dearest daughters

A Celebration of Life

Dearest Daughters,

I don’t remember when it all happened exactly. It’s not like I was keeping a detailed calendar of events.

But, it’s been about a year since my life crisis, my psychological break, what have you. It’s been a year since shit got real. Real Real.

Instead of rehashing all things anxiety/panic, depression, bipolar that I’ve already documented here on this blog, I want to celebrate! Put on your party hats!

I want to celebrate the fact that I’m still alive, that I made it through, that I’m functional again, that I’ve come so far, that I can live most days and survive most situations without Xanax, that I’m becoming aware of how stress affects me, that I’m learning to let go of what no longer serves me, that I’m getting to know myself better now than ever before, that I’m exploring new things, that I’m finding what brings me joy and fulfillment.

I want to celebrate the people who have supported me: my husband, my parents, my best friend, my sisters and brothers, my aunties, uncles, network of extended family and, even, my Dearest Daughters who knew and sensed what I needed when I needed it most. And, seriously: for Lapu, my parents’ Golden Retriever who offered me the unconditional love and nonjudgmental presence I needed in my darkest moments.

I want to celebrate life, and love and you, my Dearest Readers for reading through my epiphanies and drivel alike, walking with me on this journey, riding the waves with me, affirming and supporting me. I wish I could give everyone a big hug or, at least, a high five.

Instead, I offer some words that capture better than I ever could what a Gift this Life is:

“Living well is an art that can be developed: a love of life and ability to take great pleasure from small offerings and assurance that the world owes you nothing and that every gift is exactly that, a gift. ”
― Maya Angelou, Wouldn't Take Nothing for My Journey Now

“Life is not easy for any of us. But what of that? We must have perseverance and above all confidence in ourselves. We must believe that we are gifted for something and that this thing must be attained.”
― Marie Curie

“Live. And Live Well.

BREATHE. Breathe in and Breathe deeply.

Be PRESENT. Do
not be past. Do not be future. Be now.

On a crystal clear, breezy 70 degree day,
roll down the windows and

FEEL the wind against your skin. Feel the warmth of
the sun.

If you run, then allow those first few breaths on a cool Autumn day to

FREEZE your lungs and do not just be alarmed, be ALIVE.

Get knee-deep in a novel
and LOSE track of time.

If you bike, pedal HARDER and if you crash then crash
well.

Feel the SATISFACTION of a job well done-a paper well-written, a project
thoroughly completed, a play well-performed.

If you must wipe the snot from your
3-year old's nose, don't be disgusted if the Kleenex didn't catch it all

because soon he'll be wiping his own.

If you've recently experienced loss, then
GRIEVE. And Grieve well.

At the table with friends and family, LAUGH.

If you're
eating and laughing at the same time, then might as well laugh until you puke.

And if you eat, then SMELL.

The aromas are not impediments to your day. Steak on
the grill, coffee beans freshly ground, cookies in the oven.

And TASTE.

Taste every ounce of flavor.

Taste every ounce of friendship.

Taste every ounce of Life.

Because-it-is-most-definitely-a-Gift.”
― Kyle Lake

Love,

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With my commitment to taking care of myself and my mental health--in addition to (or in conjunction with!) taking care of my family--I'm not able to post here as regularly as I would like or as much as I did in the past.

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Manic Monday: Or Not? - DD's Big Girl Room

Dearest Daughters,

I might be in denial, but let me just say this: it was your daddy's suggestion!

I mentioned last week that Danjo seemed ready to transition to a Big Girl Bed. On several occasions you have asked to go "ni ni," Lovey and Baby tucked under your arms, pointing or pulling my arm out of it's socket in the direction of your bed. Even when you verbally protest the notion of sleep, as soon we enter your room, you're eager to get into bed. And you snuggle in, your legs tucked beneath you, your head burrowing into your requisite blankies and lovies.

Since you girls were headed out of town to visit your cousins, your daddy suggested we get new beds for you this weekend.

