DOWNTON ABBEY: THE DAY I GOT TO SEE THE REAL THING

Me at Downton Abbey (Highclere Castle)

            As the car wound its way through the rolling hillsides dotted with fat sheep, I could barely tamp down my excitement. We slowed and pulled to the side for each approaching car as the lane was too narrow for two vehicles to safely pass each other.

            “No wonder Matthew was run off the road and died,” I said.

            “Who died?” My eleven-year-old son asked in alarm.

            My husband clarified, “Remember the show we told you about? Downton Abbey? One of the characters of that show was driving on this lane fast and was accidentally run off the road.”

            “Oh, so nobody really died,” our son said, relieved. “It was just a show.”

            Just a show?

            My husband David and I came upon Downton Abbey a full four seasons in. We heard the hype but never had the time to start from the beginning so we kept putting off watching it. Finally, I borrowed season one from the library and we began to watch. We needn’t have worried about the time factor. We watched the entire season in one weekend. Seasons two, three, and four immediately followed, although we paced ourselves a bit better so we could prolong the experience of immersing ourselves in that house, those clothes, the Crawley family, and their servants. Timing was on our side, because as soon as we finished watching the last of the DVD’s, the new season was just beginning on PBS. After binge watching every prior episode, it seemed highly barbaric having to wait an entire week between shows. Of course, that was nothing compared to the period of mourning we endured after the final episode, knowing we would be waiting a year to experience the final season of the series. Just a show?  Not quite.

            We weren’t driving up in a jaunty convertible Rolls Royce or 1911 Renault. It was a nondescript taxi and we didn’t get to pull up to the castle with Carson and his servants lined up to greet us. We made it only to the car park (the parking lot), but my excitement was not dulled whatsoever, because I had already gotten my first glimpse of Downton Abbey, a.k.a. Highclere Castle. It was more beautiful in person than they could even make it look on television. I couldn’t stop staring at it.

            Highclere Castle is open to the public on a limited basis (about 60 to 70 days each year), because the Countess of Carnarvon and her family make it their full time residence. Because of this, I expected it to be teeming with tourists. However, the grounds are so vast, we only saw small groupings of people here and there. We almost felt like we had been invited to one of the Crawley garden parties. 

            To balance the flow of traffic inside the castle, there are two ticket times, one morning and one afternoon. Our afternoon ticket was not in effect for another forty-five minutes or so, but we were allowed anywhere on the grounds before that time, so we took advantage of it. As you know from the show, the grounds are stunning. I always notice the trees when I watch, mostly because they’re usually incongruous with whatever season it’s supposed to be. (Sure enough, they had just wrapped shooting the Christmas episode the week prior when everything was in full bloom.) The trees are magnificent and enormous. You can get a sense of the scale with this photo of my son standing under one of the trees.

My son under one of the enormous trees

            We immediately recognized the path that is often trod when two or three of the characters are walking and talking outside.

The often seen path

We followed it around the perimeter of the castle. The grounds behind the castle lead to a meadow of wildflowers and a brick walled garden of roses and topiary bushes in the shape of arches. 

 

A greenhouse chock full of blooms stood adjacent to the garden. When we walked to the coach house later on, which is now a café, tea house, and gift shop, we saw several people buying their potted flowers. At the back of the garden we spotted a wooden sign that read Secret Garden, so we opened the wrought iron gate to reveal a winding path of countless varieties of flowers. How many adjectives can I substitute for the word spectacular? That’s all it was. Spectacular.

              

          Even so, 1:00 arrived and the castle awaited. We made our way to the front of the castle and waited a few moments for the short line of people to filter in. My only disappointment of the day was that there was no photography allowed once inside the house. To be honest, I am known to break this rule in certain places and just don’t use a flash, but because this was someone’s home, I felt I should respect the request. 

One of the front doors

            It was at this point that I felt a slight trepidation. I recalled the moment I first saw Dorothy’s ruby red slippers at the Smithsonian and was disappointed that they merely looked like the kind of red sequins I used to use for craft projects pinned to a shoe. What if, up close, Downton Abbey turned out to be Downton Shabby? To add to my fears, the first room we would be seeing was the library – my favorite room.

