dearest daughters & son

Relationships Suck and Other Wisdom I Can't Keep Under 1000 Words

Dearest Daughters,

Today, being Valentine’s Day, seems as good a day as any to talk about relationships. I can’t predict what the nature of your relationships will be, what hurdles or wonders they will hold, and you’re not likely to listen to anything I have to say anyway.

Nevertheless, I’m going to talk about relationships. Marginally, about my relationship with your daddy and, mostly about holding up my half of the deal. This probably isn’t what most kids would expect when their parents want to talk to them about relationships and this ain’t no fluffy stuff, so hold onto your seats [car analogy #1, it will all become clear].

While The Mommyblog Movement (that’s what I’m calling it; may or may not be a real term; haven’t googled it) has led to frank, open discussions of parenting (a little bit about that), the same is not resoundingly true for discussions of relationships and marriage.

People who have been together a long time will vaguely tell you that there are rough patches, but no one really gets to the nitty gritty.

As a society, we idealize and idolize marriage, we present a glossy magazine image of it (have you read a Mormon mommyblog lately?—related salon.com piece from a million years ago) and we’re so shocked when we discover that someone’s marriage did not work out.

Glossy image of marriage. No, literally, glossy. Not matte.

[I don’t mean to write a diatribe on marriage or divorce. I also know I’m leaving out a whole discussion of marriage equality.]

While we make gallant efforts to maintain the facade of marital bliss, we are often poorly equipped, unable or unwilling to deal with our little blips, bumps and failures along the road and we get lost [car analogy #2, in case you’re counting]. It’s kind of like ignoring that clanking noise in your car while simultaneously refusing to ask for directions [bringing it home with car analogy #3].

For me, that clanking noise has been my inability to feel, accept and express my feelings. Achilles’ heel, much? Good thing I know how to ask for directions. And anyway, I had to work through my own stuff (as I’ve written about a thousand and a half times here) in order to even come out the other side and see how my relationships have been affected by my tendency towards emotional closed-off-ed-ness (unavailability?)

In terms of feelings, my default factory settings were dialed to sensitive and wired to repress [last and final car analogy #4, sorry for all the car analogies, but it works, right?] Anyway, a lot of emotions come up over seven years of being with someone. Heck, over seven minutes or seven decades!

In my seven-years time with your Daddy, I have struggled with: a long-distance relationship, a short engagement, marrying young, a rapid transition from a family of two to three (that’s you Bel) to four (that’s you Danjo), becoming a SAHM, loss of autonomy, increases in responsibility and in accountability, learning to compromise, sacrifice, cross-cultural understanding and communication, my identity, mental illness and, just this week, coping with a spouse who travels so much.

Through all of that, for the most part, I felt nothing or tried to feel nothing (because feeling was too hard to bear, which I’ll explain in a few paragraphs).

Below the surface of nothingness, things were stewing, and the truth is that I felt, in no particular order: insecure, immature, incapable, afraid, disdainful, vengeful, annoyed, uncertain, worthless, undesirable, betrayed, guilty, dishonest, alone, abandoned, resentful, frustrated, sad, angry, misunderstood, taken for granted, burdened, jealous, unhappy.

I just have a lot of feelings. #namethatmovie #butitstrue

I thought that feeling any of those feelings in relation to my spouse, would unleash an avalanche, a tornado, an earthquake that would level my marriage and destroy me. (Are natural disaster analogies any better? Not really.)

(Side note: it doesn’t help that I had a therapist who took any hint of misgivings or expression of unhappiness as proof that I must hate my husband and my children, want a divorce and a first class ticket to Freedom. And so that’s why I had a nervous break down. The End. She didn’t make me feel exactly safe to explore my true emotions, because I had learned not to listen to or trust my feelings and I feared that maybe she knew better than I did.)(It’s taken therapy just to recover from that therapy.)

As I got deeper into marriage, into children, into the complexities of life, to protect myself and, I thought, my marriage, I continued to repress my feelings so much so that I began to act as if I did not need my life partner, as if I could care less if he left for weeks on end, as if I didn’t even love him—sort of a “dump him, before he dumps me” mentality. The truth is: by being a robot-zombie, I hurt my spouse and our relationship. Private apologies forthcoming.

All the while, you guys, that whole list of emotions that I was trying not to feel? Guess what? They’re totally normal! They are totally part of being imperfectly human and being in imperfect human relationships. Whew, I don’t have to be a robot-zombie after all!

Here’s the thing: relationships (of all kinds) are often unpleasant, painful and miserable. And here’s another thing: it’s totally okay to feel that way!

