2002 Archives

Fall 2002:
Advanced Motherhood -- Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
Fear Factor is For Wimps -- Julie Donner-Andersen

DECEMBER 2002:
'Tis the Season to Feel Tired -- Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
Stressing Traditions -- Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
The Christmas Potty -- Julie Donner-Andersen
The Ghost of Christmas Past -- Julie Donner Andersen

The Ghost of Christmas Past

By Julie Donner-Andersen

Every new bride dreams of the first Christmas to be shared with her new husband. She wants it to be perfect, special, and wonderful. She conjures up images of snow gently falling in the moonlight upon the earth below, while a fire roars in the fireplace, as her new husband and she merrily decorate their freshly cut Christmas tree with ornaments they have purchased together or been given in their honor, each one with a heartfelt meaning attached. They gaze lovingly into each other's eyes, knowing this is a unique occasion that has never been and will never be repeated. Their minds are focused only on the other, and how blessed they are to have found one another.

We WOWs (Wives Of Widowers) also want a special holiday that will burn into our memory for years to come, too. And while we can have all these special moments, there are a few glaring exceptions and challenges, with the biggest issue being dealing with the Ghost of Christmas Past (or in other words, the late wife).

My First Christmas Experience

The first Christmas season my widowed husband and I shared together early in our relationship was a turning point in his grief journey. I recall floodgates of tears as the "Ghost" made her appearance in the form of "their" significant mementos and unabashed memory-sharing. He was nearing his third year of grief, and had not had a significant other with whom to share his holidays since her death. As each of "their" ornaments made its way out of the storage box and onto his tree, my husband regaled me with story after story of "their" Christmases and what each bauble meant to him and to her.

While I truly wanted to be the supportive and sympathetic partner, my heart was breaking. It seemed as if there was nothing special left for us to share that would be wonderful in his eyes, since he had already shared it all with "her". Selfishly, I felt as if my presence meant nothing to him, and I began to wonder why I was even there, trying to revive his otherwise dismal holiday spirit. I worried, "Would all our holidays be like this - full of only "her" memories and his sadness?". But, I persevered, hoping once we got passed the decorating, things would improve.

No such luck.

On that Christmas morning, I eagerly sat next to him on "their" couch, in "their" house, in front of "their" tree, with "their" Christmas CDs playing in the background, secretly hoping that my gift from him would be so thoughtful and so beautiful that my insecurities would be washed clean and replaced by wonderful new traditions and memories of our own. Imagine my shock and disappointment to open my gift and find a pair of flannel pajamas with a snapped drop-bottom in the rear! Unromantic, to say the least. But a bigger disappointment than that was knowing beforehand that the late wife's first gift from him was an opal ring with diamonds and a greeting card that dripped with sentimentality and hopes of their future together... and I got a union suit!!

This was not the one-of-a-kind piece of jewelry that signifies a man's deep desire to make his woman happy. This was not the sentimental, "I know her so well" gift that every woman dreams of receiving from the man she loves.

Oh no! This gift didn't even come with a lousy greeting card! THIS, my friends, was a gift that said, "I'm still not sure of my feelings for you, and I'm still so deep in grief that I'm not so sure I'll ever NOT be". The Ghost of Christmas Past had done what she came to do... and I wanted to hate her for it.

The Ghost of Christmas Present

Dinner that evening was to be enjoyed at the Ghost of Christmas Present's house, also known as my mother-in-law - a kindly widow of age 69 who welcomed me, loved me as if I were her own child, and was happy I had come into the family fold, but even more so into her son's life. This was a woman, although sweet and petite, to be reckoned with, for she took no prisoners, even her own children, when she was crossed. Tonight was to be no exception. Having noticed her son's gloomy behavior all through dinner and throughout the evening, I discovered years later that this wise and wonderful lady, while I packed the car with our gifts, took her son aside and sternly spoke a reasonable facsimile of these words, with a mother's love and a widow's heart:

"Holidays have always been a little hard for me since your father passed away, son. But you'd never know it, would you? You only see me smiling and enjoying my family. That's because what happens on each Christmas day is more joyful, more wonderful, more special, and bigger, than the grief I bear. And do you know why? Because life is for the living - and I'm not through living mine yet! And YOU, my dear son, need to remember that you have just begun to live yours. I have so many children to love and grandchildren to watch grow. My past is bright with memories, and my future will be, too, as long as I remember that TODAY is my gift - the most precious gift of all - and the people you love and who love you today are what makes Christmas wonderful."