I've been keeping a Pinterest board of decorating and layout ideas for your room since forever, trying to figure out the best way to aesthetically fit two beds into one small room. I was determined to NOT be manic-ly impulsive about this, so the planning continued (per Lola's suggestion) with a scaled diagram of your room. And teeny tiny pieces of furniture cut from paper, also to scale. No, this isn't manic at all. I'll tell you what it is: anal.

Then, the real adventure began!

On Saturday, having planned and prepared myself, your Daddy and I set out for IKEA. And guess, what? I wast TOTALLY fine. No anxiety. No panic.

WAHOO FISH TACOS! as I like to say.

I find that if I actually want to do something (and prepare for the situation as well as for the possibility that the situation might not go as planned), it's not so bad. I'm finding ways to deflate the pressure from anxiety-filled activities.

And, hooey, for now, for the stuff I don't want to do! Baby steps, right?

After IKEA, we hit up Best Buy, Home Depot and (even!) went out to lunch at your daddy's fav-o: Taco Bell! (This is not a Dearest Daughters endorsement of the preceding stores. This list serves only to blow your mind at the number of crowded places I rode in a car to and maintained my sanity in. Over and out.)

AND THEN: two days of spray painting and assembling new furniture. Whew!

I got in way over my head. Also, did you know that you can buy an ergonomic attachment for spray paint cans? No? Me neither, twenty cans and two sore hands later.

So, I was perpetually doing all weekend, but I wouldn't say I was manic. In fact, painting and assembling, were in many ways meditative and mindful. I wasn't busy worrying or over-thinking as I sprayed and screw-drivered. I was present with my sore hands and stubbed toes. I wasn't doing from a place of mania or as a coping mechanism, in order to avoid feeling. I was doing on my own terms, because I wanted to, not because I should or because I felt compelled.

And from a good place, comes good stuff! Or viceversa.

The big reveal! The girls didn't even know we were doing this!

So far, the reviews are good. Bel was so excited. You bounded up onto your bed and began a five-minute run-on sentence of love for your new accommodations: "I just love this and it is the best bed ever and my bed is a spaceship and my spaceship is a bed and I love it."

Bel's Big Girl Bed, Snuggle Cave and Kitchen Playspace

Danjo took some convincing, but once I told you it was your bed, you climbed right in and snuggled up the way you do at bed time. You haven't figured out how to climb into your sister's bed yet and I'm not encouraging it, but I give it three days.

Danjo's Big Girl Bed - slept in one night, no problem, easy peasy!

Military locker from my own teenage DIY room (stores puzzles, art supplies, toys, extra diapers, etc.) and new white dresser to replace the black one we had there!

And someone else wanted to show off his new Big Boy backpack. From IKEA, of all places!


Now, for a week of rest and recovery! And, maybe, just maybe, another adventure or two.

Love,

P.S. For curious minds:

Reversible loft beds (x2) - IKEA Kura - disclosure: you're supposed to be 6 to sleep on the lofted bed, so I don't endorse letting your three year old up there. But Bel's super mature. She's like fifteen in Bel Years, so I lofted her bed.

Curtains and duvets - IKEA Renate Flora

Dresser - IKEA Hemnes

Floating shelves - IKEA Lack

Table and chairs - thrifted

Wall paint - Kelly Moore Bird Bath Blue #KM3138-1

Wall clouds - fabric I cut out, applied with homemade starch

P.P.S. I wish I had a Before picture, but to tell you the truth, that room has undergone so many different configurations from one child to two, toys stored in the room and not, furniture found, borrowed, bought and given away! But, here's a photo of the room from before we moved into the house, featuring tiny sixteen-month-old Baby Bel:

 

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Have I Told You Tuesday: Considering My Part in Patriarchy

Dearest Daughters,

I've written before about my lake of shame, particularly around nudity. About how to properly pick your nose. About how I will raise you girls to be critical of media and popular society. About our genetic inability (or ability as the case may be) to defecate.

We have a song slash dance that we call "The Naked Baby" wherein we wiggle around and sing the words "naked baby, naked baby, naked baby" whenever one of you girls is caught with your pants down, your shirt off or both. It's not a make-fun-of-your-naked-body dance; it's definitely a celebration dance; a liberation-from-the-bonds-of-clothing-the-trappings-of-life dance.

Recently, I was helping Babybel get dressed in the morning.

