dearest daughters

A Present for You. For Reals. Because I Appreciate the People.

GIVEAWAY CLOSED

Dearest Daughters,

The one year anniversary of this blog got a little lost in the shuffle of my birthday and the Dog Bite and my last intense weeks of work. Then there was Easter and the subsequent sugar coma.

I just wanted to take a moment to say: YAY!

YAY ME! For sticking with this for a year.

But, more importantly: YAY, PEOPLE!

Thank you all! For your stick-with-me-ness. And your support and comments and commiseration.

My daughters may resent me or disown me when they grow up and read what I've written here. I sure hope not. But, if they do, I take comfort in knowing that the words I write today do not fall on deaf ears. Or in a forest when no one is around to hear them, leaving me wondering if they make a sound. Do they?

Any to the ways: this blog, this space, was created for me to process my parenting, the World Wide Web being my sounding board and a symbol of accountability. Not to mention, a #humblebrag creative outlet.

Even though I'm not one of those big blogs where a million people comment, I know you're there. You're listening. You're thinking. Maybe that I'm crazy and that you will be the yin to my yang, battling my insanity by your mere presence in the world. Maybe you're thinking sometimes I'm not so bad after all and maybe you will let your kids play with toilet paper and eat hummus with their hands.

Not only my Dearest Daughters, but all you People have helped me to stop nervously and anxiously twiddling my fingers. You've helped me feel useful, perhaps, I'd go so far as to say: you give me purpose and meaning.

So, thank you thank you thank you.

To show my appreciation, I'd like to give one lucky reader a million dollars. But, I don't have a million dollars.

Instead, you'll get a bundle of Dearest Daughters (and Mommy) endorsed books (probably all originally recommended to us by Auntie Ninang Librarian KTA! Ha!). Reading levels are no higher than fourth grade, but I've enjoyed a couple of them myself (don't underestimate a quick read!). You're sure to love them all or know someone who will! (Hello!? It's called re-gifting!)

To enter, just answer this Very Essential question in the comments: words are powerful; what book (or movie or song, if you prefer) has most shaped or influenced you? In other words, what should I add to the future DD reading/watching/listening list?

Or just say: "Hi, it's me. I read your blog."

Please only enter once. Whether Lola or stranger, no one is excluded! Giveaway closes Wednesday, April 18th at 10:00pm PST. The winner will be chosen randomly and revealed the next day on this site.

Can't wait to find out who will get the Most Awesome Books Ever!

Case. In. Point.

Dearest Daughters,

I present to you the following dialogue for illustrative purposes. The names of people and places have been changed for their protection. The following is not based on true events. Don't try this at home. And this message will self-destruct in thirty seconds.

People: Your girls are so smart!

Mommy: Really? You think so? No.

People: Look how she does that thing with the thing and knows about the thing over by the thing that does that thing.

Don't feel abandoned by your mother. It's not that I don't think you're smart. Or that I don't want you to think you're smart. And it's not just modesty.

It's that you girls act like you're not smart. Well, Danjo, mostly. Babybel is a bit of a smartypants.

I look at Danjo and I just know she understands what I'm saying. But, she stares back at me like I'm a baboon. "Na? Na?" she'll question, tilting her head, kind of like a dog, trying to figure out what you're saying.

Then she'll run away, laughing an evil laugh, spraying milk from here to infinity as she waves her half-empty bottle around her head. I'll lunge for the bottle that I told you to give to me. But, being the ninja you are, you and the bottle are suddenly on top of the coffee table. And you're giving me a seemingly clueless look as if to say, "Wait! This isn't what you told me to do, Mommy?" Oh, Danjo, you knew full well that's not what I told you to do. "How about this?" she'll say with her eyes, flinging her bottle back across the room, landing it in the sink.

And that's when I realize. You're smarter than you let on.

And the past few days you've been slipping. Letting your cards show. Revealing that you are far smarter than you would like us to think.

