dearest daughters

Investment advice

Dearest Daughters,

Awhile back I realized that Babybel was turning into, like, a kid. You know, that could actually DO things. And wasn't entertained solely by her own hands and drool. Not that I know anyone like that.

I was going kind of crazy telling you repeatedly to "JUST GO PLAY WITH SOMETHING!" And I'm the kind of mom that dreamed dreams of playing all day with her children, creating and crafting and imagining and getting messy! I've spent hours on the Internet ohhing and awwwing about all the fun things parents do with their kids. Back in Reality Land: I have two small children, a part time job and am generally lacking in discipline and structure.

So, for awhile there we alternated staring at each other and running around having screaming melt downs EXACTLY when I was trying to cook dinner.

Don't get it twisted, girls. I play with you. I spend most of my life sitting on the ground, one child asking me to open something the other climbing me like a jungle gym. And you both also do a good job of entertaining yourselves for a couple (Danjo) to dozens (Babybel) of minutes at a time. And at least two days of the week are fun-filled since I pay people to play with Babybel. And there's always a DVD or two a week thrown in there. If we're being honest. The problem was neither my availability nor my motivation.

It's just that anytime we got to the point in our day that needed inspiration, I was too drained from work and home and kids, you were too cranky from, well, being two and there was a small Danjo shaped tumor hanging off my side, making it hard to think of ANYTHING to do besides pull my eyelashes out. One. At. A. Time.

I had noticed this trend of creating a Summer Bucket List. Which, is super great if your kid is old enough to do super great things like visit museums and ride horses and fly to the moon. But, you're two and can barely walk without falling down. Nevertheless, there's something there, I thought.

Calm Down

Dearest Daughters,

The other day I took you both plus Cousin Avacado to the indoor playground at the mall. Yes, I'm a horrible parent. Fresh air, backyard, blah, blah, park, blah, blah, blah, fingerpainting, waterplay, blah. Tell you what? Next time. Until then, suck it. Sometimes, corralled in-door playgrounds, with comfortable benches and free wifi access, conveniently located next door to Starbucks and Target, are just what you need to get by. We'll save the healthy lifestyle-forming, creative activities for another day.

On this day, Babybel threw a tantrum. Who knows why. I was busy playing on my iPhone (given: free wifi and all). Recognizing my child's crying, programmed as I am to her exact pitch, tone and syncopation, I dropped my Internet search for free porn on those cushy benches and swooped down on THAT CHILD with a quickness. Her body limp, as tantruming children's bodies are wont to be, I grabbed her by the waist, carrying her by my side like a football (however limp) and set her down outside of the entrance to the play area.

Danjo and Avacado were still playing inside the corral. I thought this fact added to the drama of the moment, communicating that her inappropriate behavior trumped, even, my desire to insure the safety of my baby and a child not belonging directly to me. This is in accordance with my We're Leaving Right Now Despite This Cart Full of Groceries or This Paid Full Price Admission or Other Such Sacrifice Philosophy.

"It is NOT OKAY to scream and cry." I was about to go into the whole spiel. You know, take a breath, use your words, tell me your feelings, let me know when you're ready to communicate and/or ready to repent, leave outcase isolation and rejoin society.

But, I was interrupted, "Calm down. Calm down. Calm down."

I cannot describe very well how Babybel uttered these words. In a somewhat matter-of-fact, perhaps sarcastic, been there done that kind of way, eyes closed, in between mimicked breaths, the kind you take to prevent hyperventaling.

Oh, but this did not throw me for one second. Whether, indeed, sarcastic or comedic or, quite possibly, a true testament to my attempts to teach my child how to keep her own behavior in check, I faltered not.

In my firmest voice, "Yes. Calm down, is right. And when you can calm down, use your words and make good choices, you can come back inside and play."

(And if this measured approach to discipline was not enough, I had to throw in my trademark manipulation. I walked back in to the play area and started to play with Danjo, my side-eyes on Missy, but making her think she'd been abandoned. On Babybel, this tactic usually works like Windex on zits. On a different child, i.e. Yelly, it will remain to be seen.)

And Mommy, FTW! As if there's another option! Pshaw!

Love,

A photo: wherein I'm actually in the shot

Dearest Daughters,

I'm a control freak. This, we know. I like to be the one behind the camera. Controlling the exposure. Getting the good shots. Et cetera.

But, once in awhile your dad takes a good one. And the camera is really heavy. So, on our recent trip to Maui, I let him do most of the photo taking/lugging.

