite the number of plates he has been juggling through all of this, is working overtime, emotionally holding three times the load he is used to, and carting our children around with him, whenever he can.

My marriage and my family are under a stupid amount of stress that we signed up for, and I think maybe average people are unaware that this is what it is like.

But maybe I’ve come full circle.

Because I’m also hopeful. And I’m encouraged. There is still an even greater number of people who are speaking words of truth, love, support, prayer, and encouragement over me and my family every day.

The town that I know and love is still here. The people who have become family to us have stepped up, again, and again, and again. And, despite my weariness of the election, I really do have full faith that no matter what happens on Tuesday, we’re going to wake up on Wednesday the same people we are today.

By that I mean, exactly as awesome as we always have been.

This post may contain affiliate links. Read my full disclosure here.

This post may contain affiliate links. Read my full disclosure here.

Holy crap, it’s October.

Thank you, North Carolina, for masking that fact through yet another Indian Summer. You know I’ll never complain about being too hot.

But seriously.

It’s October.

And that means costumes.

And you know how much I love costumes.

Yesterday I braved my one morning with both kids home to tackle the Big Box store strip. Mm hm, Winston-Salem, I’m talking a little HanesMallBoulevard action. I hope you strapped on your shopping shoes, kids, cause we got cat food, a coffee maker, shampoo, and cereal to buy!

Everywhere we went Isaiah noted the displays, and commented, loudly, “What?! Again?! It isn’t even Halloween yet!”

To which I replied, 47 times, “Actually, it basically is.”

And what better way to celebrate than with a little gallery of all my favorite adult dress-up moments (and a few kid moments thrown in for good measure).

It turns out, John and I do costumes for couples with more than just Halloween regularity.

(It turns out I do costumes for free food with more than just Halloween regularity.)

But seriously. If you are in need of some costume ideas, inspiration, or just a reason to be excited about the change in weather and the upcoming loss of an hour of sunlight, this should help.

Enjoy.

1. Pregnant Pirate

2. Western Sheriff and Saloon Girl (weak)

3. Adorable Cows

4. Fortune Teller and Her Best Transgendered Friend

5. More Pirates

6. Cowboys and Indians (with a Papoose!)

7. Sexy College Roommate

8. The Crazy Cat Lady from Down the Street

9. Escape from Alcatraz

10. On the Spot Limericks, Jester

11. Coven of Witches

12. Republicans

13. Angry Cat

14. Yet More Pirates

15. Pregnant Skeleton

16. Mad Men

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I awoke to news of yet another mass shooting.

Yet. Another.

And again with the title worst in recent history as if each mass shooting has to outdo the last.

Unlike the Boston Marathon bombing, I’m miles and time zones and and even basic interests away from Las Vegas and country music.

And yet.

My spirit is heavy and my heart is hurting and I cannot listen to the radio and I cannot turn on the TV and I desperately count down the minutes until I hear the pistons of the school bus make its stop at the end of my street because this morning my big girls bickered before 7am and left the house unhappy, and left me and John tired and annoyed and frustrated by yet another small fight before 7am.

I checked in with the handful of friends I know who may have been in or near the tragedy and all have been marked safe.

I scrolled through endless updates that sound so much like the endless updates of the last time this happened.

The last time this happened.

Because this is becoming normal in my adult life. News of mass shootings by crazy people who live in my country.

And I usually put politics and faith and feminism and money and all those other polarizing conversations on the back burner in light of the fact that I entertain a rather diverse set of friends and acquaintances.

So I’ve never hid the fact that I’m a Christian and when it comes up in conversation I’m not terrible at explaining to someone who cares, why I believe what I believe.

But I never write about it in my blog.

And I never post religiously themed Facebook updates.

I realize that the last several conversations I’ve had about church have largely included the fact that I’m up late, again, the night before I must be at church early for coffee duty, a neighborhood joke that somehow has not yet ceased to get old.

Or maybe it has.

But today I’m writing about something I never write about, and then I’m going to freak out for a few hours about hitting “publish” and then I’m probably going to put my computer all the way away and think about how my message is received and worry about the fact that I wrote it and how I said it and what everyone thinks.

Because.

I know I frequently project an attitude that I neither think about, nor care about what others think of me, but the truth is I’m exactly as human and exactly as female as the rest of them.

Here’s the thing.

Another crazy-psycho-evil-human went on a crazy-psycho-evil-rampage last night, and altered individual lives, as well as history, forever.

And though I have, so far, no direct connection to anyone affected, my day and my week have also been altered. Because I’m human. And I have a soul.

Many people today will soapbox gun reform.

Others will question the God I believe in, and why He allows bad things to happen to good people.

Many people will send “positive thoughts” out to the universe in a gesture of goodwill, positivity, and the message of love trumping hate.

And many people (some who have never claimed any sense of religious faith), will recirculate a message of prayer, for Vegas, for those affected, for those connected.

I do believe that love trumps hate.

I do believe in the power of prayer.

I do believe in an all-powerful and holy and good God who does not cause these things to happen, nor is He ambivalently looking down on his creation when they do happen, and doing nothing.

But here’s the rest of my sense of truth, and the part I’m always most afraid to talk about and write about. The part where half of my friends on Facebook stop reading. The part where many people who thought they knew me maybe get annoyed.

I also believe there is evil in the world and for me, it’s name is Satan. And bad things happen to good people because (I believe) Satan is alive and well on this planet we call Earth.

And, I’m sorry, but I believe there is no amount of positive thinking that is going to stop Satan.

Many people seek truth in times of tragedy and all too often, I shy away from dropping my truth bombs, because they are extreme, they are most definitely exclusive, and I don’t want to be lumped into the group of Christians that everyone loves to hate.

When it comes to good and evil, I believe in exactly two sides, and only two sides. I do not believe in a safe neutral middle ground.

If you are feeling hopeless, as is becoming all too common of a national sentiment these days, I actually believe there is Hope.

If you are wondering what will fix this shit planet we’re all trying to share, I believe the solution is already available.

If you ask me to pray for you, I hope you are ready for a miracle. Because what most of you don’t know is that when I pray, I actually believe that miracles will happen. And then, often, they do. And they don’t usually look like the thing all of us humans were looking for.

Call me a freak, but whether you subscribe to my faith or not, if you really looked inside yourself, I know you cannot deny that there is a spiritual something that is part of you. Maybe it is a part of you that you’ve been missing for a while. Maybe it is part of you that seems at odds with every other part of you. Maybe it is just a compulsion to do good when the world seems to keep overflowing with evil.

Because. We are souls. We are not bodies. We are souls.

And I believe we were created for an intimate connection with our Creator.

I have an intimate connection with my Creator. It doesn’t mean my life is perfect, and it doesn’t mean I am fearless, and you know it certainly doesn’t mean I am sinless.

But I’m not also not going to concede that the answer for evil is a general sense of good.

I really do believe there is only One answer.

You are allowed to disagree with me, and weirdly, hah, I can still be friends with you. I merely hope this doesn’t put us at awkward odds.

And now I’m going to kiss my kids. And I’m going to kiss my husband. And I’m going to do good because it feels good and it is the right thing to do.

But I’m also going to pray in such a way and on a level that many people never seek.

And I’m going to expect miracles.