It's not that you're "starting to talk." You've been talking. You tell us off and I'd prefer to not know what you're saying. And it's not as if you're following an expected progression of word acquisition. You know, Mama, Dada, dog, ball, etc.

Oh, Danjo. I know that you know how to speak English. You just won't.

It was the same with walking. I just knew, with all my heart and soul, that you could walk. But, you wouldn't. And I imagined you, like the Toy Story toys, walking around, jumping off of furniture, sneaking out of the house, whenever I turned my back.

I give you three words of evidence: chicken, noodles and orange.

Besides the proper nouns to describe the people in your life, you use few English words. You know a handful of others, as you've let those slip too, but you refuse to use them with any regularity: more, up, down, out, etc.

Chicken, I can accept. We say "good morning, chickens!" every morning when we wake and pull up the shade in your room. When you see the chickens in the morning or when you're outside, you say chicken. Simple enough.

But, noodles and orange!? These were not even words that you echoed after offering food to you! You were hungry and I was in the process of putting food on your high chair tray and you declared excitedly, "noodles!" Your dad, Auntie Katherine and I looked at each other to make sure we all heard what we thought we heard from a fifteen month old who insists she doesn't speak English. So, you said it again, like, duh, people, NOODLES!

And then, I was holding you, while getting a snack for myself. (Maybe you were hungry again. Am I recognizing a pattern?) And you pointed to the fruit in my hand and said, "orange" all nonchalant and whatever about it. Like, lady, can you take a minute to stop being so self-centered and give me some of that orange?

ORANGE?!?! NOODLES?!?! CHICKEN?!?!

What the stinking heck?

You can say obscure two-syllable words, but you can't say "dog" or "ball" or "please" or "thank you" or "Mommy, would you prefer a glass of wine or a gin and tonic?"

Love,

P.S. Oh. This isn't to mention the fact that you invented a game where you pull everything out of the shelves of your play kitchen, crawl inside and close the door in on yourself, sitting quietly and pretending your family doesn't exist. I kid you not, this is a real thing in our house.

Have I Told You Tuesday: Santa is Real. Believe it OR ELSE.

Dearest Daughters,

Every direction I turn, there seems to be someone who doesn't believe in Santa. And they're on all sides of the fence.

Some people feel that Santa is a lie and they don't feel comfortable lying to their children. Except for when they tell them there's no more candy or the television is broken or babies come from Mommy's "tummy" (it's called a uterus, people, grow one and tell your kids the truth.)

And still other people feel like Santa is a secular figure that has no place in the "true" meaning of Christmas. Or they feel that way, and wracked by guilt find ways to somehow justify Santa and Christmas lights and killing trees.

Here's what I believe:

1) As your Uncle Bruce says, embrace the grey.

2) Traditions are wonderful things. We have Christian traditions. And secular traditions. And religious traditions that have become secular. We have ethnic traditions. And co-opted Jewish traditions, because you go to a Jewish preschool and latkes are yummy. Don't get me wrong. I'm no pick-and-chooser, nor am I a fundamentalist. When it comes to beliefs, I have convictions, but I'll never shake a finger at a well-meaning tradition if it expands your experience of the world and makes lasting memories. (See No. 1 above)

3) You better believe it. Santa is real. And though he can be generous, he's also a hard ass. He's a lot like, oh, say, me?

4) Because if you don't believe in Santa, he won't come. If you don't believe in the magic, then the magic obviously wasn't meant for you. So, we'll just pass your magic on to other children and we'll spend our Christmas morning doing the most mundane, lackluster, magic-less and loathed of all tasks: folding laundry.

5) Folding laundry makes me, very specifically, filicidal. So, basically. You can chose to reject Santa. Or you can live.

Make good choices! Because though I really love you, I really hate folding laundry.

Love,

Dear Poopers, Part I: Pooping in Your Genes

Dearest Daughters,

Don't let anyone tell you different. There are two types of people in this world.