And I'm glad, because it resulted in photos of us together, which are few and far between (in our hypothetical family albums yet to be created in some sort of online photo album publisher doo-dad-a-ma-jiggy.)

Mmmmm. I love you face. No matter what.

Have I Told You Tuesday: Cultural Co-optation is Okay When I Do It

Dearest Daughters,

Cultural co-optation or appropriation has been happening since FOREVER. Well, since brown and black people started doing cool stuff that white people wanted to copy and claim credit for. So, basically, since the First Agricultural Revolution which began in African and Asia. So, okay, white people weren't really around yet, but STILL. FOREVER.

Jazz, Blues, Rock and Roll. Potatoes, corn. Banana republics. Gold and oil. Pokemon and anime. The fashion industry and home decor. We just take shit that doesn't belong to us.

I was perusing Auntie Katie's wedding registry on Crate and Barrel, not so much to buy her anything yet, but to see what's the latest in the design saavy, hip and cool, child-less world of the young. And I found the Maganda vase. Damn you Crate and Barrel! It wasn't enough when you and Pier 1 Imports and Urban Outfitters stole Ikat and Papasans and Hello Kitty?

Now, you're stealing our wood from the Philippines and appropriating our language to perpetuate your ethnic exoticism aesthetic?!?

On the other hand, Filipinos don't get much play in popular culture. So, maybe it's a good thing, this cultural co-optation. It exposes people to new things and new experiences.

For example, maybe someone will buy this vase and be all: "Hmmm? What is this MA-GAIN-DA you speak of?"

And the vase will come alive. Well, not the vase. But, the aswang that lives in the wood that the vase was made from. And the aswang will be all: "It's ma-GON-da, bitches! And it means 'beautiful.' Like my face!"

And the world will be a better place becuase one more Crate and Barrel shopper received a Tagalog vocabulary lesson from an aswang.

Of course, the unspoken flip side to cultural appropriation, is that it's OKAY when people of color do it. Sort of like I can joke about my momma, but you can't. I can make fun of my own people, but you can't. I can tell a joke about Filipinos using a Filipino accent, but if a white person does it (with the exception of white people from Daly City) then it's ON.

Therefore, moreover, henceforth, I am able to justify 1) buying the Maganda vase for Auntie Katie and telling the aswang inside that "this lady's okay!" so it won't freak her or her dogs out and 2) thoroughly showering preggo Auntie Dee with Bollywood themed presents for herself and baby Precious Stone.

Because how freaking awesome is this stuff? (click image for source)

 

Don't try to make sense of it; it's how I sleep at night.

Love,

Admission

Dearest Daughters,

It's Pirate Week at Bel's preschool. I picked you up today and we talked about the usual. What you may or may not have done. What parts of your lunch you may or may not have eaten. What you may or may not have done in your diaper. As we arrived home you had an epiphany, declaring, "Mommy, I DO like school!"

Good thing, since you have no less than twenty years left of it.

Love,
Mommy

Pantry

Dearest Daughters,

When we bought our house and remodeled the kitchen, it wasn't in our budget to buy all the cabinetry at once. We installed the basics and have delayed on finishing because, well, we learned to make do and haven't made the pantry cabinetry a financial priority. And besides, open shelving is, like, sooooo in.

Unless you have a crawler who likes to destroy things, forcing you to reorganize, which was a long overdo task anyway. I was able to put most disastrous things out of Danjo's reach. And I cleared a whole shelf. Just for her!



Babybel, can you hand me that can of tomatoes, the panko crumbs, and, oh, while you're over there, that tasty baby too?

Love,

Egg-cellent

Dearest Daughters,

We have four layers! (I still suspect one is a rooster...)

It's become such an exciting part of our day to go check on the "Chickydoodles," feeding them our kitchen scraps and collecting our eggs.

Babybel is starting to make her own sense about the whole chicken and egg thing.

"There's baby chickens in there!" she's told me. (In fact, she may be right, given the whole rooster scenario.) And I've explained that if we don't collect the eggs and cook them, they'll grow into baby chicks. We crack them and see that instead of fluffy or furry creatures (as this sweet Margaret Wise Brown book has led us to believe) there are delicious yellow yolks inside.

"Chickens poop eggs." So, I've shown you what they REALLY poop. BIG DIFFERENCE.

I asked you the other day what you wanted for dinner.

"Chicken! Chicken is my favorite dinner."

