dearest daughters & son

Sometimes I Wonder

Dearest Daughters,

I embrace your creativity, perhaps more than the average parent. You've taken over the kitchen table with your scratch paper and markers, pipe cleaners and stamp pads, glue sticks and stickers.

Fifty percent of the freedom I give you is a conscious effort to not helicopter, to not step in when you can do for yourself, to let you gain confidence in your problem solving abilities, to not give you any preconceived notions or to shape your idea of what something should be.

I won't lie; the other 50% of the reason I don't intervene in your creative endeavors, whether at what we now call the "Art Table" or whether playing "dress up, pack your bags and fly to Hawaii"--is because I'm just not paying attention.

No one's losing an eye. And whatever you mess you make just doesn't bother me THAT much. What's more scraps of paper on the ground? And red hand prints on the white cabinets? Nothing a vacuum and Magic Eraser (tee emm) can't fix!

I don't think my parents let me "get away" with this kind of stuff. With making messes, however creative. I don't remember having any dress-up clothes. (But, Lola did sew some bomb-diggity Halloween costumes in her day. That, I will not deny.)

Your Auntie Ningang KT just told me that she uses you as a little anecdote to others about how you're not overly into Disney Princesses. That is to say, you like them, we watch them, I'm not anti-Disney Princess of anti-frill, but at the end of the day you were Buzz and Jessie for Halloween. You are equally excited about pretending you're a robot ballerina or a pirate princess.

I like your creativity and freedom of expression.

But, sometimes I wonder...

While working on a sewing project the other day, I handed over the scraps to you girls. And this is what you came up with, whilst my sewing machine was whirring away:

Bel made Buzz a pair of undies with a heart sticker on the crotch--a little Magic Mike-esque if I must say--Intergalactic Space Ranger by day and, well, you know, by night. I'm sure it was nothing like that; in your current potty-training reversion, I'm certain you just wanted to hook your buddy up with a little extra however-be-it-stickered, night time protection. You're quite considerate like that. And fancy too.

And in a fitting comparison of personalities, Danjo just horded the fabric I handed to her, threw in some torn paper scraps and made her mini-Buzz a little nest next to the wine rack. It's gonna be a long night.

Love,

To Babybel on the Occasion of Being Forty-Five Months Old and To Danjo on the Occasion of Being Twenty-Five Months Old

Dearest Daughters,

I think it’s safe to say that Danjo has mastered the English language. And not just words—nouns and animal noises. You speak in full sentences, just as I had predicted you would. Nay, you communicate in full sentences.

That is to say, when you’re surly or feel somehow slighted by something I or Bel said, you make certain that we dare not look or utter a word in your direction: “don’t talka to me!” Then the “thousand yard stare” Lolopop calls it; "she’s dejected" I like to say.

You quickly come around.

“I nee that! I neeeeee that,” you’ll cry out when Bel has the yellow marker that will clearly enable you to finish your scribbled masterpiece.

“I don wan tha, Mommy,” you’ll declare as you push the carrots off of your plate.

“I wan a-go with you!” you’ll demand slash implore as I put my shoes on to leave. “I wan a go a run too!?” you’ll plead.

“I have a go home,” you explained to Lolopop the other day, as we left Fried Rice Night to come home and take a bath. This was after you told Lola, “I wan a shoda” (soda) or “em an ems” (M&Ms) or a “matchmako” (marshmallow, duh.)

You’ve always known how to communicate your needs, wants, desires, with what little gestures and capacity you had. And words have made things worse, I mean, better! Right?

Then there’s Bel, who has so many words, hundreds of words. You say new words every day. You have entire books memorized.

And, yet, it’s always so difficult for you to express what you’re feeling.

Or even what you’re thinking. Sometimes I grow so impatient waiting for you to finish sentences. And I know it’s not because you don’t have the words or the intellect; it’s because your mind, like mine, is moving at a million miles per hour, figuring and calculating, measuring and judging and sometimes you just don’t know what word should come next.

You’ve grown more physical about expressing your feelings. And that’s just a euphemism for hitting, flailing, scratching, throwing markers, crumpling paper, etc.

And, oh dear me, does it take all my strength and sanity and grown-up-ness to not throw that wad of paper back at you.

We continue with emotional coaching... “I know you’re mad. I know you’re SO mad at me right now. But, it is not okay to throw things,” and I want to say, “GO TO YOUR ROOM FOR A MILLION BILLION YEARS!” but you’re usually already hysterically clambering into your closet to cry and hide and beat me to the punch by punishing me for a million years, first!

Note to Bel: I don’t feel punished by your absence when you’re acting like a—possibly rabid—certainly very angry caged ape of some sort—a poop slinging gorilla or those annoying howler monkeys or those tiny squirrel ones that out of nowhere jump onto the cage right in front of your face and start shaking the enclosure bars like there's no tomorrow.

