dearest daughters

To Babybel on the Occasion of Being Thirty-Three Months Old

Dearest Babybel,

I can't handle you right now.

Seriously. I can not.

Here are four things I can't handle about you.

1) I can't handle your silly, crazy humor. You're a crack-up.

It seems you've reached a developmental stage where things that are funny to grown-ups are also funny to you.

Lolopop has always noted both your sister's and your "sense of humor." As babies, you'd make a face or some sort of unintelligible declaration. "She's telling a baby joke," he'd note. Then, you'd dissolve into giggles. Or scrunch of your face and smile like, "that was a good one, huh, Mommy?"

Then, we moved to the stage of decipherable declarations, but the humor was lost on us adults.

"Eyeballs!" has been a perennial favorite. Or, "NO NOSE!" which I like to think that I get, so I laugh along. But, I see you rolling your eyes, like: "She soooo doesn't get it. No use pretending, lady."

More recently you've been laughing at things that adults laugh at.

You know, the good stuff. Bodily functions and their respective parts. People, especially your sister, falling down. And characters in movies saying or doing silly things.

Call me a conformist, but you can't say I don't speak my mind.

Dearest Daughters,

In a world of limitless art supplies and boundless time and two year olds, I agree that there is no right and wrong. I believe in open-ended art and play. I encourage pretending and tinkering and open-ended conversation.

I do everything in my capacity to build my girls up. Not tear you down. Especially not with mockery and berating, but, I must admit, sometimes a finger shake. Right, Danjo, Miss Finger Shaker?

I've written before about grey areas and my desire to avoid making my children feel wrong, making you feel like there is only one right answer.

I've had these thoughts for the very same reason as Teacher Tom (via Intrepid Murmurings), who writes:

When we manage to teach children that there is a right way and a wrong way, they are learning something about black and white. They are learning something about their own judgement. They are learning something about rote and obedience. And I think none of it good, at least if the idea is to have them ultimately emerge from school as people who form their own ideas and have the courage to express them.

Certainly. I want you, my daughters, to be true to yourselves and to be courageous in your convictions and actions.

But, there's something about this approach to child-rearing that is too "perfect world" for me. Never offering guidance about "right" and "wrong" or communicating expectations of excellence.

Yes, in a perfect world, those are the children I would raise. Children who are self-motivated to learn and make good choices. Who don't hit each other because they understand that it hurts, who want to learn math because they understand its fascinating application to natural phenomenon. (Click on Teacher Tom's link about "obedience" above, for more on that. A whole 'nother post. Don't have time to go there now.)

But, in reality?

Have I Told You Tuesday: why there are push pops in our freezer

Dearest Daughters,

I only knew Great Grandma Reyes/Acoba/Crazy for what is now, half my life.

She passed away, but remains a force to be reckoned with, bits of her living in our memories, in our hearts and in your Lola. In me and in you too. And in our freezer, but read on; there are not actual parts of her in our freezer.

She was and is this spirit and presence of love and laughter.

Of dandruff on shoulder pads and inches-long, millimeters-thick, pinching finger nails.

Of fashion statements. Of fake pearl barrettes, clipped onto, hanging from necklaces and Hawaiian print outfits.

One dare not mention her name in disrespect. In loving jest about her insanity, perhaps, but with a quick, "we sure love her," to counter any aswang attack she might launch from the heavens. Or your closet.

She's a game of shot-gun roulette. A hinged door, swinging one way or the other, depending on the breeze.

You never knew with her. And that was half the fun. And half the fear.

She watched Kevin and me after school. And some days she indulged our PBS kids show desires, watching Sesame Street and Mr. Roger's Neighborhood with us.

And some days we were stuck watching Press Your Luck and soap operas.

While she made us an after school snack of instant ramen (my choice) or macaroni and cheese (not my choice).

If we were lucky, she'd hand us an expired candy bar that she'd won at the bingo hall. But we were never to play with her bingo "daubers."

Or else the fingernails.

Seriously.

I can't even describe the fingernails. Without cringing in fear and mild disgust.

But, sometimes. They tickled, tucking the musty electric blanket around my shoulders. When I pretended to stay home sick and was supposed to stay in her bed all day.

But, sneaked out to sit with her on the couch. Or at the sticky kitchen table. Thumbing through decades of Reader's Digest, eating freshly fried banana fritters.

Told not to play by the fence outside. Because of the snakes. That go down the back of your shirt. And give you a fever.

"Keb-ben!" she'd yell, my little brother ignoring her warnings.

"Git down prrum der!" The fence, the tree or the flat asphalt roof of her house.

"Pabungúlo." You silly, hard-headed boy.

And she'd throw us in the Oldsmobile. I'd ride shotgun, being the child who didn't climb on the roof.

To Star Market. For a push pop. Or those glazed fruit pies. Banana creme or chocolate filled. Probably on the shelf a year too long.

To a rusty playground.