I'm not a robot-zombie after all. I can feel! We can both be Not Fun. But, we do love each other!

And maybe we don’t talk about it to protect our delicate pride or our children’s ears or our spouse’s reputation or just plain ourselves. We compare our lives to others (he doesn’t travel as much as So And So or there are hungry children somewhere) and we make concessions (he doesn’t beat me, he works all day, I’m bipolar and a pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps Puritan).

But, there is freedom in saying: this sucks and it’s okay and it’s normal.

And then, you truly let it go—a weight is lifted when you stop working to maintain a facade for others and start living your own authentically, totally and completely normal life.

And maybe my perfectionist expectations of life were a little off? My bad, working on that!

Okay, that was all nice back story, but Dearest Daughters, I want you to listen For Reals now:

It is life-changing, relationship-changing to realize not only is it okay to acknowledge really awful feelings in your relationships, but it is also okay to let yourself feel them, to feel pain and anger and sadness, to feel alone and helpless, and to feel resentment during the NFL playoffs. #goniners

It does not make you weak, it is not a betrayal, it does not define you; it is just part of being human, of living and experiencing Not Fun things with someone else who is sometimes Not Fun.

And if you ignore your natural and emotional survival instincts and can allow yourself to be really vulnerable, puppy-when-its-born vulnerable, chick-out-of-its-nest vulnerable, fish-out-of-water vulnerable (Animal analogies? No? Still?)—if you can be (get this) humanly vulnerable with the person you say you entrust your heart to, then do it.

Be vulnerable with each other. Not just in that moment you fall in love or when you say your vows. But, the whole damn time. Talk about why he sucks, why you suck, why the kids suck, why life sucks. And if this is sounding depressing and so (so, so, so) sucky, I’ll tell you this:

When you stop spending time and energy attempting to appear strong, unaffected and flawless, guarding your heart, protecting egos, avoiding authentic interactions, going through the motions, wondering how you got here anyway—when you can open yourself up to All The Feelings, you get through the rough stuff. You get to the Joy and Delight, to Connection and Trust, to Honesty and Gratitude, to Security and Worth and Contentment. And, above all, to Love.

And suddenly, instead of feeling alone and helpless and resentful all the time because your husband is away on business, you find yourself at the end of the day, after the kids are out of the tub, taking pause to savor the smell of your daughter’s clean hair as you comb out her tangles, to absorb the energy and light of your three-year-old’s body as she squirms from her towel and knocks over a Duplo tower her sister built—and in the moment right before the screams and cries begin, you think fondly of your beloved, your partner, you miss him and wish he were here to share this slice of life, this beautiful, perfectly-imperfect moment with you.

But since he’s not here, you hope he will come home with a box of French chocolates.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Love,

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

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Hipster Party and Hipster Bingo FREEBIE

Dearest Daughters,

I have a competitive personality. For that reason alone, you're very unlikely to see your daddy and I engaged in any sport. We play the occasional Scrabble game, but that's only because my odds are good.

I'm also pretty independent. For a long time, I've seen dependence as a sign of weakness #totallynottrue. I'm currently reverse-brainwashing myself and learning how to ask for help not only when I desperately need it, but also when I begin to sense that a need will arise.

My point is: recently your daddy and I made a pretty good team. I asked for help with a "Hipster" themed baby shower I was working on. And, boy-oh-boy did your daddy deliver (no pun intended)!

It took more hours than I had, a computer with a faster processor than mine and more patience than was at my disposal... but your daddy saved the day when he made these Hipster Bingo Cards one by one, each of the 20 cards unique.

It seems such a waste of his four hours, laptop gHz (or whatever) and patience for these awesome cards to only experience one game of bingo in their whole lives, so I'm sharing them here for FREE!

Click to Download HipsterBingo_FINAL (20 bingo cards in PowerPoint)

Click to Download Hipster Bingo Master List (for calling the game in Word)

Also, a little sneaky peaky at some of the "Hipster" decor and favors:

donut "cake"

hipster picks

skinny jeans and onesies displayed in play suitcases

clip art freezer paper stencil shirts and onesies

applique tie onesies

tiger lovey wearing a knit slouchy cap and camera shirt

chucks, boom box shirt and bandanna bibs

bandanna bibs (tutorial here)

chocolate mustache pops (mold from here)

bow ties and barettes (tutorial here)

You're welcome!

Love,

 

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,

Keep it Simple, Silly

Dearest Daughters,

Your daddy and I took a much-needed trip to the Sonoma coast/West Marin this past weekend.

It was simple. Just as life should be.