In terms of this, your monthly letter, I suppose it’s also important to add that you’re becoming quite the manang, or older sister.

When it strikes your fancy, when no one is looking, when it’s most likely that you’ll get your bossy way—you are very kind to your sister. You try to teach Danjo things, like how to draw a rainbow. Or explain things, like why Daddy’s leaving (“because he has to go to work, Yelly; that’s where he does his job”) or the difference between a garbage truck and a street sweeper. You persist in your educational efforts despite the fact that by the time your explanation is done, Danjo has left the room, climbed up to the art/kitchen table and scribbled through a few thousand pieces of paper--which is something she does with about 87% of her waking hours.

Bel, you are also creative. And, of course, I encourage open-ended art and play. So, most of your little backpacks and bags are packed to go on exotic vacations and pirate adventures. You’ve mastered the use of the tape dispenser, so there are a half-dozen pop-up art galleries in our house—behind the door, next to the television, under the piano for your “baby cousin so when she comes she can see it.”

Danjo, you're also a very considerate child. Any time someone coughs or sneezes, you sweetly ask, “you okay, [insert name here]?”

We visited an elder member of our church recently who is confined to a wheel chair. You were okay with Grandma Anna until she started rolling around in her chair. You climbed into my lap, observing and slightly taken aback by the rolling person/contraption. And when she put her oxygen tubes in her nose, I thought you’d certainly run for the hills. But, you didn’t. You just stood there, at a distance, yes. But, then you finally asked, “you okay, Gramma Anna?”

You are a loving creature. Unfortunately, much of your loving gestures come after displays of, hmmm, shall we say very un-loving behavior?

You still hit, mostly your sister. You pull hair, mostly your sister’s. You grab toys, mostly your sister's. Anything to set her off, terrorizing her, often bullying her as she whimpers and is still figuring out how to not be bullied, terrorized, to not let you get a rise out of her.

And it’s my job, when I’m paying attention, to let you know what parts of your behavior are unacceptable and to teach you remorse and how to seek forgiveness—basically to prevent you from turning into a sociopath.

I never have to ask you twice to apologize. But, I think you’re a sociopath anyway. You are willing and eager to give your sister hugs and to say sorry. Like you didn’t just, um hello? PUNCH YOUR SISTER IN THE FACE. What. The. Heck?

You do tend to run pretty hot and cold and hot and cold, within moments, but STILL who does that? Wrongs someone one moment and in the next gives them a hug? Sociopaths, I tell you.

Perhaps, you see the hug-kiss-and-sorry as your hall pass, your free ticket. You know that you can basically do whatever you want to your sister and it’ll be totally fine as long as you pucker up.

Truly, you are a loving child. And funny. I don’t know how to explain it. You just give funny looks. And smile and laugh and it’s contagious. Most of the time I don’t know what I’m laughing at or why, I just know that you make the people around you feel wonderful.

Lolopop gave you your first haircut. And you tell everyone about it, pointing to your head, “Hay-cut! Hay-cut!” Thank God, the baby mullet is gone, but it makes you look like a kid. And it accentuates those mischievous looks. And makes me sad that you’re growing up so quickly, repeating phrases left and right, growing like a weed (of smaller-statured-Malay-descent, but a weed nonetheless)!

And so is Bel. Sometimes your daddy confuses your clothes and squeezes Bel into Danjo’s clothes. And I start to cry because your clothes don’t fit you and you must have grown six inches over night. But, then I check your tags that read 2T and decide I don’t need shot of vodka after all.

Bel, you’ve always been very independent. I recall a phase where I wriggled in my patience pants, waiting everyday for you to put on your own clothes, your own shoes.

Now, you test my patience, because you’ve regressed to “needing” my help to get dressed, to put your shoes on, to brush your teeth. Okay, I should probably be helping you brush your teeth. But, the other stuff. There’s all these things that I know you can do, but you play helpless.

And you’re only three (despite all your concocting of “my next birthday” plans) and you're still my baby. So, I play along.

Meanwhile, Danjo has begun to obediently put her own shoes on when I say we’re leaving soon.

Danjo, you have also begun to assert opinions about your shoes, your clothes, what you consider to be fashionable. You love wearing your “mina” which is what you call your “ballerina” dresses—which are less like ballet apparel and more like anything with a good spin to it.

Now, I don’t generally go around correcting my children’s language and grammar. I know a parent’s corrections have little effect on a child’s acquisition of a language—they learn more from listening to me talk in context, to them or to other adults.

But, in spite of my subtle suggestions, e.g. “You ballerina dress looks lovely!” you still call it your mina. And trains are evermore "choo choos," except for "Thomas a Train" because clearly to be a real train you have to be anthropomorphized, boring and pretentious.  And you call the doorbell a “ding dong.” And at dinner you ask for “bubble guppies” which is really a television show, but which we all understand to be your word for “bubble water” or San Pellegrino.

