dearest daughters & son

To Babybel On The Occasion of Being Fourteen Years Old

To Babybel On The Occasion of Being Fourteen Years Old,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love you no matter what,

Mommy

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,

--------

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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Have I Told You Tuesday: I'm as awkward as it is to spell. Huh?

Dearest Daughters,

I'm socially awkward. Or, at least, I like to think so.

I, unlike your father, lack what we would euphemistically call "interpersonal intelligence." That is to say, I routinely stick my foot in my mouth, never think of or, conversely, over-think the appropriate thing to say, and make jokes that no one gets.

I don't mean to sound so self-deprimenticalating. That's a word I coined in college, because I gave up trying to pronounce the real word. Your dad assures me that my personality is charming, but I think that may also be a euphemism in sheep's clothing.

If you don't believe me, let me take you back to tenth grade.

I was The New Girl and, as such, I was a very novel idea. I wasn't sure where I fit in at my new school of over 1400 students. I started out where almost every new kid does, hanging out with the cool kids in the Quad. I was genuinely welcomed by the cheerleader, jock, student body council types, but, being quiet I didn't earn my keep and the outgoing kids moved on to other things.

I made my way to another area of the campus where the somewhat cool Asian, mostly Filipino, kids hung out. And this is where I met my first boyfriend. There's really no story there, other than that my parents were terrified by (but allowed me to make) this horrible choice, motivated by a) fitting in and b) all too eagerly accepting the first display of attention I had ever received from a boy.

When I realized what a doofus I was for deciding to "go out with" (i.e. eating lunch with and being ditched at one school dance by) a generally nice, but altogether undeserving tenth grade boy, I decided we needed to break up.

A Double Date, Three Date Night

Dearest Daughters,

Last night, Gramma and Granpa watched you and two of your cousins while your dad, aunt, uncle and I went out on a double date.

While we were out, we took advantage and went THREE different places.

1. A sushi place for dinner and sake bomb (yes, just one)

2. Thunder Valley Casino for drink (again, just one) and gambling

3. Chic-Fil-A for dinner number two. This was probably the most awesomest part of the night. And we weren't even drunk! It was delicious, clean and there was excellent customer service.

I know what you're thinking, go ahead, call us crazy. Crazy, wild, party animals.

Because we are.

I kid you not: we were out of the house before 5pm and back before 10pm.

CRAY-ZEE, I tell you.

Kind of like Lad, from one of your cousin's Bob Books for Beginning Readers

Lad, you crazy keg-sitting fool, you!

Love,

Have I Told You Tuesday: The Infamous Park Bench Edition

Dearest Daughters,

There's this story that I go back and forth about telling you. Should I? Shouldn't I?

How much do you REALLY need to know about your mother? Will telling this story embarrass me or shame my family in front of the WHOLE World Wide Web?

Then again, it's humorous and there is, indeed, a lesson to be learned. And it's really not THAT dramatic, it was just one night I made a bad choice. And you know how I am about the whole "make good choices" thing.

Also, this site, at it's core, is about vulnerability. About saying the things other people don't or won't say. About not hiding things from you. Most importantly, about being honest with myself.

If you're my parent-in-law or future employer, my apologies. Pretend you didn't read this. Or all those things I write about poop and vomit.

...

I spent the night on a park bench. In a foreign country. THERE! I said it.

It was February in Rio de Janeiro, which is in the Southern hemisphere, so it was a nice night. I wasn't cold at all! And it was in Urca, a really nice, secluded neighborhood of Rio. And it was right outside of the building that I was locked out of, so I was TOTALLY safe.

(original image source)

Nevertheless, not the smartest idea.

Open door policy. Making sex hard. And another Filipino word gone wrong.

Dearest Daughters,

I am a notoriously immodest person. I have no qualms about undressing or dressing in a room full of people. Discretely as possible, of course, if it can be called such a thing when one is engaged in public nudity.

It's just how I was raised. Not to be ashamed of or embarrassed by my body. A body part is a body part. There are private ones and no one other than yourself should touch those until you are thirty-five or forty. And you certainly shouldn't go flashing them around. But, in the privacy of our own home, we needn't be so so modest.

Growing up and in our home now, we don't shut doors, in general. There is no such thing as privacy. Not when you're two and want to play in your room with your friends alone. Not when you're thirteen and want to talk on the phone or have a computer in your room alone. And not when you're eighteen and your boyfriend is over. We don't close doors and we definitely don't slam them. Ask Lola. And your eldest cousin about that one.

So, by extension, I don't close the door when I go to the bathroom. In my own home, I mean. Not like in public or at other people's homes. It perplexes your dad. And I can't really explain it either. Maybe it's laziness. Maybe it's the fact that I have two children following me. Maybe it's normalized paranoia that was instilled in me when I was told to NEVER lock the bathroom door. Because slipping and falling in the shower behind a locked door is WAY worse than being walked in on by your own family.

I suppose there are some reasons to close doors, for example, for fire safety and sex. But, other than that, there's no real point in my mind. Sure, kids might want to touch themselves. And that's fine. I'd much prefer that than any amount of pre-marital sex going on under my roof. But, as a parent, it's my job to make sexual activity hard to impossible. Meaning, if you're going to try to make out with someone or get to third base, you're going to have to work REALLY hard to find an opportunity to do so under my roof and on my watch. Trust me, I had a boyfriend in high school. And it was too easy. You can thank Lola for this one.