            I stepped into the room and caught my breath. It was even more stunning than on television. It was precisely the same but somehow better. The mahogany paneling, the rich red curtains, the desk, the columns, the fireplace hearth, the long windows, and the books. All. Those. Books. (Fun Fact: There are 5,650 books in the room.) Oh, how I wanted to sit on one of those red velvet couches and be served a proper tea. We lingered in the library for quite some time, but no one pulled the chord for tea service, so we moved on.

            The drawing room where they are sometimes seen gathering before dinner was also a favorite. The green silk fabric on the walls gave the room a soothing feel. An impressive collection of ancient Chinese furniture and artifacts were also displayed in this room.

            As we toured each of the rooms – the music room, the smoking room, etc., the only differences I could decipher from what is shown on TV is the removal of all the framed family photographs and the repositioning of some of the furniture. “That side table should be over there,” I muttered to myself. Three other obsessive fans women in the room nodded in agreement.

            We went up a set of back stairs to reach the second floor. The first bedroom we saw was where the Turkish diplomat Pamuk was carried back after he died while bedding Mary in season one. We also poked around all three daughters’ rooms and Cora’s, plus a few other bedrooms that are not seen on the show (or maybe they are but I didn’t recognize them). We were told that all of the bedrooms are currently used by the family. I’m sure it’s amazing to live at Highclere castle but judging by the bedrooms, not all that comfortable for sleeping. The beds looked lumpy and the bathrooms were not updated. Plus there was no air conditioning. But you couldn't deny that the views from every room were magnificent. Here at home, I often sit in a different area of the house to change up my view when I’m writing. I couldn’t help but imagine all the different spots in the castle from which I could write without replicating the view.

            The hallways connecting the bedrooms overlooked the central saloon and led to the oak staircase. (This is where Rose had the jazz band play for Lord Grantham’s birthday.) Wow! The 50-foot vaulted ceiling makes the space even more majestic. I was wishing I’d brought a veil so I could fling it down the grand staircase as Edith had done after her non-wedding. Before descending, I took a peek behind one of the upstairs doors that led to the servants’ stairs. Nothing out of the ordinary, but I had to at least get a little taste of the “downstairs.” Tom Barrow must’ve been outside having a cig, as I did not hear him plotting with anyone on the stairs. I took my time stepping down the sweeping red carpeted staircase and noted one of the secret servant doors at the bottom of the steps.

            The last room we saw was the dining room. It unfortunately wasn’t set for dinner, and as it was early in the day, I doubted Carson had yet decantered the wine. (Although I did get to view some of the silver in a showcase before leaving.) As I walked past each dining chair, I easily imagined one of the first scenes of the series where Lord Grantham is seated at the head of the breakfast table while reading a telegram about his cousins being on the Titanic.

            Although the castle guides often told us about the painted portraits or the furniture, most people asked about the show. Apparently, one of the perks of being a docent is that they get to stick around for the shooting of Downton Abbey. “What was it like?” we all asked them. The guides concurred, “Extremely boring. Every scene took forever. We had the hottest day of the year last week and the poor actors were sweating buckets in their winter costumes.” 

            I guess I’ll have to stick to the glamour in my imagination.

            The “downstairs” part of Downton is filmed at another location, but we did get to glance at the real servants’ kitchen and sitting and eating rooms as we exited through the basement, although they were now being used as overflow tearooms.

            Just before leaving the castle, the hallway offered one final gem: the wall of servants’ bells. The bells were no longer present, but each room was labeled under the circle where the bell had once been. There were A LOT of bells!

            Servants’ bells begin the opening credits and it’s where we reluctantly took our leave. We stopped for tea at the coach house and walked the grounds one last time before finally departing. Even without a footman in sight, it was an extremely satisfying visit to Downton. 