I guess you both share that in common. Your insistence. Your willfulness. Whether it is Danjo’s passionate conviction that toothbrushes are called “eeeees.” Or whether it is Bel’s always observant, sometimes logical, ever profoundly-held assertions about her own reality, like that when you were two you never cried or that “Mommy, you’ve never been camping,” when, dude, I TOTALLY have, but there's no point in arguing. You both are so self-assured, already so certain that you are living your own lives on your own terms.

And I guess I’ll just sit over here, in the corner, watching, supplying the scotch tape and bubble guppies.

Love you no matter what,

This Delicious Life

Dearest Daughters,

I had a panic attack about a week ago, two Saturdays ago. It was mild. And utterly embarrassing.

Because I'm supposed to be better, to be getting better. And most of the time I am. But when I'm not, I'm really really really not.

Good friends asked us out to a movie and I thought I could handle it. I dared to think that my life was back to normal, was a life wherein I could play all day and party at night, a life wherein I could throw caution to the wind and say "yes" every single time, never striking out.

Between my psychiatrist, my therapist and me, we could provide you with a myriad of reasons and theories this panic attack struck. This one. And all the others.

But, the thing that I know best now about anxiety and panic attacks is: there is an end.

There is another side. The world won't end. I'll be able to breath freely again soon. My sweaty palms will dry. My racing heart will slow.

I just have to push through to the other side. To ride the proverbial wave. To squeeze your Daddy's hand under the table as hard as the day you were born. To keep breathing. To mindfully control my thoughts, not letting them drift and spiral into darkness, holding myself in the present.

Until it all passes.

The waves and pangs of anxiety, breaking against the shore, crashing, finally diffusing into the sand.

Another day dawns. And another. And another.

Letting go of the past, I moved forward into the week, noting all the delicious things that fill the space of my life, the space where all is calm, all is well, all is right with the world.

“Let everything happen to you
Beauty and terror
Just keep going
No feeling is final”
― Rainer Maria Rilke

The giggles and the screams of cousins playing.

The aforementioned apple pie.

The stifling inland heat that pushed us to the shore, salty and cool. The ocean, vast, boundless--as Lola remarked--our view and vision suddenly flooded by the sparkling water of the Pacific, as we turned onto Highway 1. The way my heart sung at its sight, feeling the sacredness, the holiness, the weight of the ocean, it's cleansing and powerful nature.

“I finally figured out the only reason to be alive is to enjoy it.” ― Rita Mae Brown

The love between a grandmother and her grandchild, also boundless, playful and stern. I think, a perfect love, unadulturated by the parental scars of expectations and put-your-shoes-on-now and time outs.

A baby, still a baby, sick and helpless, crawling into bed at night, which defies all the rules, but her body, sinking down into my arms with the weight of sleep feeling so right.

Extra days spent with my sick baby, cuddling on the couch, playing on the floor, listening to her enjoy her free older-sister-less range of the house.

“What day is it?"
"It's today," squeaked Piglet.
My favorite day," said Pooh.”
― A.A. Milne

Creation, creativity, a space to experiment and grow. The kitchen table, overrun by scratch paper and crayons, where everyday I find a new treasure
to behold, proof that they were here, where I now stand, looking down, hours or moments ago.

“Forever is composed of nows.” ― Emily Dickinson

The strong personalities that surround me. Danjo, who insists on wearing either nothing or a full ballerina skirt--or "mina" as she calls it. The adventures Bel leads her little sister on, throughout our house, in closets and corners and the couch cushions, the reason and knowledge she tries to bestow upon her little sister, explaining as she goes. Danjo, ignoring, but always a shadow.

“Happiness, not in another place but this place...not for another hour, but this hour.” ― Walt Whitman

How an idea can spark and catch. And a painted toe becomes a painted leg becomes a reason to take your shirt off.


And those baby bellies. The embarrassment with which you will look back upon these pictures. But, the beauty I see. In your play. In your personalities, reckless and meticulous. In your spirits.

Pizza night and a fortunately misspoken request. Full tummies, we are thankful for, always.

“Be present in all things and thankful for all things.” ― Maya Angelou

Your daddy, who sometimes gets home early and saves the day. Whose lap is big enough for two daughters, waiting for dinner to be ready.

The autumn sun, pouring into and warming our home, as the days and nights cool.

A certain puppy dog, always near, patient, concerned when his babies cry, and a little bit jealous, wishing he could crawl into my lap too.

The cookies. That is all. (Recipe here.)

And joy and freedom. Getting dirty. And wet, when Mommy relents, finally letting you play with the hose.

“You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment. Fools stand on their island of opportunities and look toward another land. There is no other land; there is no other life but this.” ― Henry David Thoreau

And stillness.

Refreshing quiet and calm. Awestruck, taken-aback, re-focusing moments. Peace. And love.