And I'd sit beside her on a park bench, watching the pabungúlo play. As she smoked a cigarette, reminding me not to tell my mommy, her two-inch long fingernails unconsciously clacking together in subliminal warning.

Melted orange push pop dripping down my chin. She pulled wadded napkins from her purse, saved from the drive-thru bag of KFC chicken littles or wrapped around gas station "AM/PAM" hot dogs.

Wiping my face.

Calling for Kevin, "Psssht! Psssht! Time toe goh home now! Git ober here!"

And he did.

Love,

Japanese Tea Garden

Dearest Daughters,

We're just going to pretend that this didn't happen over four months ago.

We'll pretend that it was just any other sunny day in San Francisco. A beautiful day for an outing. With Great Grandma, Lolopop, Mommy and my Dearest Daughters: four generations!

So, we decided to visit the Japanese Tea Garden in Golden Gate Park.

Liar liar pants on fire

Dearest Daughters,

I have a daughter who can change and throw away her own diaper.

There are a couple of problematic aspects of that statement.

Not the least of which is Babybel's discovery of McDonald's toys and empty bubble containers and unfinished cookies in the trash:

"Mommy, why are somebody THROW THIS in the GARBAGE??"

"Oh yeah, that thing. Um, uh," I stutter.

Deciding to hide my guilt with righteous indignation, "I can't believe it! I don't know why some body woud throw that away! Maybe, SOME BODY swept it up on accident last night?"

"Oh. Maybe."

And maybe SOME BODY will bury it beneath a few layers of dirty diapers next time.

Love,

Lists keep me sane: earthquake edition

Dearest Daughters,

I want to talk to you about something very important: ice cream.

It's very good. And from the devil. And that is why it does not live in our freezer.

Now, I want to talk to you about something even more important: earthquakes.

We've had two this past week. And being under three years old and asleep during each of them, you weren't much fazed by them.

But, I read people's tweets and facebook updates of anxiety and of their frightened kids responses (most of whom had just coincidentally participated in "The Great California Shake Out"). The State of California and I both knew something was coming; that's why we were prepared.

I'm just kidding. That's the thing about earthquakes: they're not as predictable as we'd like them to be. Which is EXACTLY why being prepared is SO important.

Especially when you live on the fault voted "Most Likely in the Bay Area to Experience a 6.7 or Greater Magnitude Earthquake by 2036." Compared to other faults in the Bay Area, our probability (at 31%) is at least 10% higher than any other fault.

(See for yourself.)

But, am I terrified? Should you be terrified? Should we move? Should we spend the next twenty five years at the edge of our seat?

Do I hear an echo?

Dearest Daughters,

I told'ja.

I know.

You said it! [Not as in, I agree with you. But as in, why are you asking me? You're the one who said it!]

It's actually... [even if it's not].

Even cars don't go on walking sides. Even peoples don't have a Cinderella book like me.

Only we didn't go on the Pirate ride. We only went on only the Buzz ride.

Yes, I'm did!

I hope sure that she likes my coloring book!?

And, last but not least, my little consumer: "Oh my goodness, those are cute!"

Love,

Like A Dog

Dearest Daughters,

Ladies and gentleman of the jury, I present to you Exhibit A:

If you'll recall, Mommy's testimony from Monday, describing the accused canine tendencies, and in light of this new evidence, I think you can all agree, that the defendant is, in fact, guilty of being a dog.

Love you anywayz,

Have I Told You Tuesday: You're a Genius

Dearest Daughters,

Lola makes sure to regularly ask you, her other grandchildren and other children in her life: "Has anyone told you today that you're [fill in the blank]?"

... beautiful? ... clever? ... smart? ... creative? ... strong?

I think it's a wonderful way to build your self-esteem and confidence. Better than just saying, "you're beautiful" or "you're so smart!" Which is just a few years and an eye-roll away, from "sure, whatever, mom."

"Has anyone told you?" implies that someone should have DAMN SURE WELL TOLD YOU ALREADY!!! As in, no one told you that you're smart today, Babybel? Well, lemme at 'em! Because YOU ARE. And you deserve to be told. And even though those adults forget to tell you these things, they are still, forever and ever, one-hundred percent, TRUTH.

Babybel, the smarty pants that she is, usually replies, "Yes. My best friend Ava told me!" Which she totally didn't, because they haven't seen each other in at least two days. But, maybe during a secret late night phone call? Or dream? I'll give her the benefit of the doubt.

Babybel, did anyone tell you today that you are an artist?

No, seriously. I mean, I know everyone is an "artist." Yes, your kid is cute and talented too. Blah. Blah. Blah.

But look at this!!! Really!!! You have to!!! The exclamation points beseech you!!!

Lola told me you painted a robot while I was at work. And I was, all: sure, great, whatever. But, look at it!

IT'S A FREAKING ROBOT!

