During one of my psychology classes in college, we studied the cycle of abuse.  It was very distressing and depressing. However, I the one thing I remember the most was reading one paragraph that went on and on about how children are especially vulnerable to verbal abuse.  They stressed how unkind words, degrading speech or threats of any kind caused severe scars and emotional trauma for life.

I just remember being in a total state of shock.  Obviously, the person who wrote this text was not Italian.  According to the author’s assessment, I should either be a complete basket case or a homicidal maniac, because I grew up with threats of great bodily harm on a daily basis.

“Get in this house right now or I will break both your legs!”

“Touch it again and I will chop that finger right off!”

“If you so much as utter another word, I will rip that tongue right out of your mouth!”

Worse yet, as far as any of us kids knew, this was all according to God’s will.

“Dear Lord, give me the strength to beat some sense into this child!”

“As God is my witness, I will never cook another meal in my lifetime and you will all starve to death!”

“So help me God if I have to get off of this couch, you will never see another sun rise again!”

I mean, c’mon. Even though I was threatened with such atrocities, I knew my mother loved me and there were no lasting scars or traumatic consequences as a result.  No matter how loud my mother’s voice got, I knew she would never really crack my head open with that wooden spoon.

Still, now that I am a mother and have a child of my own, I must admit that the author was right about one thing.  Children tend to adopt the same behaviors and continue the cycles with which they grew up.  In other words, I am just as much an Italian drama queen as my mother was, and as her mother was, and so on.

Mind you, my daughter is barely three years old.  Needless to say, I wouldn’t dream of threatening her with physical punishment.  No, those threats are saved for the middle years when they really have some effect.  Likewise, the teenage years are saved for threats of disinheritance or being thrown out on the streets in the dead of winter without a penny to your name.  As for the wee young years, us drama queens stick to the more benign stuff, like begging all the heavenly saints for more guidance or questioning the Lord above what we did in a past life to deserve such torture. 

Considering my age and how much practice I have had being an adult drama queen, it should come as no surprise that I had mastered this trait by the time Piper was even born.  Let me tell, I know how utterly shocking this must seem to anyone that did not grow up in such an environment.  It was years before my husband could shrug his shoulders and walk away, without really worrying about whether or not I was going to have a nervous breakdown over dropping the dish towel.  But I must say, my daughter has adapted quite well, probably because she knows no other type of life.  The other night when I was just about at my wits end, she seemed to be barely phased. 

After an agonizing trip to the potty which took thirty minutes longer than humanly possible, we were heading back downstairs.  We were almost there, about halfway down the steps, when she decided she had to go back upstairs to turn the light out.  Well, I basically lost it.  I stood on the steps, clasping my hands together in prayer and asked the sweet baby Jesus for the patience to get me through this ordeal.  I shook my fists up to the high heavens and ask why my dear God insists on putting me through such anguish.  I made the sign of the cross and swore before all the saints and angels that I would never ever again complain about being bored if they could just make this child get to the bottom of these steps before I die.

The entire time Piper watched me with mild curiosity.  When I finally paused for a breath, she cocked her head the side and asked me with sincere concern in her voice, “What’s the matter mommy?  Am I killing you again?”

OK, please tell me I am not the only one that is two shakes from a breakdown.  It seems like the older I get, the more manic I get around this time of year.  When you are an unorganized person like myself, this whole Christmas countdown is a nightmare. I keep making list after list after list, as if that will somehow help me get all this shit done faster, as if by writing it down and checking it twice will cause a Christmas miracle. 

And yet somehow I managed to get the Christmas cards ordered. Not signed and sent out, mind you - just ordered. Still, I am in shock that I actually did that much, unlike last year where I spaced too long and missed the boat entirely.  Because monumental tasks like these take time, with multiple steps involved.  Multiple steps for one accomplishment is an unorganized person’s greatest nightmare. When sending out photo Christmas cards, the first step is to actually take the photo.

Stop right there.

You might be thinking this is the easy part. You are sooooo wrong. Try taking a decent photo of the Tasmanian devil on a sugar high. It is nearly impossible. On Thanksgiving I took roughly 75 shots of her in the adorable outfit I bought.  None came out.  In every shot, she is making a strange face, looking down, blurry, etc.

I gave up on the Thanksgiving shot.  And the weeks ticked by.  Suddenly, I am down to one weekend to get it done (because something like this, with multiple steps, takes me an entire weekend) lest the cards would not arrive in time to send them out.

With the help of my step daughters doing a show stopping rendition of Jingle Bells to enthrall her and keep her still, we managed to get a few shots (out of another 75 frames) that just might work for a card. 

Please let me remind you that getting the photo was just the first step.  Now I have to go online and put together the card, figure out all the cropping, red-eye and credit card, shipping address, blah blah crap.  After much trial and error, I finally ordered the cards.  Here is the final rendition:

Please note that the special outfit I bought for her is completely unseen.  Why? Because the only photo out of 75 where she was smiling and in focus, she was also kicking her leg in the air.  So I had to crop out the bottom of her shoe, which took up roughly 80% of photo.  Plus I am a perfectionist to boot. Can’t have the wall showing, must be centered, has to be a tad sharper… I edited that photo at least 15 times. So much for the outfit.

But here’s the best part.  I was so hell bent on getting a decent photo of her for the past three weeks, that I had complete tunnel vision.  Due to the holidays and Thanksgiving, we haven’t seen my youngest step daughter for over a month.  So, even though I had all three kids together and available this past weekend, it completely didn’t register.  While all four of us were singing and dancing and clicking and positioning to get a good picture of Piper, we could have gotten a picture of all the kids together for the card.

So my husband says, “No worries. We will have them all again this weekend.  We’ll just do it over.”

Shoot me now.

The movie Bridges of Madison County was on last night.  My step daughter had never seen it, so much to my husband’s dismay, we watched it together. Well, she and I watched it while hubby fiddled on the computer.

I don’t know if you’ve ever seen this movie, but it is quite the chic flick to say the least.  Lonely Iowa housewife in the sixties meets intrepid photographer.  They fall in love over a four day period and remain forever bound to each other, but live a life apart.

Sappy. Unrealistic. Tear jerker.

So we get to the turning point scene.  You know, where they move from flirting to the real deal.  After taking a shower, Clint Eastwood walks into the kitchen as Meryl Streep is stuffing the casserole into the stove.  She tells him that dinner will be ready in half an hour, then goes upstairs to “ready herself”. While soaking in the tub, she realizes he was naked only moments before in the same exact spot she now lies. This ignites her desires beyond her control. She realizes she must have this man. She needs this man.  She is ready to go for it.

She walks back downstairs all refreshed and sparkly in her brand new dress, bought just for the occasion.  He stares at her in awe, tells her she looks stunning.  They start to dance. They start to kiss. They keep kissing.  And kissing. And kissing.

By this time, I am really starting to get anxious.  I am shaking my foot in complete nervousness.  I shift positions. My husband glances over at me.

They’re still kissing, only more passionate.

I shift again. My husband looks at me and then gestures to my stepdaughter.  He thinks I am uncomfortable because this sex scene is going on with her in the room.  She glances over at me.  For all I know, she thinks I am uncomfortable because this housewife is cheating on her husband and that must bother me in some way.

Nope.

Finally, I can’t take it anymore.  I can barely concentrate on the scene. I jump up from the couch.

“She said dinner would be ready in a half hour. It’s gotta be burning by now!”

A hopeless romantic I am not.