dearest daughters & son

To Babybel On The Occasion of Being Fourteen Years Old

To Babybel On The Occasion of Being Fourteen Years Old,

Okay. I’m going to say this not because I need reassurance or to make it about me (but I mean, like, Babybel is still a part of me as far as I’m concerned): I forgot to wish Babybel a happy birthday first thing in the morning on Tuesday.

There are many factors including pink eye paranoia, tunnel vision and running on a creativity deficit that could explain away why when my teenager emerged from her room “what do you want for breakfast?” was the first thing I said to her.

Maybe you’ll remember my mistake forever, maybe one day we can laugh (at me) about it… "there’s mom doing her anxious, unmindful, tunnel-vision mom thing again"… and I know your body remembers all the mistakes and unhealthy patterns I’ve established for you the past fourteen years. Unlike many parents or my wired "instinct" to avoid pain and discomfort, I intentionally want to say that I DON'T want to erase any of that. I'm not trying to erase your pain, your memories and the role I played in them.

What I do want is to acknowledge and take responsibility for all the times I have and continue to make you feel unseen, unheard, unsafe, disconnected from my love. It’s a cliche especially as a defensive, avoidant, gaslighting tactic for parents to say to their (teen, adult, etc) children: “But I’m not perfect!”

So, what I want to say to you, Babybel, is: I’m not perfect and I won’t always be the parent you deserve or need me to be AND when I miss the mark (daily!), when I injure you or make you feel anything less than held, beloved, celebrated beyond measure, how I repair with you, how I regain your trust, how I make sure you and your heart, mind or soul are safe with me, THAT is the parent I strive to be—whether you remember or notice it or not, whether it counteracts, outweighs the traumas and memories or not. And it’s a practice and a challenge because most of us grown-ups were not raised with parents who were accountable for their mistakes. I’m learning and unlearning, still and maybe most importantly fourteen years into parenting.

From the day you were born, for most of your life I have tried to figure out how to be a “better” parent and while I’m very thankful for the ways in which you, your siblings and new information have expanded my parenting practice, I’m realizing that good parenting isn’t about getting it perfect for each and every child, in each and every moment; it’s about what you do when you fuck it up.

Besides Tuesday when I derailed your birthday morning (and I hope I have and continue to make amends for that), there are fourteen years worth of patterns and traumatic memories that I must answer to. And many of them have already affected our relationship, have already borne themselves out when I can feel you pulling away or hesitant to share with me or shrinking when I hit a chord--a chord, triggering a familiar tune of pain, rejection, disconnection--one that I composed.

(To make matters worse, I'm sick and we had to cancel your birthday party. And I'm not sure about you (because I'm sick and isolating and haven't checked in with you yet) but I for sure have core memories of my mom and dad somehow always being sick on days that were important for me. And before Lola and Lolo get defensive, I understand as both their child and your parent that whether that is a true or accurate history doesn't matter, because what is true are the feelings--of abandonment, betrayal, disconnection.)

All we ever want is to know, to feel we are loved.

I'm sorry (and will continue to be) for all the times that my own issues and trauma stop my love from flowing to you, stop you from receiving my love. I know it takes a lot of words, a lot of actions and (scientifically!) five or more positive interactions to "undo" a negative one. And I know being a teenager isn't easy. I'm not going to say "as a parent of a teenager, I'm going to give you lots of chances" as if it's my job to be gracious to you. (I mean I will give you all the chances, I am an enabling Filipina mother at my core, after all.) I'm asking that as a teenager of a parent, don't give up on me? Don't write me off? I will for sure mess up in dramatic ways like forgetting to wish you a happy birthday, but also in ways that are more subtle and insidious.

I'm not saying it's your job to re-parent me, to "manage up" or to perpetually forgive me. It's not your job to tell me when I've messed up. And I know it's difficult to tell someone when they've hurt you. This is something I'm asking both of us to do and stay with even though it's uncomfortable, it's not how we (as a society, as a culture, as a family or specifically you and I) "do things." You may even hate me for it in the moment, but what I ask is that you give me a chance to make things right again?

Damage is inevitable in relationships, especially where the armor that I put on to protect Little Lauren bumps up against the armor you put on to protect Little Maribel. The goal isn’t to avoid the damage. It’s there, it’s done. We’ve been taught to move on from it, ignore it, avoid the feelings that surround the damage. But, I’m trying to think about something I’ve learned recently about attachment styles and parenting from @drbeckyatgoodinside:
“We can’t beat our feelings, so they’re there. So if we can’t erase them, then guess what? They never got attachment. I often think with a feeling that never got attachment, it never got cushioned in a loving way…”

I’ve hurt you, left you with feelings that in your memories never got cushioned by the love you needed from me in a moment when you were vulnerable, you needed me, you looked to me and I wasn’t there for you. And it s like, Dr. Becky continues about the importance of repair, “I know it happened. Their body knows it happened. I have the words. They don’t have the words because they can’t understand it coherently if I’m not the one giving coherence to that moment.” And so yes, this is this amazing power, responsibility, opportunity we have.”

Making things right doesn't happen all at once. Atonement or repentance is a process and more like the overlapping but progressive circles of a ribbon dancer as they move across a room than it is like a straight line. While my aim, as a human, is to immediately know when I've caused a disconnect and be able to note and repair it before any damage occurs, that may never happen. In the meantime, I move forward with humility and I hope to live and love you through difficult moments--whether they are things that you remember and bring up, that I remember and bring up or that "OMG, MOM, this has nothing to do with you and I just want to talk about this other person who has as much capacity to hurt me as you because they are also important in my life!" (but I mean, who would ever?)

Oh, right. Listening, being a safe space. Got it. I'm here for you. I'm here for you and I will still mess up. Please, just keep coming back? (But not like in an abusive, no boundary way, OK? More like you trust me and our relationship enough to know you can throw any fact, feeling or feces at it and it will survive.) My love for you is unshakable.

