Goodbye, My Little Boy

Yesterday the phone rang with the call some part of me has been expecting for a year or two now. It was the Galax Police Department calling to notify me they had found my 23-year-old son dead in his apartment after being asked to do a welfare check.

It's the call no mother wants to get, but after living with his addiction for so long it was one I expected at the back of my mind. I thought I was prepared, but really, until the phone rang I always clung to hope that he would turn his life around.

I'm still struggling to wrap my head and heart around the idea that this time he really is gone. Our communication has been so spotty for years, so full of anger at times, that I'm used to not hearing from him for days or weeks. Just a week ago, he called wanting a Playstation 4 for Christmas. I told him no.

He had skipped Thanksgiving, I think at least partly because he was angry with me over a Facebook post in which I was thankful for him, despite the fact that he hadn't always been the son I imagined. I was uncertain over what Christmas would bring. Maybe that was the cloud that's been hanging over my holiday. I hadn't even bought him any gifts.

Now I won't get to, ever again.

There's a picture of him on the living room wall holding my dog last Christmas, sporting a goofy toboggan and a grin. When he was straight, he had a lethal sense of humor and was always worried about me. In my memories he is the golden haired little boy who trooped behind his older sister and worried her to death as she played; the elementary schooler who liked being smart and didn't care for basketball or karate; the middle schooler who put on weight and had braces and didn't like himself as much as he should have because I still loved his smile. He's also the sullen teen who stretched out and became tall and lean, who gave up band and skate boarding, who put his fist through the wall and wouldn't do chores. Yet on good days he still gave awesome hugs and when he managed a smile, the room would light up.

The good days, however, seemed fewer and farther between the older he got. Instead of correcting his path, he intentionally chose it, repeatedly. We argued, by text, at great length last month about all the wonderful things he thought his drug of choice did for him and whether or not he was happy. When he was high, he thought he was Death incarnate, or maybe god. He was immortal and capable of anything he set his mind to doing. He hated everything around him except the video games in which he could further escape from reality.

I know he had dreams -- of being a video game designer, of having a family and being a dad. He told me he wanted to be a good dad, which was so sad because his dad was such a deadbeat, and he was great with children. His nieces adored him. But he poisoned his chances at all that when he started using drugs, when he chose repeatedly to keep using them. In many ways, I lost my son when he and his best friend started getting high. He was never the same after that; moody, angry, scary and demanding.

He always thought that since it wasn't an illegal drug, or even one he had to obtain illegally, that it was OK. Dextromethorphan is a cough suppressant and central nervous system depressant. It's sold over the counter and safe in recommended dosages. Taken a whole pack or more at a time, however, it mimics the effects of PCPs. It causes psychosis, seizures, organ damage, and potentially death.

He left home for nearly a year when he was 16, loading his belongings in a rage on the day my grandfather died. Even when he didn't live with me though, I gave him a phone to keep in touch, came to his rescue when he needed me, took afternoons off work to deal with a broken heart. He came home the next summer because they didn't have room for him any more and I wanted him to finish school, which he did. But frankly, I was afraid of him and his angry outbursts. He turned 18 and graduated, still with no purpose or desire to have one, and I made him move out.

He had a few jobs, wrecked a few cars, and was living in his car when one last accident ended its usefulness. By then he was having seizures. He was unable to work, so I rented him an apartment and took him regularly to Winston-Salem to see a doctor and psychologist. We didn't know that, even then, he continued to use. Then he found a roommate and they got high together, he went into a psychosis and pulled a Japanese sword on the roommate, and we found out the truth. He was in jail when we cleaned out his apartment and found bag after bag of empty blister packs where he'd been taking drugs -- drugs he stole, by the way.

I should have known by the illogical rages, I guess. But even though I knew the drugs had caused the neurological damage that brought on the seizures, I didn't know their effects as well as I would have some widely discussed street drug.

When he got out of jail, I refused to enable him any more. He moved to Virginia with my parents. He never worked again, except odd jobs at the church and for my family. When my dad's illness meant mom couldn't take care of him as well, he first rented a house, then lost his job at the church and wound up in the homeless shelter. During that time he had a horrific wreck in which he should have been killed. He was high and in a blackout, hit a parked car and went over an embankment. He was ejected and broke multiple bones, including his back, but was not paralyzed. We were all convinced that would be hitting bottom.