Your dad points out that this may backfire into backyard romps in the bushes or in the mall fountain. But, what's the alternative: oh, Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez, I'd really prefer you not get it on in public, so why don't you come inside and do that? I DON'T THINK SO. I still hold my expectations that you will not engage in any behavior inappropriate for your age and maturity. And I will hold you to those expectations. Will you mess up? Will I make sure you have access to birth control? And will I still love you. Yes, but I will not be happy and I will continue to express my expectations, because I know you will return to them.

But, back to the open door policy.

Have I Told You Tuesday: What Becomes of the Broken Hearted

Dearest Daughters,

While I am what could be classified as an "over-sharer" this blog being Exhibit A, I can be fairly guarded. In fact, my TMI is actually a symptom of my insecurities. My basic interactions with other human beings go like this:

1) I'm in public. I don't know you. I will cross my arms and make a prison guard mean face so you will not approach me. Because if I had a friendly conversation with a stranger, especially if I initiated it, and I get rejected, I might have to get married to aforementioned stranger OR the world might explode. And I'd be responsible for millions of deaths.

2) Okay, so you breached my security bubble and show an uninhibited interest in getting to know me.

3) So, now your my BEST FRIEND EVER!

4) And, still suspect of your intentions to marry me or make the world explode, I tell you EVERYTHING there is to know about me. I just know there will be something about me that you won't like. So, I'll give you every reason to be disgusted by me, disagree with me, think I'm rude, racist or whatever. And, hey, if YOU don't get me, that's on YOU. Don't let the door hit you on the way out.

5) Hey, wait a second. You're sticking around? Really? I mean, I could talk about my poop some more?

6) And, inevitably, I talk about constipation or my kids, both pains in the butt. (Just kidding! I love my little asshole! I mean, assholes? I mean, daughters.) And, people STILL stick around.

Until they don't. And it blindsides me.

I Look Forward to Embarassing My Children

Dearest Daughters,

How embarassing.

Not for me, of course. I'm not embarassed by the fact that I was thirty pounds heavier and, apparently, didn't look in the mirror on this day over five years ago.

Likely, embarassing for my cousin. Who had to put up with me when she visited me at Wellesley that year. And who is probably turning red right now because I'm writing about her.

Except, I'm writing to say she's AWESOME! And is home from her second year of college for a few weeks. And watched you yesterday while I went to work. And will drive with us to Redding to visit Great Grandma later in the month. And has a BOYFRIEND! AND IS ALL GROWN UP! WHAT THE HECK!?! ERRONEOUS!

I'm okay now.

I'll be better after I meet this guy on Saturday. And let him know what's what in my own silent psychic ninja assassin way.

Fear not. It will be out of my system by the time you bring someone home after your second year of college. Or not.

Love,

Daily Photo

Dearest Daughters,

Can I do it? Really, do you think I can? Post a photo every day? Naw. Maybe every week day. Maybe.

We'll start with this:

This is your Unkinan and Jess. By the way, if you are not one of my two daughters and you are reading this and you are a legal adult and you get in the way of my camera lens, then you are also likely to find yourself on this blog at some point in time. BEWARE!

Isn't Unkinan the cutestestest? Except his hair. That's some sort of wackadoo.

I wrote about the Brother Eating Bush earlier this week and it got me a thinkin' about how awesome my baby brother is even though he jumps off of things. He's like awesome infinity. Because he mostly does whatever I say.

Also, he hasn't been around a lot lately. He's been out galavanting galavanting (to steal a phrase from crazy Grandma Reyes) with this lady Jess. She's cute too. I think we'll keep her around.

So, I miss him.

You too? Cry really loud. Maybe he'll hear you and come visit us soon.

Unkinaaaaaaaan! Where is him?

I hope we're never in US Weekly.

me and mike/beadle
Originally uploaded by laurenarcissus

Le shower was a grand time thanks to all the hard work of my sissy, Deanne and her husband, Ron. Many a "I can't wait 'til the wedding!" could be heard as guests departed, prying their fingers from the ribs, rice, lumpia and abundunt alcohol.

A few people asked me if I was "nervous" and honestly, I'm not. It is a little surreal as I never imagined that this is where I would be at the tender age of 23. But that situation includes not only Beadle, but also the fact that I'm a Wellesley College Alumna, a high school teacher (almost a full-fledged one), live in Los Angeles, am 25 pounds lighter than ever and actually content with my life. Gone are the days of angst and insecurity (I hope!)... we'll see about that when my hair starts to thin, wrinkles set in, I lose a job, my children tell me they hate me after I've sacrificed my waistline and strapless dresses to bring them into the world, etc.

I feel happy. I look happy. And as my mother curtly replied to one inquiry: "Why would she be nervous?! She's making the right decision!"

I'm glad to have my mother in my corner. In our corner. And the Shower showed that others are warming up to the idea of me being a grown up. (Can I just note that Bruce got married at 20, Deanne at 25 and I'm right there in the middle? Just an indignant thought.)

Now, I just hope that US Weekly never gets ahold of this photo because as those of you who read such literature might know, they'd have one of their body language "experts" rip this one to shreds. We're basically doomed by the looks of it! But one battle at a time. First, convince the family that Beadle and I are meant to be and show them that we will have a wonderful life together. Then, on to the general American public!