In a few hours it will be December 10. I hate December 10.

Three years ago, on December 10, you died and you took a piece of many of us with you. You were the heart of our family, our conscience, our glue. The world without you is a meaner place, less kind, less sparkly, less joyous, less prone to silly antics, pleasant surprises and outrageous outbursts. Cancer, its ravages, and your death ended my childhood (admittedly belatedly at the age of 36 with two children of my own).

Before your death I believed that everything worked out in the end for the good people of the world. I was naive. Now that I have eaten from the tree of knowledge of good and evil, I am left with a very bad taste in my mouth and a sour lump in my throat. Naive goes down so much smoother.

You would hate this post. You would roll your eyes and say, “C’mon Tanya. Enough already. Don’t be so maudlin. I’m dead. You are not. Get on with your life.” You would say that, if you were alive.

But you are not. That thought still moves me to tears, almost daily. I miss you daily. I miss you every goddamn day. (You would not at all approve of my use of goddamn or the increase in my general use of profanity since your death. Sorry, you did raise me better than that.)

More likely than chastising me for this self-pitying diatribe,  you would comfort me, as you so often did. From the time I could operate the phone, we would talk, at least weekly. You didn’t like my alcohol consumption, my choice in men, my tendency to wear black, my hair color, my fluency in profanity, my disavowal of religion or my general pigheadedness. But you loved me, fully, completely, unabashedly, without reservation, no matter the circumstance. Every letter from you started “My Darling Tanya” and ended with a declaration of your pride and love. I wish I had saved more of those letters, though I reread the ones I have from time to time, hoping to extract more of your love and spirit on days that seem too damn hard.

Even in the end, you comforted me. During one of your hospitalizations, I flew down. I railed and cursed and yelled at the doctors who did not realize that you were the most special person they had ever treated. I harassed nurses if you did not have your pain medicine timely. I tried to be You for you but I could only render a pale imitation. I was useless, powerless, frustrated and ashamed that I could not stop cancer’s murderous rampage – I could only witness it, and rail, and sob in hospital corridors, and arrange hospice care and channel my fury at confronting the challenges and paperwork of your ordeal.

You saw all of this. And one day, in your hospital room, as I tried to answer work emails while waiting to go another round with your doctor, you told me to come over and lay down next to you on your hospital bed. At first I thought you needed comfort. I was an idiot. You looked at me and said, “Baby, you are going to wear yourself out with all this. Stretch out here next to Grandma and watch my show with me and take a nap.” Despite your pain, your fear, your anger, your emotions about all of this, about the end of YOUR life, your concern, as ever, was the toll your disease was taking on me and my need for a nap. And so I did. I curled up and watched “Days of Our Lives” until I drifted to sleep smelling your Chanel No. 5 while you stroked my head.

I see you still. Cat and Tate performed in their school holiday concert today. I saw you in Cat’s impy smile as she belted out “I’m Gettin’ Nuttin’ for Christmas.” I see you when Tate digs in her heels and decides that there will be no changing her mind. I saw you when I visited Aunt Kitty this year because you share the same southern Virginia drawl and eye twinkle when contemplating something mischevious. I hear you when I talk to your daughters and my dad on the phone.

While I am grateful for these reminders, I am greedy. I want more. I want you. I want to bore you with all of the minutiae of Cat and Tate’s daily activities. I want to talk politics. I want to complain to you about work, when Darling Hubby does something annoying, when someone doesn’t view me through your rose-colored glasses. I want your wisdom, your humor, your tenacity, your energy level, your temper, even our petty bickering. What I wouldn’t do for a good hour of petty bickering with you. Or a lecture. Or one of your off-key country music renditions in the car.

But, as you would sometimes say, “If wishes were fishes, we’d all have a fry.” You are gone. Despite our most ardent desires, we cannot change that. You are gone.

But you live on in me. And so, I will go have a good cry in the tub (following your example) and a cup of hot tea (again, your idea) and I will channel my energies into making sure that Cat and Tate know that they are loved, that they are special, that they need to hold their shoulders back, use good manners, and that they have one person in the world who will love them, and their children, fully, completely, unabashedly, without reservation, no matter the circumstance.

