I'm not asking you to jump in cars with strangers, but I do feel that when someone says "hi" to you, whether friend or foe, it is only appropriate to say "hello" back. And smile. Even if it is fake.
I'm sorry if I'm offending you and your future children, but I don't understand kids who just sit and stare at you when you smile and greet them. I'm not saying they are dumb or impolite. Nay, it's by no means their fault. Maybe they are cranky or overstimulated. Or I have a huge zit on my face they can't take their eyes off of. Or they don't have a personality. Or parents that encourage them to conform to society's pleasantries.
You girls certainly aren't at your best every single time to greet or meet someone, but I encourage you to wipe the surly looks off your face, to smile, to recite the Periodic Table of the Elements, or something to that effect.
We've also been working on our courtesy laugh. For those times when people (or your dad) think they are wittier and more charming than they really are.
You're welcome. For being your mom. For teaching you useful things. And being generally awesome.
I'm socially awkward. Or, at least, I like to think so.
I, unlike your father, lack what we would euphemistically call "interpersonal intelligence." That is to say, I routinely stick my foot in my mouth, never think of or, conversely, over-think the appropriate thing to say, and make jokes that no one gets.
I don't mean to sound so self-deprimenticalating. That's a word I coined in college, because I gave up trying to pronounce the real word. Your dad assures me that my personality is charming, but I think that may also be a euphemism in sheep's clothing.
If you don't believe me, let me take you back to tenth grade.
I was The New Girl and, as such, I was a very novel idea. I wasn't sure where I fit in at my new school of over 1400 students. I started out where almost every new kid does, hanging out with the cool kids in the Quad. I was genuinely welcomed by the cheerleader, jock, student body council types, but, being quiet I didn't earn my keep and the outgoing kids moved on to other things.
I made my way to another area of the campus where the somewhat cool Asian, mostly Filipino, kids hung out. And this is where I met my first boyfriend. There's really no story there, other than that my parents were terrified by (but allowed me to make) this horrible choice, motivated by a) fitting in and b) all too eagerly accepting the first display of attention I had ever received from a boy.
When I realized what a doofus I was for deciding to "go out with" (i.e. eating lunch with and being ditched at one school dance by) a generally nice, but altogether undeserving tenth grade boy, I decided we needed to break up.
While visiting Great Grandma in WAAAAAY Northern California, we mostly played inside and spent quality time with Grandma. With a couple of exceptions, everyone was on their best behavior, good travlers (helps when you drive during nap and bed times!), going potty when told to, displaying some semblance of table manners, using our please and thank yous, not breaking anything. That Grandma especially! She was such a big girl!
Redding, California is not a place I'd ever live, but it has it's moments. It's a place that holds childhood memories of hot summers spent doing crafts with Grandma, being shooed from Grandpa's recliner, the classical public radio station playing in the background. Lifting the giant lid of the backyard sandbox, the German Shepherd nipping at our heels. A creaky swing set. Picking strawberries from Grandma's garden. Lying on the cool linoleum of the family room and playing with toys hand-crafted by Grandpa, some of them from Lolo's childhood.
I'm sure Lolopop has stories he could tell of an era with out airconditioning, of running barefoot in the street, exploring, adventuring, fishing, climbing his way around Redding as a child, as long as he was back by supper.
My memories are small. And quiet. And fond.
And mostly contained to Grandma and Grandpa's house and backyard. Maybe to the school yard a few blocks away and to the First United Methodist Church where I refused to go to Sunday School, instead preferring to play in the nursery with the very same April who watches you girls when we go to church with Grandma now.
Now Grandma lives in an apartment. And it's a different setting from the one preserved in my childhood memories. Though objects here and there send me back into my memory. Furniture built by Grandpa, photographs, art, the bath mat, the bread dish.
And other things are the same.
Setting the table. Clothespins with our names on them to mark our cloth napkins. The care and attention and fuss over our meals. The freshly baked cookies. The hodge podge of items sitting in a basket for you girls to tinker and play with. A scarf. A toy car. Cardboard boxes. A key to nowhere. And everywhere.
We are all so blessed to be able to continue making memories with Grandma.
(Visiting Turtle Bay Exploration Park with Grandma.)
(Bel's very observant and intellectual experience of the Dr. Seuss exhibit.)
(Danjo's--how shall we say?--kinesthetic experience of the exhibit. For those that watch PBS children's programming, you can imagine Danjo's chorus of "Here we GO! GO! GO!s" echoing around the room.)
(Packing supplies and cooking as the pioneers did.)
(What's Mommy gotta do to get a cup of coffee around here?)
(Gonna head to a different part of the museum, but better check the GPS first.)
(FISH! FISH! FISH!)
("M for Maribel" hotcakes.)
(And D for Danger, I mean, Danielle. That Grandma spoils us!) (And what we really came for: to make memories of recliner forts.)
(And using our imagination and creativity: "You can take a picture of my drawing. It's a swimming pool.")
We came back yesterday from visiting my Grandma, your Great Grandma Gibbs.
She hadn't seen you in five months, since before Danjo was walking, since before her reign of destruction began in earnest.