NO KIDDING! THE BENEFITS OF TRAVELING WITH CHILDREN

Our son on one of his first flights

For months my husband, son, and I have been talking about our upcoming European holiday and all the things we're excited about getting to do. As it approaches, my son's exuberance for even staying at the airport hotel the night before our very early flight made me remember why I love traveling with him so much. I originally wrote this post back in 2011. My son is 11 now, so the packing is easier than when I wrote this (just one stuffed animal makes the trip now), but his delight at every aspect of travel still holds true.

     As our much anticipated vacation nears, the excitement of taking a family trip ebbs as the realities of getting there take its place: the shopping, the packing, the scheduling, and the dread of crowded airports.
     I laugh now when I think of our pre-child travel days when my hardest decision was how many kinds of shoes I should pack. At least having a kid in tow has made that decision easier. I know I won’t have room for more than the sneakers on my feet with all the just in case clothes I pack for him; I know pizza places and burger joints don’t require aren’t these cute? heels; and at a moment’s notice I’ll need to be able to transition from strolling through a museum to barreling through the dinosaur exhibit before he successfully scales T-Rex. One pair of sneakers should do it.

    Deciding what to pack for myself in my carry-on bag is no longer an issue. I’ve got a dozen matchbox cars, The Magic School Bus library, stuffed animals he’s certain can’t stay home alone, and virtually the entire cookie/cracker aisle of the grocery store. I just might be able to squeeze in my People magazine as long it’s not a double issue.

    But even with the additional packing challenges, traveling with my son has some considerable benefits. For him, the trip is an adventure from the get-go. It’s hard to stay crabby when he is bubbling over with enthusiasm. Have to get up at 5 AM? We get to watch the sunrise! Have to wait in an endless ticket line? There are always new friends to make! Nobody’s grumbling while they’re listening to a bunch of kids under the age of seven compare their vacation itineraries.

    While we’re plying ourselves with caffeine, my son is looking out at the runways giving a zealous play-by-play broadcast of the jets taking off. We notice several travel-weary businessmen close their laptops and gaze out the window, too. Maybe they can’t work with all the racket. But who knows, maybe they’re reminded of themselves at his age when they thought jets were that cool. 

     He enters the plane with anticipation as we schlep past the relaxed first class passengers already drinking champagne in their capacious seats, I tend to feel a little like cattle prodded past the prized stallions into our cramped stalls with hopes of eventually being fed some cud. Once we’re in the air, I impatiently count the hours and minutes until we land and we can begin our vacation. Taking advantage of his window seat, my son comments on the topography below and the texture of the clouds. When he wonders aloud what it would be like to fly through a rainbow, I can’t help but take a peek at the sky and for once appreciate the experience of being in an airplane. His enthusiasm for flying rubs off on the flight attendants and before long he’s helping to hand out peanuts and collect trash. They escort him to the cockpit after we land and he’s allowed to sit in the pilot’s seat and pretend he’s the captain. What an adventure he created for himself just by enjoying the present experience. It made me wonder what the rest of us could do with a change in perspective.

     For sure, traveling has its fair share of hassles. However, we can approach it as an irritating inconvenience or a surplus of uncharted experiences. We can grumble with the masses or lighten a few people’s outlooks. I’m choosing to share my son’s attitude. On our next trip, I may just bring a playlist of show tunes and hand out peanut butter cups to the passengers. First class can have their cushy seats, but coach class will have an adventure. 

IS IT BAD THAT I'M HAPPY?

            I don’t have it all. I've lost and gained the same seven pounds every year for the past five years. I struggle to help my son overcome the specific challenges he faces on a daily basis. I haven’t finished writing my book. I’m tired of the cold weather encroaching on my warm weather months. And Mark Ruffalo doesn’t live next door to me. Despite all of this, I’m happy.

            But I kinda’ feel like I’m not supposed to be. There’s a reason people refer to happiness as the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. True contentment can be elusive. Everyone wants to be happy. We all support each other while we’re inching our way towards that rainbow, but does anyone really want us to reach it? There’s always someone who finds the downside, almost as if focusing on happy has become taboo.