Make it Your Own!

I believe that every day of life is a gift from God, and to live for the present is to show your appreciation for such a gift. Those who live life to the fullest and embrace with love the special people around them for the joy that they bring will never grieve so badly that the Ghost of Christmas Past ruins their holidays. They will laugh, love, share, and be happy, even if the Ghost makes an occasional appearance.

I wish I could say that from that day forward, I received from my husband the best sentiments that Hallmark™ had to offer, jewelry to adorn a queen, and never again had to face the Ghost of Christmas Past. But, I CAN tell you that I have always received flannel pajamas each Christmas, because they represent a special, funny tradition, unique to my marriage and no one else's... and I couldn't be merrier.

I now experience Christmas as it should be for every married couple... snow gently falling in the moonlight upon the earth below while a fire roars in the hearth, as my husband and I merrily decorate our freshly cut Christmas tree with ornaments we have purchased together or been given in our honor, each one with a heartfelt meaning attached. We celebrate life in "our" home, open gifts on "our" couch, with "our" CDs playing in the background. We gaze lovingly into each other's eyes, knowing this is a unique occasion that has never been and will never be repeated. Our minds are focused only on the other, and on how blessed we are to have found one another.

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Excerpted from the book, PAST: Perfect! PRESENT: Tense! Insights From One Woman's Journey As The Wife Of A Widower, by Julie Donner Andersen

The Christmas Potty

By Julie Donner-Andersen

Stressing Traditions

When Old Traditions Become Really Old

We have an old holiday tradition in the Finn Family (my family of origin) that goes back as far as I can remember. That tradition is one of stress. Lots of stress. Especially on Christmas Eve.

That one night has always been a jam-packed, crazy-filled marathon of events in which my mother invariably finishes up her last-minute Christmas shopping; buys the last minute-discounted Christmas tree; shops for the last-minute Christmas dinner; and then spends the rest of the night yelling at the "kids" to finish decorating the tree, before she disappears into the kitchen to begin wrapping gifts, which she does until the sun comes up.

Over the years, I have encouraged my mom to alter her traditions (if only slightly). I have pointed out ways that her evening could be less stressful, so that the celebration could be more meaningful. But my mom's response is always the same. "Tradition is tradition. It can't be changed." And so for 35 years of my life, I have been treated to some stressfully unchanging holiday traditions.

About the time my four sisters, three brothers, and I became colleged-age, this holiday tradition of "cramming it all in on Christmas Eve" ceased to be enjoyable or make any sense. We'd come home, expecting to see our mother and instead would find that she was Missing in Action. Truthfully, she wasn't missing, but out shopping at whichever retailer happened to have extended Christmas Eve hours, determined to find the perfect gift or at least the perfect discounted gift. And as expected, she was not going to reappear at home (where her guests waited patiently for their absent hostess), until the last store turned off its lights and had its security guard escort her off the premises. My mother, it seems, only shops well under pressure.

When we were children, we always bought the Christmas Tree on Christmas Eve. And that wasn't so odd, since it seemed a lot of other families also followed this tradition. But mainly this was done out of financial necessity. Our family insisted on having a gigantic nine-foot tree, which we could only afford after all trees were marked down on Christmas Eve. Needless to say, by the time we were in college it didn't matter how much money we threw at our mom,. She simply would not buy the tree even a minute before the family custom dictated. And so, my siblings and I would return to our childhood home (knowing our mom was going to be out shopping for the next twelve hours) and begin to share a couple of beers and conversation.