I love you no matter what,

Mommy

To Babybel on the Occassion of Being Ten Years Old

Dearest Babybel,

Quite some time has passed since my last letter to you. It was probably written before you could even read. So, now it feels a little funny knowing that I can write this letter and you could read it all in the course of one day.

I don’t think you mind my delinquency. Well, maybe you mind. Maybe you’ll talk in therapy one day about just how taken for granted you were as a child. But, you’re also very forgiving.

As usual, this letter is less about you than it is about me. And for that you’ll probably forgive me too.

I’m not sure how big Ten seems to you. I’m trying to convince myself in between sobs that you’re merely one day older today than you were yesterday.

You’re not a child who has literal or figurative growing pains. Each day just leads to the next for you and you take things as they come. You are our most well-adjusted child.

We’ve been going to therapy/parental coaching for another Child Who Shall Not Be Named. Our therapist talks about the journey to functional adulthood that we are trying to prepare our children for--self-actualization I guess? I don’t know. I could probably google it and read some dead white guy’s theory about it.

Anyway, we start with self-awareness (and that’s where we get our self-esteem) and by grade school, we should have pretty good self-regulation skills (so says the therapist). If you are a person who feels emotions more intensely, self-regulation is going to require more effort to master. We know who that applies to… (I am for sure raising my hand, btw. And probably Daddy should too inasmuch as men are not conditioned to express the spectrum of human emotions; so what seems like self-regulation is often emotional suppression, resulting in outbursts of emotion in their “acceptable” forms: violence, anger, yelling in sportsy venues at sportsing games where sporters are not sporting properly and not scoring the sports points or equivalent places where “bad behavior” is tolerated.)

Note: If you are a man and able to read and accept this, you know that it probably does not apply to you. And if you are a man and thinking “but not all men!” or “this malarky doesn’t apply to me!” then it is probably your toxic masculinity rearing its ugly head.

I diverged! I snuck in a mini-lecture on: [insert oppressive socio-cultural framework here]! “So unexpected from you, Mommy!” they said yet again, rolling their eyes in the backseat of the car. #buckledinaudience

That is all to say that you know yourself pretty well, you carry that esteem and are able to navigate life’s situations on your own. You don’t have to. You shouldn’t always have to, but you do.

Recently, you weren’t invited to a playdate with your three closest friends. These friends also go to after school care and play together there without you. (I should add that while you expressed that it makes you feel a little left out, they usually pause their pretend play storyline and pickup another one during recess that does include you.) So, in school on this particular day a child said: “see you at the playdate, oh wait no, you won’t be there.” And I don’t believe it was malicious. And likely neither was your omission from the playdate. But, did I want to make some phone calls to the parents involved? I sure did. Would I ever make them? No. Because: phones. And also because I reminded myself that these are things you need to walk through on your own. Rather, Daddy and Auntie Katherine reminded me while I fumed via text. Because I also lack healthy self-regulation.

There is so much that you do on your own. Partly because I don’t have the time (like I used to) to micromanage your library books and your hygiene, among other things. You feed yourself; you do your best to take care of your hair and your eczema. You do your homework or, better yet, you sometimes forget and I never even notice; it doesn’t make your world crumble (like it would have mine). You juggle multiple assignments and piano and sports. You try and take on new things. You are responsible and dependable. Imaginative and creative. You like wolves and wearing baggy t-shirts and that may mean nothing to you now, but it means everything to me. This will be my one plea in this entire letter to #stayababy and #wearwolfshirtsforever (even though you don’t own one, haha)--otherwise, the rest of this letter is pretending to be very accepting of your aging.

I know that if I died today, you’d be fine without me. And I’d like to take All The Credit for raising you with my amazing and instinctive parenting skills, but to a certain degree you were simply born this way and my parenting happened to do no harm. While we joke about you raising yourself, t’s a little bit true. Ever since you were twenty-months old our attention has been split between you and the other life forms in our home.

While your siblings frustrate you and you get the short stick in many of our dysfunctional family dynamics--where the “needs” of others seem more pressing or just the path of least resistance on an overwhelming day--you are steadfast. You give Stebbie so much care and attention even as he turns away from you to tell Dan Dan he loves her; as runs to her when he bonks his head or Mommy says “no” to him; as you chase him around the house trying to dress him; as you excitedly declare “Potty Time!” when the Alexa alarm sounds every half hour, rushing Stebbie to help him sit on the potty and get a “bean bean” for his efforts which you applaud heartily.

You always want to do what is in everyone’s best interest. I know that is frustrating because sometimes (when cleaning your room so you can have screen time, for example) it seems everyone (Danielle, for example...I mean...specifically, lets stop sugar-coating it) is rebelling against what is in their own best interest (also playing Roblox once Mommy can see the bedroom floor again, for example).

I’m not sure yet what to say about that. I love that you are easy-going, flexible and positive. But, every aspect of a person’s natural temperament is in fact neutral in a void. In reality, they have their advantages and their pitfalls. So even things that we see as “good” could come out bad in the wash--if they’re not serving you well. I don’t want you always bending your will to those of others. I don’t want you to stifle your needs or desires because it’s the easier thing to do. I don’t want you thinking you can just slough off the negative and will your happiness into existence. That would make you a Disney Princess.

Certainly, your siblings get the lion’s share of my parental energy. But, I want to reassure you: it’s not just for them, we’re trying to make this a better family for you too.

I try everyday to be a better person for each of you. I don’t do everything right. I’m inconsistent. I’m forgetful. I have poor time management skills. I don’t listen as well as I should. I make promises or agreements that don’t come to fruition (see: inconsistent, forgetful, poor time management, bad listener). I often disappoint you.

And you, above all of my children, seem to love me no matter what. Stebbie’s disappointment devolves into a terrible two tantrum. Danjo’s disappointment lashes out, taking down everyone in her path.