You are gone. You are not forgotten. And so you live on.

With all of my love,

Your Darling Tanya/Me/Tiggly-tiggly-tagalong

I am an atheist.

It seems, in modern America, that there is a sect of barely tolerated, oft-pitied individuals that exist on the fringe – atheists are such people. I believe that people would be more comfortable if I were a serial killer or a person who likes to dress up in animal costumes to achieve arousal. If you ever want an awkward uncomfortable silence or to have people drop you from their social circles, say, “Me? Oh, I am an atheist.” Whomever hears that immediately starts twitching uncomfortably and often takes a giant step backward lest lightening be about to strike. As such, I generally apply “don’t ask, don’t tell” to my religious status unless I am pretty sure that the person I am speaking with has already formed a definitive opinion about me that isn’t likely to change or if I am trying to end the conversation quickly. If I really want to scare the other person off I tell them I am a liberal atheist lawyer. Few things evoke the horror and the revulsion of that statement.

Now, I am not a rabid, foaming-at-the mouth-atheist. I don’t believe in God, but I fully support your right to. People saying “Merry Christmas” does not offend me. I don’t care what is printed on our currency so long as I have enough of it. When people come to my door trying to save or convert me, I tell them that I admire the depth of their belief and wish them well.

Ironically, many of my closest friends are quite devout in their beliefs, and I am glad that their faith gives them comfort and a sense of belonging. They pray for me, and I think good thoughts for them. They don’t try to convert me and I don’t invite them to my naked goat slaughters in the moonlight. (Just kidding, I do invite them but they don’t attend.)

I think religion, like sex or politics, is deeply personal and that whatever consenting adults choose to do or believe that does not hurt or interfere with the enjoyment of others is generally fine by me. Rock on, rock out for Christ, rock the vote, whatever. But at the end of the day, I believe, as Dooce so eloquently wrote recently, “when we die there is no heaven, we just rot in the earth while worms digest our intestines. Merry Christmas.”

My beliefs, or lack thereof, are based in part on 8 years living with people who were members of a religious cult for a time and what I encountered then. My beliefs, or lack thereof, are also based on earning three degrees and paying at least some attention during my science courses (grades in those classes notwithstanding). But whatever the reason, my beliefs are mine and Darling Hubby and I have decided to raise the girls with our humanist/atheist values while teaching them to explore and respect other religions. My basic religious/life philosophy boils down to “Don’t be an asshole” which, if you think of it, covers most of the major religious tenets of the world.

The girls have been invited to church several times by friends of theirs and by my in-laws. We always allow them to go. We tell them to have fun, use their manners, and to let us know if they have any questions they want to discuss. We have told them that Mommy and Daddy don’t believe in God but that if they choose to, and decide that they want to learn more, that we will respect that and facilitate that, whatever belief system they choose.

My in-laws took the girls to church today, as they do a few times a year, with my blessing. I expected to hear a report about the beautiful Christmas music (which even heathens enjoy from time to time) or the games they played in the children’s service or how many people told them how cute they are. I did not expect them to say, “We had communion today,” which was exactly what Cat said when they came home.

“We had communion today,” Cat announced as I was putting the finishing touches on my lunch.

“You had what?” I asked, sure I had heard her wrong.

“Communion, Mom,” she said. “You know, bread and grape juice, com-mun-ion” she said as if I were slow of comprehension.

“Do you know what communion means?” I asked her.

“Sure, it means you stand in line and get bread and grape juice. I just said that.”

“No, but do you know why you do that? Do you know what it symbolizes?”

“No,” she said. “Can I go watch “Dogs 101″ now?”

Nearly 12 hours later, I am still wrestling with this. Inside, I had worked up a good, old-fashioned histrionic rant about boundaries, respect for my beliefs, decisions that are ours alone as parents, etc. I gave a shorter, quieter, less volatile version of that speech to my husband who agreed and relayed it his parents. They had meant no offense. They had not intended for the girls to take communion. Stuff happened, and then they had bread and grape juice, and then they went to the museum to see trains that smelled like hot chocolate.