I crave simplicity, but it's something I have a hard time achieving. Perhaps, because I see it as just that, an achievement, an objective to be reached. Because I'm a recovering perfectionist. Perhaps, because I'm a detail person (to a manic, super-human degree) and a worrier--genetically, psychologically. Perhaps because of a society that doles out imaginary medals for Highly Individualized, Most Stressed, and Busiest; with a special select category for Mothers.

With you two small girls, getting out of the door to go to the park, let alone to run errands, seems difficult. I stop myself before we even start, with worries, concerns (and recently anxiety) over what to wear, what to pack, who will get hungry, whose nap-time will be interrupted all packed into a ginormous diaper bag.

Even when I imagine a simple life, it's complicated. I go on and on to your daddy about our little farm with goats and chickens. And a wrap around porch looking out onto my vegetable garden. And, oh, I guess we'll just have to hire someone to tend the orchard. And I'll go to Costco once a month, but I'll have to make sure to get enough butter. And does Amazon deliver to the country?

Life is not complicated.

I make life complicated.

Ironically, I'm finding that planning actually makes life simpler. And routines coupled with discipline in keeping to those routines (go figure!) makes life simpler. And not being a perfectionist, so hard on myself about what I feed or expose my family to (i.e. packing fruit snacks and buying Cheetos and eating spaghetti once a week--instead of never buying processed foods and making elaborate, organic, healthy meals every day, and NO TELEVISION EVER #yikes).

Here are some more practical and psychological things that I'm doing to make my own life simpler:

- keeping food and water, extra clothes, diapers and wipes in the car (more than what was in our earthquake kit already) so I hardly need to pack a diaper bag anymore, as long as our car is nearby

- stop obsessively predicting the worst possible child-related disasters that could happen in public

- pizza night, spaghetti night, fried rice night (Lola cooks!); we might carbo-load, but for anyone who plans meals for their family, you'll know what a relief it is to not have to give any brain space to planning what's for dinner

- taking naps with my kids instead of planning for dinner

- not expecting, forcing myself to run errands with two children

- sticking to our routines: park/outside play, nap, lunch, inside play, a movie, dinner, bath, books, bed

- discussing plans and expectations for our weekend with beadle, including planning in I-time and us-time, otherwise it doesn't happen; we're not so good at this yet

- unplugging. setting personal limits on computer time. not keeping up with my favorite blogs, news outlets and facebook posts. sad face/happy face.

- reading more books, listening to more music

- taking lots of walks and hikes, with and without you girls, breathing in nature, not worrying about a thing, not even the fact that I reallly reallllly realllllly have to pee; there's gotta be an out-house or decent log-for-stability/brush-for-privacy combo out here somewhere!

 

Our Friday Hike (with Lola) in the Chabot Regional Park.

 

Point Reyes National Seashore

Tomales Bay

 
Coastal pastoral: my favorite combination!

Nature at my doorstep!

Okay, off to take a nap with my baby girl!

Love,

 

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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,

 

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We Add Up

Dearest Daughters,

You know me well enough to know that I'm not one of those people who posts a lot of vanity photos or one of those wives who gushes left and right about how much she loves her husband. Though, I'm certain I could learn a little something from those types.

That being said, in order to maintain my #humblebrag, mommy street cred, today is after all Daddy and my fifth wedding anniversary. The past five years have afforded us plenty of reason and occasion to celebrate him, me and us. There have been and forevermore shalt be ups and downs in our lives and partnership. And these past few months have been proof enough for me.

I am whole-heartedly thankful for your daddy.

So, on this day, indulge me for a moment and for the sake of your father (my nostalgic, sentimental beloved)(who I know will be crying by 0:18) and in celebration of our love (of which you are a product), I made this little video.

WARNING: The following is composed of nearly every photo your daddy and I have taken together (for better or worse, har har); may induce throwing-up-in-your-mouth-a-little; is heavy on self-portraits from before we had you girls taken from an arms length, thus obscuring locale and context; and light on photos of the two of us taken since your births (as children automatically re-direct one's personal and photographic lens); there is only one photo of us together from all of 2012.

[Cue: barfing.]

We Add Up from Lauren Gibbs-Beadle on Vimeo.

 

Love,

 

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

Dearest Daughters,

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

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

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

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

Then, the real adventure began!

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

WAHOO FISH TACOS! as I like to say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Love,

P.S. For curious minds:

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

Curtains and duvets - IKEA Renate Flora

Dresser - IKEA Hemnes

Floating shelves - IKEA Lack

Table and chairs - thrifted

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

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

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

 

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Dearest Beadle

Dearest Daughters,

Being that your daddy is a fully-formed human, I don't spend my days obsessed about his social, emotional and cognitive development

I don't write letters to him like I do for you. To tell him how wonderful he is. Or the funny thing he did the other day. Or what new word he learned. Or about the color of his poop. Or even to say how much I love him.

