dearest daughters & son

You'll Like How This One Ends

In the past couple years, I’ve had more bad weeks than I could shake my fist at, so I can’t say this was the worst week on record. But, it was pretty bad.

I won’t describe it in detail, but it was really just the culmination of two weeks in a row where your Daddy was gone on business travel; we were low on energy, low on patience, high on yelling, hitting, spitting and, mostly, crying. And, by the way, it’s that time of year that we adults call “The Holidays,” which sounds pleasant enough, but is really just a bunch of hustle and bustle, busy-ness, excessive commercialism and a self-fulfilling prophecy of stress. Not to mention the arrival of the baby Jesus #thereasonfortheseason

[I must take pause here for my humility and gratitude to say that when your dad is gone, Lola and Lolo quickly step in when it appears I’m Losing It; they make dinner or provide a guilt-free environment for you to watch television while I complain about a certain three year old and the number of objects she’s thrown at my head this week. Auntie Ninang Jonelle also watches Bel on a weekly basis which she has done practically since you were born and she never hesitates at my request to take both of you for a bit. And some days you go to school for a few hours, thank God.]

[Okay, all that being said, my therapist says I have this habit of minimalizing my experiences and feelings, especially when I start comparing myself to So And So whose spouse is gone all the time or to So And So whose life seems fairly similar to mine, so why can’t I deal? Or I get on a kick of how I’m totally competent and can handle anything thrown, literally and figuratively, at me.]

So, I’m saying this because it is important for me to say this—like my therapist would be super mad at me if I didn’t admit—it is hard being responsible for two small children for multiple-day stretches at a time.

When your Daddy leaves I can’t help but feel alone, abandoned even. And being with you morning, noon and, ugh, bedtime is no walk in the park. Did I mention the objects been thrown at me?

It’s hard. And certain unnamed behaviors from certain unnamed children don’t make it easier.

You were both The Worst this past week. But, so was I.

We probably hit bottom around Tuesday night when I was crying because Danjo was being Danjo and Bel was crying because I was crying and the dog was crying to be let out.

So, even though Wednesday also had its challenges, things were already looking up. I went to yoga, we bought a new DVD and you both went to sleep in your own beds with no fight, allowing me to have a little time to myself for an art project.

And yesterday, Daddy came home. I guess that put us all in a better mood. Though I still had a toy horse thrown at me. Twice. But, after dinner as a family complete with ice cream sundaes, we were in Seventh Heaven.

I was Communicating Clear Expectations and Providing Transition Time left and right, baby. And you two were dare I say, behaving? I was basically in Parenting Nirvana.

I can’t take all the credit though. Danjo was, for once, not putting up a fight. And Bel was only a small puddle of tears as we cleaned up the living room—and I don’t mean the royal “we” where I mostly pick things up while asking you to do one measly task—I mean like you were both actually transporting toys and clothes and string cheese wrappers from one place to another more appropriate place.

Not only in an effort to give positive reinforcement, but also because I was purely shocked and delighted, I noted how well Danielle was behaving last night.

“Wow, Danielle! You are doing such good listening!”

To reward Danjo, I took out our on-again-off-again positive reinforcement tool: The Chore Store or in layman’s terms: a bucket of dollar store toys used as bribes. She chose some Hello Kitty stamps and Bel chose a plastic horse figurine.

Danjo never ceases to amaze, but usually in her wiles, wits and willfulness. Last night was no exception, as she maintained her agreeable disposition. She went potty and brushed her teeth, even setting out her sister’s toothbrush for her.

I helped you out of your clothes into pajamas that were easily chosen with no Drama (if you are not familiar with Drama Pajamas they are the pile of Danjo’s rejected clothing amassing in the corner because of her decisive fashion sense).

As I tugged your nightgown down over your head, you beamed, “I did good listening!”

“Yes, Yelly! And I am so proud and happy.”

“Mommy,” she said, “sometimes you make me happy too.”

The End.

Because there couldn’t possibly be a better end to this week or to this story than that.

I love you no matter what,

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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.

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

A Running Epiphany

Dearest Daughters,

When I began running over a year ago, I didn’t realize what a therapeutic and transformative effect it would have on my life.

I started running for my mental health, listening to affirmations because I couldn’t bear my own thoughts or the pulsing rhythms of music, releasing pent up anxiety, getting out of the house when my agoraphobia was at its worst. So, I should have had an inkling how much it would help me on my emotional journey.

But, over the past year, I’ve seen running as just that and little more: running. For my mental health, with benefits for my physical health. And, sure, a reason to get better shoes and cute running clothes.

Because my main reason for running has been to combat my anxiety, I’ve been able to approach running from an entirely different direction than most other aspects of my life. I am a perfectionist. I’m also both literally and figuratively bipolar.