Grandma reads this blog and talks to Lolopop and she's had five children, so she had some inkling of the "type" of child Danjo is.
Often, when I rescue you from dangerous situations of your own devising, I declare, "Stop! Please! You know, I can always have more children, but I can't have another Danielle. [dramatic pause] No. Really. I CAN NOT have another Danielle."
Grandma, hearing this, recounted that she always said if she had "ANOTHER one like Jared" (her second child, my uncle), then she'd be DONE, with child-bearing that is. And then, as she says, she had your Super Auntie Melissa. And that was THAT.
Grandma also told me of a time when she was a little girl and overheard a mother say, after her child had pooped in the bath, "It'd be easier to get a new one than clean this one up!" And Grandma balked, thinking this was such a horrible thing for a mother to say.
A given: girls, I love you both diligently, vehemently and unceasingly.
But, I think we can all see and feel the cathartic nature of the bathtub joke, of our declarations about our "limits" when it comes to bearing children.
We shared empathetic chuckles and sighs of understanding, as we watched and talked about Danjo.
One afternoon Grandma and I were chatting away. Babybel was busying her self with some form of genius imaginative play. And Danjo was engaging in controlled destruction, pulling out, stacking, re-stacking, pulling out lids and bottoms from Grandma's tupperware cabinet.
You'd been doing this all weekend. "She's fine," Grandma reassured me. What possible harm could be done? What danger could there be? It's just plastic bowls and lids, for goodness sake!
And then.
"DANIELLE IS IN THE SINK!" Maribel came screaming into the living room.
I rushed, thinking Danjo was eating sponges and drinking bleach from the under-sink cabinet.
I turned the corner into the small galley kitchen. Looking left and right and up and down.
No Danjo in sight. "WHERE IS SHE!?" I asked Bel.
"In there!" Bel pointed. I ducked my head down to find two beady raccoon-ish eyes peering out at me from the cabinet.
"Grab your camera!" Grandma had the wherewithal to declare, as we dissolved into tear-inducing laughter.
"Actually," Grandma realized, "I've NEVER had one like Danielle!"
Her way of saying, "Good luck!" I guess?
We took you out of the cabinet, which you were NOT HAVING. So, I did what good mothers do and I video-recorded your attempt to climb back in.
Gramma and Granpa have gifted us a membership the past few Christmases. And it really is the best gift that anyone could give. It doesn't take up space. There is no clean up involved. And it is the non-chemical equivalent to giving my children sleeping pills.
After a visit to the zoo, easy nap and bedtimes are guaranteed.
I think that's written into the fine print of the membership documents.
Because we have a membership, there is less pressure at the zoo. We can walk around the whole zoo. Or not. We can just visit the petting zoo goats. Or the tigers. And it makes it easier to follow through on that whole parental threat of "if you step out of line again, we are LEAVING!"
Another thing I like about the ability to visit the zoo multiple times a year, if not multiple times a month, is that it provides a place for me to watch my children grow.
Returning to the same context, the same elephant enclosure, the same insect climbing structures in the Children's Zoo, I step back and really give you girls a good look.
I'm flooded with memories of how big you were when... or the last time you... or in the case of Danjo, how much closer you are to your goal of being able to pet a giraffe.
I have been blessed with a flexible job. I am employed by understanding and compassionate people. They hired me knowing that I had one small child, wanted more and needed the flexibility to bring my kid(s) to work with me if and when my child care fell through (i.e. when Lola and Lolopop are gallivanting gallivanting).
This week my child care fell through (i.e. Lola and Lolopop are gallivanting gallivanting at Disneyland.)
And Danjo has been at work with me.
Babybel, I've rarely had occasion to bring you with me because you're either at school of with Ninang. When you are here, you are quiet and helpful and easy to entertain while I do important things like stapling newsletters and making repremanding signs for the restrooms.
Danjo, you've been coming to work with me from time to time since you were six weeks old.
Oh how I wish you were six weeks old still!
At seventeen months old, this arrangement has been less than ideal and can only suitably be described in pictures:
(Tantrum, hanging off of the side of my desk.)
(After feeding you red vines and spinning around in the office chair for awhile, the next logical thing to do was to put Yo Gabba Gabba on the computer and hold you while you mashed Oreos onto your face.)
(While you seem pleased with the work you've put in this week, I, on the other hand will be putting in some hours from home.)
And it's true, I'd rather be with you than without you. And I'm eager to be at home with you full time, starting in April.
But, learn this lesson and learn it well:
Oh, Danjo is Danjo and Stapler is Stapler and never the twain shall meet.
Love you no matter how many office supplies you attempt to destroy,
Sometimes you teach me a new recipe. Sometimes you make me laugh. Sometimes you allow me hours of feeling creative without leaving my desk.
And sometimes.
You save my life.
Or at minimum, insure the physical and emotional safety of my smallest child who is "full of life." I say that both euphemistically and lovingly.
(I saw this fine motor skill activity awhile back and in a fit of exasperation, in the face of filling a whole 'nother hour until we left for work this morning, I hit up the recycling, the craft drawer and grabbed a pair of scissors. She played with for about five minutes. Trust me, that is a LONG time in Danjo Land.)
