Search

This House of Love:

Confessions of a Good [Enough] Mom

Worry Wart No More

Although I have several faithful people to rely on, I still prefer to do things on my own. I’ve always been this way, even if I am anxious and worrisome as a result. My mother was a strong, independent woman and I always admired her for these reasons. I try to exemplify these positive attributes of hers even if it stresses me out, and it earned me the nickname of “worry wart.” Thus, I am the woman who left the hospital two days after my c-section. I am also the one who decided it was a good idea to take my toddler and newborn to brunch just three weeks into being a parent of two. As I packed them to go the words of my girlfriend who had become a mommy twice over not long before ran thru my head incessantly, “I didn’t take them out by myself for at least a couple months.” Was it really that bad? I would soon find out; the three minute drive was over and I couldn’t turn back.  As we piled out of the car, I started to sweat.

We walked thru the parking lot and into the quaint little cafe that we frequent quite often without being hit. I call that a success. Our venture continued with us being seated. My luck continues!… And then shit hit the fan. Moments in, and by moments I mean a mere five to seven seconds into our peaceful brunch date, I poked my toddler in the eye. Doesn’t sound so bad, because let’s be real, we’ve all done it. But it actually kinda was. The poke was deep enough to lodge one of her incredibly long eyelashes into her eyeball. The little sucker slid under her lid and it took a good five minutes of crying to dislodge it. But the damage was done. She was in a pissy, whiny mood. You know the, I don’t give a shit about life because I haven’t eaten yet today, Kinda mood? But like, ten times worse because it’s not your husband – it’s your toddler. Thankfully, my only stroke of genius that day was to allow my daughter to bring with her to the restaurant only what she could carry in her tiny, little arms. So she brought a huge puzzle. Was it a logical choice? No. But she’s two. And it ended up being awesome because the very moment I pulled it out, her incessant whining ceased. However, it was then that my three week old started crying.
Enthralled in her puzzle, I was bought some time. She would be occupied for at least ten minutes. Would the food come before that? Would Adam stir in his car seat again once I rocked him back to sleep? Would I have to eat my breakfast over his head while breastfeeding, hoping not to drop runny eggs on him? Why the hell do I always order runny eggs? All of these questions flashed through my mind. As I attempted to quiet my newborn and do a Paw Patrol puzzle with my daughter, I couldn’t help but day dream of being somewhere far, far away. I closed my eyes and imagined mySelf on  a remote island, laying on a chaise lounge, sucking down an incredibly tasty but strong pina colada, listening to Bob Marley. When I gathered the courage to open my eyes again and take it all in, I couldn’t help but laugh. The scene before me was actually quite comical. My first time around I would have worried about having the cranky baby at the brunch table, but this second time at the rodeo is drastically different. I sat back with a silly grin and acted as audience member to my own sideshow. With a diff lens it was actually pretty hilarious, the disheveled woman tending to the the puzzle-doing, eye-rubbing toddler and the hysterical infant. Let me tell you, it felt a whole lot better to laugh than stress about it all.
In the end, I had to nurse my son before the food came. He was still nursing when it got there. And he was not done nursing when I wiped the runny egg off of his onesie. After my daughter got some food in her system she was no longer scary mean either. So, despite having a rough start, all’s well that ends well, I guess. That’s the key to keeping your sanity as a parent, right? Just know that Shit will hit the fan. Pretty often, most likely. But, as Bob Marley said, “everything’s gonna be alright.”

Where Does Hatred Come From?

A quick disclaimer: I am in no way an expert on this subject. I have no impressive degree from an Ivy League school. However, I grew up in a household in which one of three of its members was filled with a hatred so compelling it sparked violence. Thus, Id like you to consider my theory on the subject as a result of a twenty-two year case study.  So, why did my brother come out the way he did?

I am a firm believer that no one is born with the desire to hurt others. We, as humans, naturally need each other to survive. Some of us may be more genetically inclined to be aggressive, but our relationship with others is purely social. So, why is it that some can ruthlessly murder others while others dedicate their lives to improving society? I believe the difference is simple: attachment.