Inevitably, my mom would rush in, and without saying so much as a hello, would instruct us in our Christmas Tree Mission. Not an easy task, considering that on Christmas Eve most Christmas tree lots are closed, empty, or left with slim pickings. This Christmas Eve-Christmas Tree Quest might have been born out of financial necessity, but it had become sort of an annoying tradition that my mother insisted on. Even now, I get cold sweats just thinking about the prospect of buying and decorating a monstrously large tree on Christmas Eve.

When we were children, Christmas truly was a magical day, and Christmas Eve a spectacular night. Unlike today, where most American kids (including my own) are used to a daily life of excess, back in the olden days of the 1970's (remember the Recession and gas shortage), the excess and extravagance of Christmas truly were unique and exciting. I grew-up in a large Irish-Italian Catholic family with eight kids. Needless to say life was lean, especially after my father suffered a debilitating stroke and was no longer able to work. And yet, by some miracle, come hell or high water, we always had Christmas. And at least on Christmas Day, we didn't feel deprived. We were as good as any other kids; at least Santa thought so. And no matter how bad things were, Christmas was always a joyful and enchanting celebration.

Of course, we didn't know that our magical Christmas was only possible because our mother was skilled at waiting until the right moment, the last moment, to take advantaged of markdowns and sales in order to stretch her limited budget as far as she possibly could. We also didn't realize that our mom waited until Christmas Eve to buy our dinner and tree because that was when she would receive her Christmas bonus, the supermarkets gave out their free turkeys, and monetary gifts from relatives would arrive. We didn't realize that our "Miracle Christmas" was only possible because our mother spent an exhaustive 48 hours pulling everything together as best she could.

Somewhere along the line, the necessity of this last minute Miracle Christmas no longer was a necessity. After all, we were no longer children. We had stopped believing in Santa Claus and the ludicrous notion that even poor kids could have everything they wanted. But the last minute Christmas had become a habit - a bad habit - that weirdly evolved into the official "Finn Family Tradition." And our family motto became "Christmas won't be Christmas without chaos."

Myself, I have tried to avoid many of the pitfalls of the "Finn Family Tradition." I'm not saying that all of our traditions were horrible or psychologically-damaging. I just do not have the desire to be repeat the "last minute Christmas Eve Tradition" with my own children. Not that I'm perfect by any means. If truth be told, I probably go into "Martha Stewart hyper-drive" during the holiday season, putting up my own Christmas tree by the first week of December and becoming a super-organized and highly-efficient holiday planning machine.

But I'm also very aware of my specific holiday weaknesses and I plan for them accordingly. For example, although I generally like to shop, I have a severe physical aversion to overcrowded stores during the holiday season and so I avoid the mall entirely the last two weeks of December. Instead, I shop early (as in October/November) and hide gifts away. I do the bulk of "Santa's shopping" via the Internet, never even stepping into a store or lifting my butt from my chair for that matter. By shopping early I avoid shipping costs and have the gifts shipped right to my front door. Internet shopping is so convenient and easy that I'm beginning to think the only way they could improve upon it is if they agreed to actually deliver the wrapped packages on Christmas Eve with UPS drivers dressed up like elves.

Now I know that my way of doing things isn't necessarily the right way or only way of doing things. But it works for me. Sure, I know lots of other families that prefer to spend Christmas Eve running their credit cards to their absolute limits, rather than quietly bonding over hot cocoa. But I simply don't want to be stressed out and busy on Christmas Eve. I want my family - my husband, my kids, and our dog - to spend the night home together, relaxing, and not stuck in some overcrowded mall, cursing out inexperienced seasonal employees while our children whine about being tired and hungry.

While the extravagance of Christmas giving was once special to children who had so very little, my own children are more than overcompensated with material objects (or as my husband would say "spoiled rotten"). Therefore, my Christmas tradition no longer stresses the magnificent tree, a bountiful dinner, or numerous goodies and gifts. And my mom would say that's because my kids have "Christmas" every day of the year. And I would have to agree with her. That's why, to me, celebrating Christmas is about taking a moment to enjoy what we have as a family, not in material gifts, but in the gift of each other.