            If I’m happy binge watching The Real Housewives, it’s dubbed a “guilty” pleasure. If I’m snacking on popcorn, I’m reminded how the butter will kill me. If I wake up feeling good about life, there are at least three people who willingly post sad and/or horrific stories on Facebook just in case I might’ve missed the various atrocities outside my control. Might you be feeling happy about your life? Shame on you.

            Do more, start anew, and by no means remain in your comfort zone. Motivational people are the experts on happiness, so they would like us to believe. But first they need us to be dissatisfied with our lives. They make pleasure seem lazy and contentment seem trite. How can they motivate us if we’re already fulfilled with our lives? If I’m comfortable, I need to push myself harder. If I’m satisfied, I’m stuck. According to their edict, I’m not nearly sufficiently driven or successful enough to be a happy person. Essentially, I shouldn’t be happy yet…even if I am.

            As much as we follow the inspirational/motivational mantras, we also listen to the Buddhists, and more importantly Oprah, who have their own thoughts on happiness. The enlightened path is to be fully present in the moment. Finally, Oprah has united us in our quest for happiness. Live in the present. That is, after we make our vision boards focusing on our futures. Sigh.

            Chaperoning field trips, having long phone chats with my best friend, or going out for Saturday morning pancakes won’t ever come up in a google search of my name, but the small parts of my life are just as vital to me as the so-called big parts. Writing is my compass when I feel I’m blowing in the wind. On the other hand, sometimes it’s nice to have the freedom to see where the wind takes me. Perhaps it’s that very balance that fulfills me.

            There are still plenty of new things I expect to do. I understand and have experienced the rewards of triumphing over difficult undertakings. However, it’s also not a bad thing to enjoy our days, take time for our friends and family, choose our pleasures, and ultimately give ourselves a break from the arduous task of seeking society’s definition of happiness. I reject the notion that because I’m content with my life as it is right now that I need to challenge myself for that promised, intangible more out of life. Besides Mark Ruffalo regularly stopping by to borrow sugar, what more can I get out of life than to be happy?

CHRISTMAS WITHOUT A SANTA CLAUS

My son is 10 years old, the age where Santa Claus rides the cusp of extinction. My boy still wants to believe, but his common sense keeps overriding his desire. He started off as a toddler extremely pragmatic about the whole Santa thing. I really had to do my due diligence in getting him to believe in the jolly guy, which was kind of hard for me because I don’t lie to my son about things. If he’s going to the doctor to get a shot, I tell him he’s going to get a shot.

“Is the shot going to hurt?”

“Yes, but you’ll get over it.”

I’m that kind of mom. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell a four-year-old that all his skepticism was valid and that Santa is a fake. And six years later, I still wasn’t sure I could. When he outright asked me in the months leading up to this Christmas, my answer was, “Do you really want to know?” He decided he didn’t, and I think we both breathed a sigh of relief. I didn’t have to say those awful words – Santa isn’t real – but it was the first Christmas that he thanked us for the gifts. He thanked us about three or four times, which is three or four times more than he does on his birthday, so I think he was still testing us. Did we buy them or was it Santa?

            The fact is, pretty soon Christmas won’t be the same for either of us. Oh sure, we still open presents, we still have a special meal, we still see family and friends. The carols are the same, the decorations fill the house, but without the magic of Santa, Christmas is undoubtedly dimmed. And if my friends with older children are any indication, this is as much of a blow for us parents as it is for our children. I kept hearing from them how Christmas just isn’t as fun when the kids grow up, and how they are having a harder time getting into the holiday spirit. Heck, I even found myself nostalgic for Christmases past, and my boy hasn’t even reached his teen years. It’s inevitable that children will grow up, extended family members will move on, some will pass on, and Christmas just won’t be the same.

            So this holiday, I decided to be proactive. I didn’t want to wait to feel down about Christmas because it wasn’t the same as when he was little. I didn’t want to start buying him super-sized gifts just to compensate for the disappearance of Santa. And I really didn’t want to go through the motions all the while feeling the twinges of disappointment that hanging onto traditions can bring when they’re past being worthwhile. I decided to let our Christmas evolve with us.

