dearest daughters & son

To Stevie Bee on the Occasion of Being Fourteen Months Old

Dearest Stevie Bee,

I could’ve told you that you wouldn’t have a one year letter. In fact, I think I said as much in your first (month) and only letter thus far. And also in your sister’s last birthday letter which I wrote on your birthday.

Such is life, as Lola says.

It’s not that there’s nothing to write about. Or that you’re boring. It’s that there aren’t enough hours in the day. And when your sisters were your age I was more concerned about pumping out weekly (if not mania-fueled daily) blog posts than I was about sitting around watching them play, enjoying their joy, observing their curiosity and making sure they didn’t find THE MOST dangerous object in the room to do THE MOST dangerous thing with--not that they did that last one. That’s all you.

[Inset segue into developmental milestones here.]

[Not enough time for poetic segues.]

[Stepping away to pull you out of a pit of vipers--no idea how or when that materialized. BRB.]

[List of baby milestones that are only exciting the first child go-around. And whose dates I couldn’t remember if my life depended on it, but I assure you were behaviors exhibited all well within the appropriate developmental age range. I mean, I think. I couldn’t find a single pen or piece of paper in our house to write anything down. And if I had, I would’ve recycled it on accident anyway. Side note: I recently unintentionally sent a sharpie inside of a package of Christmas presents. The recipient was worried I might have been looking for it. But I told her I could hardly keep track of my children, let alone my sharpies.]

You started standing up in the middle of the room around nine-ish months. Most babies pull to stand then “cruise” around the room holding onto furniture or an adult’s hand while working on balancing. You were all squats, all the time. For some amount of time. Then after that amount of time you started taking steps. For another amount of time. Then after that amount of time you were walking. Then running and spinning. I just know I’ve been chasing after you for a few months now.

We’ve already been to urgent care when you fell face first on the corner of a wood step stool. You split the skin right near your eye and facial wounds being what they are, it looked like your eye exploded as it pooled with blood. Thankfully, it just looked dramatic and was actually just a tiny old thing, millimeters from your eye. And now we have a round stool. Which honestly--aside from the kitchen cabinets--is the extent of my baby proofing. Because I’m a parenting blasé, lazy, rebel like that. Can you be all those things at once?

Well, since you learned to defy gravity all on your own, you have no concept of holding hands. You didn’t need one to stand up. You didn’t need one to steady yourself. So why would you need one for walking? Or climbing stairs? Or crossing streets? Or parking lot sideshows? Or public transit commutes?

Luckily you are also a teeny tiny pumpkin doodle (on the scale, on the percentile charts and in my heart) so you are easily into-my-arms-swoopable. And you are only on the cusp of not liking this. It depends on what you were doing pre-swoop--playing in the dirt, playing with sticks, playing in the dirt with sticks, looking at garbage cans, touching garbage cans, picking up litter to put in garbage cans.

Okay, aside from physical development, your brain has been doing it’s thing awhile too. I’m pretty sure your first word was dog and you were maybe seven or eight months old. I don’t know! I didn’t write these things down. You were definitely crawly. Or climby, grabby. Because I was still nursing you and I would bring you into bed in the mornings, trying to cling to any minutes of sleep you’d give me. After you’d nurse for about five to ten seconds, you would muscle yourself over me and practically fling yourself on “du!” who sleeps right next to my bed.

Everything was “du!” then “dug dug!” for awhile. Then came “Dada” and shortly thereafter “Da-yell”--sister #2. You started to call most adults “Dada” and kids “Da-yell.” You didn’t say “mama” until about two weeks ago. Maybe I wanted it too badly even though I tried to play it cool. We finally noticed you were saying your oldest sister’s name, but who knows? You may have been saying it for weeks now but we were too dense to notice. Also, you call her “ba-bal” which--even though that’s what her cousin called her when she was little (more like: “ball-ball”)--is a pretty loose interpretation of her name. So, can you blame us for being a little slow on the uptake?

You are just entering the stage of being able to parrot words though you don’t do it on command. More like when I drop my phone at the grocery store and say “oh, shit!” and you say “osha” and I just tell the people around me that you’re very concerned about worker safety. JUST KIDDING, PEOPLE! I don’t say that! I say “oh, fuck!” JUST KIDDING AGAIN! It’s really more like when we’re reading “Brown Bear, Brown Bear” and you say “ba br” or “yell duk” and our minds are blown and you smile your huge, dimpled, proud of yourself smile.