But, where does your disappointment go? Does it float into oblivion? Does it fester in a hidden wound?

Where do you store your hopes? Do you clutch them tightly for fear of losing them? Or do you open your mouth and speak them into existence?

What are your joys? What are your pains?

And, by the way, what do you want for dinner tonight?

I feel like I know you better than anyone else--you grew in me; you grew WITH me for God’s sake--I had you when I was 24; you have always been my little cogent tagalong, discussing plants and physics and, even, politics.

For so long, I have had all the answers. Mommy, why is the sky blue? Mommy, what’s on the other side of the earth? Mommy, what’s a condom? (You, in fact, asked me this recently upon hearing the word on TV. At your grandparents house no less! LOL!) And you’ve always listened to my belabored answers.

But here’s an eternal truth: you know you better than anyone else. And you will only continue to know yourself better and better.

You have been becoming your own person for a long time now. For 3,652 days to be precise. Because it is in you to be precise; one of the many more positive (ha!) attributes you inherited from me.

I’ve written many sentences to all three of you over the years, talking about the magic and wonder of watching you grow into the person you will become. That sounds so flowery. Also, very observational. Maybe it shouldn’t have taken you turning ten for me to stop and to reflect and to see it more clearly, but I see it so vividly now.

That person I’ve been waiting for you to become? The person apart from me? You are that person. You already have been for some time.

It’s my turn to start asking you questions. Time to listen to your belabored answers. Time to watch your wheels spin and your face light up, as you speak your truth. Time to listen to all that you do not say, to your essence, to your spirit. Time to see and love and hold you where you are.

I know you’ll be fine. I know you have a whole big, wide future. A future past ten. A future beyond me. A future without me.

All I have is now.

And you.

And that sounds good to me.

I love you no matter what,

Mommy

To Babybel on the Occasion of Being Eight Years Old

Dearest Babybel,

I have to write this letter to you today. Because you turned eight three weeks ago. And your baby brother turns four months old tomorrow. And I was going to write one letter, but that’s not fair. You deserve your own.

I started seeing a therapist slash “parenting consultant” to help me figure out how to be a better parent to your sister. (Don’t worry, this letter will be about you soon.) He had me assess the temperaments of all five of us. I’ll save what he noted about Yelly’s temperament for her letter. The therapist took one look see down your column (See? This letter IS about you!) and said something to the effect of “she’s set for life.” Well, that’s how I’m going to interpret it.

Dress like a book character day! Fancy Nancy, of course!

You are easy going and adaptable. You are persistent and a good problem solver. You have determination and grit. You come by all this naturally, but I’d like to think I can take some credit for helping you be able to learn to express and communicate your emotions as well as steering you wide and clear of perfectionist tendencies. That was a lot of my projecting (#therapyvocabulary) on you the struggles I had as a kid (which worked out great for you, but I’m finding isn’t really a relevant approach to raising my other children.)

My super sledder

You are the best kid I could’ve ever asked for--at least the best kid for my parenting. In many ways, you were made to be my daughter and I was made to be your mommy. That’s not to say that we don’t drive each other crazy once in awhile, but you make it pretty fun and easy to be your mommy.

Now that you’re eight (OMG. Five years from being a teen. Halfway to a driver’s license!), you don’t have to use a booster seat. You are four foot, one inch tall. You recently chopped off about eight inches of your curly locks and are sporting a tres chic and sophisticated shoulder-length bob. And you look like you’re twenty-one years old. Except for the fact that you don’t really attempt to wrangle your curls so they give you the air of a mad scientist, but in a totally cute way.

I can't believe she was every that teeny tiny!

You continue to be a kind, loving, considerate, compromising, bend-over-backwards older sister, despite being bullied, conned and pretzeled by your younger sister. With the birth of your baby brother, your heart doubled and you make sure to kiss him a million and a half times per day.

Debriefing after Yelly's first day of kindergarten

You love to draw and still love to build things or wonder about the how and why of it all. You are a fantastic reader and generally doing well in school. I did have a recent tiger mother talk with you about a sub-standard rubric for a project you didn’t put a lot of effort into (because I have three kids and ain't nobody got time to tell you to put more effort into your toilet paper tube-rubber band instrument; we’re lucky it even got turned in on time). Amazingly, no tears were shed, so I think I was better at not sounding SO critical and you are developmentally able to take and process a little feedback. The next rubric will tell…

You’re into musicals; anything by Lin-Manuel Miranda. We started reading Harry Potter together and I’m apparently not reading fast enough because you checked out your own copy of the book from the school library to read on your own. So, I’ll just sit over here getting accustomed to being left in the dust.

You had a great soccer season this past year and scored goals and assists despite (or maybe because of) your perpetually united cleats. You still can’t always keep your feet under you and fell at school a few weeks ago, busting open the skin on your brow. First ER visit checked off the list! You were very brave and I’m sorry; I should have never uttered the word “stitches” outside the context of Shawn Mendes. You also recently experienced the trauma of being forgotten at school for the first time. Except, I didn’t forget you. You had an afterschool program that you forgot to go to. So, on the flip side, I didn’t experience any guilt over this fiasco and you’re now braver and wiser for it.

I wanted to write to you about an amazing experience you had recently at a roller rink. Well, it was amazing for me. For you, it was maybe just you being you. But, I want you to know how amazing and wonderfully made you really are. And how proud I am of you. But, you’re daddy beat me to sharing this story with the world. Daddy’s here, I’ll let him tell it… (#namethatmusical)

Birthday dinner: bacon wrapped meatloaf every year!

“My beautiful, smart, fun, caring, loving, determined and amazing daughter, Mari, turns 8 years old today. And while there are plenty of great photos of her smiling, laughing and being her generally fun-loving self I could have posted on this momentous occasion. Instead, I'm posting this photo of her in her tie-dyed T-shirt skating around the roller rink a few weeks ago on her first day ever on roller skates. 

