Attitude of Gratitude

“Many people who order their lives rightly in all other ways, are kept in poverty by their lack of gratitude.” Wallace D. Wattles, The Science of Getting Rich.

It is easy to get so mired in the day-to-day that we forget to be grateful for what we have. Today, I promised myself that I would be thankful for everything that I could think to be thankful for. The day did not disappoint. Getting in my car, I could not help but be grateful for its existence; and even more grateful that it has not given me a moment’s trouble since I got it last year. Going to work, I was grateful for the clear roads; no traffic today. That made it easy to appreciate the cleanliness of the roadways. Which got me going on a gratitude tangent – how ever does the government keep the foliage on the side of the highways neat and trimmed and the grounds so clean? More gratitude for that. Enjoying the scenic Saw Mill Parkway, I thanked God for my sight. I listened to a book on CD and had to give the Woman Above a “big-up” for my hearing and the fact that I could comprehend it. I struggled up the hill going up to my office while lugging my big work bag; that turned into the opportunity to be grateful for the fact that I could walk.

At my desk, I observed the piles of papers and felt inclined to grumble; instead I closed my eyes and thought of the millions of people who are unemployed in this country right now. I projected a silent “thanks” and went to work.

I started filling out the paperwork for Brendan’s summer camp and felt my stomach churn when I saw the price. Then I thought about my little guy and thanked God for lending him to me in this lifetime.

Even typing this post, I had to inwardly thank my parents for sacrificing in order to send me to a high school that taught typing and other useful skills.

Every where I turned today, there was a choice to be made: complain or feel good. Today, I choose to feel good.

How Do Kids Learn These Things?

Yesterday, I gave Brendan a quarter to buy a gumball from the machine at the car wash. It was one of the "new" quarters with the State-specific designs on the back. Yes, they've been around for years, but they still look new to me.

Brendan flipped it over and immediately said what I was thinking: "A quarter just doesn't look like a quarter without an eagle on the back."

Write it Down, Make it Happen

I just finished reading a book by Henriette Anne Klauser titled Write It Down, Make It Happen. The title says it all; if you write down your dreams and goals, they will come true. It seems a bit simplistic, but it works. I've discovered journals from years ago where I've written about my aspirations and have been surprised by how many of them actually came true. There is one catch, though (isn't there always?) -- those things that you have the least attachment to will likely come true before those that are most important to you. Let me put it this way, writing down your hopes, dreams and goals is a little like planting a vegetable. You need to dig a hole, drop in the seeds, water it every day, but detach from the result. If you dig up the seeds every day to see if they're growing, they're not going to grow. Why not? Because you're hampering their growth. But if you step back, in a few weeks, some green leaves will break through the ground and a few weeks after that, you'll have a full grown plant.

When I was 28 years old, I was desperate to meet my "soul mate" and get married. I am from Honduras and according to my family, at 28, I was way past my expiration date. My sisters, including my younger one, had all married by no later than 25 (and even that had been considered "late"). For me, it wasn't so much the marriage that I wanted, it was a child. I wanted to be a "young" mommy and at that point, it just wasn't happening. In the heat of that desperation, I wrote a journal entry where I said that if I was not married by age 32, I would have a child by myself. I was a professional woman; I could raise a child as a single mother.

By the time I turned 32, I had left the practice of law and was working at a job that was law-related but not as stressful. I had just purchased a co-op apartment in beautiful Riverdale. I'd recently broken up with Big Bren and was dipping my toe back into the dating scene. One day, Big Bren called and we decided to hang out. As they say in campy novels, "one thing led to another," and we ended up having sex again. We agreed that we weren't getting back together and went back to our separate lives. About 4 days later, I had a dream where I was standing in front of a mirror, horrified, because I had found a gray hair. In the dream, I was bemoaning the fact that I was 32. While still in the dream state, I tore my eyes from the offending gray hair and noticed that I was pregnant! I woke up in cold sweat. The journal entry came rushing back to me. "No, no, no! Please, God, no! I was just kidding. I was a stupid child back then. I do NOT want to be pregnant! I CANNOT be pregnant!" (I figured if I spoke to God in exclamation points, She would have no choice but to listen.) I went on: "What will my mother say?? She's going to kill me! What will I tell the people at work?" I continued to bemoan my fate until I feel back asleep.