But, today, if you'll pardon me for a moment, I wanted to write him this little public declaration of my love:

Dearest Beadle,

Thank you for being with me during this difficult time. Not bearing with me. Not putting up with me. But being with me. Listening and not trying to fix me.

Thank you for holding me close, absorbing my shuddering cries with your broad shoulders. And for understanding when I don't want to be touched, to be talked to, when I need to turn the radio off and open up the windows.

Some of my existing idiosyncrasies are difficult to live with and my developing fears and particularities around anxiety don't make living with me any easier.

I will (maybe) never make fun of your arachnophobia again. I know now what it is to have illogical and irrational fears.

I thank you, especially, for working from home yesterday.

On Monday I felt like I hit very bottom. That, perhaps, home wasn't even a safe place for me anymore. I wanted to run away. To cope, to not have a panic attack, I wanted to hide underneath my covers all day. I began to question my ability to properly supervise my children and tend to their most basic PB&J needs. And waves more of anxiety washed over me. Worry that I'd have a panic attack, of course. And guilt that I'm not being the Mommy that I truly am. And basically, hating my life. Then, feeling guilty about that thought. Add to that my biggest source of anxiety: Danjo's doctor appointment, scheduled for late yesterday afternoon in far away Oakland at an unfamiliar doctor's office.

But, you stayed home. To help me watch the girls. To give me the opportunity to run and hide if I needed to. To help me take Danjo to her appointment. To just be with me.

And, I still needed to take Xanax to get to and through the doctor's appointment, but I can't express enough how calming your presence was throughout the day.

I felt a little less like curling up in the back of my closet.

And if it's not enough to thank you, here, on the Internet, before our friends, family and strangers, I would also like to point out that I show people that I love them more often than I tell them.

For example, I made some bomb-ass carnitas for dinner. And who bought those two gallons of ice cream, which we never buy? (Okay, that might have been the depression filling the grocery cart, but still!)

Also, I went to see Avengers with you. Period.

That may not seem like a big deal to someone who's never dealt with anxiety or had a panic attack. But, trust. It was a big freakin' deal. There were lines. To park. To buy tickets. And people. A lot of them. And smells. And loud people. And intensely blaring, violent, seizure-inducing previews.

And I told you I wanted to leave. I told you I'd come back and get you. And I'm certainly not going to thank you for encouraging me to stay against my will. But, because I love you, I popped another pill. I closed my eyes and breathed and fought against myself, just to see that damn superhero movie. And call it a date.

That's how much I love you.

Love,

Lauren

Sand Circle DIY

Dearest Daughters,

I've wanted a sandbox for a looong time. For you, of course.

Not because I have memories of Great Grandma Gibbs' (well Lolopop's childhood) sandbox. Or because it seems like an awesome way to simultaneously stay in my pajamas AND go to the "playground"/"beach"/"camping".

I've looked for one of those used plastic-turtley-thingy-or-others off and on for the past couple years. But, I couldn't bring myself to buy (even used) a big hunk of plastic that would surely break and end up in a landfill with my fingerprints on it. Also, they just aren't big enough for two growing girls.

I wanted something quality and durable and nice to look at. You know, made of wood or something?

I could build a sandbox, I thought.

Well, I could. With Lolopop's help...

So, then, I'd hop on-line and think, I'll just buy a nice wood one and be done with it. Except, then I'd go back to thinking, I could make that for waaaaaay cheaper. But, then I never would.

Oh and Pinterest was ever the tease.

Source: apartmenttherapy.com via Terry on Pinterest

Source: remodelista.com via Anna on Pinterest

Source: dana-made-it.com via Melissa on Pinterest

 

 

 

 

Source: younghouselove.com via Melissa on Pinterest

 

This weekend my dreams (for you) finally came to fruition. Because of three factors.

1) Having spent an entire week somewhat paralyzed by anxiety, I had a bit of I've-done-nothing-productive-cabin-fever. And, I decided it was fitting to play the part of a real crazy person, by taking on this task in one day.

2) Lolopop, who is a very handy guy and who holds the tools hostage, has had a lot of projects on his Honey-Do list and I got tired of waiting until he was ready to do a project that I could very well do My Own Self.

3) But, doing it My Own Self meant lacking those tools and his nuanced expertise. So, I hit up Pinterest and craigslist with a vengeance. And was inspired by some no-nail solutions, coupled with stumbling upon a nearby arbor company with a massive pile of free wood.