I feel like in our modernizing world, kids don’t act their age anymore. There are parts of the world (and even in our country) where tiny people are responsible for caring for OTHER tiny people in their family. Or have to actually work to help support their family. But many American children try to act older than they are. We have this whole new category of kids called “tweens” which are basically kids who spend four years wanting to be teenagers. Though it’s sort of a paradox because they also seem increasingly immature to me. They’re in such a hurry to grow up yet they balk at any responsibility.

Like, Stevie, you want to be just like your sisters; you want to read books and stay up late; you arch your back in protest every time we put you in your car seat; just yesterday you started hitting; you basically want to hurry up and enter your Terrible Twos already. But you don’t want any of the responsibility of being a two year old like holding your own bottle or getting up at six in the morning to do your farm chores and milk the cows to fill aforementioned bottle. I mean why else do we (us specifically, but also as a society) keep having children other than to do the farm chores? Or bring us our phones from across the room? This world is already overpopulated and our resources are overtaxed, so you better be worth it. You better learn how to bring me my phone ASAP.

To be fair, our pediatrician friend has said that this is technically your second year of life so it makes sense that the Terrible Twos, the back arching and hitting would start--which really amounts to your frustration at not being able to communicate in English what your wishes are. It’s one of my pet peeves when adults belittle their children, laugh at them for crying or melting down over things we deem illogical. You have your own logic and desires. And I respect that. But also, I mean, c’mon, just use your words!? Okay, I’ll give you a couple more years of crying because you want your noodles over here and your glass of rosé over there or because your shadow keeps following you around. I know that it’s pretty easy in theory to use your words, but sometimes adults don’t get it right either. [Raises hand.] So, I’ll give you a break.

We’ve been trying to teach you a little bit of sign language. Your sisters especially love this--Bel even checked out a book from the school library about sign language. We are by no means a baby-can-sign-and-read-and-poop-in-the-potty-at-fourteen-months type of family. More power to you and your babe, but also--to borrow a super judgy term from the kids these days--so #extra. So we teach the very, utmost essentials: milk, more and all done (which you’ve got down pat), water, orange (which really is a stand-in for clementines which are your fave), cookie, cheese and meat (obviously the most important foods). Of course, you don’t care at all about using any of those other signs. You look at us, then the food item, then sign “more”--clearly your adults are idiots if they don’t pick up what you’re putting down. Food words that you do have:

• “m-n-ms” or any form of chocolate
• “tapatas” or blueberries
• banana--I think that one is obvious
• “snacks”--which is more lip-smacking than it is a word.

Non-food words, some already noted above:

• dog
• Dada
• “Da-yell”
• “Ba-bel”
• Mama
• “Doe-doe” or Lolo
• “Doe-da” or Lola
• Ta-ta (I think, cousin Ava’s name)
• TT (cousin Travis’ name)
• Uh-oh
• Wow (which you used to say all the time--because I do--even in your sleep! Side note: you talk in your sleep)
• No (obviously)
• “Mo-na-na”--your favorite movie
• “Da-yell” (facing TV) or Daniel Tiger not to be confused with the sister version of the word said facing said sister not a TV
• “tees” or trees
• “bubbas” or bubbles
• And I’m sure a bunch of words that you fully understand the meaning of, but I frustratingly (for you) have yet to pick up on--some of your favorite things: garbage, chickens, stick, dirt, etc.

You are gaining words, feelings, hypotheses and ideas by the minute. Hypotheses about gravity and inertia a.k.a throwing things. Ideas for getting into dog food or prying open and emptying cabinets. I can’t wait to see what you come up with next. But also, I can wait.

This third edition of infancy and too-quick toddlerhood has been everything your sisters’ early childhood wasn’t. While they could hold still and I could reasonably expect to find them in the same spot I left them in when I ran to the bathroom or the casinos--you, on the other hand, cannot be left unattended. I mean, I guess I shouldn’t be admitting to leaving a fourteen month old unattended--even in your gated, outlet-covered, “safety” and “yes zone” of a room. So, do me a favor, forget the last few sentences.

The past fourteen months have been different in amazing ways too. I am a slightly different person that I was nine years ago. I’m more present. More in the moment with you. Gentler with myself. So, when I start to think about all the Shoulds and Coulds of my day or my Life’s Purpose, I snap out of it and think to myself, “would I really rather be folding laundry or dismantling the school to prison pipeline?” Or would I rather be reading you the same book a hundred times and sniffing your head and handing you objects to throw away? And I think for right now, we know what the answer is.

[Though you know me, we’re dismantling the patriarchy and institutional racism every day! Click through the links below if you’re a parent and fed up with the daily news about sexual predators that don’t look like our idea of creepy people but actually look exactly like our bosses, coworkers, pastors, parents and, hm, presidents. Or if you’re tired of another form of bullshit--racism in all its forms, possibly including our own parenting! I want to note that if you have any repulsion or even uneasiness with clicking on the below links, you might want to sit and think about that for a minute. Then, be brave and open and click away!]