With a rectangular robot head! And robot eyes! And robot ears! And robot shoulders! And robot arms!

Lola told me she didn't help or coach you at all, other than writing a title when you TOLD her to. You were alone in "the Studio" as we call the garage, with your paint and your paper.

And here's your "berry tree":

As in all you do, you are precise and intentional. You've moved beyond that two-year-old scribbled mess of mixed muddy brown paint. That was SO last week. This week, you're painting actual figures. From your mind.

Maybe, I'm biased. And easily impressed. Someone please put me in my place.

But, I didn't see this coming at all! Firstly, because, well, you're two. Painting or drawing things that make actual sense is not something I expected or was training you to do. And secondly, because I don't think of you as an artist "type." Danjo's the musician, the free spirit, the child who will give me gray hairs as I wait for her to "discover herself" while doing performance art and still living at home.

But, Babybel, did anyone tell you today that you are a truly talented artist?

Love,

To Danjo on the Occasion of Being Thirteen Months Old

Dearest Danjo,

You are now thirteen months old.

Kind of a let down after turning twelve months and its corresponding festivities?

I forgot to say when you turned one year old, so I'll say it now: a BIG thank you to all of the people (and animals, that's you too, mister loyal, cuddly, psuedo-guard dog, Lapu) who helped you survive a whole year.

No, really.

I mean, SURVIVE.

Thank you, thank you, yada, yada for the support and all. You know, the general care and concern, outpouring of love and time from all directions.

But, I mean, like SURVIVE survive. You really might have not made it if there weren't so many eyes watching you.

You are a quicky quickster and tricky trickster to begin with; add an ever-emotionally-imploding older sister in the mix and well, let's just say it's not abnormal to find me running around the house, after attending to someone else's need or another, yelling, "DANIELLEY! WHERE ARE YOU!? WHERE ARE YOU?! MARIBEL, DO YOU KNOW WHERE DANIELLE IS? DANIELLE! FOR REALS! WHERE ARE YOU?!? COME HERE RIGHT NOW!"

And our house is only 1018 square feet.

And you'll crawl innocently out of hiding, from the bathroom or a closet, from under the bed or behind the couch, carrying a toy in your mouth (as your hands are occupied with crawling), like: "Hey, what's up mom? I was just building a bomb back there. Relax."

And I'm all: "DANIELLEY YOU COULD HAVE DIED IN THERE!"

And I clutch you to my chest and promise I'll never take my eyes off of you ever EVER ever again. And you'll snuggle me and smile and generally melt my heart.

Then, I'll blink.

And when I open my eyes a millisecond later you're standing on top of a rocking horse, playing the piano, having already mixed yourself a drink from the liquor cabinet, turned off the television, turned on the radio and fan, read no less than fifteen books which you've strewn across the floor and unfolded every piece of laundry in the house, including those inside of three separate dressers.

And I'm not exaggerating 95% of that.

So, basically, given the amount of ground you cover each day, I just need to teach you to dust. And we'll be good to go.

You've taken a couple of steps here and there. You're in no hurry to walk. You are just fine, THANK YOU VERY MUCH, as you say to passersby who comment on your "inability" to walk while you also flip them the bird, which they mistake for cute baby waving.

You are not unable to walk. You get it, I'm sure. You are simply unwilling.

Did you catch it earlier when I said that you carry things in your MOUTH? Like a DOG? As parents have told me, many children start walking at the point at which they think: hey, I'd like to carry this thing over there, but, by golly, I can't crawl AND use my opposable thumbs at the same time. Let's try this thing!

Not you. No.

You have a toy in your hand. You look up at us walking creatures, down at the object in your hand, back up at us, then put the item in your mouth and crawl to the other room. LIKE A DOG?!

Unwilling, I tell you.

Sounds familiar. When I gave birth to your sister, I asked if I HAD to push during the next contraction. The nurse said, no, you don't have to, but this baby's gonna come out sooner or later, you gotta face the music sometime. Oh, and another time, when your dad and I were dating, he paid for me to take snowboarding lessons (while he went off on his own). We rented all the gear, bought some too. After a couple falls, I REFUSED to go down that bunny hill with the rest of the class who left me in the (snow) dust.

"Listen," the instructor said, "you have to decide that this is what you want to do."

"That's the thing, I don't want to," I replied.

And that was that. She told me she had to leave me to attend to the other students. I could choose to meet her at the bottom of the hill in five minutes or I could go to the ticket office, tell them I'm sick and get my money for the lesson back, like a LOSER.

I think she thought she was being inspirational.

I found it to be informational.

You can guess where I was five minutes later.

I doubt this will happen to you, Danjo, since you seem to be very athletic, but I empathize with your On My Own Terms mentality.

Also, I fear the Day You Start Walking. I'm pretty sure it will also be the Day You Start Running. And the Day I Remove All Sharp Objects From the House.

Please send bubble wrap. Or a large mammal kennel.

Love,