For months, back at the shelter, he stayed on the straight and narrow. He had to because of random drug testing. He was a house monitor, had friends and was fun to be around again. When he moved out into an apartment, the first thing he did was get high. This summer police called me and asked if I was his mom. I expected the next words to be a death notification. No, he was on the streets acting strange. He spent two nights in jail for public intoxication.

I hate to admit how seldom I've seen him since his birthday in April. He was in a downward spiral that I knew I was powerless to stop. I talked to him on the phone fairly regularly and tried to make sure he knew I loved him. Often when he called his voice was unintelligible and I would strain to have a conversation, never knowing if he were high or if were an aftereffect of the drugs. Sometimes he called in tears from emotional or mental pain. Lately there had been physical pain as well, but he would not see a doctor.

For years I've prayed for God to heal him, to make him choose sobriety, and more recently just to take away the pain that seemed to drive him. At last, Ethan hurts no more. At one level, my prayers have been answered.

There's a hole in my heart and an ache in my stomach. I'm not sure if writing about it makes it more real, or less. I know now I've had almost a day to process and I'm still not sure I'm ready to do anything else. I hate that, right now, so many of my memories are not good, but maybe that's what I need to get through the next few days. I refuse to take a photo album down and bring happier ones to the surface.

I've been touched by how many people have reached out to me and wept again when I realized how many of my friends have already, in some form, walked this path I'm on. I don't know what to tell people I need beyond time. I'm trying to go on with life and do the things I enjoy instead of trembling in a corner in sackcloth and ashes, and I know that may raise a few eyebrows but my grief won't change his death, just as it never changed the way he chose to live.

I know I'm fragile right now and I'm trying to take care of myself. I wish I could hug him one more time and remind him again that I love him, no matter what. That not being possible I want to hold my daughter and granddaughters and feel the breath in their lungs and the beat of their hearts.

I want to somehow know that he's finally at peace and that I won't ever have to feel this way again.

Goodbye Bambi, Hello Venison

I wish I had grown up in a hunting family.

More specifically, a deer hunting family where you grew up steeped in the knowledge that deer were good, healthy, meat on the hoof; that fall meant hunting season and going out to sit motionless in the woods near a game trail or bait pile and waiting for that perfect combination of lighting, deer size and range; where I would have seen a deer shot and dressed so many times that I would have an easy acceptance of the process.

Of course, at the time I never had that thought. I was all about Bambi. Ah, the damages done to children by that wonderful Disney classic. Deer were mommies and daddies, beloved by their little children who still needed them at the time hunting season rolled around; hunters were evil, careless people who would just as soon set the woods on fire.... Well, I still like the movie, but the reality isn't quite the same.

Instead, I grew up in a farming family. My grandfather each fall toted some unlucky steer, and most years an unlucky pig as well, to the slaughterhouse and returned with loads of beef and pork. Without any thought on our part, we filled our freezer with some portion of that beef. Sometimes we went over so the adults could help make sausage and liver pudding, and season and wrap the hams and shoulders for hanging, and we children could be both fascinated and appalled by the pig's head (from which Granny would clean the brain for Pa's breakfast) and his sad, blank eyes.

Even though I was as into Charlotte's Web as Bambi, (why has no one ever romanticized beef?) and sometimes knew the pigs who had started out as bottle babies in the house, because that was part of my upbringing, I accepted it. I might wonder how Pa, who had actually fed the piglets and toted corn and hay to the steers, could kill his animal, but I didn't turn my nose up at eating it.

Squirrel and rabbits, which my grandpa did on occasion hunt when I was younger, were sometimes part of the Sunday dinner. I don't remember eating rabbit, but I know I rejected squirrel based entirely on how it looked in the pan. Despite the hoard of squirrels that dine for free with my hens, I know I would never get past that mental image to hunt and eat squirrel unless I was desperately hungry.

On the other hand, deer, or perhaps I should say venison, is my everyday meat of choice. Other than a steak or burger now and then, I haven't bought beef or pork in about a year. My neighbor, who is a devoted deer hunter and whose wife doesn't like the meat, provided me with a large, dressed out buck last year. He even transported the meat to be processed and sent me to pick it up and fill my freezer.

Now I'm down to a few pounds, he hasn't bagged a spare animal, and the deer I can see frolicking in the field behind my house make me want to take up a crossbow or rifle and go hunting.