It’s been a familiar pattern in my life to suddenly have some new life-changing idea or activity into which I lunge head-first. I’m going to do spinning or yoga or start my own business or make friendship bracelets or only eat foods that begin with the letter “c.” I binge on a particular activity and then, especially if my perfectionism kicks in, I give up. I give up, as a precaution, before I fail. I am paralyzed by failure. I’ve given up on photography classes on new jobs on dozens of unfinished sewing or knitting projects; things I have enthusiastically begun, but lost the drive to finish.

I’m afraid of failing and therefore, afraid of taking risks. The years of making excuses in conversations or therapy sessions echo in my ears. No, I don’t have time for that. No, that costs money. No, I shouldn’t. No, I couldn’t. All that negativity because of the illusion, the fallacy, the unattainable expectations of my own perfectionism.

But, running has not been that way for me. I do it. Or I don’t do it. It’s not a manic impulse or a binge activity. I am gentle with myself. I am not a perfectionist about running. I listen to my body. I don’t push myself too hard or too little. If I didn’t run last week, it’s okay. I can get up and run again this week. I don’t compare myself to others. I don’t measure my worth by my miles. Running has somehow become a practice, a framework for how I ought to live out the rest of my life.

This past Sunday when I ran my fist 5K, I felt full of emotion. I felt feelings so intense and overwhelming I knew I would cry if I gave them any thought. I pushed my tears back and I ran. As I rounded (several) corners, coming into the last stretch, strangers cheered, children held hand drawn signs of encouragement and I felt my eyes begin to water.

What a feeling! Not of achievement, of success, of straight-A’s or perfection. Not of someone else's or society's or my own skewed expectations. I had an epiphany. I realized, as I crossed the finish line: I can. And not only CAN I do this, but look at all the people who believe in, love and support me.

Afterwards in the car, I choked back tears, as I told my husband: “I don’t know why I ever EVER ever doubted myself... [insert sniffles and sobs here]... when there are so many people who support and love me.”

It was a true, in my gut, in my heart, in my soul feeling. And I let myself feel it. I let the love and support wash over me. In its boundless and unconditional forms. Not just for that day and that race. Not just for running. But for all my choices. For all the things I’ve done and not done. For my life.

What a feeling! To truly let love in. Not only accepting the love of others, but also accepting my own self-love, a love that I have deprived myself of all these years. Allowing myself to feel pride in my achievements, to know—beyond a doubt—I’m doing the right thing for myself, and the right thing as a role model to my Dearest Daughters, caring for myself emotionally, intellectually, physically.

I’ve lived the past twenty-nine years feeling undeserving of attention, of praise, of love. I’ve shrugged off achievements and compliments, always second-guessing, judging and measuring myself by an imaginary, but cruel yardstick. I have blanketed myself in negativity, demeaning and negating everything from the smallest compliment on my cooking to my educational achievements, even, to my most beloved creations, my Dearest Daughters.

This 5K certainly did not cure my perfectionism or mania. I still have a yardstick that I must continually remember to blast to smithereens. It’s still my inclination to be negative, to confine myself.

But, I have experienced Yes. I have experienced Possibility. I have experienced Freedom.

Little did I know what a pivotal moment running a 5K or running at all would be.

As I prepare to turn thirty in the new year, I’ve been thinking a lot about this year; about this being a “Me Year” or a “Say Yes to Lauren Year”—what that involves I’m still working out; classes, travel, doing things I’ve always wanted to do or should have done for myself, taking risks.

Regardless, this year will be a special one.

Thank you to all who will make it so, to all those who have always supported and loved me, who have believed in me despite my refusal to see and accept such things. Thank you to my family and my husband and to those strangers at the three mile marker.

And thank you, especially, to my Dearest Daughters who have been my light in my darkest moments, my reason to keep living and who inspire me to be both a better person and, simply, the person that I am, the person they love no matter what.

I love you back no matter what,

Not last year, not this year, but today.

Dearest Daughters,

It's a new year! Hooray!

And I am so blessed and elated to be able to spend another year with my funny, intelligent, beautiful and growing girls!

In our culture, we make these things called "New Year's Resolutions." I read somewhere on someone's (who I can't recall) social media update or another, that New Year's Resolutions are a "To-Do list for the first week of January."

People have the best of intentions, but it takes a loooong time for any given behavior to become a habit. More than the twenty-one days or whatever collective wisdom says. It take a looooooong time.

More power to you if your resolution sticks past this week!

It's not that I'm anti-resolution, in general. As a recovering perfectionist, I'm just anti-resolution for me. The most that I can hope for this year is to make sure I write the correct year on my checks.

And, that's fine with me. Taking baby steps is much more achievable and manageable than any sweeping, life-altering resolution.

And I'd like to think that I've been taking baby steps all year. And will continue to do so into 2012, doh, I mean, 2013.