(Pooper #1 in a corner of the hospital room on the day Pooper #2 was born.)

Those for whom pooping is easy. And those for whom it is not.

The former, the type that poops all the time, that can't sit through the dessert course without having to excuse him or herself, the type that makes pooping seem so, well, natural, you'd think they would have a healthy appreciation of poop jokes and would want for nothing else than to discuss poop all day.

You would be SO wrong.

They give little thought to their poop, the bastards.

By now, you can guess which type of person I am.

I am that latter. The type of person that has always had trouble pooping. And, therefore, always hated pooping.

And yet, I am obsessed with poop. I talk about it all the time. Because pooping is this elusive skill that I was born without.

I mean, I am physically able to poop. I'm not some sort of mutant human anomaly. Aside from the fact that I like to talk about poop.

Let's just put it this way. When I was having post-partum pooping difficulties akin to giving birth yet AGAIN, Lola told me, sorry, honey, you're just a "little asshole."

I've had doctors and aesthetician and next door neighbors tell me that I need to poop more. To drink more water, to eat more fiber. That I should be pooping three times a day. Not only does that sound like an obscene amount of time to spend in the bathroom, but it also sounds unpleasant and, frankly, impossible. Trust me, I've tried it all.

Some of us are just born this way. Ahem, Babybel. (So sorry about that, BTW. Nothing like seeing your child in pain and knowing it's ALL MY FAULT.)

And some of us are born, like Daddy and Danjo, pooping four times a day. And I envy them, their poopy alone time in the bathroom or behind a piece of furniture, respectively.

Do you know how much reading I could get done if only I pooped more frequently? That New Yorker subscription would finally pay off. And I would be SO well read.

Anyway, I just wanted to let you know. Each of us is born with certain genetic traits. And we are stuck with whatever bowel movements or sleeping habits or general temperament our parents have given us.

Pooping is in your genes.

It's a general life lesson really. You are who you are. Don't be ashamed of who you are. Each of us is born different, with different set of skills, abilities and struggles.

Some of us are really good at science and painting, but struggle with music and pooping. For example.

And those who are great at pooping, maybe have a hard time with math and fine motor skills. For example.

I'm just saying.

(Also, one word: coffee.)

Love,

Secrets are for suckers.

Dearest Daughters,

At a family party, I was recently giving my eldest niece a VERY hard time about her boyfriend. That's neither here nor there.

But, the conversation compelled Lola to declare, accusingly, "BUT! YOU SLEPT ON A PARK BENCH!"

This fact is something I've shared with the Internet. And, I mean, I knew that the friends and family who read this blog knew about my transgressions. But, there's this whole Internet-Real Life etiquette, where we all silently acknowledge that everyone knows I ate Target popcorn for lunch because of the photo I posted to FacebookTwitterThingamajig, but we don't actually talk about it in real life.

Because the conversation would kind of go like this:

    Them: So, I saw that you slept on a park bench in Brazil?

    Me: Um, yup. So the story goes.

    [awkward pause]

    Them: So, um, cool. I guess?

In general Status Updates are not a great place to start a conversation, unless you're like: "Dude, I totally slept on a park bench too!"

It's become sort of a you-know-that-I-know-that-you-know-that-we-all-know kind of world.

So, when Lola declared her shock a full three months after I posted the Infamous story, it was a "I knew she knew, but I didn't know she knew knew" moment.

And I blushed with embarrassment and shame, getting defensive, like, Mother, that is the Least of your Worries!

Which was true, because now there's this:

( I like to call this "An Unfortunate Series of Events and Wardrobe Choices")

Your Uncle Bruce wrote a mildly interesting post on his Super Famous blog about the whole To Post Drunk Photos or Not To Post Drunk Photos debate.

And both of us are sort of in the business of Honesty, Authenticity and Vulnerability. That's what this blog is about, at least.

So, my Dearest Daughters, yes, the rumors are true.