A church dinner where teenage girls were bragging about how many deer they had taken this year only made me more acutely aware of what I was lacking. A roadkill deer left by the side of the road makes me angry.

I want to take up deer hunting, but I don't know where to start. Even if I were a dead-on shot with a weapon, I wouldn't know what to do past the shooting part. And although, intellectually, I'm good with it, I know that even if I did know what to do, the reality would be different. No amount of YouTube videos or hunting games would be the same as the real thing.

I'm also hampered by the fact that, although my neighbor would take me with him, my time is limited and doesn't always correspond with his. Early mornings would work for me, most days, but evening hunting is impossible thanks to my other duties as Ma. Still, I think I'm so desperate to learn that somehow I'm going to have to find the time, even if it means long fruitless hours in the cold. I want to experience it and know I can accept it. Then, by gosh, I want to do it.

I want to, somehow, even at this point in my life, become part of that group of people who spend their spare time in a deer stand and fill their freezers with venison. I want to go past counting on the good luck of a friend to being able to depend a little more on myself.

Yes, I know some of my animal loving friends may be a bit shocked by this, but I seriously want to be a hunter. I want another degree of separation from the factory farms and steroid/antibiotic fed meat of the beef/pork industry. I want a healthier alternative, not to mention cheaper.

Like planting a garden and raising laying hens who may also fill my freezer, I want to be more food independent for a wide range of reasons.

Somehow, I'm determined to make it happen and have another skill to pass on to the little people around me, who already accept venison comes from deer and we eat them.

Still, it would have been so much easier if I'd just been raised in a hunting family.

My Holiday Tradition -- Ornaments

After battling three little people off and on for a week and extracting one ornament from the baby's mouth, I finally decorated my tree.

Now, although it looks fine and I don't have to worry about that item on my check list, I almost have a case of buyer's remorse because it doesn't feel like my tree. It's not the tree I'm used to having, well, OK, so it's the same tree I had last year. I should say it's not the ornaments I'm used to seeing, but I just wasn't up to two more weeks of the struggle I had last week just to protect a few small balls. So instead of a tree full of tradition and memories, I decorated the tree with the large, shatterproof balls I bought on clearance last year for the hemlock tree in the front yard. They never made it to that tree because 1) I would need to tote the ladder to the tree, 2) When I decided I was ready to drag out the ladder, I didn't have hangers for them, and 3) Once I had hangers, the weather was nasty.

When my daughter was small and I put away the glass ornaments that weren't safe, I was left looking for alternatives. Among the less dangerous and inexpensive options I found that year, I stumbled on a few that were worthy of keeping. As the years went on and I was still dealing with small children and a limited budget, I began making it a habit to find an ornament each year for each child. They were figurine ornaments -- mice on candy canes, characters from Rudolph the Red Nosed reindeer, skateboarders -- a hodgepodge of characters that gradually filled up my tree, bumping more traditional ornaments into boxes for outdoor use.

Once upon a time, decent ornaments even came in Happy Meals. There was a Miss Bianca the year The Rescuers movie came out; a Prancer from the movie with Sam Elliott and the fallen reindeer; a dog from All Dogs Go to Heaven (I think that was the movie) that played a holiday tune. Of course, one year the dog wouldn't stop playing his tune and I took him out on the porch with a hammer. He's a small, stuffed animal, and I was able to successfully smash the music box and shut him up without damaging his appearance. I don't think the children were too badly traumatized.

By the time the children were both big enough for glass to be safe, the plastic figurines were an established part of Christmas and each year I chose one as an early gift. They were never really expensive, because by and large a Hallmark ornament would have looked out of place among the early contenders, but each came to have a little meaning of its own.

There came a point when my daughter left home that I boxed up the children's ornaments, thinking I'd start fresh. I offered hers to her to start her tree, but she said they were more my memories than hers. She decided she wanted to continue the tradition, but start fresh with her own family. Because she and her husband are in a better financial place than I was, their tree is done up in Hallmark and Disney. Of course, that also brings a little more drama if one gets broken -- because there is cost as well as emotional attachment. Although it's changed a bit, the tradition lives on.

At my house, it continues as well. After a brief hiatus of no new ornaments for children, there are now three little girls to add to the tree. Each year the search for a symbolic ornament sends me into the Christmas shops of various stores for E1, E2, and this year E3 as well. I plan on continuing the tradition, but this year they simply aren't going on the tree. I just don't want the ongoing struggle with the daily drama of three little people, or at least that's how I feel today.