I asked, "Like Gold Rush? Or Hickety? Or Pickety? Or Four? Or Katsu?"

"NO!" you declared, "They are NOT dinner chickens! Those are egg chickens!"

I took a road trip with Lolopop this weekend. We always have good conversations on our road trips. About parenting philosophies and business ideas and dreams--neglected and hoped for.

One dream we often discuss is our hope to one day "own a little piece of earth." His goals are in line with mine, simply to:

1) put some space between him and his neighbors

and

2) keep a connection to the earth

Given the age of my children, my subsequent lack of time and, hmmm, the fact that I know nothing about operating even the tiniest ranchette, I will probably have to be content with our limited chicken operation and salad garden.

And yet, a girl can dream. Of goats. And pigs. A riding lawnmower. A wide porch from which to watch my children playing, exploring the earth, making mud pies, pulling weeds, picking berries.

Besides having fresh eggs, this was always my reasoning for having chickens. And a little garden. So that you girls can learn about where our food comes from--cucumbers, chickens, eggs or otherwise. You can appreciate the earth, labor and love that goes into growing our own things as well as have an smidgen of an understanding of ALL that goes into the food we pick up at the grocery store.

So, "Thank you, Chickydoodles!" as you say when we bring our still-warm eggs into the house each day.

Really, thank you.

Love,

Open door policy. Making sex hard. And another Filipino word gone wrong.

Dearest Daughters,

I am a notoriously immodest person. I have no qualms about undressing or dressing in a room full of people. Discretely as possible, of course, if it can be called such a thing when one is engaged in public nudity.

It's just how I was raised. Not to be ashamed of or embarrassed by my body. A body part is a body part. There are private ones and no one other than yourself should touch those until you are thirty-five or forty. And you certainly shouldn't go flashing them around. But, in the privacy of our own home, we needn't be so so modest.

Growing up and in our home now, we don't shut doors, in general. There is no such thing as privacy. Not when you're two and want to play in your room with your friends alone. Not when you're thirteen and want to talk on the phone or have a computer in your room alone. And not when you're eighteen and your boyfriend is over. We don't close doors and we definitely don't slam them. Ask Lola. And your eldest cousin about that one.

So, by extension, I don't close the door when I go to the bathroom. In my own home, I mean. Not like in public or at other people's homes. It perplexes your dad. And I can't really explain it either. Maybe it's laziness. Maybe it's the fact that I have two children following me. Maybe it's normalized paranoia that was instilled in me when I was told to NEVER lock the bathroom door. Because slipping and falling in the shower behind a locked door is WAY worse than being walked in on by your own family.

I suppose there are some reasons to close doors, for example, for fire safety and sex. But, other than that, there's no real point in my mind. Sure, kids might want to touch themselves. And that's fine. I'd much prefer that than any amount of pre-marital sex going on under my roof. But, as a parent, it's my job to make sexual activity hard to impossible. Meaning, if you're going to try to make out with someone or get to third base, you're going to have to work REALLY hard to find an opportunity to do so under my roof and on my watch. Trust me, I had a boyfriend in high school. And it was too easy. You can thank Lola for this one.

Your dad points out that this may backfire into backyard romps in the bushes or in the mall fountain. But, what's the alternative: oh, Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez, I'd really prefer you not get it on in public, so why don't you come inside and do that? I DON'T THINK SO. I still hold my expectations that you will not engage in any behavior inappropriate for your age and maturity. And I will hold you to those expectations. Will you mess up? Will I make sure you have access to birth control? And will I still love you. Yes, but I will not be happy and I will continue to express my expectations, because I know you will return to them.

But, back to the open door policy.

To Danjo on the Occasion of Being Eleven Months Old

Dearest Danjo,

What the hell are you thinking!? Being eleven months old. Who gave you permission to do that? I know eleven months isn't twelve months, but it might just be worse. Eleven months means I will spend the whole next month angsting about you turning ONE. Once you're one, you're one. And I won't have anything left to angst about. Well, except for you walking or turning two or fifteen or thirty-four.

Even at ten, no wait, eleven months, your independence amazes me. You did NOT get that from me. While I was raised to be independent and encouraged to value experiences that take me outside of my comfort zone, I am not by nature an adventurer. See my post about Rovers v. Sitters.