Because we shan't confuse speaking a language with your ability to make noises and sounds. At about 100 decibels.
(Perhaps, there is a correlation between dirt consumption and language acquisition?)
Sure, every day you tell me with a breathy ""h" how "hhhhot" my coffee is. And there's "bath" which you like to take frequently.
So it could be worse. You could also stink.
And as I've said before, you are an excellent communicator. Fortunately, you've added not "yes," but a nonchalant "yeah" to your vocabulary primarily consisting of various forms of "no." And your yeah's and no's are certainly definitive. And trustworthy. When we ask you a question, you will tell us simply, yeah or no. Do you want a snack? No. Do you want milk? Yeah.
That makes life a little bit easier. Maybe 2.5% easier, by my calculations.
Your ability to understand and process the English language has brought us a new found joy in chores, as you enthusiastically grasp what I say and rush to push a basket or pull open a drawer or press a button.
Clean up, clean up, Yelly! Wanna help me put the dirty clothes in the washing machine? Put your bottle in the sink, please!
Of course, there is a presence, nay, a force with which you complete your household tasks. And I mean force literally. You throw bottles, forks, dirty clothes, Duplos and puzzle pieces with all your might.
On the other hand there remains an entire array of English phrases you pretend to not understand. Or to which you outright say "NO, NO, NO!"
For example:
"STOP!"
"Give Daddy a kiss."
"Don't hit your sister!"
"Don't hit the dog!"
"Give me that knife!"
"NOW!"
"Where are you? Yelly? WHERE ARE YOU?!"
"Get down from there!"
"DON'T MOVE!" (as I whisk you out of the fruit-bowl-glass-shard and apple-strewn kitchen; note to self: eliminate all glass objects from house, nothing is "out of reach" or "off limits," replace with titanium.)
"Stop jumping."
"Get down from there and stop jumping with that knife!"
To which you reply, vehemently shaking your head back and forth, NO. NO. And NO.
Despite all of your NO's and mine, for that matter, you are a rewarding child. For every second that you drive me insane. For every second that I think I might snap. For every second I spend pulling you off of, out of, or from underneath DANGER. You give back tenfold with your flirtatious smiles, hugs, snuggles and easily indulged, puppy-dog eyed, arms-reaching requests for me to pick you up "uppas."
I should think of it as an investment, really. Ten seconds of Danjo Destructo interventions returns about a minute of holding you in my arms as you rest your head on my shoulder.
Well, it's either an investment or a slightly abusive, co-dependent relationship.
Oh, parenting!
Sigh.
I really wish the Internet could meet you, because photos and stories don't really do you justice. And, of course, the camera is never out at the right moment to capture your dancing, your coy smiles, your mischievous glances, your frustrated tantrums and your expressive noisiness.
(I suppose there's another reason you don't speak much English: your perpetual meta-cognitive narrators, Big Sister and Mommy.)
And it wasn't going to be a big deal. You know, just the family.
By the way, there are about twenty-five people, just on my side, who we consider close family. That's a dozen cousins, their parents and Lola and Lolopop. So, by the time you feed that many people, you might as well make a party of it.
"Just invite them over for cake and ice cream. I don't know why you do these big birthdays. Just one, ten, sixteen and eighteen. That's what we did for you," Lola suggests. This is coming from a woman who never has less than twenty pounds of roasted meat for her guests to devour at her Non-Birthday-Parties.
"Well, I mean, all this other stuff," she clarifies. "You know, the decorations, the special cake, the favors. I never did any of that stuff. I bought a cake and fed people large amounts of meat."
I explained, it isn't a "big deal" to me. I like doing creative things, working with my hands, cooking for the people I love.
It just so happens that there are forty-five people that I love.
So, I give you Babybel's (No-Big-Deal-Big-Deal) Train Your Dragon Party...
1. If you're reading this blog, THANK YOU. I appreciate your support of my contribution to the Internet, to the written word and to my daughters. And I'd like to buy each of you some flax seed. Because that seems like a trendy and useful and stereotypically East Bay thing for me to do. You know, staying healthy and green and blah blah carbon footprint blah locavore blah whole grains blah blah inhibits constipation or something. But, maybe you don't like flax seed? And anyway, I don't have the resources to do that. Please, take this offering instead:
2. If you're reading this blog, make sure you also follow Dearest Daughters on Facebook, follow Mommy on Twitter and follow Drunk Toddler(s) on Twitter too. The linky things are over there in the side bar to the right. I pinky promise I'm not trying to pimp out my blog, but it's been brought to my attention that each place provides different and exclusive Dearest Daughters content. And when we're sick, like we've been lately, and as I'm at home more and more, I might not be blogging as much. But, I'll still stay connected to the outside world and keep afloat via Facebook and the Twitter.
Unsolicited advice for my daughters (and you). The good stuff like: how to re-wear dirty underwear (inside out!), the truth about where babies come from and why it's not a good idea to sleep on a park bench. Also, make good choices.