We still had our Christmas Eve traditions: Christmas crowns, Christmas meal, Christmas movies. Our son still woke us up way too early on Christmas morning so we could start opening gifts. We spent the remaining morning hours, as we usually do, tinkering with our new toys and stuffing our faces with warm cinnamon rolls just out of the oven. Then, very unlike our usual Christmas, we showered, packed a suitcase, and hopped in the car to spend the rest of the day in a place that does Christmas best: New York City.

We had purposefully waited until after dark so we could see the twinkling lights in all their glory. We saw the tree at Rockefeller Center, the windows at Macy’s, listened to live music in St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and did an early countdown to 2015 in Times Square. In effect, we gorged on Christmas.

Later that night, we went to Marchi’s, an intimate, no-menu restaurant run by the same Italian family for the past 85 years. Over the years, we’ve been there with my husband’s family on a few special occasions, so it’s a place we hold dear. We dined on five courses for almost two hours, reminiscing about Christmases past without sadness, and brainstorming with excitement new things to do for future Christmases.

We still had the next day to enjoy the city some more, which we did. Of course we snacked on all the NYC favorites: hot pretzels, Nuts for Nuts, Junior’s cheesecake, and their black and white cookies. We also managed to fit in The Museum of Natural History, Bryant Park, and our favorite Greek restaurant.

            We all had such a wonderful time without completely doing away with our Christmas traditions. It gave us something else to be excited about other than Santa and his gifts. What was one of the best parts of Christmas Day according to our son? Getting to stay up late at the hotel and eat a bowl of popcorn in bed while reading his new book. Take that, Santa!  

I’ll still become nostalgic for the times my son was little, especially at Christmas. But I refuse to become a part of the ‘Christmas is just for kids’ mindset. Some people hold on to their traditions so tightly even when it makes them sad to do so because it no longer feels the same. I want our Christmases to transform with us, so that each one is special in its own way, even as we all grow older.

It’s ok, Santa, you can go. We can handle Christmas from here.

WHY I TALK ABOUT MY KID ON FACEBOOK

            Some days are harder than others. Some days I am overwhelmed with trying to do the right thing for my child with ADD. Now that my son is in middle school I have multiple teachers to communicate with and one terrific special education professional whom I’m trying (probably unsuccessfully) not to deluge. I also have to keep in mind that I have a kid who is trying his best to master these transitions, too. Just the “normal” days are usually difficult enough, but when I let myself wallow, the guilt inevitably follows. After all, I’m a married stay-at-home mother with no other children to worry about. I know single moms with children on the autism spectrum and working parents with children who have Down’s Syndrome. You don’t have to have a special needs child to be having a rough go of it. Other people are going through hard stuff, too. Still, some days are harder than others.

            Like yesterday. I know from past experience that my son needs to do his homework as soon as he gets home from school. Otherwise, he gets tired, his medication wears off, and he becomes completely unfocused. What normally takes fifteen minutes will instead take two and a half hours. That’s not two and a half hours of him just sitting staring at a homework assignment. That’s including the fits, the tantrums, the screaming, the crying, and also many minutes of him staring at a homework assignment.

            I don’t talk about my son’s diagnosis often except with the people it impacts (his teachers) or the friends whose children unfortunately have that in common with mine. It’s not that I have any shame associated with the label, it’s that I don’t care for the generalizations or limitations that label might impose. That’s what he has, it’s not who he is. I’ve heard “every kid has ADD now,” as if it’s a trend rather than the unhappy diagnosis after many days worth of testing with multiple specialists. I’ve seen people whose children are perfectly healthy demonize the drug industry and those of us parents who choose (nay, need) to put our children on medication. If my kid had asthma, you wouldn’t tell me I should learn to control it without medication, so why would that be our only valid option for ADD? Perhaps people think we give him his pill and it instantly makes him compliant and docile like a trained circus animal. They scoff and say, “Wouldn’t we all love a magic pill for our boisterous boys?” But my boy isn’t merely boisterous. He can sit silently and read for hours but he can’t sit at a table without at least one foot on his chair. He can be in a classroom but he hums or makes noises, not to get attention, but as a subconscious way to soothe himself. He doesn’t do it for laughs or attention. In fact, attention for his tics is the last thing he wants. He has spent years learning strategies to calm himself when he gets frustrated, but in the moment, the “energy,” as he calls it, builds and he has to find a way to release it. He doesn’t get any reward out of jumping or yelling except for the release of pressure. The medication lessens the feelings that cause him to have to do what it takes to calm himself. It gives him that extra moment of thought to control his impulses. It temporarily changes his brain chemistry to be more like that of a typical child. Trust me, it’s no magic pill. It helps, but some days are harder than others.