I know there are people who decorate with certain colors or themes for a few years, then change it all up. I guess I'm just too sentimental for that. Or maybe too cheap -- do you know how much just a seasonal decorating change can cost? I didn't intentionally set out to change the tree's theme this year, it just sort of happened.

And I don't expect the big colorful balls will continue to reign over the tree. Although they look nice and the tree is finally decorated, it doesn't quite feel right and I do miss the old ornaments. I'm sure once the children roll in, I'll forget about how it's decorated and just be glad E3 isn't eating Rudolph and that big ball that just hit the floor won't break and hurt her. The tree will slip into its proper place as a backdrop for the holiday festivities and the change in decor probably won't be noticed.

At the same time, if I feel too much disappointment over no little creatures hiding in the tree, there are still plenty of limbs for some to make a limited appearance this year. Just as long as they're high enough to be out of the hands of certain little people.

Remembering The Woman Who Defined Ma

Eight years ago today my Ma Mary, who had been sick for much of the summer but rallied in the fall, got up, had breakfast and coffee, and sat down in her recliner with her husband of more than 60 years in his chair next to her. They were going to go lie down again, but she wanted to catch her breath.

She'd had surgery and was dealing with the effects of Type II diabetes and glaucoma. She was worried that she was having trouble getting around on her walker and didn't want to get to the point that she couldn't.

A few minutes later Pa looked at her and she was gone. He later told the preacher, "She was just smiling cause she knew she'd beat me."

Like she tried to do most of her life, Ma managed to get away without a lot of fanfare. Always in the background of family pictures, unless you snuck up on her or corralled her, Ma didn't want the spotlight. Losing her, however, took the nucleus out of our family so while she never looked to be in the center of it all, she was exactly that.

When I was growing up, Pa and Ma lived across the rural road from us. Pa was the easy one; Ma a bit tougher (gee, that sounds familiar). He would take us to the store for chocolate milk and goodies. Ma was always busy cooking, cleaning, working in her garden (where we loved to run the rows of towering corn), sewing shirts at her textile plant job. She made my dolls the most awesome clothes and salvaged my much beloved "Susie" doll when her body rotted after years of loving and neglect. The dog that was set out nearby and that we claimed chose to live at her house with her dog.

As we grew up, it was always Ma who would give you the unvarnished truth, whether you wanted it or not. You couldn't pull things over on Ma, and she was far less trusting than Pa. She was always the family's best cook and in many ways most progressive thinker. She had the first color TV, the first artificial Christmas tree. We never left her house hungry and she made the world's best mashed potatoes, stewed beef, chicken and dumplings and chocolate pies. If she had none of those things on hand, she would always offer you a cheese sandwich and my lasting love of pimento cheese sandwiches, grilled and dripping, comes from her. Her chocolate pie recipe is a family treasure.

There were probably many times during my younger years when she wasn't my favorite grandparent. The truth isn't always what you want to hear. There were probably times I avoided talking to her so I wouldn't get a good dose of it.

Yet, when I became an adult (not a magical number but a state of maturity), I would have to say it was Ma I looked up to the most. Ma was the one I wanted to sit with and talk to. Ma was the one with the best hugs, the best ear for listening, the best things to share.

I'd give about anything for one of those good, soft hugs now. I'd love to sit with her and catch up on everything she's missed. I'd love to spin her a tale about my week and watch her smile and listen to her laugh. I'd love to hold her hands again.

When she died, Pa's heart, like the center of our family, was gone as well. There was nothing we could do to pull his interest back to our world. He woke at night to hear her call and see visions of angels and Mary. I didn't wake, but I dreamed of her regularly. Neither of us really believed they were dreams, because in them, I knew she was gone. Once she had my dog, Lucy, who had died a few years earlier and who adored my grandparents, with her. I remember hugging the dog and wanting to hug Ma.

Shortly before Pa died just under 11 months later (the day before my birthday), Pa fell and was hospitalized and largely unconscious. I stopped having any "dreams" about Ma and haven't had one since. Somehow, I think, she was waiting on him.

So when I became a grandmother, although my name was supposed to be Mimi, I considered it nothing short of an honor that E1 chose, simply out of the blue, to call me Ma. (No one had selected that title so no one had been referred to by that name.) It was like a gift had been handed to me. I got to be Ma, with all luggage and honor that came with it.