I have been told Jesse seemed “different” as early as the age of three. This was the age my father left our family. This was the same year I was born. The same year my mother was forced to become a single mother. All of these factors would change someone. I have a child who is now three. I feel the incredibly strong attachment we have to each other – if I left her now, I am sure it would effect her infinitely. It would cause a little piece of her to disappear – her confidence, stability, and feeling of security in the world would lessen.

But would it cause her to hate others indefinitely? To lash out and desire to hurt people? I don’t believe so. But, imagine the pain she would feel if she was faced with several other experiences similar to this. Times when other people abandoned her or let her down. The more isolation she feels, the less empathy she would possess. This was my brother’s case.

He was short, he was teased, he was never really accepted by his classmates. He was ostracized for characteristics that were out of his control. He had been diagnosed with Tourette’s Syndrome as a young child, his tics making him seem even less “normal” than he already was. His behavior became more deviant as time went on, as his laundry list of diagnoses increased. He began to get into fights at school. He was angry and volatile. His school did nothing; this was not in the hyper-sensitive days of late. Back then it was “kids will be kids,” and “Do you think he’s cut out for school? Maybe he should get his CHSPE.”

So, in short, as he entered young adulthood and attempted to find connections, everyone but my mother told him he wasn’t worth the trouble. Mom believed in him infinitely. She knew he was capable of so much more than what people had begun to expect of him. The pressure to meet my mother’s standards despite everyone else’s grew too much for him, and he attempted suicide. Twice. As a middle schooler, I watched the trials that both my mom and brother were going through. I watched society tell her what she was doing wrong. I watched society tell him how much less value he held because he was different, and how he ought to behave to fit in.  It was nearly unbearable for me to witness; I cannot even begin to conceive how hard it was for both of them.

And after twenty-five years of being told he was different, feeling little connection to those around him, and being attached to nothing but his desire to make people feel as little as he had all his life, Jesse killed my mom. But, quite often people like Jesse hurt strangers. They pack their cars with guns and their minds with plans, and execute others while they’re at school, sitting in movie theaters, or celebrating their freedom. Because people like Jesse, who have never really attached to anyone soundly, often feel the need to show others just how awful this isolation can feel. That’s where the hatred comes from.

So, what can we do to change this? The solution does not lie in any one person’s control. It is not solely our government’s job to outlaw guns. It is not only about how a parent has failed their deviant child. It’s less about guns and parenting, and more about love. Whether you’re Christian or Jewish, Muslim or Islamic, Atheist or Greek Orthodox, our duty as humans is to help others. To open our hearts to others and aide those in pain and in need. Allowing people to feel part of the human race or tribe, rather than an anomaly or a member of a smaller, less important faction, that is what will end the hatred.

As the Red Hot Chili Peppers sing, “Red black or white, This is my fight, Come on courage, Let’s be heard, Turn feelings, Into words.” Let’s start a dialogue that allows the pained to be heard and the isolated to feel accepted. Then, and only then, will we see the hatred begin to melt away. And until we can open our hearts, stay safe, everyone.

 

Things I’ve Learned from my Children

On our “nature walk” this morning (i.e. checking out our neighbor’s gardens as we make our way to the local Starbucks) Charlotte says, “Mommy, we have to stop and smell the roses. They are so byoo-fit-tull.” At first I chuckled at the sound of her sweet, little toddler voice attempting to pronounce a large word. But after a moment’s thought, I stopped and stared at her, in awe of the the moment we were sharing. I realized I was witnessing my daughter learn an important life lesson. A powerful, positive message that life isn’t always about the destination, but the journey.

But as we continued our walk, I realized the joke was on me. I was the student in this situation. I had been rushing her along, dreaming of some caffeine and a quick, hot breakfast. She had been the one to remind me of the beauty that surrounded us. Beauty that would be much more exciting than a jolt of coffee, because I would be sharing it with one of my all-time favorite people.

Needless to say, we stopped and admired the roses. And the cattails.  And the bird on the wire. And the large oak with the cavernous knot. Charlotte had pointed it out and said, “Mommy, this looks like a cavern.” Excuse me? Now I’m learning vocabulary from my two year old?! At that point in our quick jaunt to The ‘Bucks, I couldn’t help but ponder all the other things I’ve learned from my children. So, it’s now nap time, and I feel compelled to create a short list (because even though I could go on forever, my tiny bosses won’t allow it).