Still, I am uneasy, and I am still a bit upset by the whole situation, in part because I know, in going against the beliefs of the majority of Americans, we will find ourselves in these kinds of situations again. I wonder what a good mom should do here. What would Jesus do?

I am always surprised that the view that other people have of me rarely resembles my view of myself. I have decided that other people are either not terribly observant or that I am worthy of an Oscar.

Several times a month, someone will say to me, by way of compliment, “I don’t know how you do it” referring to my frenetic life – work as a lawyer, mom to two, wife, dog owner of three, and general administrator of our asylum. The person complimenting me will go on to talk about how I make it look easy or they are tired just watching me or something else along those lines. While they are speaking I will wonder who the heck they can be talking about, because it certainly isn’t me.

A few minutes ago I had a revelation. These kind issuers of compliments are watching from a distance; they can’t tell that I am a Monet. For those of you not familiar with the term, (which means you did not spend enough time watching the cinematic tour de force that is “Clueless”) a Monet is someone who looks good from a distance but is a mess close up. Waterlilies, thy name is Tanya.

Upon closer inspection, one would see that I am keeping it all together (barely) by mainlining caffeine and chocolate. That my efforts to exercise, meditate and read more are jettisoned 50 times more often then they are realized. I curse like a sailor but am never heard thanks to mute buttons. I rarely, if ever, feel that I am doing things to my own personal expectations of perfection, especially when it comes to my kids. Most days I would give myself a B-.

Actually, those are the good days. The best way to sum it up is to tell you that my therapist (you can’t be surprised I have one) asked me recently (only quasi-joking) if I had considered trying heroin to get my angst under control. He wasn’t recommending it per se, but I could tell he hadn’t completely ruled it out either.

On the bad days, I call my parents and have a mental-meltdown on the phone. Who gets to deal with me generally depends on the subject matter and who was foolish enough to pick up the phone. I wail to Dad about raising the children, education-related issues and situations where I do not wish to be nice. Mom fields crisis calls about work, health, how idiotic husbands can be, and stress generally. Mom is a great cheerleader who always encourages me to take the high road and to be proud of myself and the life Darling Hubby and I have created. Dad is from the Black Knight school of “come back you coward, I’ll bite your ankles.” He encourages me to hang tough, not to let the bastards get me down and to realize that I do okay “for a girl.”

That’s right, at the age of 39, when it all hits the fan, I call my parents and sob like a two-year old with a broken toy, enraged at the unfairness and difficulty of it all. My parents, while not traditional, are clearly saints. This also explains why they only had one child – they can only handle so many of these calls.

Today, as you may have surmised, has not been a good day. It started yesterday when I looked at the ceiling in the girls’ bathroom and discovered that a pipe in the ceiling had popped through. We had this same issue addressed in January but apparently ’tis the season to call a roofer. The problem also appears to have migrated into Cat’s bedroom. Zippy.

This morning, while brushing my teeth, a piece of my tooth appeared in the sink. I am well beyond my Tooth Fairy years though Tate did say that maybe I could
get a quarter out of the deal. I will apparently need the quarter as the resulting crown cost nearly $1500 and the dentist is strongly recommending additional dental work “as soon as possible” that will cost as much as a family vacation to Italy in the high season. Fabulous.

While sitting in the dentist’s chair, I received a call from work where the caller, knowing where I was and why, proceeded to lambaste me for something, though it turned out that I had done everything that I was supposed to. No matter, the caller needed to assign blame and I was too full of Novacain to argue. Nifty.

Meanwhile, my husband texted me to say that the body shop that has been working on my car for six weeks was not going to have my ready to pick up today because they busted my tail light whilst fixing my car. I may get it back Friday, if I am lucky. Friday of what year is to be determined. Yee haw.

So I did what any self-respecting nearly middle-aged professional woman who is paid to handle other people’s crises would do. I sat in the car during a horrific storm and sobbed uncontrollably the moment my mom said, “Hello.” Dad was probably in the background doing the “lucky me” dance that he didn’t pick up the phone.