[How to Raise a Feminist Son, New York Times

25 Rules for Raising Feminist Boys, Scary Mommy

Here's How to Raise Race-Conscious Children, Buzz Feed

It's My Job to Raise Children Who Are Not Only Not Racist But Also Anti-Racist, Huffington Post]

I diverge. People often say that being a parent is “the hardest job” or “the most important job” and I used to roll my eyes because to a stay at home parent it sounds a little condescending. But, I realized I didn’t value what I do enough--because I’m an overachiever perfectionist with a valuable education that people have suggested I’m wasting (so I feel insecure about that), because society and paychecks tell us work by women isn’t valued. But, then I look around at all these jerks coming out of the woodwork (but c’mon, who are we kidding, most women and POC knew they were there all along). And then when people vote for them!? I know what I’m doing with one tiny boy (and the girls too) is SO SO SO important. My kids will (and do) roll their eyes at my daily diatribes, but as my best friend assures me, they are sponges, soaking it in. And one day it will pour out of them.

So, to finally conclude this magnum opus of a letter, making up for a year of no letters, here’s to you and I, testing hypotheses and thinking up ideas, learning to use our words and our feelings, soaking up the good stuff and literally and figuratively throwing away the garbage!

I love you no matter what!

Until the next letter (whenever that may be),

Mommy

My Living List: 25 things I want you to know about Living Life

Dearest Daughters,

I'm writing this list because now is as good a time as any. That being said, I do think about what you will remember when I'm gone.

I wouldn’t say I’ve been suicidal in the clinical sense of having “a plan,” but I’ve certainly entertained the thought of death. And in my darkest moments—not just once, but still—the only reason I can think of to not run away or run my car into a ditch, the only reason I can think of to stay alive is to not hurt the people that love me. When I start to think about you growing up without a mommy, I know that I have to be in that picture. That is my “reason for living” in the most morbid and inspirational senses of the phrase.

Death is something that my mind spirals to on a daily basis surrounding me in a bizzard of What Ifs. What if I get in a car accident? What if I get cancer? What if there’s an earthquake or a tsunami or a zombie apocalypse? What if something happened to you?

In my right mind, I know that it does no good to think about death. It is a certain thing, but we, as humans, must deny this reality on a daily, hourly basis in order to focus on the Living part of Life. We cannot be paralyzed by the fear of death or bad things happening. We must Live in the present. #mindfulness

And yet, I find myself wondering whether I’m Living my best Life, whether I have any regrets or unfinished business, whether I’ve told you I love you enough?

One day—hopefully no time soon, but one day, I will pass. And there are things I want you to know—about me, about your family, about yourselves, about Living Life. Many of those things you’ll find on this blog should you one day choose to pore through it.

Until then, here is my Living List—25 things that I want you to know about Living Life:

1. Crazy is in your blood. Not just clinical crazy—which you should be aware of, but bathrobe-curlers-clashing-red-and-purple-mile-long-nails-bingo-daubber-disco-disco-gun-in-your-purse-capital-C-R-A-Z-Y. That would be thanks to your Great Grandma Marie.

2. You don’t have to grow up to be religious or believe in particular teachings, but know that I believe in a loving and gracious God. And if you choose not to, I’ll believe for you, because I see God in you—from your first steps to your missteps and everything in between.

3. You do need to grow up to be kind, thoughtful and caring—not because you are girls or because you are doormats, but because you will consider and be understanding of people, places and forces beyond yourself.

4. You will seek knowledge. The more you know, the more you’ll realize how little you know. Ignorance isn’t a lack of knowledge, it is a lack of desire to know. Let your curiosity be your guide.

5. Family is family. If it looks like a family, talks like a family, walks like a family, then it’s a family. Be family.

6. I say, we can dance if we want to / We can leave your friends behind / Because your friends don't dance / And if they don't dance / Well they're no friends of mine. (source)

7. Be close to your siblings. I mean realrealclose. See, talk and text with each other weekly if not daily. Have unwavering loyalty. Be willing to cut a b*tch. Laugh with and at each other. Make fun of your parents together. Always say yes—to watching their children, to putting out their trash, to going on vacation. When I get old or am gone, you’ll have one another to help decide my fate, to cry into each other’s arms, to take my trash tchotchkes to the dump.

8. Falling in love makes you grow Stupid Cells. You’ll fall madly, deeply in love—maybe more than once. Once the experience of falling in love has worn off, make sure your Stupid Cells didn’t grow into a tumor. If they did, get it removed immediately.