While my ma didn't have the freedom to keep me (she still had a "real" job when I was small), she was always willing to have little people around when my children were born. I'm betting they found the same no nonsense Ma I did, and I'm afraid my little people are dealing with the same.

I hope that if I'm not always their favorite grandparent (and Lord knows when Papi comes home, I'm apparently not) that I can give them the same gifts Ma gave me. I hope I can fill their hearts with love and memories, their tummies with recipes they'll want to pass on, their heads with honest advice even when they don't want to hear it.

Every time one of them randomly spouts "Ma, I love you," my heart just about breaks with joy, especially when we're doing something as random as loading the car to go to church and I feel like I've not been the ideal Ma because of some disagreement earlier in the day. I hope I was able to give Ma Mary that same joy, and a part of me know that I, my brother, and my cousins all did.

So, although I cannot hug or converse with Ma any more, she's not gone. She's still in my heart and a very important part of the Ma I am every day. That's who I want to be to my little Es. The person that, when I'm gone, they remember with the love and gratitude I feel for her even today.

A Change Will Do You Good

The last few days have been tough weatherwise. Unless you're lucky enough to live in some enviably sunny spot of the world, or are able to adequately entertain little people inside because you live in a gym or something, you'll know what I'm talking about. If not now, then at some point during the winter months.

I know there are probably people who are good parents and caregivers who don't take their children outside for running, screaming, and generally releasing of pent up energy, but I cannot imagine how. Especially with preschoolers. The bounce house, although a great rescue sometimes, isn't always up to the task for yet another day.

So despite the fact that Happy Meals are not the most nutritious dining option, and the toys in them any more are junk, sometimes you just have to bite the bullet and go to the McDonald's Play Place. Granted, I would try another option if there were one close by, but you go with what you've got.

It is beyond me why all the government funded, public recreation for children in my area has to 1)be outside or 2)involve a team sport. There is no such thing as an indoor playground, except for the one at McDonald's. Out of all the big, government buildings with large unused areas of space, no one has ever considered a bit of indoor recreation for the little people. What a waste.

So when I felt at my wit's end before my little people even arrived the other day, I called their mom and said let's meet at McDonald's. We all needed some play time.

Last winter we spent a lot of enjoyable Friday afternoons on the indoor playground. E2 was too small (she's still technically too young) to go through all of the different levels by herself. Since parents are allowed inside, although I can count on one finger the number of parents I've ever seen inside (and that was at a birthday party), we all played. I helped E2 up the steps and onto the different levels. We came down the slide like a bobsled team, with my legs as the sled. It was loads of fun for everyone.

I wasn't sure how it was going to play out with E3 joining the ranks, but I figured we'd cross that bridge when we came to it.

The bigger girls stormed the playground like a fortress in need of toppling. They had to be called back down the stairs to remove their boots and coats because they were just too eager to get going. Before baby and I had our things settled, E2 was popping out the end of the slide -- she'd grown taller over the summer and didn't need Ma's help.

After just a minute or two in the role of spectators, E3 and I decided to enter the fray. Ma got her workout for the day, let me tell you. E3 is weighing in at about 20 pounds, and I lugged her up the stairs like a mama chimp toting her baby. She was delighted with the views and the tunnels. The bigger girls crawled over and around her as they made their mad way around and around. Screaming was allowed, even encouraged, as long as it didn't get too out of hand.

The other children who came through while we were there initially gave me a funny look, but after our first meeting pretty much let it go. I was delighted that the girls remembered to ask the names of their playmates, and when the first little girl encountered the baby and knew her name, I figured they had introduced themselves as well.

We played for an hour before we took a potty break and had lunch. It was another hour before we loaded up and headed home. E3 was asleep in her car seat before I got her in the car and neither of the other two made it home awake, although both woke and then went back to sleep after we got home.

Other than a bit of ache in my shoulders (yes, I'm pretty sure it had to do with E3, because we made at least three trips through the playground, even though we mainly sat in the treehouse portion and played), even I felt better after the outing.