  1. As I said before, life is short. Stop and smell the roses. Before we had kids, people warned me that time would fly by. They told me that once our babies were here, they’d be teenagers in a blink of an eye. As our oldest turns three, I realize that this is beyond true. Juggling a family, work, a household, and friends easily consumes day after day. When I had my second, things started happening at hyper speed. The special moments I’m given now will be fleeting memories soon. I try to live in the moment and enjoy them while they’re still here.
  2. Forgiveness. I am a master grudge holder. I can dwell on a rude comment for days. But, that’s not possible with a child. When they act irrational and erratic (which is almost all the time), you have to help them through it. Then get over it. Those times that I do allow her tornado of a tantrum effect my attitude, she’s totally called me on my shit. “Mommy, give me a smile,” or “Don’t worry, Mommy, be happy.” And of course, in that exact moment, I have to show her that getting over conflict is easy, because my behavior will be a road map for her behavior later on in life. I’m not perfect, but she often reminds me that I don’t have to be. I just have to be patient.
  3. How to be a better driver. It’s awful, I know, but there are times I get in the car and with all the things I’ve had to remember to bring, I initially forget to put my seat belt on. The dinging reminder my car emits often doesn’t register amidst the cacophony that is two young children. But, my daughter’s very bossy, “Mommy, you forgot your seat belt,” is a much clearer reminder of why I should use the belt in the first place. Charlotte’s even gone so far as to remind me to “Put both hands on the wheel, Mommy.” Thank you little lady. Now, let me see your driver’s license (but, really, I love this about her).
  4. Patience. Well, most of the time. Nobody’s faultless, and hearing your own name fourteen times in a row within a seven second time period will drive any self-respecting person crazy. But, if your child is learning how to put their shoes on all by themselves, you have to take the back seat. I figure that as a parent, I’m automatically late 47.8% of the time anyway. It’s in the job description. So, I either wait the fourteen minutes it’ll take her to put her shoes on, or I let her go shoeless. Either way, patience is a virtue. Goosfraba.
  5. Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans. Having children proves the validity behind John Lennon’s theory. I can plan to attend my friend’s birthday party, but a double ear infection and several nights in a row of not sleeping will throw a wrench in that. Once I entered into parental territory, my children had to become of utmost priority. Until they can take care of themselves enough to ensure their survival, it’s all on my husband and I. So, no matter what I foresee in my future, if my child’s child’s needs don’t jive, I’m out of luck.
  6. There is beauty to be found everywhere. And friends, too. Little kids marvel at the wonders of the Universe constantly, the wonders that we no longer appreciate. That spider web underneath my chair isn’t marvelous, it’s annoying. And clingy. But if I take a moment to stare at it as my daughter does, I notice its amazing design and beauty. And while she and I are staring at the spider web, whoever joins us is our new best friend. Oh, we just met you two minutes ago and you haven’t yet exchanged a word? Who cares? Kids will hug despite their unfamiliarity. This is the most refreshing thing about parenting. Seeing the world with an innocent lens is refreshing and eye-opening.
  7. I am so freaking lucky. I’ve mentioned in prior posts how trying my childhood was. It does not escape me how lucky I am to be able to provide my children a foundation much more solid than my own. Even when we’re annoying each other our worries are small in the grand scheme of things. And we have so much fun every day of our lives. Not many people can say this. For this, I count my many, many blessings every day.

“And Justice for All”

*As seen in Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Spirit of America*

“Let gratitude be the pillow upon which you kneel to say your nightly prayer. And let  faith
be the bridge you build to overcome evil and welcome good.”