9. Trust your gut. It’s never too late to say no, to turn around, to back out.

10. Always practice safe sex. Enough said.

11. Look for integrity and respect in your partners. If you don’t know what that looks like, pay attention to how he treats his parents or how she treats your waiter.

12. Judge no one, except for assholes. Assholes are assholes.

13. Love is a choice. We all love and like to be loved differently: in words, in acts, in gifts, in time, in touch. Be aware of how you love and like to be loved. Fill others with love and allow yourself to be filled.

14. Be passionate about something. Anything.

15. Practice doesn’t make perfect. Practice makes practice. Take breaks, but never stop practicing.

16. When you’re lost, go get lost in nature.

17. Believe you are worthy. This is more than having good self-esteem or confidence. Know that you are worthy—of love, of attention, of time for yourself, of treating yourself, of pursuing your passions, of taking up space, of existing.

18. Play—music, with paint, with a ball. Play with your friends, your children, by yourself. Make-believe and make time. Laugh at silly things and wonder at the playfulness of creation.

19. You can’t wear makeup until I say you can or until you’re sixteen, whichever comes first. And you’ll wear quality makeup that accentuates your beauty. You are not a clown. No tattoos or piercings until you are eighteen and out of the house. And I shouldn’t ever see your booty or your tummy in public. Say no to drugs.

20. If you feel you can’t talk to me, talk to your aunties, uncles, ninangs and ninongs. You are loved more than you know by more people than you know.

21. Know that there are awkward things about being human—poop and farts, bras and periods, wet dreams and body odor, among other things—but there is no shame in the human body. They come in all shapes and abilities. Our bodies can do amazing things—run and jump, spin and tumble, create and transform, see color and movement, feel a soft breeze and immense pleasure, hear whispers and thunder, smell the first rain and bread baking, taste sweetness and snowflakes on the tip of your tongue.

22. Be angry. Be sad. Be outraged. Feel powerful feelings. Do not run or hide from them as they will overwhelm you.
 

23. Do not harbor resentment. Resentment comes from not speaking your truth, from not being vulnerable enough to say what you need or want and then blaming it on someone else.

24. I love you no matter what. My love is unconditional. I will love you in the depths of your pain and mistakes. I will love you in the heights of your success and happiness. I will always be your lap to sit on, your ugly place, your shelter, your sanctuary. I will not always be nice or your friend. I will be the voice that haunts you, that urges you to do better, that annoys you. You will say you hate me. You will want to run away. You will say you love me. You will come back. You will always be my babies and I will always be your mommy.

25. Make good choices.

To Babybel on the Occasion of Being Five Years Old

My Dearest Babybel,

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Birthday, Babybel.

Love you no matter what,

Mothering my children, mothering myself

Dearest Daughters,

Let me start by saying: I am an awesome mom.

Correction: I'm a really, really, really awesome mommy.

In our culture and in this blogosphere, we spend too much time criticizing others, ourselves, parenting philosophies, our very own children.

And I’m just here to say that I’m doing right by you.

I mentioned recently how well behaved you are; not just relatively, but truly.

You play well together and show each other the concern, compassion, respect, and understanding that I’ve encouraged.

I have a four year old with better emotional maturity and vocabulary than I have. She can tell me when I hurt her feelings. She can tell me how she feels, why she’s crying, that she doesn’t want to cry, to feel the way she’s feeling. That is more than most adults are capable of.

And I have a two year old who has never wavered in expressing her feelings; who feels so intensely that every day is a roller coaster ride. Sure, she laughs manically when, suddenly, cuddling with her turns into a bout of jiu jitsu and you tell her, “no, don’t kick me in the face” and yet the kicking continues. So there is that. But, she is in other terms: passionate, expressive and honest. She is quick to offer remorse. And slightly-less-quick to forgive, but forgiving nonetheless.

I give you both the space to feel; to use your unique voices; I affirm who you are as individuals and as a part of our family.

And I’d like to take credit for all of that. I could have done worse. And I do from time to time.

I still have trouble with intervening too soon when you are working on puzzles. And there’s that whole Danjo not hearing the word “no” in relation to physical boundaries thing. But, hey, we’re not perfect; we’re works in progress.

So, to recap: I’m this amazing parent.

I am patient. So so so patient and present. Encouraging, comforting, creative. I am silly and fun. I am serious and thoughtful. I am cuddly and smell like only a mommy can smell as you bury your faces and sorrows in my arms. I am respectful and you respect me. I have answers and, yet, no answers. I am mean, firm, fair and unfair. I braid your hair; I let it be. I tie your shoes when you want me to; I wait patiently when you don’t. I nourish your bodies, your minds, and your spirits. Sometimes I feed you Goldfish for breakfast and spoil you with surprises.