So once again I have to remind myself that the extra effort is worth it, not only for the sanity of little people, but for me. Sure, it would be easier and cheaper to stay home, but sometimes that just isn't the best choice. Like a lot of things in life, from socializing with friends to exercising, a little effort can carry a tremendous reward and make everyone involved feel better about life. Like my earlier discovery about having fun with adult friends, it shouldn't come as a surprise to me. (And yes, we've been socializing regularly with adults and enjoying it tremendously.)

Looks like, new little sister or not, to survive the winter we're going to have to resume some sort of outing schedule. Maybe the weather will allow us more options than McDonald's, but I think we'll take what we can get and have fun with it. I think that applies to more than just a Ma and three Es as well. Sometimes, a bit of change does everybody a lot of good.

A Blue Christmas? Something Needs to Change

The holiday season -- whatever you celebrate and regardless of why you celebrate, heck, even if you don't celebrate -- is tough.

There's no way around it and it's made worse by the fact that we tend to think we're the only ones having a hard time negotiating the terrain of life between Thanksgiving and Jan. 2.

I blame Norman Rockwell and television. Well, that and the fact that we universally lie to one another about how great our holidays are, or our memories from childhood when we didn't really know what was going on are so clouded that we think perfection existed then and it's just now that we are failures.

Wrong.

Dreaming of that greeting card Christmas where everyone gathers around the table, clean, sober and civil, for a holiday toast of eggnog, mulled cider or maybe hot chocolate, can drive us insane when we're actually dealing with the reality.

Reality for a vast number of us, including me, includes a big chunk of dysfunction. How we cope with it affects our ability to enjoy the holidays.

Right now, I'm not doing too good. Despite my intent to focus on my grandchildren, and the fact that I've put my holiday energies there, I'm still struggling to be filled with Christmas cheer. Although I promised myself I would never get caught up in that vision of a perfect holiday that I've seen so many people struggle with, I'm finding it difficult this year. Since my winter depression doesn't usually hit until after the tree comes down, I'm looking for ways to cope better.

So for me, and everyone else that is finding it tough, I've been looking for ideas to help. Some have helped me identify my unexpected blues and maybe they will help you as well. Using medical sources I've narrowed it down to a list of 10.

1) Don't lower your expectations too much. Expecting too little from the holiday as a way of avoiding disappointment can be as bad as expecting too much. Seriously, if you start trying to prepare yourself for a holiday without a family member, you can miss the joy of everyone else. If you just know that nothing will go right, even if it does, you may be so caught in your blue fog that you don't notice. I put this first because I think that's what's happened to me after Thanksgiving. Really, while I missed my son who chose not to come, it didn't keep me from enjoying the day, so I shouldn't let anticipation of a repeat put a damper on Christmas either.

2)Volunteer and do something for someone else. Oops. I've messed up here already. I ALWAYS help pack Christmas food boxes, but I'm so far out of the loop no one reminded me of the date and I missed it this year. In the last 20 or so years, I've only missed doing it once before and perhaps part of my blues comes from that absence. I may need to be looking for another opportunity.

3)Exercise. Doctors recommend that even if you don't feel like you have the time or energy, exercise will help beat back depression. I've been doing some of that, but I'm used to being outside everyday for about an hour of fresh air and walking. I cannot control the weather and the rain has kept me inside. I think that may be part of my problem identified right there. Instead of spending my mornings walking with dogs, I've been stuck inside waiting on stir crazy preschoolers -- hmm, could that be making me a little crazy, too?

4)Find positive ways to remember loved ones. This is the week I lost my Ma. I was sitting in a courtroom waiting on some boring legal decision when my mom called and I felt my phone vibrate. I slipped out to call her back and found out my most beloved grandparent had slipped quietly away less than two weeks before her most beloved holiday and the one we always spent with her. The ways I remember her are positive, but this week I'm exceptionally sad, especially since the weather was so much like this year as well. I'll celebrate her by fixing a ham, and her famous chocolate pies, and maybe some really good mashed potatoes just like she would have done, and by decorating because the little people who call me Ma like it.

5)Use a sun lamp to fight seasonal depression. I have one because I know I have a touch of seasonal depression caused by shorter days. Although it's a bit early in the season, the ongoing rain and gloom are probably contributing to that as well. Got to dig that darn thing out and sit and listen to Christmas carols.

6)Lean on your support system (family, friends, support group, or therapist, if you have one). I've been a slacker in that area as well. I haven't talked to my best friend about just not quite feeling up to Christmas this year. Instead I'm still aiming to be little Miss Christmas. Guess I'm going to have to come clean.