Mom, as usual, talked me down. After our call I drove home, handled a particularly delicate conference call, downed a handful of chocolate and Advil and got back into the proverbial ring. At the end of the day, I will handle it all, manage to smile while doing much of it and fool some folks into thinking that it is all (to quote Cat) easy peasy.

And I will remember to add to my list of things I am thankful for that my parents don’t screen their phone calls and love their Monet.

My parents are not traditional.

It’s one of the things I love about them. Ward and June Cleaver, they are not. My mom adopted me officially when I was in my thirties, though she has been Mom for more than two and a half decades. In public she is often mistaken for my sister or my better-looking friend. My dad, at age 60, has grown his hair to his shoulders. His standard uniform in retirement is t-shirts and jeans. He married Mom wearing jeans. He and I have been exchanging off-color jokes since before I appreciated their meaning.

You get the idea. My parents are not traditional.

I decided when I started my own family, that I wanted to keep much of their non-traditional approach but that I also wanted to throw in some tradition as well. Granted, some of our Cunningham traditions are non-traditional. I insist on Chinese food on New Year’s Eve. We usually have Christmas steak as our Christmas dinner. We leave Santa Coke instead of milk. And we erect a Thanksgiving tree.

Yes, we erect a Thanksgiving tree. It’s our tradition.

It started the year Cat was born. I was overwhelmed with gratitude that despite some initially scary prenatal tests, we had a beautiful healthy daughter. That year we also had both sets of grandparents and Hubby’s sister joining us for Thanksgiving. It was our first married Thanksgiving, in our new house, with our new jobs and our new healthy baby. We were oozing thankfulness.

I was an exuberant new mother just itching to start a new family tradition. Hence from that fertile environment (combined with a healthy dose of sleep deprivation and Pinot Grigio) sprang the Thanksgiving tree.

The first Thanksgiving tree was lit with plain white lights and had fall colored and autumn-themed ornaments. If I remember correctly, it had glass leaves, an autumn-colored leaf garland and a squirrel at the top. The tree was erected Thanksgiving week. Thanksgiving morning, each person had to write down three things he or she was thankful for on slips of paper. The slips were rolled up in scrolls, wrapped in a bow and hung on the tree. They were taken down and read during dessert.

We celebrated the ninth anniversary of the Thanksgiving tree this year. Scrolls with bows have given way to construction paper leaves cut out by me and the girls. We still use white lights and a few ornaments chosen to evoke a feeling of fall. This year they included forest-themed Webkinz on the tree; the notable exception was the iguana Tate insisted needed to be hung because they live in rain forests and “you didn’t say we couldn’t use THAT kind of forest. You are a lawyer; you know you need to choose your words carefully.”

Over the years, the squirrel gave way to a turkey topper. Tom was MIA this year (we think he is getting fresh with some of the ballerina Christmas ornaments) and hence the topper was an eagle. Our tradition continued, in typical non-traditional style.

It’s always fun to see what our family and friends are thankful for. My dad usually writes that he is thankful he only has to think of three things. Someone always lists alcohol. Mom always mentions members of the armed forces and their families. Our friend Fred is usually happy just to be alive. I’ve saved the various scraps of paper that have decorated the tree and they map how our family is growing and changing and also remaining the same. We always give thanks for each other, our friends, our dogs, health and our jobs. Some years the notes of thanks are more serious; some years they are completely silly.

This week comes the next part of the tradition. The Thanksgiving tree will morph into the “theme du jour” tree. We usually have two Christmas trees. The big one, with the eclectic mix of ornaments, is erected in the family room. The Thanksgiving tree stays put in front room but loses its autumn decorations and gains a theme – one year bears, one year the Nutcracker, last year solely Disney ornaments.

I’m always a little sad when the time comes to make the change. I always feel that the funky, fun, goofy, personal part of the holidays ends and the traditional overtakes us. But I am thankful knowing our non-traditional tradition lives on.