I went to Wellesley College. It happened to be in a dry town. And the school had a strict alcohol policy. Which amounted to "if you're 21, you may drink behind closed doors." So, we put on hideous outfits. And I attempted to pop my collar, a West Coast girl never quite fitting in to the New England Prep scene. We got drunk in our dorm rooms amongst a circle of close friends. Hoisted our L.L. Bean monogrammed tote bags over our shoulders and, in our buzzed genius-iosity, pretended to steal dorm hallway adornments. Only to replace them two seconds after taking a photo of the event. (We also had a fairly functional honor code, so there was no reason to cross that line.) Then, we probably went back to our rooms to watch Love Actually. And cry about how we would never meet ANYONE who loved us. EVER.

Then, the naked pillow fights. Obviously.

The number of times in my life that I got what you could call "wasted" can be counted on one hand. If it had six fingers. And more than half of those times were in the safety of a dorm room at Wellesley College or in the company of my family.

Bam! Take that Make Good Choices Lola!

Whew. I feel so much better.

Share a secret today! Was it you who ate half a bottle of Tums in Mommy's closet? And did you really lose your Hello Kitty lip balm or did you eat it all? And what's the real reason you poop in your panties? Come on? Because it's warm, right?

I knew it!

Love,

Abstinence Only Duplos

Dearest Daughters,

I asked Lolopop several years ago why people have children? I mean, really. They're just a disappointment.

This was before I had you two. I think it was a passive agressive way to get him to say that I wasn't a disappointment.

He didn't bite.

He replied simply that you have children so that you can have grandchildren.

I see how it is.

So far, the only Reals For Reals reason to have children, that I can come up with, is so that you can play with their toys. Toys that you decided you were too old for or that someone else decided you were too old for.

That noted, I will never take away your toys or allow you to get rid of them, even if there was a child who would die without your Duplo sculpture of a kidney. Perhaps, then, you will continue to play with your toys all day? And will have neither the urge to grow up nor to procreate?

I can stop this growing up thing, if I try hard enough, right?

Love,

Have I Told You Tuesday (on Sunday): Your Dad Should Do Stand-Up

This is a Sponsored post written by me on behalf of American Family Insurance for SocialSpark. All opinions are 100% mine.

Dearest Daughters,

Your dad thinks he's funny.

Okay, he is.

So funny I forgot to laugh. Har har.

He's fairly certain that you girls will find him to be the Funniest Person in the World. But, I'm fairly certain, having observed dozens of daughters and being one myself, that Dads are not as funny as they like to think they are.

And on those rare occasions when dads are actually funny, it's a cardinal rule that, as a child, you CAN NOT laugh at their jokes. These are things they teach you in the womb. That and the fine art of Eye Rolling.

Your dad is a risk taker. And he's always the first in any situation to try to go for the laugh. Sometimes people get the joke, sometimes they politely laugh, but I can see the confusion on their face and sometimes I cringe from embarrassment as crickets chirp in the background.

Once in awhile, when I'm a captive audience in the car, your dad tries his "material" on me. He gets "on a roll" and puts on that I'm Performing For A Sold Out Crowd look on his face. Sometimes he uses curse words and talks about sex, because that's what stand-up comedians are supposed to do. I shake my head in disapproval. Sometimes he really stretches to get to that punch line. I roll my eyes. And sometimes he hits the nail on the head. And I make sure to keep him grounded with a Was I Supposed to Laugh at That? eye brow raise.

"You'll see one day," your dad says after my blow to the ego.  "One day I'll be a famous stand-up comedian and you'll see."

"Go right ahead," I tell him. "I support you one hundred percent. Go to your Man Den. Work on your material and make funny faces in front of a mirror. Don't talk about it. Be about it."

Because the secret is, I really do think your dad is funny. Not as funny as he thinks he is, mind you, but funny enough.

And when I found out about this family-friendly Stand Up For Family campaign from American Family Insurance, I thought this type of stand-up would be perfect for your daddy.

I thought about all the funny stories he could tell.