When I woke up, it all seemed like a bad dream. I felt no different, so I decided to will myself back to non-pregnancy. For weeks, my body cooperated. I had no morning sickness; in fact, I had no pregnancy symptoms whatsoever. A few weeks later, I decided to test the Fates and took a pregnancy test and there they were, the ominous two lines.

The rest of the story: my mother didn't kill me, although she came close; I was no longer the old maid in the family (just the harlot); I married Big Bren; and the best part -- I had my Brendan.

When I picked up the book, it was with the intent to make all these great things happen: publish my book, get out of the rat race, etc. But I also did so with desperation (again!) and attachment to the end result. I am convinced that the reason I got pregnant at that time was because, by writing it down, I set my intention in stone; and, most importantly, allowed it happen without attachment to the result. At the time I made that journal entry, there was nothing more I could do about it -- it was 4 years in the future! So I let it be. Yes, your words have power -- they are coming from the deepest part of you and the part that is connected to your higher source. But they should come from a place of peace and surrender.

Happy writing!!

The Road Less Traveled

A few months ago, Big Bren came to me and asked whether his other son -- who is now 10 -- could move in with us. In Stepmom Diaries (below), I've written how difficult I find it at times to deal with his children. And that was just on weekends. With those few words from my husband, I was suddenly standing on a precipice. As Victorian as it sounds, I literally took to my bed. And stayed there for a few days.

I truly, truly did not know what to do. If I said "no," hubby would be angry and disappointed. But if I said "yes," I would feel as if I had let myself down. I thought about all the work involved: the cooking, the shuttling to/from school and other activities, the laundry, the homework. I was getting a headache just thinking about it. I burrowed into the sheets a little more. When I was no longer sleepy, I took a sleeping pill. I didn't want to face the world; and I most definitely did not want to make a decision.

I let it drag on for a few days. In the meantime, there were endless telephone calls to Big Bren from the child's mother (a.k.a The Psycho). He would hang up with her and the phone would ring again -- his son this time. Mother and child were not getting along. The son was getting increasingly disrespectful. He was doing poorly in school and the Psycho was not equipped to deal with it.

I spoke to my most trusted advisors and the response was unanimous: "Do not let that crazy woman's child into your home full-time." My decision had seemingly been made. I had a peaceful night's sleep for the first time since Big Bren broached the topic.

The next morning, I went to my child's room to wake him up and get him ready for school. He was asleep in his bed, with his bottom up in the air. I smiled at the perfect picture of him in his room. He had his toys in one corner, a rocking horse in another, and his little Thomas the Train bed. And I realized how lucky he was to have his own space, a peaceful home and two parents who adored him. It suddenly dawned on me that was all Big Bren was trying to provide for his other son. The child was thin from not eating many balanced meals (candy and junk food abounded in his mother's home and she simply is not someone who believes in balance, structure or effective discipline). He had a never-ending "cold" or "allergy" that lasted year-round. He had a nervous cough that was seemingly triggered by the cold/allergy, but which did not occur when he was asleep. By all accounts, a true cough did not cease upon sleeping. From what I understood, he still slept in his mother's bed and, when he was at our house and had to sleep alone, always slept with all the lights on. Despite his mother's receipt of child support, all his clothes were ragged and short and all his shoes tight. Whenever we took him anywhere, we ended up buying him new clothes. He had no pajamas and his underwear was stained. No mother in her right mind wants to see her child do poorly, so no doubt, despite her issues, the Psycho was trying her best. Maybe what she needed was a little help.

After I got to work that day, I called Big Bren and told him that I could live with it if he decided to have his son move in. (Not the most enthusiastic of endorsements, but the only one I could muster at the time.)