“Because what you see is success, which was remarkable and filled Lauren and I with pride. But what you don't see here is when she decided to ditch the "skate mate" in order to skate around on her own. The numerous times she fell down but immediately got back up. The tears. The breaks she would take to re-group. And she kept going out there. Skating through the tears, through the bumps and bruises.

“I pray that Mari continues to grow, learn, trust and go through life knowing she'll probably have some bumps, bruises and falls along the way but also knowing she has the strength and confidence within herself to get back up (take a rest to regroup if needed) and skate on!

“Happy Birthday Mari, I love you!”

Mommy loves you too. No matter what!

xoxo,

Mommy

To Babybel on the Occasion of Being Seven Years Old

[If you're here for cute and not crying, scroll down for a video of Baby Babybel!]

Dearest Babybel,

In this past year of life you’ve learned to swim, become a legit reader and were commended as being the most improved soccer player on your team.

You lost several teeth, all in strange places or circumstances: while eating a banana, on the Santa Monica pier, on a camping trip, in your sleep. You were so terrified to lose your second tooth (the first was so traumatizing) that it was dangling by a thread by the time it just casually dropped out of your mouth, like: hey guys, whatever, I'm outie. Now, losing teeth is old hat.

I’ve seen your confidence grow as you try new things, take risks and find success. You still trend towards perfectionism, but I like to think that my own struggles with perfectionism (and the millions of parenting articles I’ve read about it) help me to help you. I praise your effort and not results. As difficult as it is (because you really are super smart!), I don’t outright tell you that you’re smart (a fixed trait). Instead, I tell you that you’re a good problem solver, that you are clever or think creatively and that you really flex your brain muscles! Growth mindset! Woot!

And I don’t tell you to just go ahead and stop being a perfectionist already--easier said than done. I know all too well that does no good and kind of makes you feel worse for your perfectionist ways. Instead, I try to say things like: that’s frustrating, that didn’t turn out the way you wanted it to, did it?

On the other hand, sometimes I can get kind of tiger-mothery. Even so, I try try try try to say more constructive things like: it’s okay if it’s not perfect, but just ask yourself if that is the best job you can do?

You’re hard enough on yourself for the lot of us. If it’s been a rough day, you sit in front of your homework and stare blankly at it. When I encourage (then tell, then command) that you start working, you devolve into a puddle of tears, because, “I know how to do it. I just don’t know how to do it.” You’re paralyzed by making a mistake.

It doesn’t help that first grade homework is hard. Not content-wise. Not that you’re incapable of it. But, it’s just such an odd developmental age where we’re demanding so much focus from six year olds, when I wish you could still be doing things like pretend play and music and art. Or at least, more of it.

A couple weeks after you started first grade, I was delivering my typical teary-eyed, bedtime lament about how much you are growing and learning and how proud I am of you. But, that you’ll always be my baby. As you rubbed the tears from your eyes, you said, “I want to stay a baby. I want to go back to kindergarten.” When I asked why, you replied, “First grade is hard and it’s boring. I have to sit at a desk all day. And I don’t have anyone to play with on the playground. I just wander around.”

And my introverted heart just broke--mostly from my own traumatic playground-wandering flashbacks. Telling you to buck up was the absolute last thing I would do. Duh! Instead I made you cry more by acknowledging how sad that must make you feel. I told you how I felt the same way when I was your age and, frankly, I still feel that way a lot of the time.

While I want with all my being for you to have friends and not feel isolated, I also know that holding you to our society’s extroverted standard can also be damaging on your self worth. So, I tried to equip you with some actually helpful tools, first and foremost a book to read at recess. LOL. Nothing says “I’m an introvert!” like having your nose in a book. And I told you that one of the wonderful things about you is how observant you are. Perhaps you could spend a couple of recesses watching to see who looks kind or alone or quiet and ask him or her to play. When I checked in a couple days later, you were like NBD. I’m pretty sure you found the least introverted kids to play with, so there goes my advice.

You had a similar breakdown over buying lunch at school, because you were concerned that you didn’t know how to do it and that you would have to sit at a different (lunch-buyers) table than the (lunch-bringers) table you were used to sitting at. (Don’t get me started on the socio-economic implications of this policy). I coached you through the logistics of adjusting to this change and asked you if there were any friendly faces at the lunch-buyers table. And, once you thought about it, you realized that one of your best friends buys lunch.

And not packing you a lunch made my Monday mornings at least 50% easier.

Your daddy was sifting through some files on his old hard drive last week and randomly came across this video of you when you were two-ish. We could’ve sat there all day delving through photos and videos--like you and your sister do with YouTube unboxing videos--but it seemed perfect for this moment in time.

In it, you observe, “I can’t see my eyes!” and ask, “Where is me?” as a hat falls over your face. Just watch it, you’ll love how it ends:

 

“I find me!”

And isn’t that what all this is about? Each day, each moment? Feeling a little bit lost, unseen, in the dark? Questioning who and what and where you are? And, ultimately, finding yourself.

And then, later, next time, you’re ready. When that lost feeling comes again, when you might lose a tooth, when you lose focus, when the math problem or Life Problem seems too difficult, too big, too overwhelming, when you’re alone, afraid of being alone, when you don’t know where to sit, when you don’t know where you belong--you just sit in that dark a minute. And you wait for questions or answers or silence.

Then, you catch a glimpse of the light sneaking through the cracks, you remember how brave you are, how you did it before, how to trust yourself. And you pull off the [Giants batting] helmet, the armor, the cloak of fear, the comfort of your blankie, the guises and the facade. You step into the light. You are you. You are enough. You are right where you ought to be. You are found.

I know it’s melodramatic, but from the mouths of babes, amiright?

Love you no matter what,

Mommy

To Babybel on the Occasion of Being Six Years Old

Dearest Babybel,

 

You have half a year of kindergarten under your belt. You can confidently read at least fifty words. You have our address memorized. You are big enough to ride in the built-in booster seat in our car. You can make both a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a turkey and cheese sandwich on your own. You know how to sweep, mop and vacuum too.