O.K. I know I sound a little corny, a bit too much like "Christmas Soup for the Soul." But Christmas brings out the sentimental and cornball in all of us. And before you start feeling sorry for my kids (and their mean hippie non-material mom), you should know that as always they will be receiving an adequate amount of store-bought toys from "Santa". You also should know that I'm not completely against the materialism of Christmas and I would never ever advocate a rebellion against the spirit of unbridled holiday spending. Actually, if I did, I would be ousted from my home. My husband is employed by a major retailer, and our family fully supports the mass consumer holiday season as it allows us to enjoy the magic of Christmas ourselves.

I am, however, proposing that when you do spend your money, you spend it wisely. Don't wait until the last minute or try to spread yourself (or your wallet) too thin. And remember to spend time with the ones you love, as well.

Perhaps it is a natural part of growing up that I eventually outgrew the traditions created by my family of origin and began creating new customs within my new family. I believe that the traditions of my childhood started to lose their magic when they stopped being expressed as "Our family likes to celebrate Christmas this way" and became "WE HAVE TO CELEBRATE CHRISTMAS THIS WAY." And yet, I still believe that traditions are an important way for different generations to build a strong sense of shared purpose, belonging, and longevity. But I also feel that traditions should be flexible and reflect the needs and personality of the ever-changing family unit.

I hope I remember to be this open-minded when my own children express an interest in changing an honored family tradition that I helped create. And I hope that 30 years from now our "Arnold Family Traditions" won't have become rigid and stale. After all, once traditions become mandates, they stop being fun, meaningful, or inviting. And then, they risk becoming part of Christmas Past, rather than Christmas-Yet-To-Come.

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Copyright 2002 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold. All Rights Reserved.

'Tis the Season to Feel Tired

There is an incredibly corny line in the movie Field of Dreamsthat used to make my husband and I hysterical with laughter. When Kevin Costner's character Ray, first sees his father as a young man, he utters, "It's my father -- before life had worn him down."

"Who talks like that?" I'd say. "What the heck does it even mean?" My husband would ask.

Through the years, this line has seemed somewhat less corny, and has unfortunately taken on a lot more meaning. My husband and I have been married for eight years. We met in college at the youthful age of 20. We have two children now, six-year-old Olivia, and three-year-old Jared. We have a lot of commitments and responsibilities, including a mortgage, two car payments, and future college tuitions to start saving. Our weekends are often busier than our weekdays with our children's hectic social calendars dictating our lives.

Sometimes, I just look at my husband on a Friday night (after we have finally gotten the kids to bed and both look absolutely pooped) and say, "Life has worn me down."

To which my husband seriously responds, "You and me both."

I hate to admit it, but I'm feeling old. I think it might have to do with the fact that I haven't had a fitful night of sleep in six years and haven't had a day off in forever. And I'm really tired. It might also have to do with the fact that our entire society seems to be in perpetual motion, without a moment to spare or sit still. And this month signifies the busiest and most stressful time of all -- the holiday season is upon us.

But it's not just the stress of the holidays that has got me down. And it isn't just that the days are short and my evolutionary clock is telling my body to snack up, shut down, and hibernate. It also isn't simply due to the fact that my home state of New Jersey is suffering from record low temperatures or that the snow is already piling up outside my window (and we rarely see snow before Christmas).

The real reason I'm feeling "old" is because I turned 35 in October. And suddenly I realize that even though the clocks "fall back an hour" every year around my birthday, there's just no way of turning back the years on the "Big Clock."

I was never one to let birthdays and arbitrary numbers get me down. I'm the one who used to crack, "You're only as old as you feel." Which of course is incredibly obnoxious advice coming from a twenty-something kid. And while many of my friends were depressed to turn 30, I was too busy having babies and feeling as if my life was "right on track."