~Maya Angelou

      The sound of the helicopters reverberated against the mountains, filling the
canyon with a deafening noise. It was almost one in the morning, but the normally quiet
streets were bustling. I was standing outside my house, tears streaming down my face. I had been crying for hours, but it felt like a minute; I had no concept of time. Earlier that night, I had returned home from work to find my mother lifeless. She had been killed during a heated argument with a family member and her killer had fled, leaving me to find the grisly scene.
In those excruciating hours, friends and family arrived and filled our suburban
street. I cannot recall everyone who showed up; their faces meld together in my mind like
a collage of love. All I know is that I eventually made my way to a neighbor’s home; the
owners were longtime friends of my mother’s, and they had graciously opened their
doors to the circus outside.
I sat on their couch, being comforted and awkwardly hugged by people coming in
and out. They said all the right things, but their words sounded empty and my heart ached
too much to believe them. Eventually, a man I had never seen before entered the room
and sat down with the crowd that had gathered.
“Hi Amy. My name is Detective Michael Valento,” he began. “I’m here to bring
you and your mother justice.”
Justice. It sounded like such a familiar concept, one I had been brought up to
believe was around every corner in America. Our country was built on justice and
fairness… but nothing about that night seemed just or fair to me. Despite fully knowing
its meaning, in that moment I couldn’t fathom ever feeling that justice had been served.
My mother could not be brought back to life.
“Th-thank you,” I replied. I didn’t know what else to say.
A few months later, Detective Valento was a regular part of my life. Our phone
calls became an almost weekly occurrence. Each time we spoke Mike vowed that he
would do everything in his power to ensure my mother’s killer would be sent to prison as
expeditiously and as permanently as possible. I believed him at the time, but as the
months wore on, and the number of hearings grew, I lost hope.
Despite my emotional struggle, I grew to know and care for Mike. He was a kind,
gentle man with a heart of gold. His intentions were of the purest, and he symbolized the
hope I once had. He was a wonderful advocate. He continued to call me often, checking
in to see if I was okay, asking how my wedding plans were going, updating me on
everything that was happening.
Alas, the months turned into years, and very little happened. Justice and the
American way were not prevailing. My hope morphed into anger. I was angry my
mother’s killer hadn’t been accorded his punishment. I was angry my mother was gone. I
was angry that a system I had been reared to respect was so clearly failing. My mother’s
murderer was playing the system, and he was getting away with it. Or so I thought.
One particularly hard day, nearly four years after my mother’s death, I came close
to losing it. I had been in court all day and I was mentally, as well as physically, drained.
Mike had been in court with my fiancé and me, sitting by our sides the entire time. I
turned to him and pleaded, “When will this end? Why is he being protected? Why hasn’t
he been convicted? Life needs to go on.”
Mike thought carefully for a moment. He looked at me kindly and said, “I know it
doesn’t seem like it, but this is all for you and for your mother. You have to understand
that our legal system, although at times seemingly imperfect, is protecting you. If we
didn’t cover all of our bases right now he could appeal and possibly be free one day. So,
for now, we must be patient. I know it’s hard, but in America good things come to those
who wait.” Again, my heart was so heavy I couldn’t quite grasp his words, but this time I
accepted the situation. I waited patiently for another year.
Five years and two days after my mother’s murder, a judgment was delivered. My
brother was given a sentence of fifteen years to life. I was as relieved as I could be.
Justice had finally been served and I could begin to repair my own life, which had been
shattered that horrific night. I remember as we fled the courtroom for one final time,
Mike had leaned in for an embrace.
After our hug he pulled back and said, “See. I told you all would be right in the
end.”
At that moment my heart filled with warmth that it had not felt for a while,
warmth ignited by someone who had been a complete stranger a few years ago. This
man, despite knowing nothing of the content of my character, dedicated a large portion of
his life to fight so I could regain control of mine. Mike’s actions showed me the
camaraderie and strength America instills in its citizens. His upstanding dedication to his
country and position of service helped change my life for the better.
Detective Mike Valento of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department
exemplifies everything that is right in our country and with our police force. And
although there is no reason left to carry on a relationship with him, my adoration, respect,
and gratitude for him will never diminish. For, it’s men and women like Mike who gave
me my strength, hope, and life back, and I can never be thankful enough.

