dearest daughters

Have I Told You Tuesday: All I Know is I Can Pull Yellow Off Okay

Dearest Daughters,

I was born into a fashionable family.

I mean: look at your Great Grandpa and Great Grandma Gibbs and Lola rockin' Pendleton plaid in 1984. And Lolopop in his vintage graphic tee. What hipsters!

Hold up. Wait a second. There weren't hipsters in 1984. And Lolopop's shirt didn't become vintage until Abercrombie & Fitch started faking vintage tees in 1999.

Furthermore, isn't it true that if three people are gathered wearing the same thing, then they are by definition a gang? Or in church? I forget. There's a fine line.

Well, at least we were rocking the "mixed family" thing. That wasn't so common in 1984 as it is now. Now, in California and on morning network news shows, at least, hapa peeps are ubiquitous. So, I guess we were kind of "ahead of the times" in that regard.

As if being mixed can be boiled down to a trend. Gah!

Never the mind. Forget I said anything. Plaid, cotton, church or gang. I know not from whence I come.

(But look how cute I am, sporting gender neutral yellow, a perennial baby fashion favorite! And not, in general, a good color on Asian-hued skin, but given my mixed-ness, I think I got away with it nicely.)

Love,

Hiking Buddies

Dearest Daughters,

To ease the transition to staying at home full time, I reduced my hours this month. I only work Tuesday-Thursday now.

We've only had a few of them, nevertheless I've reached the preliminary conclusion that Stay At Home Parent Mondays are the Best Kind of Mondays.

We wake up at about the same time every week day. Mostly because of Danjo who rises with the literal chickens. And partly because of Daddy who we have to bring to BART by eight o' the clock.

On Work Day mornings, I pull myself out of bed. We're frenzied and harried and barely manage to pull ourselves together. And anyone who is anyone knows that a Monday, being the day directly following the Weekend Days of Hardly Any Schedules or Expectations, is often a shock to the senses.

The great thing about Stay At Home Mondays is that even though we get up at the same time; and we still get dressed and readied; there is an ease to the day. I don't hate getting out of bed. I don't have to jump in the shower. Nothing is forced. And the world is our oyster.

This morning we dropped off Daddy. Came home and had waffles with whipped cream AND sprinkles. Then, took a hike.

We drove five minutes to an Equestrian Staging Area of Lake Chabot Regional Park to climb up to Fairmont Ridge in the hills above San Leandro. Walked right through a herd of grazing cattle. "That is the tallest mountain I EVER met!" Bel declared. Bel walked up and down the hill/mountain all by herself (in her dragon hoodie, of course). I let Danjo start the hike on her own, but in true form, you ran straight off the path and into a ditch, so I packed you en-Ergo on my back against your kicking, flailing wishes.

And we made it.

Did I mention we had our Doggie House Guest with us too? We did, but he was quite the off leash gentleman. And my other hiking buddies weren't too much trouble either. Except it took me two minutes to convince Bel it was okay and feasible for you to climb up just ONE rung of this gate so we could get a shot of all of us with San Leandro in the background. Danjo, on the other hand, needed no such convincing and, as you can see, shimmied yourself to the top of the six foot gate. I had to pry you off.

And all this by 10:00AM. Yay for Stay At Home Monday mornings!

Uh... so... now what?

Love you no matter what,

Ramblings: employment news, my stay at home parenting worries, attempting to keep ourselves occupied.

Dearest Daughters,

It's about time I told you that pretty soon I'm going to become a full time stay at home parent--if only for a couple of months before I'm driven insane and/or penniless and into the arms of some form of employment. I'm crossing my fingers that won't happen.

The truth is: I'm lazy. Or that's how our capitalist, dual earner household society might view me. And if I never had to conventionally work for money another day in my life, I'd be content. On the other hand I have this urge to be "productive"--it's both innate and a societal pressure.

I want dearly to be able to spend my days playing and making art with you girls. Rolling around in the grass or dirt. So, I look forward to being able to spend ALL my time at home with you. Particularly those precious mid-morning hours, when we're all at our best.

I'm nervous about this transition. And the internal struggles I have with myself over "getting things done" versus "enjoying my kids" versus "having time for myself" versus "teaching my kids to entertain themselves."

This also means that we'll have to take Babybel out of school, which is a mere two mornings a week. And while you certainly benefit from the activities and play and structure and social opportunities provided by preschool, you are the type of child who will do fine in any environment you're in.