And a week has passed. Like that. Quick and easy. Too fast, sometimes too real.

Literally and figuratively delicious.

Love,

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,

Bel's Digital Portfolio

Dearest Daughters,

They (whomever they are)(probably self-proclaimed parenting experts without kids of their own)(or child development academics)(or artists with special ideas about children and art)(anyway), they say to avoid praising artistic results, especially in young children.

I'm supposed to emphasize the process of art. And praise your efforts. Not your results. (Certainly a theme in this household.)

And I've done so. No one can accuse me of denying you artistic experiences, of not letting you play with mushy toilet paper or goop or play dough, with pudding, with dirt and water, or mud, with rain and food coloring, with paste and mixed media, or cardboard boxes. (Hey People, if you've been reading awhile, click on some of those links for a walk down memory lane! There are photos, and a couple of videos in there too. My how they've grown!)

I've done all the right things, including not pouring over and hanging up every little scribble you've created.

But, I'm a parent, dang it. And I'm a little bit artsy-crafty, meeee-self. So, sometimes I'm just proud of you. Or amazed by you.

Despite all my attempts to encourage process, to keep art open-ended, to not lead your towards any idea of what your creations "should" look like, you keep producing these darn tangible results. One: because you're awesome. Two: because you're you. And you is a lot like me.

So, even though I've never put a piece of paper and crayons down in front of you and told you to draw a robot or yourself or a chicken. Even though I've never drawn a robot for you. Or instructed you how to use lines and shapes to make a robot.

YOU PAINTED A ROBOT! WHEN YOU WERE TWO. AND A CHICKEN! AND YOURSELF! AND YOU ROCK! (AND I CAN ONLY SAY THAT HERE. OR ELSE THE ART-PRAISE-PROCESS-CHILD-DEVELOPMENT-PARENT EXPERTS WILL GET ME!!!!)

So, I present to you... not plastered on my physical walls, but here, on this virtual wall of sorts...

Babybel's Digital Gallery, The Early Years

Print awareness, 2 years, 3 months.

Berry Tree, 2 years, 9 months

Robot, age 2 years, 9 months

Goth phase, 2 years, 9 months

Self portrait in oil pastel , 3 years

Spider in oil pastel, 3 years

Bread and eggs, 3 years, 1 month

Chicken wearing a bonnet, 3 years, 2 months

Self portrait, 3 years, 3 months

Easter eggs, 3 years, 3 months

Self portrait, 3 years, 7 months

Chalk on sidewalk, 3 years, 7 months

Self portrait, 3 years, 7 months

Surfboard and sun, 3 years, 7 months

Danielle on a rocketship, 3 years, 7 months

Love you no matter what, even if your robot is wonky, even if it's perfect, even if you send your sister to the moon on a rocketship,

----------

Don't miss out on Bel's additions to her digital portfolio! Make sure Make sure to like Dearest Daughters on Facebook.

(BTW, when you visit our page, hover over the "Like" button and make sure that "Show in Feed" is checked. That is, if you want our cute faces to show up in your feed!)

Out and About: Lake Chabot

Dearest Daughters,

Well, here we are. Here I am. And every thing's fine.

There was a short-period when I seriously, intensely, viscerally, for reals believed with every fiber of my being that I would never ever ever ever in a million years be able to go out in public without having a panic attack, let alone out in public with both of you and no other adult supervision.

And, looky here:

 

Starting our hike at Lake Chabot Regional Park.

Snack break. About two minutes in to the hike.

"Mommy, take a picture of me with this big rock!"

Dear God, please don't let DJ fall into the lake while I take this picture? Amen.

Roots. [Insert symbolism and/or analogies here.]

Errrybody say: hiking!

Lake Chabot, boat, island. Communing with nature, expressing thanks for all that we saw and felt; doctor's orders!

Someone's little legs got tired, so I became a double-sided mommy pack mule.

The top of the "mountain." Time to turn around.

And a stop at the snack shack for Cheetos (Bel's choice). A balanced life, right? Nah. They're just a yummy treat. (To my credit, I have never before this moment purchased Cheetos for you girls.)

Racing back to the car after a lovely hike!

In the midst of my anxiety and depression, many of our readers, friends and family, assured me that healing and a return to normalcy (whatever that is!) would come sooner than I could fathom. And they were right! (Lots of love to all you smarty pants!)

 

And thank goodness.

Love,

You Can Taste the Summer

Dearest Daughters,

I never really much cared for summer.

As a child, it was still light at bedtime. And too hot to fall asleep.

Both Lolopop and Lola worked full time. My days were spent watching TV and fighting with Unkinan either at your Great Grandma Crazy's house, or when we were older, at home either alone or under the lovingly lax supervision of our older sister, your Auntie Mommy.