~A.B. Chesler

Let me [re]introduce myself. I’m Amy Beth Chesler, or A.B. Chesler as the literary world may (or may not) know me. I am a lover of food, laughter, and adventure, although I hate to get dirty. I chose to title my blog “This House of Love” because Amy Beth can be translated, loosely and in a couple different languages, into that phrase. My mom assembled this name for me, with the help of my then three year old brother, because she wished for me a future occupied by a warm and loving family life.

I am a victim of domestic violence. I am also a survivor of it. My mother, however, is not. She was an incredibly strong, determined, warm, caring woman. I will love and miss her with every fiber of my being every day until I die. Thankfully, things are infinitely better now as I fulfill my own role as a wife and mother. I’ve found my niche in life; I was born to be Mommy. I knew this from the beginning.

What I didn’t know is how much poop and snot I’d have to deal with on a regular basis. Similarly, no one told me that some days I would laugh so hard I would cry, and others I would feel swallowed whole by my loneliness. Everyone neglected to tell me how terrifying, thrilling, isolating, eye-opening, and powerful parenthood is. They also didn’t mention just how awesome (in the truest sense of the word) it is to have your heart, a true piece of you, walking around outside of your body, living their very own life. How dare they.

I am also a writer, although it’s scary to say so. It’s a profession that requires you to make something from nothing, a grand story or thought-provoking poem, from just the depths of your mind. If your tales aren’t well received, your writing is not the only entity receiving rejection. But, just like my sentiments about motherhood, I knew I was meant for the writing world. As a child, reading was my escape from the harsh realities that were my life.  I wrote my own stories to enter an alternate universe, one filled with much less pain and isolation. As an adult, writing is allowing me to process my past and consequently and eventually arrive at my life’s destination: a house filled with an infinite amount of love.

Feel free to join me on this crazy journey by following my blog via the link to the left. And remember, “Let love win.”

(Not Exactly) Momma’s Kitchen

image1

Mom was the best cook, and she had lots of specialties. Decadent lasagna, complex compote, gargantuan burritos. You name it, she made it. Perfectly. I, on the other hand, never quite found my niche in the kitchen.

When Mom passed she left behind a beautiful legacy and an almost empty recipe box. The few recipes she had bothered to write down rather than commit to memory offered no guidance in terms of ingredient amounts. They were simply shopping lists for meal prep. So, I was left in a rough spot. I wanted to taste the foods that Mom had fed me throughout my childhood, to be reminded of a somewhat simpler time. But how was I to cook like Mom if she hadn’t equipped me properly? The answer to that, my friends, is trial and error. And lots of Ajax for the burnt pans.

With that said, and since Mother’s Day just passed, I felt the need to reconnect with Mom and her food. I made one of my personal favorites from her repertoire – her chili. Well, I sort of made her chili. Just as her cards boast a casual approach to cooking, I also follow a laissez-faire philosophy. I often allow her lists to guide me, and end up in a different direction than she would take. And that’s OK. And sometimes, it’s better than OK. Like last night. So, here it goes:

(Not Exactly) Momma’s Chili

1 can of chopped, stewed tomatoes

1 can of kidney beans

1 pound of 96% lean beef

1 yellow onion, chopped

Mom would have called for 1 packet of Lawry’s chili seasoning, but I ended up using:

2 tbsps of chili seasoning

1 tsp of oregano

1 tsp of fennel

1 tbsp coconut oil

salt to taste

lemon pepper to taste

Directions: Saute onions in pan with a coconut oil, allow to soften. Throw in meat, crumble and brown it. Meanwhile, dump contents of kidney bean and tomato cans into pot and simmer. After meat is brown, place in pot after draining excess fat. Allow to simmer for a few, then toss in seasonings. Turn to medium heat to boil, then back down to simmer with top on for half an hour. Take off top and continue to simmer until juices have reduced enough to serve.

Light and Crunchy Wilted Spinach

On my instagram I showed the chili over a bed of spinach. This was just the tang and crunch this meal needed! All you need is the following:

1 cup of baby spinach

1/2 lemon

1 tbsp of shredded parmesan cheese

1 tbsp coconut oil

salt and pepper to taste

Melt coconut oil over medium-low, throw in spinach. Wilt just slightly then spray with lemon juice and add salt/pepper. Mix and allow to continue to wilt. Allow for a bright green color rather than a dark green to keep spinach from getting too soggy. Top with parmesan and serve!

