dearest daughters

I've tasted life and it happens to taste like chocolate ice cream

Dearest Daughters,

There's nothing like a knock-down-drag-out fight with an ordinarily agreeable 3-year-old; when your husband's out of town; when your little brother, a mere sixteen months your minor and closer than close, moved across the country--wait, there's more--when you suddenly have two jobs where once you had none; when your therapist has been out of town the past three weeks; when your newly-minted two year old has diarrhea and has also managed to un-sleep-train-herself, climbing, unnoticed, into your bed in the middle of the night while you're on heavy sleep-inducing drugs; when you haven't gone for a run or done yoga in longer than you'd like to admit--all to make you feel, as the three year old is screaming and throwing pajamas at you thirty minutes past bedtime, like you just might be the worst mother in the world.

And then, you calmly, as calmly as you can, hold back the tears of frustration and rejection-by-your-beloved-child, resist the urge to collapse on the floor next to your babies and the dog you're dog-sitting that's, btw, having a doggy panic attack. You put everyone, including yourself, in a separate room until we can all calm down. You take a breath. Maybe a hundred.

You tell the two year old to get back into bed. Once. Maybe a hundred times.

You tell the three year old, as her hysteria subsides, that she did not win this bout. That she can be as mad and sad and frustrated as she wants about not having the right jammies, but it is NOT OKAY to scream or throw things at Mommy.

And Daddy will happen to call in the middle of it all. He'll hear both sides of the story. And run interference--and unknowingly set a melancholy upon the house, his absence palpable.

And you'll hug your three-year-old with her unruly curls, sitting in her Hello Kitty panties at the end of her bed. And she'll tell you "sorry for yelling and throwing."

And you'll reply, "sorry for not listening about your pajamas," but edging in again, for good moral measure, "it is okay to be mad, but it is not okay to scream and throw things."

"I'm sorry we had a fight," you'll say, as you brush her hair out of her face and give her a kiss on her sweaty, tired forehead.

"I love you no matter what," you'll add.

"And I love you too," she'll say.

"And, Danielle, GET BACK INTO BED!" you'll both remind the acrobatic two-year-old, reeking again of liquid poop.

And when all is said and done, when the diaper's been changed, the prayers prayed, the lullaby crooned, it's an hour after bed time when you turn off the lights, shut the door and decide it's time for The Chocolate Ice Cream.

And it will seem so trivial. And melodramatic, the thick dark chocolate coating your tongue. And like you have no right to complain when there are people without health care or clean water or any family at all.

Nevertheless, you'll remind yourself, the feelings must be felt for life to move on.

And you'll search for some wisdom, for something bigger than yourself. This is also known as: looking up quotes on goodreads.com and putting them on your blog.

“to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.”
― Ellen Bass

“Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don't resist them; that only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like.”
― Lao Tzu

“For after all, the best thing one can do when it is raining is let it rain.”
― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

“Feelings come and go like clouds in a windy sky. Conscious breathing is my anchor.”
― Thich Nhat Hanh, Stepping into Freedom: Rules of Monastic Practice for Novices

“Feelings, whether of compassion or irritation, should be welcomed, recognized, and treated on an absolutely equal basis; because both are ourselves. The tangerine I am eating is me. The mustard greens I am planting are me. I plant with all my heart and mind. I clean this teapot with the kind of attention I would have were I giving the baby Buddha or Jesus a bath. Nothing should be treated more carefully than anything else. In mindfulness, compassion, irritation, mustard green plant, and teapot are all sacred.”
― Thich Nhat Hanh, The Miracle of Mindfulness

“You might be tempted to avoid the messiness of daily living for the tranquility of stillness and peacefulness. This of course would be an attachment to stillness, and like any strong attachment, it leads to delusion. It arrests development and short-circuits the cultivation of wisdom.”
― Jon Kabat-Zinn, Wherever You Go, There You Are

“People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that’s bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they’re afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they’re wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It’s all in how you carry it. That’s what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you’re letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain.”

― Jim Morrison

 

“Life is not a problem to be solved, but a reality to be experienced.”
― Søren Kierkegaard

 

“If you've never eaten while crying you don't know what life tastes like.”
― Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

And, with that, your spoon scrapes the bottom of the re-purposed salsa container, holding your homemade chocolate zinfandel ice cream.

And, I guess you could say, you've tasted life.

It was a little salty, but mostly sweet, bitter and pungent, sticky and cold, mind-numbing and velvety, rich and thick, hard to chew, but easy to swallow.