Sure, we took the family vacation or camping trip here and there. And when I was older I looked forward to Flirting for Jesus, also known as youth group mission trips and denominational youth conferences.

But, generally speaking, I can't say I have any profoundly fond memories of childhood.

I was a baby zombie who grew up to be a mommy zombie. Without the brain-eating, of course.

I have nostalgic stories I could tell, but I've always held this desire to be somewhere else; to be a grown-up; to just get through this burning hot day to the next. Not because I hated my life. I was just determined to get through it, even as a child, racing to the finish line, waiting for my deliverance, for the day I could do the next thing, to be a grown-up or whatever my illusion of the future was.

I am (was?) a perfectionist, so nothing satisfied.

Now, I realize the inescapable trap I put myself in, fearing I'd be unhappy if I did not achieve perfection, if I failed, yet because of this never experiencing happiness, feeling it ever out of my [self-created, artificial] reach.

Wait. What does this have to do with summer?

I forget.

I suppose it's all to say that this may be the very first summer I've ever truly enjoyed.

That I've ever truly experienced: feeling marine breezes cool my sun-kissed skin; watching lizards scurry while we wiggle our toes in the hot sand; stuffing our bellies with watermelon, un-bothered by the sticky-sweet juices making trails down faces and arms; splashing and spraying; scurrying and screaming as ants, flooded by our wild hose from their underground homes, climb our legs; fixing boo-boos with popsicles; the churning, whirring of homemade ice cream; the smell of sunshine in your hair, your sweaty heads snuggling closer during afternoon couch-naps; washing sand from your hair and from between your toes; outdoor dinners and after-dinner walks; family celebrations and backyard parties that make you forget the time, playing with cousins and talking story with aunties, the sun crossing the sky and setting, up past our bedtimes.

The way summer should be.

Painting (on a resusable "canvas") en plein aire and gardening.
Sunshine in her hair, backyard on her face.

Family bike ride.

Watermelon, get in my tummy!

Searching out the perfect shady playground. Yes, that's DJ climbing out of her sister's reach.
Don't let the sandman getcha, Danjo!

Borrowing air-conditioning at the lie-bare-eeeee and mall.

Party time!

Outdoor fine dining.
 
Popsicles and homemade ice cream.

After-dinner walks.

Love you no matter what,

 

----------

You're in big trouble. If you haven't liked Dearest Daughters on Facebook yet, go do it now. Or no ice cream for you.

BTW, when you visit our page, hover over the "Like" button and make sure that "Show in Feed" is checked. That is, if you want our cute faces to show up in your feed!

To Babybel on the Occasion of Being Forty-Two Months (Three and a Half Years) Old

Dearest Babybel,

It’s been quite some time since I last wrote to you. And much has come to pass in our lives.

I want to thank you for weathering the storm so well. Even though no one asked you to; even though it’s not your job to be so stoic—to be so unmoved by clearly moving events; it’s your job to be a three year old; to play and to have melt downs and to need your mommy from time to time.

Even though you have a village of people that support you, I know my troubles were not imperceptible to you or to your sister. I apologize if during the past few months—if even for a second—I wasn’t there when you needed me.

But, I think as the years wear on, you’ll come to agree that I’m healthier person today than I was three months ago, and for that, I’m a better mommy. The skills that I’ve been learning and practicing in caring for myself, help me to care for you more mindfully. And I hope that I can give you the tools and coping mechanisms that I didn’t have access to as a child, a teenager and, even, an adult.

Trying not to put you in a box, I’ll say that you tend to take after me on the personality front. Whether that’s DNA or your birth order or how I nurture you is always a mystery. But, I will say, your sister is unlike me in all the ways that you are like me.

Whereas she represses nothing; she feels and expresses her emotion in the moment, moving on to the next equally passionate emotion, you and I tend to struggle with feelings.

I had an epiphany while watching you melt down, your father adding “it’s like she’s having a mini-panic attack,” which at the time felt like a dig, like he was blaming me for your inability to cope. But, stepping back from the moment, I realized it’s not YOU who were imitating ME; rather, it’s ME who still feels like a three year old YOU. Emotionally, I never really grew up.

When I’ve had panic attacks, I’ve been that three year old—feeling emotions that are too big to name or explain, feeling overwhelmed and fighting with myself to calm down, to be strong, to repress these big unnamable emotions. And in the process of fighting so hard against myself, against the tears, the anxiety, the worry, the frustration, the years of long-held emotions, I ended up curled in a heap on the floor, having the ultimate melt down.

So, recently, in addition to encouraging you to just breath (which is often times so much of the equation) when you are blindsided by feelings you don’t yet know how to deal with, I’ve also been encouraging you to name your emotions, through hiccupping, sobbing hysterical breaths.

It may sound like common sense or maybe it sounds like some crunchy parenting crap you’ve read, but as parents, it is far too easy to dismiss your child’s hysteria as being a “baby.” I want you to stop crying as much as you do, as much as the other people in line at the store do, but I also want you to learn positive, constructive ways of dealing with your emotions.