I peeled her shirt off over her head and arms extended to the sky. This is the point at which our Naked Baby soundtrack would ordinarily play.

Instead, Babybel wiggled her body. Not in a silly, fist-pumping, maraca-shaking wiggle, but in a slow, hip-side-to-side wiggle, as she slid her hands along her sides from her waist to her hips.

"I'm skinny," you said, "like my cousin."

You didn't say this in a factual or scientific way, but maybe I'm reading into it. There was an element of gloating as you sing-song-spoke, "I'm skiiiiny, I'm skiiiiny." It felt heavy. Like there was more meaning in those words than there should be for a three-year-old. Or maybe for the older cousin you copied the words and suggestive movements from.

I wanted to argue, to neutralize the word, to take away any element of value your little brain was sorting out. I wanted to yell: "NO YOU ARE NOT!"

I stumbled, sounding like Lola, who sounds like an English language learner, even though she's not, "What is skinny!? It's not skinny. You beautiful! The way God made you."

You're argumentative, so you told me, "No, I'm skinny." This was more matter-of-fact.

I didn't want to argue with or engage with the idea of you being skinny; I didn't want to give it any attention or value. I replied again, "you are beautiful the way that God made you."

And you finished getting your clothes on.

But, me, being me, I couldn't stop thinking about this minor moment in our lives and what it meant for the battle ahead; the battle against society, against peers, against sexism and patriarchy. But, more importantly, the battle against myself and my own perceptions about my body and actions towards it.

"You'll just have to model good values about your body, Lauren," your Ninang/Auntie Katherine told me, talking me off the ledge as good friends do. "She's going to get messages and images and values from society and older kids; you can't avoid that."

The following day, with out even looking for an answer, a Facebook friend posted: "Mom I'm Fat:" One Mother's Inspired Response to her 7 Year Old" (h/t @revlkb). Naked dancing as a tool for embracing our bodies, affirmed. But also, the realization of how much our own body image as grown women affects our children's attitudes.

It's hard for me to remember a time in my childhood when Lola was not "dieting" or "going back on a diet... on Monday." It's hard for me to remember a time when she and I got out and did "healthy" and active things together.

And posted a couple of days later by the same Facebook friend, also a mother of two daughters, another depressing, but then hopeful testament of the effect of media on our nation's girls:

I will say that it's not just mothers and media that affect our self-esteem and perceptions.

I really had no consciousness about my body until I was in middle school. I got boobs and started my period when I was twelve, but I was still trying to fit my petite, but changing body into children's clothing. I had just gotten a new dress. I tried it on and showed Lolopop. It was a tight sheath dress in a funky 1960s color combination: an orange and brown and green tweed-looking print. It was probably tighter than what Lolopop wanted to see on his maturing baby girl. And I can see now that he meant no harm.

He patted my tummy, a part of my body I had never considered. It was a little girl's tummy, round and perfect, the way your tummies should be. He remarked that the dress was too small for me.

Instead of telling me that he liked my new dress or that I was beautiful, he chose to remark on how the dress fit. I went to my room, stared down at my tummy and thought, "I'm fat."

I never stopped thinking that until I honestly was fat. When I did gain weight in college, unaware and unabashed at the time, just buying bigger jeans to keep up with my eating and drinking habits, I looked back on photos from middle and high school. And I thought, "I can't believe I wasted all that time thinking I was fat." I was a skinny, awkward twig. But, I recall days when I told myself I wasn't going to eat. (That never worked, really, but I thought I should counteract my hearty appetite.) I recall pinching my belly to measure my tummy fat. I read teen magazines, trying to copy the workouts, the chair lunges and sit-ups to get that "Beach Bikini Ready Body!"

I joined Weight Watchers with my mom the summer before my senior year of college. And, yes, it was a diet program, but I learned about portion control and about making healthy choices. And I lost weight.

Almost a decade and two pregnancies later, I know how to maintain my body weight without much conscious effort. It's not something I am constantly talking about or obsessing over. But, your dad will attest that I've complained to him off and on about this wobbly bit or another, fishing for that deeply-seeded childhood affirmation that I'm beautiful just the way I am. The battle against myself.