I can't really get a grasp on what "worries" me about being at home full time. I guess that I fear that I won't like it. That we'll all get bored or have tantrums or end up watching television all day. And the house will still be a mess. And I'll forget to feed you or give you water. And we'll all just be starving and dehydrated and cranky. And wet our pants.

Or something like that.

Sometimes when I post things on this blog or on Facebook describing our day, the People praise my parenting--the activities and opportunities that I provide for my children.

But the truth is: as much as I do it for you, multiply that times a thousand and that's how much I do it for myself. Really, People.

Lolopop, hearing about your recent watercolor bath, declared, "What a good Mommy you have! We just threw our kids in the tub and hosed them down."

To which I replied, "It doesn't take that much. I just give them the paints and make sure the water's warm and sit there for an hour." And we're all happy. In my measure, the supposed "effort" is worth not yelling at my children all day.

It's not so much what you girls need so much as what I need to get through my day. I have no discipline. And I like to call Lola and ask her, "So? What are you doing today?" And as long as we're all occupied, we make it to the end of the day unscathed. But, when there's no discernible objective to our day, I feel sort of lost and bored and like we desperately muddle through our day, me perpetually throwing toys and food in your general direction, feeling like I can't make anyone happy, attempting to avoid meltdown.

I need a routine.

I need go-tos. Outings, activities, snacks.

Auntie Katherine gave us a couple of books awhile back when I communicated this exact sentiment to her; the need for Sanity Preserving Time Occupying Not Television Related But Easy As Pie Go To Activities.

I highly recommend these books; your library might have a copy.

First Art: Art Experiences for Toddlers and Twos

Preschool Art: It's the Process, Not the Product

This morning's activity, as simple, as messy, as duh as it seems, came from the first book. Just so the People don't start to thinking I'm as amazing of a parent as my Facebook page lets on.

Working with the materials while you wait for Mommy to hurry up and make the paste already.

Danjo explores her materials.

Signing: "more" paste? (To eat, of course!)

Art is a process. Inclusive of clean up.

Love you,

Do not underestimate the power of dirt and water.

Dearest Daughters,

I chose to have you. I knew what I was signing up for. And while I use this blog as a place to hash out my parenting philosophies, over-thinking, over-analyzing, hypothesizing, etc., this isn't a place for me to complain about what a drag children are.

That being said.

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Whew, I feel better.

When I had Babybel, breastfed her, changed her, read to her, played with her, sleep-trained her, taught her baby tricks and the English language and the concept of an "evergreen" tree,  I thought to myself: "Self, you are such a FREAKING AWESOME parent."

Little did I know, it had little to do with my nurture and lots to do with Babybel's nature.

"Aw, I can TOTALLY do this again," I told Anyone Who Was Listening. And I was pregnant again before Babybel was even a year old.

And now, here I am, with a three year old and a sixteen month old. Correction: a relatively cooperative three year old and a gymnastic, independent, curious sixteen month old from Trouble Town, USA. I'm sure you've met a kid or two from there before.

And it's all I can do to not pull my hair out. Well, that is, if I had a chance to pull my hair out in between the corralling, barricading, intervening, repairing, remediating, and restraining of Danjo. Yes, I said restraining. And listen: you gotta do what you gotta do to change a diaper, get shoes on, buckle a car seat.

Danjo, your attention span is short and your body is quick. And your mommy is lazy. It's a frustrating combination.

It means that I actually have to keep an eye on you. I can't just throw you in a laundry basket full of books and expect you to stay there like your sister would have.

We have an abundance of toys and books. They're laid out at your level. And I direct you to them. Where you play nicely for about three seconds. Then, you methodically throw each object on the floor. That takes another three seconds.

So. There goes the first six seconds of our day.

The next few seconds are spent emptying all the garbage cans in the house. And any available laundry baskets. Dirty or clean.

There's the lower cabinets of the kitchen and pantry, of course. We must not forget about their urgent need to be "reorganized." And if I'm not fast enough in emptying the dishwasher, there go all the clean utensils on the floor. Because they needed to be washed again, after all. You're such a helper.

And television? Forget it. Babybel can sit in one place, watching one, two, three feature length animated singing animal nonsense films in a row. Danjo can't make it through the first three notes of the opening song.

Okay. So, this is me again. Not complaining about how annoying children are. This is me, attempting to embrace the nature of a child who I'd swear wasn't mine, except for the fact that you propelled yourself from my womb (if that wasn't foreshadowing, I don't know what is).

I recognize your need for perpetual and varied stimulation. But, like your easily overwhelmed sister, I don't understand it. And don't find it realistic to play the role of toddler entertainer all day.