            As I was saying, yesterday was one of those days. He came home from school an hour later than usual because he had an after school activity. I should’ve made him go right to his homework. But he wanted to play outside and although he just went hiking for an hour in his after school club, I didn’t want to deny him outdoor time. It was a beautiful fall day. He’s a boy. He wanted to be outdoors. Besides, he was in such a happy mood. Things would be fine. He’d do his homework later.

            But I know better. Happy has nothing to do with it. He doesn’t resist and make noises and throw himself around because he’s not happy. He does it because he doesn’t know how else to say, “I feel out of control.”

            By the time he came in, it was dinner time. We ate together as a family. He got to his homework right afterwards, as expected. It was a math paper. He stared at it. He made noises. He started one problem, lost track of what he was doing, then had to start again.

            I read a blog post once from an adult man with ADD who said to imagine that you have a sticky note with something you need to do written on it. Now imagine it’s floating in the air with 500 other sticky notes swirling around it, all brightly colored, all with other things to read on them, “Look at me,” “No, look at me”. And even though you’re trying to keep an eye on your one yellow sticky note, you’ve got to dodge this constant barrage of others vying for your attention. That’s what ADD is like.

            I can see it in my son’s eyes. It’s different than procrastination. Believe me, I’ve seen that, too. So I try to help, to keep him on task, “Nine times two. What’s nine times two?” It’s just a small part of the first equation. He’s no math whiz but he certainly knows his two’s. “Nine plus nine,” I say it differently hoping it will trigger a response. Nine plus nine, he’s whispering over and over to himself. And so it goes until his frustration begins to overtake him and before we can stop it, there’s the full-on screaming tantrum. And I’m trying to hug him because I know the pressure from my body makes him feel more in control of his own. But he’s crying, “I can’t stop myself. I can’t stop myself.” That feeling of believing he can’t is just as bad as the feeling itself. And there’s nothing I can do but hold him until he calms down and finally remind him that he just did stop himself. Indeed, he did. And we dry our tears and we hug and kiss and he says he’s sorry and I say it doesn’t matter, let’s move on. We get back to it. It’s still hard, but he finishes it. He asks if he can go read now and I say yes. More hugs and kisses and I love you’s and he goes to his room.

            I berate myself for not making him do the homework right after school. It’s my fault. This has happened dozens of times in the past, I should know better. But, dammit, sometimes when my kid comes home from school and wants to play, I want him to be just like any other kid. I want to be a mom who doesn’t have to worry what time the medication will wear off. But I can’t be. I’m the mom who understands that almost any toy he’s given will eventually be taken apart and examined piece by piece. I’m the mom who cringes when he grows out of anything because his clothes have to be just the right fabric and texture for him not to obsess on their discomfort. I’m the mom who needs to have much more patience than I do. Some days are harder than others.

            Which brings me to the title of this blog post: Why I talk about my kid on Facebook. I don’t talk about the ADD. I talk about the good stuff, the fun stuff, and also the stuff that drives me crazy (the firewalk of Legos, fellow moms?). I posted a photo of some “contraband” I found under his bed covers yesterday morning: a flashlight and a Calvin & Hobbes book. And this afternoon as I sat here feeling helpless that I can’t make my son’s hardships go away, one of my friends, who only knows him from my Facebook posts, wrote, “Love this kid.” And it immediately made me stop feeling sorry for him and for myself, for that matter. I know how incredible he is, but sometimes I worry that that's just a mother’s blind love for her child. My friend’s comment was a simple affirmation for me that he is perfectly him. He has so many qualities that will carry him through. I wish I could take his struggles from him, but every parent wishes that. And I know in the big picture, those struggles will contribute in making him who he is meant to be. But some days are harder than others, and my friends who might not even know about my bad days help me to keep it all in perspective. That’s why I talk about my kid on Facebook. 