Telling you to “stop,” “to be quiet,” or even meaning well and telling you to “calm down” can be damaging—from where I sit, on the other side of childhood, at least. And I know when I’m having a panic attack, there’s nothing worse than being told or trying to tell oneself to “stop”; that often makes it worse. Because you want so badly for it to stop and it won’t, because you don’t know how.

I’d rather spend the next year crying with you, teaching you to name and accept your big feelings and move on from them, than for you to feel even an inkling of the insanity, depression and darkness that I felt.

Now, I know I can’t protect you from everything. And it’s your life to live. But, I don’t think it will hurt you (or me) to learn to be present with our feelings a little more. Take a little cue from Danjo.

Meanwhile, your sister is another species altogether! And we’ll have to teach her to rein it in a little.

I’m sorry if that all was a bit boring and tedious, but it’s important. Now, onto the fun stuff!

At three and a half years old, you’re thirty-three pounds and thirty-eight inches tall. This is most important because now you can safely ride in a big girl booster seat in the car. And it has not one, but TWO cup holders, so that’s pretty awesome for you.

You’ve shot up like a weed and have become quite the little grown up.

“I know,” is your response to nearly everything, whether you do or not. And I remember saying that as a child too, whether a compulsion or just an adopted turn of phrase, I know not. Luckily, I grew out of it (sort of—I’m still a bit of a know it all) and I hope you will too, because it is annoying. It makes me want to tear my hair out and scream: “YOU DID NOT KNOW BEDTIME IS IN TEN MINUTES! YOU CAN’T TELL TIME! HOW CAN YOU POSSIBLY KNOW?! AND ANYWAY, YOU DON’T KNOW, BECAUSE I JUST CHANGED BEDTIME AND NOW IT’S IN FIVE MINUTES!”

To which, I’m sure you’d respond, “I know.”

With three and half years of wisdom also come three and a half years of self-sufficiency. You can take care of yourself in many regards. You get dressed and use the bathroom and brush your teeth all by yourself. I encourage you to take care of yourself and your sister and, in fact, us, your parents. I aim not to helicopter-parent, so if there is something that you can do, I trust you to do it.

Indeed, it may take a little longer or be a little messier, but you are able to and feel the pride of being able to get yourself a glass of water from the fridge water dispenser AND add ice from the freezer; of being able to get yourself a snack from the cupboard; of helping your sister by getting her a fork or water or her lovey. You help with the laundry and I can send you to other rooms to retrieve things for me: a pack of wipes or my glasses or my iPhone. (NOTE: This is not the only reason to have children, but it’s a good one.)

Just this morning, I was doing a short aerobics video while you two were eating your breakfast of yogurt and butter toast at the table.

“DANIELLE IS COVERED IN YOGURT!” you yelled at me, imploring me to do something before you little sister wreaked further havoc.

“Then, get a napkin or towel and help her wipe her face,” I said, jumping-jacks-ing away.

You yelled to me that you couldn’t find a napkin. And I told you to look harder.

“Oh wait! I found a napkin!” you yelled and I could hear the kerfuffle of your sister trying to squirm and run away from your face-wiping attempts.

“Mommy, you need to take her shirt off, it’s all yogurt-y,” you demanded. For this task, I did break push-up form, knowing your sister wouldn’t cooperate long enough for you to get her shirt off. I peeled it off of her in one quick motion and asked you to pick out clothes for her, take off her wet diaper and see if she’d let you help her get dressed.

I caught glimpses of you through your bedroom door as I continued my workout. I heard snippets of your attempts to get your sister to cooperate, namely “you’re a mermaid, Danielle!” coupled with giggling, which I imagine was a happy misfortune of stuffing two feet down one pant leg.

But, ten minutes later, when my video was over, I found your sister jumping on her bed with a clean diaper and pants on. Topless, but what else is new with that girl?

And no one lost an eye!

Yes, my expectations of you are high, but you rise to them. And for every moment that you spend exploring your independence, there is an equally laden moment spent in my lap or spent helping you put your shoes on.

Your hair is beautiful. And looks different every day.

 

You can have a conversation about almost anything, given that you’re so well read ;)

The other day, your grandparents were recounting a story from your Fourth of July vacation with them. The story was about Danielle and how, at first, she yelled “NO!” at Granpa when he opened up the door on her side of the car to take her out, and that even though she warmed to him over the week, they maintained their yes-no ritual each time he opened her door: “It was our little inside joke,” Grandpa noted.

Pleased as punch over the cuteness that is Danielle, the story was told again a bit later, and having sat through the story twice, you were perhaps feeling a little left out. “It was their little inside joke!” we all cooed, chuckling at That Danielle!

And with a swift one-two punch, without missing a beat, you declared: “I have an outside joke!” 