About his family and mine.

In Grandpa Beadle's voice or a Filipino accent.

About our grandmas and grandpas. And quirky aunts and uncles.

About comic Filipino mispronunciations or the awkwardness of taking sex-ed with your dad as the teacher.

About how our moms disciplined us, shamed and embarrassed us. But, how funny it is in retrospect.

Or about the tragi-comedy of that one Christmas. Or trip to the grocery store.

About you girls.

About experiences, painful and light-hearted, that every family experiences; that ring a universal truth, making us belly laugh 'til we cry.

I think that's what AmFam is trying to do and I applaud them for their efforts. Check out Bill Bellamy's "Respect" and "Momma Talk" for quick family-friendly laughs that remind me of my own family.

And, beadle, hurry up and get in where you fit in!

Love,

Mommy

Have I Told You Tuesday: Some Stories Must Be Earned

Dearest Daughters,

Have I told you about the time I was arrested?

No?

Okay, good.

Love,

I'm Did Do It! Emergency Preparedness Edition.

Dearest Daughters,

Babybel, my human auto-correction device, a trait I just wrote about here, is very quick to defensively exclaim, "I'm DID do it!"

That's your response when I ask one of those accusatory questions, where I FULL WELL know the answer, such as, "You didn't go potty before you left, did you?" or "Did you paint at school today?" or "Why didn't you finish your milk?"

"I'm DID do it, Mommy! I'm DID!"

Or when I am actually mistaken or ignorant, but you take it as a personal attack, "Did you throw away the dirty diaper?" or "Did you finish that banana?"

"I'm DID, Mommy, I'm DID do it!"

Get this: I don't correct you.

Because 1) I think it's cute and 2) I like the conviction with which you deliver that sentence. Mixed tenses aside, you have so much conviction that you need not one, but THREE conjugated verbs to express your passion.

I am.

I did.

I do.

And isn't that what it all amounts to? Any of our lives, really. What it all boils down to?

I am. I did and I do.

I did and I do. And I am.

I do. And I did. So, I am.

We are what we do. And we do what we are.

Like. So. Totally. Profound.

Don't interrupt me, I'm having an epiphany.

For example, I'm not the most confident, go-get-em, conquer the world type. I'm a worrier. And a procrastinator. And an avoider. I am what I do. I do what I am. That's what I did.

Today, after having a lazy morning since we didn't need to bring Daddy to "Work at The BART Train" (as you say), we ran some errands, the most important of which was to get supplies for our emergency kits.

Have I Told You Tuesday: Where Three or More are Gathered

Dearest Daughters,

Ugh. I don't know why I'm being so serious and intense lately. It'll pass soon and I'll have something ridiculous and humorous to offer soon, I promise. Maybe some more college exploits? Like the time I tried to clean up a spilled drink with my flip flop, because I declared, "It's absorbent!"

Or not.

For better or worse, being a person of color in this country means toeing the line between shoving yourself in people's faces (educating the ignorant) for the good of all humans and knowing when to lay low.  It's kind of like parenting in that you have to learn to choose your battles. When will speaking up do more good than bad? Or when will it worsen the situation.

Lola has some particular "things" that irk her because of the world she was raised in where judgements were frequently and easily made. I wasn't conscious of these "things" until I had you girls. Like babies should wear socks. Shoes should be worn EVERY time you leave the house. Faces should be wiped and clothes should be clean.

Seems simple enough. But, then you become a parent and go out into the world of other parents. And you see a precious little white baby with mismatched clothes (however hipster) and a messy face. Maybe not wearing shoes. And you think nothing of it. You look at your own browner child with crazy, tangled curls, a dirty face and wearing red and purple together (in a decidedly non-hipster way). And you think, HOLY COW, my child looks like she just left a refugee camp and is "Fresh Off the Boat." And if you're thinking that, what are ALL THESE OTHER PEOPLE at the Target food court thinking?!?

It's unfortunate, but appearance does matter.