WORD OF THE DAY: RELEASE

         At the cusp of 2014, a friend of mine clued me in to the idea of finding a “New Year’s word”. Here’s how it works. You choose a word that reflects the biggest obstacle you need to work on in your life. It’s not a goal or a resolution; it’s emotionally deeper than that. You don’t need willpower or a checklist. All you need is to listen to yourself. You keep that word in the forefront of your mind the whole year, which will presumably lead you to making that issue a priority.

         At the time, I only half believed in the value of having a word. Still, after much soul searching, I chose the word release and made my best efforts to think about its meaning for me on a daily basis. As it turns out, it’s not a bunch of hooey. Eight months later, I’m reaping the emotional rewards of my deliberation.

         There were several things I consciously worked on releasing the first six months of the year, like certain people and expectations of myself and others. However, the more surprising lessons I learned were those instances where I didn’t even realize there were things I needed to release. Keeping my word in mind was more powerful than I thought.

         It started a few months back with a Facebook acquaintance. I only knew her online, a friend of a friend. I noticed after I accepted her friend request that a flurry of news articles started appearing on my Facebook newsfeed. Whenever she commented on them or shared the links, they would appear -- and apparently she did this A LOT. I found myself reading many of them. The thing with Internet articles, whether they are from the Huffington Post or Fox News, is that they aren’t meant to inform as much as to incite. Whether you agree with their stance or not, they are written to provoke. They are invariably one-sided, often trading impartiality for an enticing headline. Outrage is the desired outcome.

         So for several months I would browse this Facebook friend’s caustic posts and comments, and at times read the article she felt so strongly about as to call other commenters fucktards for disagreeing with her opinion. As those of you on FB know, this is often par for the course with social media discussions. Sometimes I agreed with her, sometimes I didn’t, but I never involved myself, so the exchanges barely registered on my radar. Or so I thought.

         However, after months of her rants, I finally decided to un-friend her. I didn’t think any more about it, but the following week, I felt quite a bit lighter for no particular reason. Then I realized it was because I wasn’t allowing her daily vitriol into my life. Just because it wasn’t against me, I thought it wasn’t affecting me, but I was mistaken. When someone goes through life so angry at everything, whether couching it in support for a cause or not, it still seeps into everyone they touch, even virtually.

         This latest release lesson was reinforced when my family and I took an 8-day road trip this summer. Limited television and Internet had the obvious benefit of insulating us during our vacation, heightening the experience of being away. What I didn’t expect was that it also alleviated stress I didn’t know I was harboring.

         We are bombarded with nasty politics, wars, missing children and pets, abuse, and trauma from all over the world. No longer do we get a mere daily newspaper and our thirty minutes of Peter Jennings dispensing the national news. We are inundated 24/7 and almost all of it is negative and skewed. Are all of these headlines really making us more informed? Or are they creating an environment where everyone jumps to conclusions and opinions, which promptly turn into personal attacks? We’ve become a society that feeds on negativity and fear veiled in concern.

         I don’t believe in burying my head in the sand, yet my knowledge of all the unfairness in the world, all the sad things that happen to others, and all the causes that ought to be funded isn’t helping any of those situations. I don’t believe simply knowing about all these things makes us contributing members of society. I can’t hear about every bad event and I can’t help everybody. I can only do my small part. Hearing about endless tragedies only makes me feel fearful, anxious, and overwhelmed. How about you?

         So I released my need to read everything I come across. Instead of scrolling through the headlines daily, I glance at them maybe once a week. And after taking a Facebook hiatus during vacation, I realize I can go entire days without it, and I do.