I embrace your whirlwind nature and let you keep yourself busy (with the aforementioned minute-by-minute routine)(as if I had a choice)(it's not as if I could beat you into holding still and reading a book)(or can I?)(has anyone had success with that?). Ultimately, it's just my job to keep you safe, watching you out of the corner of my eyes. But, even that gets tiring. See above: corralling, barricading, intervening, repairing, remediating, and restraining.

I've discovered two things that keep you occupied for more than six seconds.

Your daily dose of vitamins B and DJ

Dearest Daughters,

I was looking back over the blog posts I've written about Babybel. I was reminiscing and glad that I've taken the time over the past few years to document our lives together. I was going to pull out a few definitive Babybel posts for the People to read, but there're just too many.

So, if you're one of the people who wants to go back in time and experience all that is Babybel, just click here. And you'll get the gamut of Babybel stories.

If you're more of a visual type. And can't sit still long enough to read this sentence, let alone three years worth of blog entries about a precocious toddler teaching her parents How It Really Be. Then, I've got the child for you. She dances. With herself. Even if there's no music. She's too sassy for her shirt.

Hope you got what you came for today.

Love,

 

To Babybel on the Occasion of Being Thirty-Six Months (That's Three Years) Old

Dearest Babybel,

I can't really figure out what to say to you that hasn't been said time and time again on this blog, in your monthly letters and to your cute little squishy pumpkin head face.

You've tired of me telling you that you are smart, creative and beautiful.

"Lola already told me that," you'll say. "Ava too."

So what is there left for me to tell you?

Current research in child psychology says that we're not supposed to shower you with general praises anyway.

That and your personality require specificity:

I like your focus and determination in putting that puzzle together.

You are concentrating very hard to make those lines parallel.

That was very kind of you to offer your birthday cupcake to your sister.

Your use of the word "scrumptious" was aptly utilized.

I'm amazed that you went from this:

To this:

And some from in between for good measure:

You are an awesome creature. And I can't believe you're mine. It's a joy every single day to watch you grow into the person you were created to be. And I'm glad that out of all the children I could have had, I got you.

I don't customarily like meeting new people. It's the introvert in me. But, getting to know you has been one of the most wonderful experiences of my life.

Love you no matter what.

Back online.

Dearest Daughters,

Did you know you can survive a week without access to the Internet?!

My sources tell me that, apparently, people do it all the time!

Nevertheless, I feel cheated. Not simply because I pay for a service I wasn't receiving, but, more importantly because AT&T deprived the People of their All Access Pass into Dearest Daughter's Mundane Existence.

I feel the need to recap. One, two, three, and go!

At the San Francisco Zoo

Enjoying a warm California winter day, sidewalk, bike and body painting.

Playing with/riding our house guest, Rueger.

Capturing the castle at Bel's preschool playground. My that's high!

And, done.

I feel better, Internet. Don't you?

Love,

I write this from a toilet.

Dearest Daughters,

An original haiku for you this afternoon, as I sit on a (lidded) toilet, supervising contained, harmonious play:

Painting in the bath
Two birds, one stone, endless fun.
Water's cold. Oh well.

Love,
Mommy

Lady, you better check yo'self, before you reck yo'self!

Dearest Daughters,

As always, I and the general public stand corrected.

[Standing in line to check out at the grocery store, Bel wearing a tutu.]

Lady: Wow! You look so pretty! Are you a ballerina? Or a gymnast!?
Bel: ...
Me: Maribel, don't be rude. The lady asked you a question. Can you answer?
Bel: ...
Lady: It's okay.
Bel: I'm not a ballerina OR a gymnast. I'm a DRAGON!!!

Right you are, Bel! Right you are.

Love,

150 Words: Thoughts on Older Sisters

Auntie Dee is eight years my senior. In my mind, an eternally cooler teenager, with bangs properly suited to the decade. I spent my childhood annoying her out of a pesky desire to become her. When Lola and Lolo were out of town, when no one was looking, she let me in. I slept in her room or used her brush, the one essential to engineering mile high bangs.

I still feel inferior, despite her insistence that, as adults, we're "basically the same age." She is ever the Older Sister, even with one plus a newborn baby, generous, selfless, goes out of her way, writing Thank You's, sending gifts, listening. I am ever the Younger Sister, self-centered, forgetting to call, never generous or gracious enough, but always sneaking peeks of her, around corners, over shoulders, inspired to master mile high bangs.

I am better for having her in my life.