It has been five months since he moved in. As a self-admitted introvert, I find it uncomfortable to have many people within my personal sphere, so I am probably not the best stepmother there is to have and every fear I had about the amount of work it would take has proven true. The "crazy woman" part proved prophetic as well (because this is a "feel good" post, I won't delve into her antics.) What I can report is that the child is healthy now. No cough; no cold; not even a sniffle. Every evening, he eats all his dinner and sometimes asks for seconds. He takes healthy snacks to school. When he moved in, Big Bren bought him a new wardrobe that was age-appropriate and fit properly. He got shoes and winter wear as needed. And his face lights up when goes to his very own room -- which is decorated as a sports fan's dream, with a basketball hoop, sports figures, balls and memorabilia plastered all over the walls. He joined Cub Scouts and won a trophy for some event. He is even excelling in school now.

For Big Bren's and the child's sake, I am glad I kicked off the covers and decided to take the road less traveled.

Facing Down the Beast

Last summer, with pretty much no forewarning and absolutely no preparation, one of my sisters picked up her two children and moved half-way across the country. She and her husband scraped together their combined savings and put it as a down payment on a house. They had nothing left over for moving expenses, so they left everything behind. They simply got in their car, stuffed as many clothes as would fit in the trunk and started driving. Upon arrival, they had no money for furniture, so they’re sleeping, eating and living on the floor of their brand new home.

I’ve written before about how my siblings and I were raised. My parents did – and still do – worship money. These are people who will forgo basic necessities in order to save money. Because my parents were so devout to the Almighty Dollar, it stands to reason that my siblings and I turned out to be money pagans. We do not worship at the altar of timely bill payment. We do not light candles to the Credit Score god. Budget? We spit on you. It is something that we all have in common and which causes my parents an endless amount of stress.

So when my sister moved to another state with no money, no savings, no job prospects and no interest in getting a job, my poor parents almost had synchronized heart attacks. My mother lost sleep; my father went ballistic; one of my other sisters denounced her as “irresponsible”; and I was just in shock.

Let me say that my sister is no lay-about. She has been working non-stop since she was 16 years old. She has a bachelor’s degree and 2 masters in Education from NYU; she has just completed another degree in Theology. For 20 of the 21 years of her marriage, she was the primary breadwinner. Her husband would work for 4 to 6 months and “take a break” – all while she slaved to keep the kids’ tuition paid, the rent out of arrears and food on the table. When she couldn’t do it alone, the rest us of pitched in to help (be it by taking the kids for the weekend or buying them school clothes). For her to simply say “I refuse to do this anymore; let the chips fall where they may,” was huge.

While this may seem like the perfect recipe for disaster, I am beginning to see the method in her madness. By being Superwoman, she infantilized her husband and spoiled her kids. None of them had any consideration for her or any appreciation for what she provided. Because the chips are certainly falling – everywhere, I might add – her husband has had to break his “4 months of work and 8 months of vacation” habit. Her eldest child has had to get a job. Her youngest must make do without the $150 sneakers he had grown accustomed to. In the meantime, my sister attends to the home and rejects job offers; all while continuing to sleep on the floor (“it’s good for the back,” she quips) and eat on the floor (“every day is a picnic,” she chirped the last time I spoke with her).

The experience is certainly teaching her family a valuable lesson, but the biggest lesson may be for my sister, herself, whether she realizes it or not. You see, in my parents’ eyes, this is the absolute worst thing that could happen to a person – to be broke and have no immediate monetary prospects. Yet my sister is facing the financial beast head on and not backing down. She is unabashed in her self-imposed poverty and has weathered the economic storm without seeking shelter under anyone else’s pecuniary umbrella. Most importantly, my sister has shown us that even stripped of all material things, she is still, well, her. She didn’t die when her last paycheck was used up. She didn’t turn into dust when the last dollar in her savings account was depleted. And by experiencing true scarcity, my sister will never again succumb to the scarcity mentality my family falls prey to. She has – albeit in the most excruciating way possible – shed the family karma that continues to plague the rest of us. It is exhibiting true courage in the face of a beast.

My sister is now 8 months into her sojourn into the belly of the money beast. I don’t know when she will return; but it will be cause for celebration when she does.