You’re physical confidence is growing as you (I think inspired by your sister) experiment with your own sofa-acrobatics.

You are creative. You found a bunch of rubber bands on the floor from when we put your new beds together. And discovering that the rubber bands made a plucking sound when taut, you strung them between the knobs of your dresser: “Listen, Mommy, I made a guitar!”

I love to listen to you play—by yourself or with your sister. You sing and talk on-and-on. And I hesitate to move. I don’t take a closer look or even try to sneakily record your voice from down the hall. I’m frozen as I listen, trying to decipher your play. It’s like a magic spell that I dare not break. It’s almost sacred, like if I recorded a video, it would steal your soul.

During these moments, you are too precious for words or for a photo to capture.

So, I soak up these moments. For me. For my own memory. Not for instant playback or YouTube. But, for myself, like a little box, I’m filling up with memory bon bons, so I can savor them later, next month or next year or when you’re my age. I’ll let the sound of your sing-songy voice and your laughter melt on my tongue. And the sight of your disheveled costumery and make-shift tents slide down my throat. And the feeling of your joy and enthusiasm fill my stomach, dissolving and spreading through me.

[Someone’s been listening to too much guided imagery.]

I love you no matter what!

 

----------

To keep tabs on Babybel and Danjo's growth and antics between monthly letters, make sure to like Dearest Daughters on Facebook.

Also, when you visit our page, hover over the "Like" button and make sure that "Show in Feed" is checked. That is, if you want us to show up in your feed!

Peep Our Week and Share Our Joy

Dearest Daughters,

I'm super exhausted and have a lot of first world problems to whine about, but don't we all?

Great! Now that we've accepted that we sometimes get worried, angry, anxious, etc., we can move on to focusing on the positive instead of holding on to our stress and having totally evolutionarily-maladaptive-oh-shit-I'm-being-chased-by-imaginary-lions panic attacks! (So the self-affirmations go. Or something like that.)

And there is a lot of positive on which to refocus my energies. A lot of joy that I used to let pass by, as I clung to God-knows-what instead. There's so much. Like a truck load. Like a caravan of big rigs on I-5 load.

It would be greedy to keep it all to ourselves. It's our obligation to share our joy with the world, is it not?!

Says who?

Well, Charlotte Bronte, for starters:

“Happiness quite unshared can scarcely be called happiness; it has no taste.”
― Charlotte Brontë

And the ever prolific, Snoop D-O-double-G:

“It ain't no fun if the homies can't have none. ”
― Snoop Dogg

[A bounty of fresh produce.]

“A thing of beauty is a joy forever.”
― John Keats

[Family fitness.]

“There is not one blade of grass, there is no color in this world that is not intended to make us rejoice.”
― John Calvin

[Keeping ourselves entertained at a strip mall and at home (Bel's photography!)]

“There are random moments - tossing a salad, coming up the driveway to the house, ironing the seams flat on a quilt square, standing at the kitchen window and looking out at the delphiniums, hearing a burst of laughter from one of my children's rooms - when I feel a wavelike rush of joy. This is my true religion: arbitrary moments of of nearly painful happiness for a life I feel privileged to lead.”
― Elizabeth Berg, The Art of Mending

[Play dough.]

Beauty is whatever gives joy.”
― Edna St. Vincent Millay

[That lovable, loyal Lapu dog!]

“An infinite question is often destroyed by finite answers. To define everything is to annihilate much that gives us laughter and joy.”
― Madeleine L'Engle

 
[Curly Whirly Twisty Twirly and Honey Badger.]

“Walk as if you are kissing the Earth with your feet.”
― Thich Nhat Hanh, Peace Is Every Step: The Path of Mindfulness in Everyday Life


[Sticker party, Everywhere and Meticulous Editions.]

“peace is joy at rest, and joy is peace on its feet”
― Anne Lamott, Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith


[Partnership, commitment and love. And a little something bubbly.]

“The present moment is filled with joy and happiness. If you are attentive, you will see it. (21)”
― Thich Nhat Hanh, Peace Is Every Step: The Path of Mindfulness in Everyday Life

 

[Gettin' our backyard business DONE!]

“There  is joy in self-forgetfulness. So I try to make the light in others' eyes my sun, the music in others' ears my symphony, the smile on others' lips my happiness.”

― Helen Keller


Snuggly Blankety iPad Movie Theatre and Sunggly Baby, Period.

Ecclesiastes 9:7-10 (NIV) - ⁷ Go, eat your food with gladness, and drink your wine with a joyful heart, for God has already approved what you do. ⁸ Always be clothed in white, and always anoint your head with oil. ⁹ Enjoy life with your wife, whom you love, all the days of this meaningless life that God has given you under the sun—all your meaningless days. For this is your lot in life and in your toilsome labor under the sun. ¹⁰ Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might, for in the realm of the dead, where you are going, there is neither working nor planning nor knowledge nor wisdom.