         Being without outside distractions of situations I can’t control makes me more fully present in my own life, where I have (just a little) more control. This simple change has made me much more content. I’ve become more aware of all the wonderful things about my family, my home, and my town. I find myself feeling grateful rather than fearful, hopeful rather than helpless. I think an optimistic outlook and a positive attitude is infinitely more conducive to making a beneficial impact on our world. I release the rest.

You don’t have to wait until the New Year to choose your word. Think about a personal, inner conflict you would like to work on and simplify it into one word. I would love to know your word and how it helps you in the coming months

Camping: Give Me a Marshmallow, a Campfire, and the Key to a Hotel Room

Now that school is over, I’ve eagerly pulled out my annual summer checklist: s’mores on the firepit, BBQ with friends, trips to the beach, ice cream outings... Unfortunately this year there’s something new on the list: Camping.

Camping shouldn’t be a yearly endeavor as far as I’m concerned. It’s more of a bucket list sort of activity that you should get credit for if you’ve tried it once. I already had it crossed off my list when I was 25. Since I was smart enough to do it in my twenties, I feel I shouldn’t have to experience it again in my forties, at least not without a tricked-out RV. Camping couldn’t possibly get better with age.
 

But it’s something my seven-year-old son has been looking forward to as summer inched closer. Those picture books make it look so fun with the campfire and the weenie roast and grinning people sitting on logs playing a guitar. He’ll be disappointed to know nobody in our family plays guitar. Besides, what the book illustration doesn’t show is in about four more minutes their butts will have gone numb sitting on those hard logs, which by the way are probably sprouting poison ivy. They’ll wake up the next day torn between which to scratch first, their oozy rash or all their mosquito bites. I didn’t want to squelch his love for the outdoors, but unless you’re a cartoon, after sunset nature is best viewed through a picture window. 

The first time I went camping was in the mountains of Vermont with my husband and six of our nature-loving friends. It sounded like an easy weekend; we’d throw a tent and a couple of sleeping bags in the trunk of our car and head out. My new husband (an expert camper) kindly informed me that unless I was planning to hunt or fish for our food, I would have to take a little more time packing. Since I wanted to eat, I took his advice and our car trunk ended up holding most of the contents of our refrigerator… and something to cook the stuff in… and to eat it on… and to wash everything with afterwards. After we stuffed clothes, pillows, toiletries, folding chairs, lanterns, and the bug spray aisle of the CVS in the back seat, the tent and sleeping bags almost seemed superfluous. Getting away from it all is fine as long as you take most of it with you.

The eight of us arrived at the beautiful camp sight. I staked my spot and then sprayed what I hoped was an impenetrable barrier of OFF around me. My friends were horrified, but I was willing to sacrifice a pine tree or two to keep myself from being able to play connect the dots the next day with my scores of mosquito bites.

I will admit we had a lot of fun that night, even with the blood sucking bugs and having to haul the contents of our house to the middle of nowhere. In fact, camping might’ve won me over had there been a nice hotel to hop over to once everyone said good night. When you fall into your tent sleepy with wine and fresh air, it all seems fine. But then you wake up the next day having transformed into Pigpen. I had to shower.

The dimly lit outbuilding they referred to as a bathroom had a cold shower, which I was reluctantly going to utilize. It was the same building where I had used the nonflushing “toilet” the night before so I had practice holding my breath. I calculated that I could make it halfway through my soap rinse before having to gulp more air. But when I approached the shower stall, it was being guarded by a brown, fuzzy spider roughly the size of a tennis ball. I nixed the shower. The entire day I was certain I could feel my cells mutating from yesterday’s Deet left on my skin.

We got a sudden downpour later that day, which thankfully forced us to shorten the trip. Camping, check.

But here I stood twenty years later buying a tent so my son could experience camping. He couldn’t wait to put it up and sleep under the stars. The good thing about getting older is that you do, indeed, become wiser. I realized that when you’re seven, being fifteen yards from the house is camping even if it’s still technically our backyard. We’re going camping, son!

As the firepit wore down and darkness set in, I licked the last of the marshmallow off my fingers and waved good night from our picture window. You know what? Camping does get better with age.