Love,

To Danjo on the Occasion of Being Twenty-Two Months Old

Dearest Danjo,

Hello there, silly goose!

You and your sister came home from vacation last night. And it was horrendous.

Like horror movie horrendous: tantrums, spinning heads, vomit and, I kid you not, avocado green diarrhea. You. Are. Welcome. For that visual. (You're not eating while you're reading this, right? Oh, you are? Avocado on your salad? Guacamole? Mmmmmm.)

I've written before about the world-wide phenomenon of Ugliness Upon Arrival. It goes that, even, the most well-behaved children, having spent a lovely day (or week) away from their mother, pleasant little civilized humans, out and about in the public eye; these creatures completely deteriorate upon sight of said mother and arrival home. And yesterday afternoon was further proof that I am, indeed, your ugly place.

Your saving grace: bedtime.

And a new day, wherein I squeeze you close, send you off to daycare and sit here, nostalgically recalling your twenty-second month of life, lingering on the good stuff.

Every month I tell you that words don't do you justice. So, instead of writing this month, I made this for you:

To Danjo on the Occassion of Being Twenty-Two Months Old from Lauren Gibbs-Beadle on Vimeo.

 

Love,

----------

Holler! Make sure to like Dearest Daughters on Facebook if you want to keep up with Danjo on the Daily. See you here next week!

To Babybel on the Occasion of Being Thirty-Seven/Eight Months Old

Dear Babybel,

Now that you're three, the monthly developments seem a little less significant. The degree to which you can successfully pick your nose or the milliseconds less it takes you to put on your shoes seem numerically immeasurable.

Nonetheless, it seems I should keep up with the practice of writing to you monthly, if only to tell you how much I love you.

While you look like your daddy, in most ways you are a lot like me. It's TBD how much of your personality is your DNA and how much of it because you spend so much time with me.

Specifically, you use a lot of the phrases I use. Your manerisms are similar.

The other day, I put Danjo down for a nap without her Lovie. I began to wander the house like a crazy person, talking to myself. This is something I did before you existed in the tangible world; talked to inanimate objects, mumbled to myself while putting together IKEA furniture. But, which I now euphemistically claim is a practice that is "beneficial to developing your meta-cognitive, problem solving and critical thinking skills."

"Lovie, where arrrrre you?" I sing-song asked.

She was no where to be found.

"Bel, have you seen your sister's Lovie?" I asked, knowing you're the observant type, hoping you had either seen it somewhere or mischievously hid it somewhere yourself.

You didn't skip a beat, as you sat on the couch, reading a book. You didn't look up. You didn't bother to feign a search effort.

"Hmmmm. That's strange," you said.

You routinely use phrases like these. Things you've picked up and use in context. You're SO precocious. You know that "Hmmmm. That's strange" is something that someone says when something mysteriously goes missing, when it can't be found. Given that you DIDN'T EVEN LOOK, I guess this was an appropriate usage.

You often alert us when you have to pee: "Oh! I have to go pee!"

150 Words: Sometimes, when I'm bored, I narrate my life.

The smell of excrement hangs in the air. Particles, rushing to escape the confines of the blue room, fill my nostrils as they whir past.

There she lay. Unconscious. In a puddle of her own creation. The sheets soaked.

Standing at the threshold, I hesitate. Just a moment.

A moment of decision. Of indecision. Whether to back out slowly, pretend this never happened, close the door on the damp despair. To let sleeping dogs lie. Lead someone else to believe they happened upon this discovery first.

Or.

To find the strength. The fortitude. The stomach. The compassion or pity, even. To make this right. Dispose of the evidence. Erase this indiscretion. And the smell. From the blue room. From her body. From my memory.

And I step forward, to take on the task. I peel back the sheets, the clothes. And dress her in dignity, relentless love and clean princess panties.

Because.

I love you no matter what,

Babybel, I see you.

Dearest Babybel,

I have to apologize. As all good parents should. To let you know that we're not infallible super humans. By day, at least. Under the cover of dark and robed in a (preferably neon pink) spandex disguise? Well, that is another story.

Firstly, there's been a lot of Danjo around here lately. She just makes it too easy, providing too much material.

Secondly, I forgot to write your monthly letter last month, as your monthly birthday fell on Christmas Eve.

This month is your third birthday.

[I'm doing one of those silent cries babies do where they arch their back, contort their face and hold their breath, and you're like: breathe, breathe, breathe.]

[Okay, I took a breath.]