Headed joyfully onward!

Love you no matter what!

P.S. Where is your joy? And when you find it, heed Snoop Dogg's advice: share it with the homies!

 

 

----------

To catch more sneaky peakys of our daily attempts to harness joy (and use it as an alternate power source for our television), make sure to be our homie by liking Dearest Daughters on Facebook.

Also, when you visit our page, hover over the "Like" button and make sure that "Show in Feed" is checked. That is, if you want us to show up in your feed!

Stop and smell the process

Dearest Daughters,

I've been teaching myself how to spend time by myself. With myself. A skill I hope you are developing. Because I ain't so great at it.

Being by myself is a hard feat for someone like me, so accustomed to 28 driven years of doing, achieving and over-doing, over-achieving. It's like telling the Earth to stop spinning, telling TV producers to stop making shows about pregnant teenagers from New Jersey, telling toddlers to stop picking their noses, telling Bel she's not actually speaking Spanish, telling Danjo she can't climb that coconut tree. You catch my drift? Seemingly pointless.

At first, when my anxiety was so pervasive, spending so much time alone felt like a great gift. (Of which I felt unworthy, if my brain wasn't making things complicated enough, it had to throw in a dose of self-doubt and a dash of self-depricamentalation-ating. That's not a word, but it feels like one.)

But, as my mood has leveled out, my desire to watch yet another episode of Real Housewives waned, and my household-related routines have fallen into place, I started to find myself, well, bored stiff. Home alone for stretches of HOURS!

It's almost offensive to our capitalist, Puritan, motherhood ethics. What the hell am I supposed to do with HOURS? Especially if I'm not supposed to be doing anything!?

With a bipolar diagnosis (or maybe in any state), this is tricky territory. There is a fine line between doing and doing too much. Between need to's and should do's and want to's. Between meaningfully occupying oneself and needlessly busying oneself. And over-thinking it the whole damn day.

Of course, I'm trying to keep my eye on that line, so I don't cross it into mania or into simply avoiding, hiding from my hot-mess-self. When I sit down, after my morning routine, after guests have left, after you girls are asleep, I struggle to be still and with myself, fighting the urge to get up again, to finish or to start a project, to call a friend, to plug brainlessly into the multimedia world.

So, in addition to just sitting with myself in formal meditation or yoga, I urge myself to focus on process, rather than results, as I go about my day. Colloquially, to stop and smell the roses.

 

Teaching Danjo how to stop and smell the roses, she taught me how to stop and smell, even, the bushes.

 

Instead of baking bread because I have to or I should. Instead of taking a walk because I need exercise. Instead of walking circles around the house, finding things to put away, wipe down, fix or otherwise do, because I can't sit still with myself for one lousy minute.

Instead. When I can win the battle over myself, I take time to soak in the process. To find the joy and beauty, moment by moment. To tolerate my own company in hopes that I will one day enjoy it. To find me, to be me, not do me.

(Note to Drake: you are wrong, doing you don't work, since you can't even remember what you were doing. Also, why are Canadians taking over America? That's not rhetorical, please explain in the comments, Drake. I'm pretty sure you need a flow chart to navigate all that, but I'm going to let someone else take my idea and run with it ala this Get Low flow chart. You're welcome, Internet, for that brilliant idea. Now, scamper off and do your homework.)

When I start to get uncomfortable with myself (like maybe in that last paragraph?), I come back to the poem below (that I posted here when my life was unravelling). And I try to immerse myself in the process of my life (if only by re-visiting my photo stream), basking in the moments where I felt that life was unfolding before me instead of fighting against me.

(I know the poem is a repeat as are some of the photos for those who follow us on Facebook and Instagram, but put a cork in it and enjoy them again, all right? Consider it a meditative practice, at least, in tolerating redundancy and adorable children.)

"Love after Love"

The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

- Derek Walcott

 

A little bit of container gardening. With emphasis on containing (myself).

Play is process. Art is process. Play is art is play is process. Huh?

 

Polish and patience.

Baking. Fills time and tummies.

Knead. Knead. Knead. Our weekly pizza dough.

A photo of the results, but baking bread has process written all over it.

Walking at a toddler's pace, slows me down and helps me put time and space in perspective.

Push. Push. Push. To the beat of my heart and the feel of my breath.

Knit. Knit. Knit. Repeat. Probably until December.

Taking in and taking note of the neighborhood flora, otherwise passed over on speedy walks or drowned out in the suburban tract home monotony.

Love,

Question for the People: Are there any activities you do that focus on process? Do tell!

 

 

----------

To curb my mania and Internet addiction, I only write once a week (if that) on this here blog. So, if you like seeing photos of baked goods, cute kids and the ways I keep myself un-busy during the week, make sure to like Dearest Daughters on Facebook.