7)In contradiction to not expecting too much, have modest expectations. DO NOT EXPECT THE PERFECT CHRISTMAS! Too many of us (including my family sometimes) dream that somehow we will put aside the differences that keep us from being close the other 364 days of the year and have peace and harmony together at Christmas. Somehow the magic of the season will spread to our dysfunctional families and they will be perfect for that one day. In direct relation to that, don't expect to have the perfect gift for everyone, or that someone will buy the perfect gift for you if you don't tell them what it is. Not giving or getting that gift should not set the tone for the holiday, but I also know that is part of my problem. My adult son has asked for something outlandishly expensive that I know he would love. I had to flat out say no. That's in direct contrast to the mom idea of seeing a child's face light up when they open their gifts -- never mind his age.

8)Don't overindulge in food or holiday "spirits." Darn, I was really looking forward to spiking a really big glass of eggnog and overdosing on calories, sugar and alcohol all at once. Or maybe baking and devouring a few sheets of holiday cookies. I've got some great recipes and I have the perfect little people to help bake them. It would feel good at the time, but the guilt, carb crash and potential hangover wouldn't help my overall mood I know.

9)Forget the unimportant stuff. I know, I do not have to put every decoration on the tree. Yet it haunts me that they are still languishing in a closet. Let it go already. No, I also am not displaying every light and I'm deeming it a failure and blaming it on my lack of enthusiasm and anticipation of having to put it all away after the holiday. No one but me notices that I haven't found my wreath yet (I hope) or hung the icicle lights. Don't we all have things we do that we can probably do without sometimes? I've got to let it go.

10)Remember the reason for the season. OK, so this one didn't make the WebMD list, but really, for most of us taking a step back to think about why we celebrate Christmas instead of how can bring some serenity. It's not about getting together with family, gifts, food, parties, decorating or cooking -- nope, none of the things we get focused on and consumed by are really what matters. Christmas is the day set aside to observe a miracle, love come to life, the redemption of mankind. It's about unselfish love that we've all been given whether we accept it or not. If we remember Christmas and let that love fill us, all these other things don't matter nearly as much.

So let the true spirit of Christmas fill you. Let go of the things stressing you out and be good to yourself. Sounds easy, but I know it won't be quite that simple. Still, it gives us something to aim for and if we manage only partial success, we'll still feel better in the long run.

It Takes a Special Someone

I suppose many people in the course of their lives never run into an animal rescuer, unless they choose to adopt an animal. Then they see the salesman/animal advocate who is trying to determine if a dog is a good fit for the potential home and if they will be a responsible pet owner. Like most of us, they are wearing their public face and what they see as their job at that point, helping you find a companion. You see clean dogs wearing colors and often clothes being loved and cared for by the rescue volunteers.

In my work -- the job that pays my bills and consumes virtually all hours not devoured by Ma status -- I see the other side of animal rescue. Since I started grooming I've offered free grooming to rescue dogs. For the last two years I've been opening the doors of my kennel to rescue groups during my off season. As long as they can bring the dogs up to date on shots, I offer temporary shelter while foster homes or permanent homes are found.

It's a different view of animals -- a front line view of hungry, desperate, dirty dogs, hungry dogs plucked from the side of the road, dogs pulled from death row after days of stress in an animal shelter, dogs surrendered again by the home where they thought they'd finally found sanctuary, dogs found by individuals who decided to offer a home to a dirty, matted, hungry little animal badly in need of a bath and haircut.

It takes a special kind of devotion to creatures God put beneath our domain to be an animal rescuer. Some days, even I think it also takes a special kind of crazy.

The crazy doesn't come from dealing with the animals, though. It comes from putting up with the people who are giving up their pet because: "I don't have enough time for her;" "He's just too big," "She jumps on the children;" "He pees on the carpet;" "She barks too much;" "I don't want to tie him up;" "She keeps having puppies;" "I just can't neuter him;" "We're having a baby." The list goes on and on.

It's a wonder animal rescuers don't start looking at all people like serial killers, after all, they look so normal. And, in a way, they have something in common because often the dogs they give up are put to sleep, and they get another dog forgetting that it needs to be trained or neutered, or that the adorable ball of fur will grow into a big, rambunctious dog that needs exercise and doesn't fit their lifestyle, or that managing children and dogs together requires effort from a parent and training for the dog and child. People all too often don't think out what it means to have a pet -- the responsibility and work, the training and vet bills that balance out the games, stress relief and unconditional love.