On the outside, I even used to feel as if I looked pretty good "for a mom." Of course, that was until the National Enquirer splashed a 40-year-old Demi Moore on its cover. The photo showed an amazingly sexy and barely clad Demi, but also gleefully reported that the middle-aged mom had spent half a million dollars to look that good.

How can a regular mom like me compete with that? I can't even motivate myself to stick to a regular exercise routine, or shed the extra ten pounds my body has gained since becoming a mother. And while in theory I entertain thoughts of plastic surgery (for the far future when I might need it), I also think I'm just too squeamish to ever actually have a toxin injected into my cheeks or the fat sucked out of my jiggly thighs.

Which makes me think that my aching, aging, sluggish 35-year-old body is here to stay. I mean, sure I'm not surrendering completely to old age (I think I heard my husband let out a loud sigh of relief), not just yet. I just finally accept that I can bring this body in for a tune-up; but I'm never going to have a complete overhaul. And I'm simply never going to look as good as Demi Moore, ever. So be it.

Part of me hates that America's "youth obsession" has such an apparent effect on me. As a feminist, I hate that looks count and that women in our society are discounted once they are past their "so-called prime". I hate that the natural aging process of a woman's body, especially a woman who has given birth, is not considered beautiful or sexy. I hate that it's still okay for an old man to date a young girl, or even that a man would want to date a girl. I hate that I look in the mirror and obsess about laugh lines, cellulite, and gray hairs. I hate that aging isn't seen as something to be done gracefully, but as something to be "defied" for the purposes of selling cosmetics. I hate that I feel good about myself only when I feel good about the way I look.

I also hate that my daughter has to grow up in a world where women are considered sex objects. And most of all, I hate that unless I get my act together, my daughter will most likely inherit her self-image problems from me -- and not from television or magazines, no matter how much I'd like to pass the blame to Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera.

And so, this holiday season my wish for all is that the spirit of the holidays helps you feel young again. After all, we're all kids at Christmas, aren't we?

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Copyright 2002 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold

Fear Factor is for Wimps

By Julie Donner-Andersen

"Mom, come here, you GOTTA see this!" my 10-year-old son, Zach, exclaimed excitedly.

Fearing that someone was bleeding to death on my beige carpet, I sprinted from the bathroom, panties forming an inner tube just under my nether regions, and hurried into the family room. "What IS it?" I panted, panic laced in my tone.

Zach pointed at the TV where a new show called Fear Factor was about to illustrate how contestants could earn $50,000 by facing their fears and participating in contests ranging from bug eating to dangling precariously from a flagpole 20-stories high.

I was captivated, if not skeptical.

After the show ended, Zach asked me how I like it. I responded enthusiastically, "Fear Factor is for wimps!"

"Aw, come on, Mom! That was totally cooool," judged my son. "Betcha YOU couldn't do any of that stuff."

Ah, the tactless innocence of youth. What my naive son failed to grasp is that when it comes to conquering fear, his mom is a daily contender -- as are ALL moms.

Cockroach eating? Please! Ever consume a four-year-old's creation from an Easy-Bake Oven while she's watching you choke down every crumb? Now THAT takes guts.

Flagpole dangling? Get real! Ever try balancing five baskets of dirty laundry while blindly finding each step with your toes as you descend a flight of stairs? Now that's courage.

Walking across hot coals? How lame! Ever navigate your son's room in the dark and encounter a floor full of miniature Legos while suppressing a scream so as not to wake your sleeping child? How's that for inner strength?

Swimming with sharks? Big deal! Ever try to bathe a screaming, water-phobic toddler while she frantically tries to claw her way out of the tub by using your hair as a repelling rope? Now that takes nerves of steel.

This new fear-driven television show draws on the phobias of its guests, and offers a prize to the one who can overcome them. All phobias are fears, but not all fears are phobias. REAL fear is that dreadful feeling of being out of control. These are the anxieties that mothers hurdle each and every time they allow their children out the front door into a world of kidnappers, drag-racing teenagers, and drunk drivers. And there is no prize greater than that feeling of relief when they walk back safely through that door again.