And it's like God and the universe and my Internet friends were all in cahoots after that morning you told me you were skinny. Preparing me for whatever lies ahead.

Ashley Judd wrote this about patriarchy and women's role in it. I won't summarize here, but I really recommend reading it and taking time to consider things you think and say not only about your own body, but about those of strangers.

Another friend posted these on Pinterest:

Source: thegoldengleam.com via Lauren on Pinterest

 

Source: amightygirl.com via Lauren on Pinterest

 

And just a couple days ago, these wise words from, okay, not a woman, but a man who taught and continues to teach children a lot about loving themselves:

Source: google.com via Lauren on Pinterest

 

So no one gets butt-hurt, Lola often says something similar when she preaches. Something to the effect of praying for children to make good choices and also for the adults whom they watch to model making good choices.

Parenthood is a double-edge sword, in that my salience in your life is both a blessing and a weighty responsibility.

God, help me!? ME! Your mommy. Make good choices. About my body, my actions and my words.

Love,

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?

Resolved for matters unresolved

Dearest Daughters,

I was going to write Danjo's monthly letter today, but I got distracted by this:

I was on the brink of tears all eight minutes of this trailer, shared by former MBCC intern @Derrick Weston and one of Daddy's man crushes. Did I just say that out loud? Sorry, beadle.

It brings up so many emotions and thoughts and issues. But, I've narrowed down the rush of thoughts in my brain to the following:

It is, resolved, that my daughters will go to Wellesley College like I did, I don't care how far away it is, because that place effing empowers women (Did you notice Wellesley Center for Women and Jean Kilbourne? Woot!)

Resolved, that I will help my daughters think critically, deconstruct the media on a daily basis, because I can't shield them from it. (Disney, you already know, I'm talking to you!)

Resolved, if I ever have a boy, he will hear it from me even more than his sisters. He will be the most anti-misogynist, womanist person you'll ever know. I will buy him a shirt that says: "This is what a femenist looks like." And everyone will cringe and accuse me of "ruining" my son. Except for the women in his life. They will thank me. And, I will train him, like Pavlov's dog, so that any time he sees a scantily clad woman, he will quote Gloria Steinem: “We've begun to raise daughters more like sons... but few have the courage to raise our sons more like our daughters.”

That is all.

For now.

Love,

I Fear the Worst

Dearest Daughters,

While death is a primary concern, I do not go about worrying when you or I will meet our maker. I can't allow myself to be paralyzed by the fear of death. Because then I'd stop moving, given the paralysis and all. I'd be stuck. And I think you can see why this would be problematic. Unless we were playing freeze tag.

Instead, I choose to spend my waking hours worrying about impregnation.

For a woman, an unplanned pregnancy is ALWAYS a concern. Even in the best of circumstances, unexpectedly becoming pregnant is life-altering not only for one's future, for one's fetus, but also for one's social, work and emotional life. Oh sure, for someone like me with two kids, it's just a matter of buying a bunk bed and moving some furniture around! Not really. For someone like me, obsessed with logistics and plans, an unplanned pregnancy is a trip to Sleepless Night To-Do List Excel Spreadsheet Freak Out Town.

So you don't sit down on any public toilets. Just kidding: you can't get pregnant from toilet seats, silly. But, you can from hot tubs. So, no hot tubbing. Ever. And you are responsible and use contraception, even though life isn't fair and the responsibility falls on the woman. You spend your free time developing male contraceptive methods. Or better yet! You don't have sex unless you're financially able, emotionally stable and responsible enough to deal with a potential pregnancy.

I'm not the first or the last to breathe a sigh of relief upon getting my period. And I pray to the Gods of Abstinence that my daughters will not have sex until they are at least thirty. In this way, I keep the fear of impregnation at bay. For the humans in our family, at least.

But, what about the chickens?! I toss and turn at night.

Tell me. Does this look like a rooster to you?

The one on the right has larger comb and wattle. More red on its face.

If not the exact same age, they are only days apart. So, I can't see how it would be THAT much more mature.

It's always been more aggressive about food and visitors to the coop/run. It's a bit bigger and makes a funny noise the others don't. Or maybe I'm making that up out of paranoia.