 

You are certainly growing and learning by leaps and bounds. Like all parents, I wish, but I know that there is nothing I can do to stop you.

 

But, I have a secret power: if I’m careful and quiet, I can actually slow down time. All I have to do is hold my breath and watch.

 

Newborn.

I pause for a moment before I turn your light on to wake you up in the morning. You are buried under a half dozen baby blankets, surrounded by dolls you’ve meticulously tucked in beside you. Your curly hair splays from your head, spreading across your pillow, floating like a mermaid’s hair on water.

 

I peek around the corner to check on your progress in the great task of Getting Ready for School. I find you, as on all mornings, paying particular attention to the colors of your clothing, ensuring that you make a true and undeniable match. This process takes twenty minutes and therefore feels like I am truly frozen in time.

 

One.

 

I slow my steps as we walk hand in hand to school, feeling those sweet, small fingers that still automatically reach for mine when we approach an intersection. I pray everyday that even when we’re safely across the street you’ll keep holding on, just a little bit longer. Sometimes you do. More and more, you let go.

 

I watch you as you stand quietly, the first in line by your classroom door. I wonder what’s going on inside that brain of yours, as your classmates run and squeal. Probably something similar to what’s going on in mine as I stand quietly observing, while other moms jibber jabber.

 

Two.

 

And then, when the bell rings, I watch you walk away from me. I. WATCH. YOU. WALK. AWAY. FROM. ME. Can we stop to just let it soak in how this moment is preparing me for the rest of your life?!?

 

But! A few hours later, you come running back into my arms. I’m not sure how much of you is running away from school so much as it is running towards me. But, I’ll take it. And your hint of a smile and rushed and sorry excuse for a hug. I close my eyes and I’ll take it, as I bend down to smell the sun in your hair and kiss your rosy cheeks.

 

Three.

 

Time slows when I listen to you and your sister play, overhearing things you think I can’t. Silly things and serious things. Potty words and pointed words. Sister secrets. Songs and jokes and rhymes. Made up games and made up rules. Made up voices, small and big, beautiful and strange. Fights and bribes and negotiations. And when the giggles and the grumpies overtake you, when they overflow your room, I’m still here, listening, waiting for my cue. A moment has yet to pass.

 

But, I’m not always so great at using my super powers. Dinner has to be made. Bills paid. Laundry folded (or at least I have to think about laundry being folded, then feel guilty for not folding it). And the Internet can’t very well read itself, now can it? There is a sister and a dog and a dad. There is homework and sight words and piano practice.

 

Four.

 

And I forget about freezing time. And I yell. And I plead. I’m too rushed, too harsh, too worried about the future. And more than once, I’ve made you cry. And more than once I’ve said, as I’ll say again now, I’m sorry.

 

I hold you in my lap, calming our tears, and everything else melts away.

 

Five.

 

I remember to take pause as I wash your hair and comb out an obscene amount of tangles. I help you get dressed for bed even though you don’t need my help anymore. I look for your lovey (who is as old as you are) in all the usual places and in all the unusual places you like to forget you’ve hid her--inside cardboard boxes, play purses, shoes and inside other toys! We read books and you read the occasional word for me, but eventually urge me to “just read it, Mommy.” You pray the same prayer you’ve prayed since you could, “Thank you God for a good day and I pray for a fun day tomorrow.” And we sing “Baby Beluga” just as we’ve done since the day you were born, “Goodnight, little whale, goodnight. Goodnight, Maribel, goodnight,”--except now, you sing along.

 

And if I let it, this day will turn into tomorrow and the next and the next. And the days will run together as they are wont to do. They’ll run into weeks and years.

 

Six.

 

But, not today. I won’t let it run away with you. I’m staying here in this moment. For, you are every moment this day held, every moment leading to this day and every moment to follow--awesome and inspiring and profound.

 

So, I savor your sweet voice. I squeeze you and kiss you and tell you I’ll see you when the sun comes up. And I turn off your light. I watch you settle in, your toys and blankets surrounding you just so. Your hair, a curly halo. Ending this day just as it began.

And I will myself. I use all my strength and concentration. But even my super powers have their limits, so I blink, a moment passes, time moves and in the morning: six you shall be!

Happy Birthday, my Dearest Babybel!

Love you no matter what,

Mommy

----------

If you want to feel a little more nostalgic...

Babybel: The First Five Years

 

To Babybel on the Occasion of Starting Kindergarten (and The Rest of Your Educational Career)

Dearest Babybel,

Tomorrow you start kindergarten.

 

I get it. Like in a rational sense. I mean, you were in childcare and then you were in preschool and this is the next logical step. But, my heart doesn’t get it.

I can’t comprehend how you’ve grown so quickly, developed emotionally and intellectually over the past five years. It’s truly a sign of God’s wonders.

What happened to my baby who needed me at night? What happened to my toddler who threw up hysterical vomit? What happened to my preschooler who pronounced her r’s like w’s? Really? Weally!

I know this is the same old story of disbelief, shock and awe told by parents for years and that’s not why I’m writing to you, but it had to be said.

What I want to tell you today may be a little intense for your first day of kindergarten, but nevertheless important from Room 2 to the hallowed halls of [Wellesley] College.

I’m writing to tell you that you should be ever grateful for you education.

You are about to embark on (by my count) seventeen years of formal education. This is a privilege so profound you can not yet imagine it. You are benefiting from a long fight for women and people of color to be educated in this country. And there are still others who know no such right. There are those who travel miles on foot to go to school. There are those who go to school, but in a system so unjust and with a fate so bleak. Do not take your education for granted. Work hard and be grateful every day for your ability to wake up, take a safe walk to school, learn from educators who care, do your homework at a well lit table and benefit from all that your education will provide you.