I spend a lot of time and effort being your mommy. I can’t recall what I ever did with my days and energy before there was you.

Alas, I’m so busy parenting, making organic push pops from scratch, getting kicked in the face while cuddling and engaging in various other activities, that I too often and too long ignore myself.

I know this sounds so cheeze-ball-psycho-babble, but I'm saying it anyway:

I ignore the little girl inside of me, the child; the person so deserving of kindness, nurture and love. She gets scraps, the leftovers. Some days, she gets nothing. And some days she gets the garbage, earfuls of criticism, judgment, defeat.

Why would I treat my daughters one way? With the kindness, nurture and love they deserve? And deprive myself?

What lesson am I teaching my daughters? When we talk about self-care, about taking time outs when we need them, about our amazing capacity to cry aloud, about discovering what we love, about saying N-O to what we do not need? What lesson do I teach you? When we talk about these things, but you don’t see me doing them? When I don’t live by my words?

I ought to truly, visibly and routinely mother myself the way that I mother you. I think amazing things would unfold in my life, much the way they do in your lives every day, every moment, every skinned-knee, every climbed tree, every new word, every new plan, every block tower toppled, every masterpiece created, every sparkle in your eye, every rise of your voice, every laugh, every tear, every eyelid shut at day’s end.

Wouldn’t it be awesome if my eyes sparkled? If I squealed in delight? Or if I could be so vulnerable, could allow my sorrow to be transformed by a vigorous embrace?

I am an awesome mommy.

And I will work on becoming an awesome mother to the little Lauren inside. I will listen. I will encourage. I will praise. I will be kind and forgiving with myself. I will provide her opportunities for fun, for rest, for nourishment, for growth. I will let her cry. I will let her laugh. I will let her make mistakes. And be there for her when she does. I will love her unconditionally.

No matter what. Right, Dearest Daughters?

I love you no matter what,

DD Favorites: The Giveaway Books Edition

Dearest Daughters,

You know that giveaway we did last week? Well, here's the big reveal of the books we chose for the winner. And by "we" I mean our foolproof, three-fold book-choosing criteria.

1) Parental Enjoyment: If I don't like reading it, I'm not going to read it to you. In fact, I'll probably hide it. And if you find it, I'll tell you my voice is broken. Or I forgot how to read. Or something like that.

2) Child Enjoyment: If you don't like listening to it, I end up reading to an empty lap. Which is fine if it's the New Yorker, but it's usually not.

3) BFF Librarian: But, to be honest, the majority of our bookshelves are filled with books given or suggested to us by Auntie Ninang Librarian Katherine.

So, for those of you who aren't so lucky to have personal access to Criterion #3, here are some of our favorites:

Board Books

Hooray for Fish by Lucy Cousins: it's one of our favorites because... as I said last week, but here goes again: it's colorful and rhymes and uses onomatopoeia. What more could a toddler want? Maybe a favorite fish? Who we happen to find out at the end of the book is who else, but Mommy Fish! Hooray! Mommy Fish, FTW!

Dear Zoo by Rod Campbell: it's one of our favorites because... it's a lift-the-flap book! And if that's not enough, my genius girls enjoy the dramatic irony as box after box of unsuitable pets are delivered from the zoo. And the sing-song, read-aloud, abundance-of-ellipses-wait-until-your-cute-baby-responds, makes this book a heart-warming, snuggle-bunnying read. Not to mention the happy ending!

Picture Books

Tip Tip Dig Dig by Emma Garcia: it's one of our favorites because... Babybel discovered this one all by herself at the library. Well she wasn't all by herself. That would be child neglect and against library rules. But, she stuck it into our library bag. And when we got home, I discovered this awesome construction-themed book! The scene is set with a mess of an empty lot. And it remains to be seen what all those construction vehicles will do. Such a nail-biter! It's repetitive and goes over the same few construction-y verbs in three different tenses, which I think is the point. But, mostly we just enjoy using our made up hand-motions to tell the story and act surprised at the big-reveal at the end.

Llama Llama Red Pajama by Anna Dewdney: it's one of our favorites because... it helps us think about the important toddler themes of missing one's mommy, of the frustration of having to wait, of general hysteria and coping with our overwhelming emotions. Plus, it rhymes and it uses synonyms! Between Bel who cries and Danjo who yells, we are in certain need of "llama drama" vocabulary.

The Lion and the Mouse by Jerry Pinkney: it's one of our favorites because... it's a wordless book! Which is fitting because this retelling of one of Aesop's fables can be read a million ways. Whether you are familiar with the story or not, you can tell your own version of this kind-hearted tale. After a couple of read-alouds, examining the detailed and gorgeous watercolor illustrations, Bel could pick up this book and read it to herself, voices and beaming, proud smile and everything! 