The differences are subtle, but they're there! I might have to get rid of it, just so I can sleep at night, tucked into my covers, confident that none of my girls eggs are being fertilized right under my own roof, if you know what I mean. And I'm pretty sure you do, because if Subtle was a Class, I'd fail it.

Love,

Books I Will Read to You and You Better Like Them Or Else, Edition One

Dearest Daughters,

Before the pasta water boils over and I forget not only this, but the past seven days, I wanted to jot down the titles of some books that should be on your reading lists. Or at least your Empowered Girls, Awesome Sisters, and Other Things Mommy Thinks We Should Read List.

Best when read aloud together before bed time. Like my memories of reading Paul Bunyan legends or Jack London stories together with Unkinan and Lolopop before bed when we were kids. Listening intently, teeth brushed, hair braided. Wearing an over-sized t-shirt stretched over my knees, sitting on our blue floral couch upholstered by California's finest at DVI where Lolopop worked at the time. Except I guess without the axes and oxes and wilderness survival and all.

Also, most of these books were recommendations from the other half of my brain, Auntie Katherine.

Such a sweet book about mother-less sisters, unique in her each way, their bond and adventures supported by a clueless, but loving father. When I die, I hope you'll rent a cottage in the Berkshires and reenact this book. Even if you're seventy-five years old.

Then,

and

And whatever else Jeanne Birdsall publishes about these sisters.

Another series, this one by Sara Pennypacker, starting with:

There are three or four other books that chronicle the cogent, attention deficit, emotive mis-adventures of this red-head. Again with the parents who support all this quirkiness; I sense a theme.

Then there's the classic:

Ay SOS Maria! (As Lola would exclaim in surprise, despite being Protestant!) There goes the pasta water.

I'm sure we'll add many more books to this list. Until then, anyone want to chime in with their Empowered Girls, Awesome Sisters Book List additions?

Love,

A Message from the United States Postal Service

Dearest Daughters,

There are many things that you can learn from being observant. Simply looking and listening. And being nosy.

Generally speaking, there are two categories of things you can learn.

One: the obvious, things you're supposed to learn, during lessons, lectures, speeches and sermons

Two: the not so obvious, things you observe about yourself and other people, about places and how things work, and, most importantly, about Julie's boyfriend and how he's keeping secrets from her, so she logged onto his facebook account and saw that four girls, FOUR, sent him facebook messages about Friday night and she's so breaking up with him anyway, not because of the messages, but because he has this wierd thing that he does with his toe nail clippings. Things like that.

I guess these two "categories" could be considered "academic" and "experiential" learning. The difference between "book smart" and "street smart." Some people excel at one or the other, or both. (And this isn't to mention the "multiple intelligences" that people can excel at or how they can be learned, we're just talking about two types of things you CAN learn.)

I'm so confused.

Anyway, today I want you to take a look at a few gems I found in my desk and let me know what you've learned about the United States.

 

Colonialism! Imperialism! Even, neo-imperialism! Yay! Yay Hawaii, you're awesome! And yay Alaska, you're beautiful too, except for the alcohol abuse and suicide rates!

Sometimes I wish that I were a white man.

Not only could I pee standing up, but I'd have all the privileges the world has to offer. I could command and demand. Not to be mean or with mal-intention, but simply because I couldn't or wouldn't frame my world in any other way. You know, I can't even imagine what it would be like, really. Because I'm already the way I am. A woman. Of color. Twenty-two. Who's been conditioned to hate herself. Sacrifice. Go out of the way. Compromise. Take the second best. The last helping. Cow-tow. And say Please Thank You and No Thank You in all circumstances, whether Please-ful, Thank-ful or No Thank-ful or not. This rant could continue for days. The fact of the matter is that I'm not a white man. I actually don't mind it. I actually enjoy being me. It's just not fair. And it's the reason that the custom Timbuk2 bag I ordered will be arriving late even though I ordered Next Day delivery AND they messed up my order. It's the reason my mom eats food she didn't order. It's the reason Hallmark greeting card characters don't look like me or my family.

As my mother would say, "Life's not fair."