I’m writing to tell you that I will be here every step of the way.

I’m no helicopter, but I will be here when you need me--in kindergarten, in college. I will be here to celebrate with you on your good days--when you make a friend, when you ace a test, when you accomplish something you never thought you could. I will be here when you need a push--when you think you can’t do something, when you won’t do it, when you get really stuck on writing the letter G or carrying the 1. I will be here to simply be here--to sit with you in your fear, in your frustration, in your pain. I will be here to listen--to the rundown of your day, to your thoughts on One Direction and Middle Eastern conflict, to your ever-changing plans and to your heart’s desires.

I’m writing to tell you that I am proud of you.

Know that I am proud of you because you dare to be in this world. I am proud of all you can and will do, for sure. But, I’m also proud of what you can’t do yet, of what challenges you will tackle. You are a work in progress. And the ability to grow and change is a wonderful part of being human. You can make choices. You can change your mind. You can soften your heart. I know you will not always do things that please me. You will not always do things my way. You may even wander into places that I cannot prevent you from going. But, you will live your own truth and follow your own path. You will grown into the person God has created you to be. And I am honored to watch you do it.

Love you no matter what,

 

Mommy

On the Occasion of Being Sick, In Pain or Generally Miserable

Dearest Daughters,

I brought Babybel to the doctor this morning where he confirmed double ear and sinus infections.

My stoic babe, I wish I could have taken away your suffering sooner.

When Danjo, my “less healthy” and—let’s face it—whinier child emits even the smallest of whimpers, I rush her to the doctor, one-hundred-percent certain she has an ear infection. Multiply that by about a million times and you’ll know what the past three years have felt like.

All the while, sweet girl, your germs were festering. And I only put two and two together when you woke in the middle of the night with your head throbbing, crying because you needed help falling asleep. You’re such a sound sleeper and haven’t needed help falling asleep since you were an infant.

I’m not writing this letter to rake myself over the coals.

It’s that, in this moment, I see myself in you. I see my inner five year old. And I want to tell her so many things.

Maybe it is my stoicism that helped me mask my mortal weaknesses like illness or depression or the simple ups and downs of life. Or maybe it was those things that lead to my stoicism.

Either way, I see the same thing happening in you. You act so strong and so brave; and I want to tell you that you don’t have to act that way. That you just are, even in your weakness, because of your weakness. We are born strong, reslient. You have nothing to prove.

No sooner had the doctor written out your prescription than you fell apart. I shouldn’t say you fell apart so much as you finally had permission or allowed yourself to be the sick five-year-old you have been the past few days. You suddenly felt sad and worried and just plain crummy.

And that feeling resonated with me—the floodgates opening after so many days, months, years of holding them shut.

As I held you in my lap while waiting at the pharmacy, cradling your barely-cradle-able body, you shivered, your body fighting back germs, and you fighting back tears.

All I wanted to do was to tell you that I’m here, that you’ll be just fine, that there’s no reason to cry. But, the truth is: I won’t always be here, that sometimes you won’t be fine and that you have all the reason in the world to cry.

(Dearest Readers, if you’re burnt out on my mindfulness and emotional coaching lectures, then you can stop reading three paragraphs ago.)

One of the hardest things to do as a parent, is to sit with you in your pain, to let you cry and feel sad, worried and crappy. To let the tears flow. To tell you that it is so, so, so okay to feel everything you are feeling even if it means more tears and even a little bit of hysterical vomit.

So, we let your tears flow some more, let them mingle with my own, reminding myself it’s okay to cry too (in our second week of illness)—let the people in the pharmacy line tilt their heads at us, wondering if they should call a relative, an authority, an emergency responder or some combination thereof.

And when I’m (mostly) done crying, I know it’s my job to coach you through those crappy feelings—as I have done so many times for myself.

I sat there, praying to God that the pharmacist would call our name already, wanting to go home too, wondering what I could possibly do—not to make you stop crying, but to help you through your pain to the other side, as I like to think of it.

And I imagined my most helpful ally in times of anxiety and panic: water—from whence we come, quenching thirst, the first medicine, the ocean, tears and sweat and baptism.

I told you a story about the waves. I asked you to imagine yourself floating in the water peacefully, maybe in a boat or on a blowup alligator. And you looked at me like the crazy, crunchy momma I am. And I told you that feeling sad and yucky is like a storm. The waves are really rough right now, but the storm will pass, you just have to breathe.

I’ll pause the mumbo jumbo melodrama for a second to say that breathing, prayer or reciting mantra will no more cure you of your sinus infection than they did my depression. But, it sure does help you make it through the storm.

You have to know that a storm can’t last forever. That you can ride the waves, let them wash over you. That soon the pain-reliever and antibiotics (thank you for modern medicine) will start working. That your fever will subside. That your pain will diminish. That you will find comfort and relief (in your lovey, netflix and mommy’s hugs). That your strong and wonderful body will do the work it needs to do to heal. That popsicles and crackers will sustain you.

That you can trust in all of this and in the knowledge that you are safe and secure. That you can let go of trying to feel better, let go of the yuckiness and finally rest (literally, please, go to sleep).

And in this small instance when you wake, the storm will have subsided. And, it is my hope, that you will have learned a little bit about how to weather life’s storms no matter how small they are or how big they feel.

Love you no matter what,

P.S. By the time I published this, you woke up, your fever was gone, you ate some jello, kept down your antibiotics. You were back to your healthy self, thoughtfully asking your sister about what you missed at school and whether you could eat the Valentine's candy she brought home for you. That is to say, you survived the storm, more importantly, Mommy did too!

--------

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.

Lucky you! I'm pretty active on the Dearest Daughters Facebook page. So, make sure you like DD by heading on over to our page or clicking the Facebook button on our sidebar (over to the right). And you'll keep getting all the Dearest Daughters' latest and greatest!