The inspiration:

Source: google.com via Lauren on Pinterest

 

Source: recycledcrafts.craftgossip.com via Lauren on Pinterest

 

Source: apartmenttherapy.com via Lauren on Pinterest

 

And thus, our sandbox, um, sandcircle, was born:

Pile o' free wood, mostly fir. Just took a car-load of smallish and shortish rounds and hoped for the best.

Big thanks to my ever-supportive husband who indulges and muscles my whims.

Honey? I turned the kids into tree rounds. Also: yay for our new big car. I feel so empowered by my ability to transport large objects!

Plotting the course. Didn't do much concrete planning before (other than killing about nine feet of our crabgrass and therefore, having a general idea of size). So, just had to make sure we had enough rounds to go a-round (har har).

Found the center of our dead lawn and made a make-shift measuring tape compass to spray paint a nine-foot diameter circle. Then, got to digging up the dead sod.

Still digging. Whew! If I had to again, I would use Lolopop's roto-tiller first. Or rent a sod cutter? By the end, we had a system down, though. Tanned and toned to boot!

Ta-da! We could have just put the rounds straight on the ground like one of the Pinterest examples. But, digging down gave us a few more inches for sand-digging later on and a way to stabilize the stumps--sinking them a few inches below the dirt on one side and, of course, the sand on the other.

Dun-zo. Daddy-o.

While beadle napped, Unkinan and I laid two perpendicular layers of Weed block and pinned them down around the edges and center with landscape staples. We wanted to make extra-sure sand or your fingers wouldn't get this stuff up so we were enthusiastic with the staples; Unkinan had to make more out of wire coat-hangers. Shoulda done that from jump and saved a few bucks.

Don't underestimate the importance of placement! I let Unkinan handle this one! He was determined to make these rounds fit together like a puzzle, which is a good idea if you want to keep the sand in and the dirt out.

Rounds set on landscape cloth, all snuggled up to each other and the inner edge of our circle. We tucked any sneaky-peeky landscape cloth down and filled over it and into the exterior crevices with dirt.

We did some pi-r-squared math to determine the area of our circle. The hardware store had a handy chart to let you know how many bags you need based on your area and the depth of sand you want. We ended up with 30 bags, that's 1500 pounds of the good stuff: pre-washed (hopefully not too much silica) play sand. "You got a big sand box," the customer pick-up worker noted. Um, yes, sir, we do.

Various sand-pouring, dumping, stabbing and waterfalling strategies.

Yay! Done in a day! Now to figure out the rest of the landscaping!

And after a day away with Lola and Lolopop, the moment we were waiting for: the big reveal!

"Mommy, thanks for the sandbox, but will you build me a bunk bed now?"

Come on over! You know where to find us.

It was a long day, but worth the time and sweat. It was good to be out and about and not freaking out. And to do something productive, spending QT with your daddy too. But, most especially, it was worth it, knowing we've created a space for your childhood memory-making.

Also, there's this: GO OUTSIDE AND PLAY IN THE SANDBOX, uh, SANDCIRCLE!

Love,

P.S. Thank you, thank you, thank you to Lola and Lolopop who watched you girls all day, to Unkinan who lent his muscle, landscape staple-making sklls and stump-arrangin artistry. And to your daddy, who did a lot of the grunt work and is above and beyond supportive of me and my endeavors.

P.P.S. Forgot to break down the materials and costs, which were insignificant, compared to most scenarios of buying AND filling a sandbox.

1. Weed Block - 3 ft x 50 ft - $16

2. Landscape staples (pack of 10) - $3 plus another 10 homemade staples (free) - could've skipped buying these altogether!

3. Twenty Douglas Fir (because that what's they had) rounds, approx. 12-18" diameter each - FREE - holler!

4. Play Sand - I mentioned our calcuations above and we probably only used 26 of the 30 bags to obtain about 5-6" depth. We'll save the trouble of returning the extra bags and keep them for when we need refills in the coming years. I've read about play sand safety controversy and using alternatives like pebbles, but we just went with this stuff. It did have a small warning about containing material known to cause cancer, i.e. silicia, which from what I know is an element of all sand situations. This stuff was pre-washed and easy. And aren't we all going to die of cancer anyway? We might as well enjoy our lives as we live them in the BEST SANDBOX EVER? - $5/bag x 30 bags = $150 - 20% OSH discount = $120.

That is all. Grand total = $139 (plus tax, of course!)

P.P.P.S For now we're covering it with a tarp-bungee cord configuration, but am considering options for a more permanant solution. Any ideas?