Tweak Tweak by Eve Bunting: it's one of our favorites because... Danjo has a particular affinity for elephants. And it's about a very inquisitive little one. She walks and talks with her mommy, learning about all the different animals of the jungle and their special gifts. It's a book about a journey. And the elephant's discovery of her own gifts. Super deep, really. Like us.

The Paper Bag Princess by Robert Munsch: it's one of our favorites because... this one's too easy: it's about a princess who is intelligent, clever, witty and does no way, no how need a prince to rescue her. It's the Disney princess anti-venom! I think Bel just likes it because of the dragon. Good enough for me.

The DDs-Will-Read-These-in-the-Future Books - these are books that I love for reasons I've mentioned before and will repeat below, but the girls haven't read them... yet. Dum dum dum.

Clementine by Sara Pennypacker: I want the DDs to read this because... of the awesome parents, who support their child, ask the right questions, and say the right things, duh! Oh, and because of the awesome cogent, attention deficit, emotive mis-adventures of this red-head. Another dose of anti-venom for the Disney Princess crowd. It's the first of several Clementine books. And I look forward to reading them aloud to my quirky babies.

The Penderwicks by Jeanne Birdsall: I want the DDs to read this because... it's a book about what it means to be a family, to be sisters and to have adventures. It's such a sweet book about four mother-less girls, unique in her each way, their bond and adventures supported by a clueless, but loving father. When I die, I hope the girls will rent a cottage in the Berkshires and reenact this book. Even if you're seventy-five years old. (Also, there are more in the series; every one is great!)

One Crazy Summer by Rita Williams-Garcia: I want the DDs to read this because... it's another story about sisters, who, um, are also motherless. That is, until they fly across the country to spend a summer with their poet mother. Set in 1960s Oakland, the girls spend their days interacting with Black Panthers, neighborhood kids and some other fun characters. The book is as much a serious look into the Black Power movement, inequality, the process of learning to love oneself (or one's mother or daughters, as the case may be) as it is a light-hearted tale of three sisters and their summertime adventures. The narrator is the oldest sister and she is also one awesome, wise, insightful and witty brown young woman. All things my DDs are certain to become.

For a running list of recommendations that I keep on Pinterest, click here for picture books we love or here for books I will force my children to read. While you're at it, feel free to follow me to see what I add in the future.

Love,

P.S. This post is not sponsored in any way. Except maybe by Auntie Ninang Librarian Katherine who recommended most of these books to us. So, if you want to send her money, you can. Otherwise, this post comes from the bottom of my good-book-loving heart.

Have I Told You Tuesday: Considering My Part in Patriarchy

Dearest Daughters,

I've written before about my lake of shame, particularly around nudity. About how to properly pick your nose. About how I will raise you girls to be critical of media and popular society. About our genetic inability (or ability as the case may be) to defecate.

We have a song slash dance that we call "The Naked Baby" wherein we wiggle around and sing the words "naked baby, naked baby, naked baby" whenever one of you girls is caught with your pants down, your shirt off or both. It's not a make-fun-of-your-naked-body dance; it's definitely a celebration dance; a liberation-from-the-bonds-of-clothing-the-trappings-of-life dance.

Recently, I was helping Babybel get dressed in the morning.

I peeled her shirt off over her head and arms extended to the sky. This is the point at which our Naked Baby soundtrack would ordinarily play.

Instead, Babybel wiggled her body. Not in a silly, fist-pumping, maraca-shaking wiggle, but in a slow, hip-side-to-side wiggle, as she slid her hands along her sides from her waist to her hips.

"I'm skinny," you said, "like my cousin."

You didn't say this in a factual or scientific way, but maybe I'm reading into it. There was an element of gloating as you sing-song-spoke, "I'm skiiiiny, I'm skiiiiny." It felt heavy. Like there was more meaning in those words than there should be for a three-year-old. Or maybe for the older cousin you copied the words and suggestive movements from.

I wanted to argue, to neutralize the word, to take away any element of value your little brain was sorting out. I wanted to yell: "NO YOU ARE NOT!"

I stumbled, sounding like Lola, who sounds like an English language learner, even though she's not, "What is skinny!? It's not skinny. You beautiful! The way God made you."

You're argumentative, so you told me, "No, I'm skinny." This was more matter-of-fact.

I didn't want to argue with or engage with the idea of you being skinny; I didn't want to give it any attention or value. I replied again, "you are beautiful the way that God made you."

And you finished getting your clothes on.