No, Fear Factor does nothing for this harried mom. But I do have an idea to pitch to those executives in Tinseltown:

Moms compete against each other, racing the clock to see who can whip up a 5-course dinner for 6 in 20 minutes, then throw shoes and a coat on a dawdling 4-year-old, drive Kid #1 to a soccer game at 7 PM, drive Kid #2 to swim lessons at 7:15 PM across town, and Kid #3 to Staples to get a report cover for a science fair project that is due tomorrow -- after which, she must reverse the course, to pick up the children from their activities, head home to check on homework, clean the kitchen, bathe the baby, read a bedtime story, bring 4 kids a glass of water, one at time, up 13 steps from the kitchen to their bedrooms, gather up the laundry, throw it in the washer, and give her husband the best dirty look when he winks at her with sex on his brain.

Gimme a show like this where the prize is an all-expense-paid weekend for one at a spa, complete with mud facials and a handsome, blond, muscular masseuse named Sven.

I'd call it Mom Factor -- and it'd break the Nielsen ratings records for sure.

Advanced Motherhood -- Section 301

By Lizbeth Finn-Arnold

Like many other moms, I have accumulated more childcare books than all of my overpriced textbooks in college. And I have done so much independent mommy research that I could write at least one (if not two) senior thesis. Let's face it, this is one incredibly complex job and there just isn't any training or educational preparation for it. Most of us are learning everything we can "on the job."

Unfortunately, my B.A. in Communications from Rutgers College and Certificate in Film from NYU did not exactly prepare me for toddler tantrums, potty training, or the mommy blues. Being a self-proclaimed brainiac (O.K. I know you're thinking geek) I have taken it upon myself to pursue the necessary research, reading, and hands-on childrearing necessary for my Masters in Motherhood.

In my pursuit of knowledge I have discovered that most of my traditional resources cover the same information in pretty much the same way and with pretty much the same "experts." For my first year of motherhood I needed to know the basics and so the national parenting magazines and popular childcare books were sufficient. I call these my Motherhood 101 Courses. I knew nothing about being a mother, and these Intro Courses told me enough to get me by.

However, I'm now six years into this education and I find myself bored by the usual resources. How many times can I read the same generic articles on Disciplining Toddlers or Getting Picky Eaters to Eat? Frankly, I find most of the traditional mothering articles to be extremely simplistic and insulting. Most do not really delve into the complexities of a mother's life. And at their absolute worst, they treat us like braindead Stepford Wives with a faux-finishing obsession.

But more than all that, I figured if Rosie, Oprah, and Martha can have their own magazine -- then why can't I? Sure, I'm not a wealthy, instantly recognizable celebrity who can sell magazines by plastering my face all over them. But I am a highly-opinionated, driven, and creative mom with a few things to say yself. Luckily for you, I have created this online magazine for just that purpose.

But this magazine is not just for my voice -- it's for your voice too. If I've learned anything these past six years, I've learned that no two mothers are alike, and either are their children. Babies do not come with directions and they don't adhere to the handy rules published in magazines that they can't even read. Most of us are getting our Masters in Motherhood through hands-on experience (our labs and field trips), and from speaking with guest lecturers (other more experienced moms).

In this vein, I have created a magazine as a forum for real moms to educate, inform, and entertain other real moms. We don't want to hear from a small selective list of "so-called experts" or celebrity moms with issues we cannot relate to. We want to hear from the thousands of moms who are out there who have learned something valuable and want to share it with the newcomers. I see this magazine as a sort of old-fashioned "women's circle." We may not live in tight knit communities, but through the pages of this magazine we can reach out across distance and brag about our babies, share our well-gained knowledge, or ask for help and advice when we don't have any place else to turn.

Ultimately, it is my wish for all mothers to know that they are not alone. We may have unique needs, lead diverse lives, and have different problem, but odds are that someone else has been in our mommy shoes before us.

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Copyright 2004 -- Lizbeth Finn-Arnold