Hope you all enjoy. Let me know what you think, and be sure to follow my blog for more recipe ideas!

 

 

Seven Sure Fire Signs You Live with a Toddler

Life with a toddler is… special. So special that at times it’s absolutely necessary to stop what you’re doing  and confirm that this is, in fact, your reality. Don’t worry, you’re not alone. Here are seven ways that your life mirrors every other poor sap who has a roommate under the age of four.

1) You’ve had the most asinine, outlandish arguments that you just can’t win, even though you are 2020% correct. For instance, you’ve had to explain to your two and a half year old at least a dozen times that no, she can’t drive to the grocery store or Grammy’s house. Appealing to logic (i.e. “It’s illegal,” “Your feet won’t reach the pedals,” “It’s MY car,” “You’re FUCKING TWO”) just won’t work. Ever.

2) You’ve made a public appearance with your very own caped crusader: Super Girl, Spider-Man, or a makeshift superhero who designed their costume out of a blanket and a robe sash. And said super hero has caused more mischief than solved any social issues. But damn, are they cute.

3) You’ve dealt with about eleven different illnesses in the matter of half that amount of weeks. A day or two after you’ve kicked your cold, croup is knocking on the door. Then a week and a half passes and you’ve been gifted with the flu. Merry bloody Christmas.

4) You have perfectly honed your role playing skills because your little one has requested you bring any and all inanimate objects in your house to life. Your rocker? The seat cushions have told the wildest bedtime stories. Your favorite blanket is actually named Bernie and has thirteen children he’s simultaneously putting through college. The spatula you cooked breakfast with danced the Macarena right after “she” flipped your eggs.

5) You’ve caught yourself saying things that you could never have imagined in a million years if it wasn’t for your toddler’s antics: “No, your poop does NOT belong in the toaster!” “Please eat your food with your fork, not your shoe!” “The cat does NOT want your Legos in her butt!” “Mickey Mouse is NOT allowed to go swimming in your pee-pee!” Or my personal favorite, “Please don’t put your finger in my nose!” Yep. This is very much your life.

6) You’ve been forced to watch the same movie, play the same game, listen to the same song, and read the same story everyday for the last month. It’s safe to say you know every line or strategy by heart. By now, you’re both thoroughly looking forward to and scared shitless of finding out what your child’s next obsessions will become.

7) Even though your days can be difficult and unnerving, your toddler manages to make everything simultaneously much more difficult and simple at the same time. And you wouldn’t have it any other way, because being around someone who is just mastering the English language is the “funnest” ever. Seriously. Who else can you spend an hour discussing poop and farts with?

“House of Love”

At birth I was given the name Amy Beth. My mother would tell me from there on out that it translated to “House of Love.” It’s true; loosely translated, and in two different languages, it means something like that. But what I honestly think is most important about my name is its intended meaning.

My mother grew up in a household that was filled with anything but warmth and love. I know my grandparents, passionate Israelis who had made their way to The Valley in hopes of a better life, fought quite a bit. Mom grew used to tumult, so when she met my Dad his alcoholic and lothario tendencies were not as much of a deterrent as they should have been. And, by the time I was born, my parents were divorced. I was born into a broken home rather than a House of Love.

The small, dysfunctional family I grew up in bred mistrust. When it disbanded in 2020, I was left with a choice. Do I continue down the path of isolation because I don’t trust people, or do I make decisions that allow me to learn to trust and unconditionally love others (as well as myself)? At this exact time I can clearly remember hating my name. It seemed to mock me. I was bitter for that and so much more.

But as time went on, and I learned what true love was, I realized that by dubbing me “House of Love,” Mom shared with me the one wish she had always held so dearly in her heart: that I be given a home filled with unconditional love. And by something like the self-fulfilling prophecy (and making the choice to be happy), I have realized that my biggest goal in life is to break the chain of tumult and mistrust. I deserve better, and so does my family. I will wear my name proudly as a badge of courage to break the chain of abuse.

An Open Letter to my Deceased Mother

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