But, me, being me, I couldn't stop thinking about this minor moment in our lives and what it meant for the battle ahead; the battle against society, against peers, against sexism and patriarchy. But, more importantly, the battle against myself and my own perceptions about my body and actions towards it.

"You'll just have to model good values about your body, Lauren," your Ninang/Auntie Katherine told me, talking me off the ledge as good friends do. "She's going to get messages and images and values from society and older kids; you can't avoid that."

The following day, with out even looking for an answer, a Facebook friend posted: "Mom I'm Fat:" One Mother's Inspired Response to her 7 Year Old" (h/t @revlkb). Naked dancing as a tool for embracing our bodies, affirmed. But also, the realization of how much our own body image as grown women affects our children's attitudes.

It's hard for me to remember a time in my childhood when Lola was not "dieting" or "going back on a diet... on Monday." It's hard for me to remember a time when she and I got out and did "healthy" and active things together.

And posted a couple of days later by the same Facebook friend, also a mother of two daughters, another depressing, but then hopeful testament of the effect of media on our nation's girls:

I will say that it's not just mothers and media that affect our self-esteem and perceptions.

I really had no consciousness about my body until I was in middle school. I got boobs and started my period when I was twelve, but I was still trying to fit my petite, but changing body into children's clothing. I had just gotten a new dress. I tried it on and showed Lolopop. It was a tight sheath dress in a funky 1960s color combination: an orange and brown and green tweed-looking print. It was probably tighter than what Lolopop wanted to see on his maturing baby girl. And I can see now that he meant no harm.

He patted my tummy, a part of my body I had never considered. It was a little girl's tummy, round and perfect, the way your tummies should be. He remarked that the dress was too small for me.

Instead of telling me that he liked my new dress or that I was beautiful, he chose to remark on how the dress fit. I went to my room, stared down at my tummy and thought, "I'm fat."

I never stopped thinking that until I honestly was fat. When I did gain weight in college, unaware and unabashed at the time, just buying bigger jeans to keep up with my eating and drinking habits, I looked back on photos from middle and high school. And I thought, "I can't believe I wasted all that time thinking I was fat." I was a skinny, awkward twig. But, I recall days when I told myself I wasn't going to eat. (That never worked, really, but I thought I should counteract my hearty appetite.) I recall pinching my belly to measure my tummy fat. I read teen magazines, trying to copy the workouts, the chair lunges and sit-ups to get that "Beach Bikini Ready Body!"

I joined Weight Watchers with my mom the summer before my senior year of college. And, yes, it was a diet program, but I learned about portion control and about making healthy choices. And I lost weight.

Almost a decade and two pregnancies later, I know how to maintain my body weight without much conscious effort. It's not something I am constantly talking about or obsessing over. But, your dad will attest that I've complained to him off and on about this wobbly bit or another, fishing for that deeply-seeded childhood affirmation that I'm beautiful just the way I am. The battle against myself.

And it's like God and the universe and my Internet friends were all in cahoots after that morning you told me you were skinny. Preparing me for whatever lies ahead.

Ashley Judd wrote this about patriarchy and women's role in it. I won't summarize here, but I really recommend reading it and taking time to consider things you think and say not only about your own body, but about those of strangers.

Another friend posted these on Pinterest:

Source: thegoldengleam.com via Lauren on Pinterest

 

Source: amightygirl.com via Lauren on Pinterest

 

And just a couple days ago, these wise words from, okay, not a woman, but a man who taught and continues to teach children a lot about loving themselves:

Source: google.com via Lauren on Pinterest

 

So no one gets butt-hurt, Lola often says something similar when she preaches. Something to the effect of praying for children to make good choices and also for the adults whom they watch to model making good choices.

Parenthood is a double-edge sword, in that my salience in your life is both a blessing and a weighty responsibility.

God, help me!? ME! Your mommy. Make good choices. About my body, my actions and my words.

Love,

Clean Mush: the five days plus infinity activity

Dearest Daughters,

It's not a brilliantly original idea that I let you play with "clean mush" (toilet paper, soap, borax and water). That's been done a million times over. In other people's homes. And classrooms. On the Internet. Via The Pinterest. Or our favorite art book.

It's not original, but it's certainly polemic.

"I can't believe you let your kids do that!" visitors declare.

"What a mess!"

Etcetera.

I'm not trying to be Susie Homemaker. Apologies, to Susie, if I'm offending her. And I'm not some early art experience guru.

I've said before and I'll say it again: these kind of things keep ME sane. Because the keep my kids BUSY.

This activity in particular, kept one or the other or both of you occupied for twenty to thirty minutes. SEVERAL DAYS IN A ROW!