To Babybel on the Occasion of Being Five Years Old

My Dearest Babybel,

I haven’t written a Monthly Letter in a long time. A lot has changed in the past couple of years. While I don’t write to you as often as I used to, trust me, this slowing down, this breathing, this mindful attention to the present has been a decidedly good thing for all of us.
   
The past couple years have been the most difficult of both of our lives, but also the most wondrous. The transformations we have both experienced, as I grow into myself at the age of twenty-nine-not-yet-thirty, watching you grow into the person you will become, ever becoming—well, it just leaves me in awe. Truly, awesome.



On your fifth birthday, here are five awesome things about you:

1. Your Sensitivity
I have spent most of my life trying to not be sensitive, to not let people see me cry, to not be affected, because I saw my sensitivity as a weakness. I know that there are moments or days when, through bleary eyes, being sensitive seems so hard to bear. But it is your sensitivity that allows you to feel so deeply, to have empathy and compassion for others. It is your sensitivity that allows your little sister to press your buttons, but it also allows you to proclaim—in your own tearful way—when you feel injustice or outrage, when something shakes your core. Stay with that feeling, stay sensitive.

2. Your Thoughtfulness
Since you were developmentally able, you have truly considered the needs and wishes of others, often before your own. Whether a drawing you made for a specific person or a proclamation in the toy aisle that cousin so-and-so would really enjoy that particular toy—you think of others. You think to help set the table without being told. You think about your Daddy while he is away and what you will do when you reunite. But, when I say you are thoughtful, I guess I also mean you are full of thoughts. You are pensive and like to turn things over in your head, giving careful consideration before you speak, before you decide, before you make a choice. This can take anywhere between one and thirty-seven minutes.

3. Your Intelligence
I know every parent says that their child is a genius; I’m not saying that. But, I am saying that you are pretty damn smart. You’ve always been extremely verbal, with vocabulary and grammar that impresses. And, always, you’ve asked questions, even with my long and circuitous answers, i.e. lectures, you continue to ask. Now, you’ve reached the age where you know things; you know things that I don’t know. And you are happy to pay me back in long, circuitous answers.

You know how to do things too. You have spent the past five years watching, observing, examining, taking notes; and the physical world has become your mental playground. You like to know how things work and why, exactly—and I do mean exactly. You have a mind for engineering and I hate to put you in a box, but that’s a pretty good box to be in.

The parents of the 80s and 90s may have done a disservice to our egos by telling us how smart we all were without our even trying. So, I’ll tell you not only how smart you are, but also how you stay so smart: you think hard, you exercise your brain, you color outside the lines, you give yourself a break and then you try again, you solve problems. I’d be remiss to not tell you that you have a great brain and that you can use your brain to do whatever it can imagine.

 

4. Your Creativity
Sure, you make stuff at school, most of which I put in the recycling bin. Your true creativity shows in the rolls and rolls of scotch tape that you’ve used to connect things to other things, in the cardboard boxes you’ve transformed, in the laundry baskets you’ve commandeered, in the yo-yo strings and balloons and sticks and paper towels rolls you’ve rigged together, in the puppet shows and fashion shows and, even, in that annoying voice you use when you make your lovey “talk” [shiver]. Your creativity is limited only by my scotch tape budget—and maybe, your ability to use a stapler, but that will change in due time, my dear.

No matter what you think or what the world says, please believe that your creativity is limitless. Childhood is a fluid time, the time before you solidify into a grumpy-unchanging-see-the-world-and-yourself-through-one-lens-stick-in-the-mud. Please don’t lose your creativity, but more than that don’t lose you ability, your propensity, your desire to see the world and yourself in all the lights, from all the angles, with all the colors of that rainbow drawing hanging on your bedroom door.

5. Your Beauty
Our society focuses too much on beauty. Or, rather, on what it defines as beautiful. We could go on and on about the whole inside and out beauty, but I want you to believe that you are beautiful. Not because society says so, but because I say so and I am your mommy and what I say goes.

You are gorgeous. When you light up, I do. When you laugh, I want time to stand still and to live in your laughter forever. When you have an idea, your eyes get big and you point your index finger skyward before you rocket off to pursue your thoughts. When you cry or yell, I feel your power. You are a presence, a sight to behold, created in God’s image—and maybe mine and your daddy’s. You are a little clumsy, you have what you may come to see as unruly hair and a silly gap between your two front teeth; and all of it is you, wonderful, beautiful you.

I, and many women you know and will never know, have spent too much time wondering, questioning, doubting our beauty. Measuring, weighing, comparing, primping, waxing, painting, covering up. I don’t want you to believe that you are only your beauty, but in case you ever do, see: 1-4 of this list.

I want you to be able to look in the mirror every single day (or better yet have no desire to look in a mirror, but if you must) and I want you to like, love, celebrate what you see. To trace the constellations of your “beauty marks” (as we call them and as Lolopop called them when I asked about my own when I was little.) To see the way you shine when you are happy. To see the wisdom in your own eyes. To see all the sadness, anger, worry, fear, love, lust, joy, elation—to see the fullness of human emotion in your face. To feel your curly hair brush your cheek and the softness of your pink lips upon another’s. To feel the dizzying rush of turning in circles and the still quiet of darkness. To feel the courage in your bones and the strength in your muscles. To feel truth in your gut and peace in your breath. And it is all kinds of ridiculous, crazy something beautiful.

Happy Birthday, Babybel.

Love you no matter what,

Remembering The Way You Make Me Feel

“The advantage of a bad memory is that one enjoys several times the same good things for the first time.” ― Friedrich Nietzsche

“If you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note that this thing is to be remembered.” ― Edgar Allan Poe

Dearest Daughters,

Being mindfully in the present means that I pay better attention to the life we’re living. It also means that every time you say something clever or profound, I don’t go rushing to my laptop to share every teeny detail on a blog post. Lately, Facebook and Instagram have been my detail capture-ers.

DJ's unintended sidewalk paint love.