People, three is a real thing. It's not made up. I thought it was. I thought you would never be three. And that your terrible twos would last forever. And I'd be cleaning poop out of your underwear for the rest of my life. Or at least until I could afford someone to do it for me.

But, I was wrong. Three really does exist.

And you will soon be living proof.

I don't want to wax too much poetic now. I'll save it for your monthly letter on the 24th or thereabouts. If I remember to write it.

I just wanted you to know that despite your sister upstaging you in real and Internet life, I notice you there, paying attention, reading your books, concentrating on activities that require fine motor skills, entertaining yourself for hours, following directions, abiding by rules, dressing yourself, watching out for your sister, bossing her around, pushing her off of or into things, offering to help cook or clean, memorizing words to songs, remembering to hang up your jacket and put away your shoes, going to bed with out a fuss and sleeping eleven hours, asking me about my day, using kind words, making sure I kiss you goodnight just right.

You're happening right before my eyes. And, rest assured, you're not lost on me. I might hear Danjo, but, trust me, I see you.

Love you no matter what,

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,

Dear Poopers, I have so much to tell you.

Dearest Daughters,

I've alluded to, mentioned and profanitized poop on many an occassion.

But, I think the time has come to stop tip-toeing around the subject. To stop prevaricating about the bush, as Grommit says. To stop circumlocuting, if you'll permit me to use my 2001 SAT vocabulary. Bam! I just did. How you like me now?!

So.

Poop.

Actually, I have so much to say, that I'm not sure where to start. I think I'll have to write a series of letters to you about poop, entitled Dear Poopers.

I know what you're thinking, it's so cliche for a mom to talk about poop. And I'm in total agreement.

But, when God gives you a gift. Wrapped up in Pampers or training unders though it may be, it would be wrong NOT to share it.

And anyway. I don't plan on talking about what color it was and how many times a day you did it. Or the difference between breast milk, formula, solid food and meat-eater poop.

That would be so mundane. And I know you've come to expect nothing less than Profound from me.

For serious. I have important things to talk about, people! DD Readers, feel free to contribute to the fecal matter at hand or let me know if there's any pressing topic you'd like me to discuss. So far this is what I'm working on:

• Dear Poopers, Part I: Pooping in Your Genes
• Dear Poopers, Part II: A Work of Art
• Dear Poopers, Part III: What a Relief
  

I know, right!? You can hardly wait! Your psyched. You're brimming with excitement.

I can tell. You have that "look" on your face.

Don't hold back, that can lead to constipation.

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,

To Babybel on the Occasion of Being Thirty Four Months Old

Dearest Babybel,

You are blessed to have so many cousins.

I am blessed that you're finally at an age where I can throw you in a room with said cousins and forget about you. Between your older cousins and your same-aged cousins, you had plenty of supervision and entertainment during our Thanksgiving visits.

In fact, when your cousins are around it's less a matter of encouraging you to play with them and more a matter of you running away to the play room, not seeing you for five hours while you avoid all adult interaction.

Once in awhile you make a boo-boo inspired appearance or surface for a drink. And once in awhile, I catch snippets of your cousin adventures.

Yesterday, you were coloring.

Cousin A: Look at my drawing of my family!
Bel: Awww, that's so awesome! How clever you are!
Cousin A: Thank you. How clever you are too.

Who wouldn't want to spend time with such civilized little human beings?

Until they start playing "mean bouncer" and kick you out of the club. Which was a little sad for your Dad, the cool-kid-extrovert, to witness when all your cousins young and old were busy playing and you were the only one NOT ALLOWED!!! VIP access to the play room.

It's a good lesson. Because even bad experiences help you to grasp the concepts of Kindness and Caring. Our Lessons of the Year at Chez Gibbeadle.

There was a time period when you ignored your sister. A blubbering ball of spit-up and vomit, she was of little significance to you. Then, she started to mess with your shit. And you'd retaliate, and I'd respond, letting you know it was "NOT OKAY. Period." to hit, shove, push or bury her in pillows. But, you were both a little on the young side to really understand The Why part.

Now that she's a walker and understands basic English, you have begun to play together. It warms my heart to see your joy as you run in circles around each other or throw Duplos at each other.

And let's be honest. The more you two can entertain yourselves together or apart, the more time I have to waste on the Internet.

But, you are both still toddlers. Depending on my mood or where I am in preparing dinner, I let you two duke it out. But, occasionally I'm driven to intervene and actually "parent."

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,