DAY ONE. We made the stuff. And it was fun to see each of your personalities come out, in the manner you approached the clean mush.

Bel, you were very methodical and hands off. Danjo, you jumped right in. And I ended up moving you to the floor, because I'm being literal when I say that you jumped right in.

DAY TWO: We had sealed the mush back up in a large plastic container. So, on day two, we just potato mashered and wooden spooned and whisked away. Bel was less hesitant by this point and got her hands a little dirty. I was going to just throw the stuff away, but Great Grandma Gibbs was visiting and in her infinite wisdom thought I should keep it a little longer.

DAY THREE: GGG was right and you were both happy to play with the clean mush for another round. This time we squeezed out the mush and made sculptures. Triple G suggested making eggs. We squished and squeezed and then put our treasures in the unheated oven (with the light on) for a couple of days.

DAYS FOUR AND FIVE: were spent checking to see if our sculptures were dry and flipping them over.

Life happened and although Babybel did NOT forget about them for ONE second of ONE day EVER, our sculptures sat for a few days on the counter. We waited somewhat patiently to find a time to decorate them.

TODAY: While Danjo napped, we got to painting.

So, okay. It's not the tidiest thing. Or the most effortless thing. And I let you girls watch copious amounts of television, so compared to that, it is HARD.

But, I read this article recently about how in the United States we have this co=dependency dilemma. That we're not actually raising our children to be independent, even though it's such a dearly held American value. According to the study, American parents, don't make their kids DO things, because it's "just easier" not to make them; to just do it oneself. Kids aren't given respect for their abilities or the opportunity to contribute to the family unit.

And that's not totally related.

But, as I'm sweeping up dried bits of toilet paper mush and cleaning out the dryer lint trap full of toilet paper fuzz balls; when I'm wiping up paint or anxiously waiting for you to put your shoes on EVEN THOUGH WE NEED TO BE THERE IN FIVE MINUTES AND WE'RE SO LATE AND HURRY UP, MARIBEL! When I can't honestly tell you the percentage of waffle that actually made it into Danjo's mouth, because I've let her feed herself (despite the mess on her and the floor) since she was old enough to self-feed. When I can tell you how much sand Danjo ingested because I sat there and watched her do it.

For every moment of frustration and impatience and exasperation at how DIFFICULT it is, there are an exponentially rewarding amount of moments wherein I see (or foresee) not only your independence, but also your ability to contribute to this family, to help others around you and to, ultimately, be a functioning member of general society.

Thanks to clean mush, you girls will not be co-dependent, narcissitic, ego-maniac brats.

Or something like that.

Love,

Lady, you better check yo'self, before you reck yo'self!

Dearest Daughters,

As always, I and the general public stand corrected.

[Standing in line to check out at the grocery store, Bel wearing a tutu.]

Lady: Wow! You look so pretty! Are you a ballerina? Or a gymnast!?
Bel: ...
Me: Maribel, don't be rude. The lady asked you a question. Can you answer?
Bel: ...
Lady: It's okay.
Bel: I'm not a ballerina OR a gymnast. I'm a DRAGON!!!

Right you are, Bel! Right you are.

Love,

150 Words: Thoughts on Older Sisters

Auntie Dee is eight years my senior. In my mind, an eternally cooler teenager, with bangs properly suited to the decade. I spent my childhood annoying her out of a pesky desire to become her. When Lola and Lolo were out of town, when no one was looking, she let me in. I slept in her room or used her brush, the one essential to engineering mile high bangs.

I still feel inferior, despite her insistence that, as adults, we're "basically the same age." She is ever the Older Sister, even with one plus a newborn baby, generous, selfless, goes out of her way, writing Thank You's, sending gifts, listening. I am ever the Younger Sister, self-centered, forgetting to call, never generous or gracious enough, but always sneaking peeks of her, around corners, over shoulders, inspired to master mile high bangs.

I am better for having her in my life.

Abstinence Only Duplos

Dearest Daughters,

I asked Lolopop several years ago why people have children? I mean, really. They're just a disappointment.

This was before I had you two. I think it was a passive agressive way to get him to say that I wasn't a disappointment.

He didn't bite.

He replied simply that you have children so that you can have grandchildren.

I see how it is.

So far, the only Reals For Reals reason to have children, that I can come up with, is so that you can play with their toys. Toys that you decided you were too old for or that someone else decided you were too old for.

That noted, I will never take away your toys or allow you to get rid of them, even if there was a child who would die without your Duplo sculpture of a kidney. Perhaps, then, you will continue to play with your toys all day? And will have neither the urge to grow up nor to procreate?

I can stop this growing up thing, if I try hard enough, right?

Love,