Here’s the other thing: my medication has affected my short-term memory. I used to be an elephant. An elephant with divinely appointed superpowers. I observed, catalogued and remembered details that no human nor pachyderm had any business recalling.

My certain memory made me a fierce arguer, made me resentful of those with blurrier memories, and only worsened my chronic perfectionism. It also came in handy when it was time to locate that missing object or other.

This is not to say that my memory was perfect. I just could trust it more confidently.

At first—when I couldn’t even remember what dosage of medication my doctor just told me to take, when I would forget appointments or entire conversations with your Daddy—I felt angry. I felt like a diluted version of myself. I felt like I had lost my super powers. (I think, having been diagnosed as bipolar this is likely a good thing. No attempting to fly off rooftops for me.)

Then, in conjunction with learning to accept my feelings and the present moment, I came to accept that sometimes I simply can’t remember stuff. That I am not, in fact, a superhuman. Just a regular ol’ human.That I am not perfect. Nor do I need to be.

I also feel a little bit like Dory from Finding Nemo. Or, not jokingly, when I can’t recall something really important, like I have early onset Alzheimer’s.

Yet it remains, that you girls say and do things that I fully appreciate, delight and relish in—in the moment. But, I’m left with no recollection to share with your Daddy, to document here or, more importantly, to call to memory when I need a smile, a laugh, something bright to hold onto in the dark.

So, I’ve been trying to take better notes with an actual pen and paper. Because, apparently, my brain isn’t taking notes for me anymore.

Not only dates and appointments and lists, but also moments.

If you’ll allow me to share, this week, I wrote down three things that made me smile, made life worth living, made me proud of the little humans you are becoming.

1. Out of nowhere, while just Bel and I were driving back from your four-year-old checkup (the first of which I forgot, this being the re-scheduled appointment), Bel declared, “Mommy, I want to be an engineer!”

“That sounds great to me! You will make a great engineer...” I said before you cut me off.

“I know, I know, I know. Because I like to see how things work,” you said, nearly rolling your eyes, with an assurance and annoyance that I’m not sure how to explain—like you were born knowing this fact about yourself and that it’s so Last Year, Mommy. Could also be that you’ve heard the word “engineer” spoken alongside your name by the adults who have noticed your curiosity and problem-solving abilities.

Nevertheless, to hear my four year old proclaim that she wants to be an engineer, rather than, say, a princess or Dora the Explorer, is music to my ears. Whether you become an engineer or not is up to you, but I’m glad you have the vocabulary, the certainty and even just an inkling of all the possibilities the world holds for you.

One kind of engineer. Choo choo!

2. I am amazed by Danjo’s interpersonal intelligence. While Bel is truly my engineer and likes to get up close and personal with mechanical or otherwise constructed things, Danjo seems to have been born, like her Daddy, fully aware of the mechanics of being a human.

We were leaving the park and we walked past a family speaking Spanish, which I understood. They were urging their older son, of about eight years old, to follow them towards the playground. He stood, unmoved. He didn’t look blatantly angry. His arms weren’t crossed. He wasn’t yelling. But, Danjo picked up on his subtle body language. (Unless, of course, she does understand Spanish!)

You told me as we passed, “He’s a mad at he Mommy.”

Without hesitation you continued, “He no want-a go ta the playgroun. He mad at he Mommy.”

You have amazing interpersonal intelligence and it will serve you well.

Of all the animals at the zoo, the human cleaning the insect enclosure proves the most interesting.

3. I told Bel that we needed to put our Valentine’s in envelopes and bring them to the Post Office. Forgetting to explain the crucial step of addressing the envelopes, Bel told me that when we got to the Post Office, I would have to tell the “Post Officer” where each envelope was supposed to go.

I clarified that we’d write down the addresses for the Post Officers to read and deliver, but I enjoyed a chuckle, thinking about my Auntie Lina and other “Post Officers” who serve and protect our mail.

I suppose more important than recalling every detail of every memory is holding in my heart the way you make me feel, day by day, moment by moment. You fill me with pride and joy in small moments and big moments, in grand gestures and tiny whispers, in all that I recall and in all that I forget.

I love you no matter what,

--------

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.

Lucky you! I'm pretty active on the Dearest Daughters Facebook page. So, make sure you like DD by heading on over to our page or clicking the Facebook button on our sidebar (over to the right). And you'll keep getting all the Dearest Daughters' latest and greatest!

To Babybel on the Occasion of Being Four Years Old

Dear Babybel,

Today you are four years old. I can hardly call you a baby anymore. I don't think toddler quite describes you anymore either.

I think you've moved clearly and swiftly in to the "little girl" category.

I could go on for hundreds, thousands of words about how much you've developed this year: by physical, emotional and intellectual leaps and bounds.

But, I'll spare you the growth chart. I think I'll keep it short and sweet this year:

Pumpkin, Muffin, Sweetheart, Honey, My Love,

You are my life. You are my hope, my joy, my frustration, my know-it-all. You are my buddy, my nemesis, my partner, my super hero. You are my slow-poke, my elocutionist, my logic, my grey hair. You are my mess-ups, my do-overs and my I'm-sorry's. You are my philosopher, my engineer, my scientist. You are my artist, my cartwheel, my quiet time, my home.

You are resilient and brave. You are sweet and sour. You are truth and un-truths and technicalities. You are independent and wiped-away-kisses and secretly whispered I love you's. You are conductor and orchestra, you are adagio and piano, and every single note there is. You are sensitive and strong. You are omnipotent and temperate and precocious. You are my Why and How Come? You are my beginning, my end, my eternity and forevermore.

And I love you no matter what.

Love,

--------

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.

Lucky you! I'm pretty active on the Dearest Daughters Facebook page. So, make sure you like DD by heading on over to our page or clicking the Facebook button on our sidebar (over to the right). And you'll keep getting all the Dearest Daughters' latest and greatest!