Last week, while we were in Hawaii, I got to thinking that you might be a sea turtle. You have no innate fear of, well, anything. We'd put you down in the sand, which you loved touching and digging for about thirty seconds. You'd look up, see the ocean, hear it calling your name. And you'd crawl straight towards the sea, fearless. And we let you. Within reason, one hand on your swimsuit strap, ready to swoop you up from the reaches of the larger waves. This, you did not like. Feeling a tether, you'd strain and pull, trying to set yourself free to join your turtle buddies. Unfazed by saltwater in your face or mouth. Joyus, in fact, when a wave washed over your body, slapping the wet sand as the wave rolled back out.

At the pool, you'd do the same thing. Thrashing your body to be PUT DOWN RIGHT NOW, once your knees and hands hit the ground, you'd head straight for the pool, reach in to splash around and if I wasn't holding onto some part of your body or clothing, you would have jumped right in.

I'm a Pisces and I love the ocean. From afar. From a lanai. In an HD IMAX ocean documentary. From anywhere but around my body.

By the end of the trip, I realized that I had yet to fully submerge my body in water at all, what with trying to keep you from drowning and all.

Despite being mobile, you were actually a really great traveler. On the way to Maui, a flight attendent took you for about an hour of the trip. That was the best flight I've had in a long time. I was actually able to read a book. Not a whole book, but at least a page or two. You have such a gregarious personality and you make friends wherever you go. This, also, is not something you got from me.

GONE FISHIN': What not to buy your mother.

Dearest Daughters,

Posting old content while we're away.

Wrote this near the end of my first pregnancy with Babybel. Two children later, I report: motherhood didn't change me. Slippers are still on the Do Not Buy list, girls. I repeat: DO NOT BUY.

When did I become the type of person for whom slippers are "The Perfect" gift?

About nine months ago, I guess.

The story really goes like this. My bestest friend in the whole wide world, KTA, bought me a pair of warm, comfy and very much appreciated slippers for my Christmas present. Perfect for my hardwood floors and poorly insulated apartment. Perfect for shuffling and rocking and feeding in the middle of the night. Perfect, in fact, for right now, cozy on the couch, writing a blog entry. So, thank you, Katherine.

I have nothing against Katherine.

I have nothing against slippers.

I'm just shocked (and amused) at an event that occured in my apartment this morning.

I had a lovely breakfast of eggs, potatoes, apple wood smoked bacon and the best biscut ever with my other bestest friend in the whole wide world, Ashley. We returned to my apartment to do some gift exchanging. Fine. If you must know: I had some Tokyo souvineers that I never gave her and a small homemade Christmas present. She gave me a "lame" (according to her) baby present, but it really wasn't. Instead of plastic toys from China that BabyBel doesn't really need, she got us diapers, wipes and the very important (and until now, unobtained) breast pads and cream. Superb baby gift, if you ask me. She ordered me something else, she told me, but she didn't have it yet. She'd bring it by next week.

Then, I hear a string of profanity exiting her mouth. Not that I'm unfamiliar with profanity, but given our pleasant morning, I wasn't sure what was wrong. Very concerned, I looked at her for clues and followed her gaze to my slippers sitting on the living room floor.

Apparently she had ordered me the EXACT, EXACT, we're talking EXACT same pair of slippers that Katherine did. And she was so proud of herself for thinking of and almost delivering on "The Perfect" gift, she was so pissed that someone beat her to it. Though, she reports to have thought of the idea in August, so I don't think Katherine can beat that.

I tried to console Ashley by praising her and Katherine's ability to choose "The Perfect" gift for me, apparently so perfect that TWO of my closest friends thought of it. Great minds think alike! Look how well you know me! You both are so thoughtful! But she was not to be consoled.

If only my slippers had been sitting in my room out of her line of sight! Then this travesty would not have transpired. Of course, I'd be the recipient of two of the EXACT, EXACT, we're talking EXACT same pair of slippers. Which brings me back to my initial question: When did I become the type of person for whom slippers are "The Perfect" gift?

Upon hearing this story, Beadle welcomed me to motherhood. But I told him that these high quality L.L. Bean slippers will last a good 3-5 years and when I actually need new slippers I (or one of my best friends, apparently) will buy them. Because I need them. Not because they'd make a great annniversary gift. He, under no circumstances, is allowed or should allow our children to buy me slippers. Designer handbags, spa gift certificates, chocolate, something for the kitchen, if they must, but not slippers! I'm only 23! No. Wait. I forget. I'm 24. Okay, almost 25. But, I'm too young to be relegated to a lifetime supply of slippers!

And don't get me started on robes.