Even at a distance, I get aggravated with the people that these dogs belonged to. Everyone from animal hoarders to backyard breeders to people who find the dog just doesn't fit their life any more.

I find the dogs are very seldom to blame, even if they turn out to have behavior issues. Although sometimes they are too damaged by bad breeding and/or bad handling to be the ideal pet. Occasionally, I consider the owners as much a victim of circumstance, but that doesn't happen often.

Two years ago my first fosters were two perfectly wonderful, neutered, large breed females whose owner's work had suddenly been relocated from the rural rambling of Surry County to the city dwelling lifestyle of Charlotte. They had a limited time to move the whole family into a new apartment that the job would provide, and the absolute need to keep the job (who doesn't). The owner's wife took the dogs to get the vaccines they needed to board, spending over $100 at the vet's office, brought foot, and cried when she left. They stayed with me for several months before one was adopted and the other moved into long term foster care. She eventually found a home as well.

Last winter there was the Pekingese whose owner underwent a series of tragedies: first the death of his wife and then a diagnosis of potentially terminal cancer. Headed for Texas to be close to his daughter, he also paid for vetting and food and a month's board before deciding it was best to rehome the dog. I found her a new home within a couple of weeks.

She was quickly followed by two badly damaged chihuahuas who had been mother dogs in a backyard breeder's operation. They had never been well socialized and were entirely dependent on one another. One was so badly frightened of human contact that she would bite if cornered. They were with me for months and a rescue group took care of spaying and their dental issues. Gradually they were rehabilitated enough to come to me, although they could not be separated. I cried when they left and have been to see them twice. I'm not happy with the regression that the more timid one has undergone, but she has a warm, loving home, even if she doesn't want to be cuddled any more.

Since then, it seems there has been a constant flow, although I know there have been many times there were none and there have not been that many. Most of the dogs have been wonderful; warm, loving little animals once you got beyond the dirt, confusion and fear. One or two I'll admit I would not have pulled from the shelter and wished I had not fostered because they were unattractive mixtures of mutts saddled with bad behavior as well. Animal rescuers, however, often see just a living creature in need of help and do whatever they can.

With the return of cold weather, I'm once again seeing a lot of long-term rescues. In between the holidays, they justify heating the kennel and I think I'm at my highest number with seven: the absolutely beautiful American Bull Dog who had been tied out and jumped on by other male dogs so that, even now, he cannot abide being around another male dog his size (small dogs and females are OK and he trusts me to protect him when we walk with a leash because he has no issues then); the mature Shar'pei mix who is heartworm positive and needs neutering and whose owner went into assisted living and could not keep him; and five death row escapees, all owner surrenders at the animal shelter who were pulled within hours of the end of their lives' journey, who all appear to be wonderful dogs, only in need of a bath and neutering.

As vested as I get in these dogs (two have been with me more than two months), I cannot imagine how the people who work the actual front line manage it. They are blessed with a deep well of compassion that allows them to clean up, calm, feed, and love dogs (and cats and sometimes more) who are often not at their best and who sometimes have a long road to recovery from all types of abuse.

That they manage to do it for years, sometimes on their own and sometimes with a good support network of fosters and donors, is nothing short of amazing. That they do it without at some level coming to despise a vast portion of humanity is a miracle.

Joaquin Phoenix, despite the number of times he is quoted and the fact that I chose one of those images above, is wrong. Being kind to an animal who has been mistreated does take something away from animal rescuers. It takes away money, respect for their fellow human beings, and little pieces of their hearts. I know, because even a step removed being kind to these animals does the same thing for me.

But while it does take something, the rewards are so much greater: Seeing an animal who had never walked on grass run across a lawn in delighted surprise; Watching a dog that had never played engaged in a game of chase with another dog; Holding an animal who feared humans, but who finally felt your lap would be the perfect place to lie down; Knowing that an animal was alive, finally safe with a loving family because you were willing to give a little something of yourself to help them on the journey.

If you don't know a rescuer, then you really should. Help them out if you can. Adopt one of those experienced animals; foster one on his or her journey to a forever home; donate some of your money if you don't have the time, space, or ability to do anything else.

Yes, being kind to animals does take a little something, but you really wind up richer for the experience.