I was talking with Auntine Ninang KT while she was visiting. We were discussing some recent Facebook posts we'd seen about how horrible 2012 was for people and how they were hopefully looking forward to a new year.

I was pleasantly surprised to find myself saying that 2012 wasn't a bad year for me. I conceded, that perhaps, some "bad" things had happened to me. Even so, I'd downgrade "bad" things to "unpleasant" and then, ultimately to "things that weren't so great, but I'm glad they happened."

I know more about myself and mental illness and anxiety and panic attacks and mindfulness and meditation and happiness and taking care of myself and my family now than I knew at the beginning of last year.

I probably won't ever be able to go the Los Angeles Zoo again (where I had a major panic attack in April). And the thought of airports and flying in an airplane still terrifies me.

But, I'd say I'm navigating my life better now than ever before.

That's not to say that I don't still get manic or depressed or anxious, but now I recognize my mental and physical health hurdles. Whereas, before I battled through, ignoring my mind and body.

In some ways, my day-to-day life feels worse than before, more intense, salient, because I'm more mindful, because I can identify and name my emotions, because I feel the feelings instead of pushing them down. But, I prefer it this way. In the long run, it's good for me.

I never, never, ever again want to enter the depths of the deepest depression I experienced this past year. I could not be moved. Literally. I curled up against all the pain and wished and prayed for its end. I could not care for you, let alone, myself. Everyone around me was worried and afraid and worked overtime to pick up the slack, to get me help.

I did lose a ton of weight (which I've doubly gained back)!

But, in all seriousness, on the other side, with the help of a supportive family and friends (THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU--to Lola and Lolopop, Auntie Ninang Jonelle, Auntie Dina, and everyone else who prayed, visited, brought food, but especially to my beloved husband--I know this wasn't and still isn't easy), with help from medical and psychological professionals and modern medicine, I hazard to say that I'm glad I had this life crisis--this wake up call, this alarm, this emergency.

The past is gone. The future is but a concept. All there is, is today. Call it 2013, call it Friday, call it today.

Today. I am alive. I am well. And I am on a path to wholeness, happiness and fulfillment.

Moment by moment, staying on that path, savoring you by my side, is all I wish for in the coming year.

Well, that, and the writing the right year on my checks thing.

Love you no matter what,

From Your Experienced, Thoughtful and Faithful Lolopop

Dearest Daughters,

I'm a woman, I'm a person of color, I'm biracial/bi-cultural, I'm a Californian, I'm well-educated, I've traveled the world and beheld poverty and violence and extreme wealth, I've taught it Watts, I was once a vegetarian and I believe supremely, above all else, in the Two Greatest Commandments to love God and love your neighbor (no matter what)... so you might be able to construe many things about me and my politics.

While I hope that not only my mind, but also my heart and my faith show in the letters that I write to you, I don't get too political too often.

And, yes, the election is coming up. And I will exercise my right and privilege to vote. But, I'm not posting the following because of Proposition 34 itself. Mine is not a blog to convince anyone of anything. But it is a place to share words of wisdom.

As such, here is Lolopop's letter to Auntie Merissa about an upcoming California proposition that would repeal capital punishment.

You won't be old enough to vote for 15 (and 16) years, so read this not as a voter guide, but as a letter to you from my Daddy, your Lolopop, sharing his life experience, his thoughtfulness and his faith.

 

(Me as a baby. Oh wait, I mean the wise woman and man to whom I was born.)

 

Letter to Merissa about Proposition 34 Repealing Capital Punishment [originally published here]

My niece, Merissa recently wrote to me asking my opinion on Proposition 34, which would replace capital punishment (i.e. "the death penalty) with a sentence of Life without Possibility of Parole.  With her permission, following is the response I wrote:

To Merissa, my sweet and amazing niece, who I helped raise from the day you were born:

I am flattered that you asked for my opinion on California Proposition 34, which would replace the capital punishment (i.e. "the death penalty") with a sentence of Life without Possibility of Parole. As you know, I worked as a peace officer in California Prisons for 23 years. Since I was your neighbor for 10 of those years, you probably remember that I did not wear a uniform. That is because I was not a "guard" (they actually prefer to be called Correctional Officers). I'd tell you my official title, but that wouldn't tell you much about what I did. My job was like a Parole Officer, except I worked with inmates in the prisons before they were released, rather than afterward. So I worked directly with inmates daily, often getting to know their background, substance abuse history and criminal history very well; understand their attitudes towards their crimes and their victims; and get to know them individually.

You might think because of my experience that I would support capital punishment. At first I did. Partly because I felt that, for my safety and that of other peace officers, there needs to be an ultimate penalty for killing a peace officer. If someone is already serving life in prison, what do they have to lose by killing me? Or somebody who has committed a horrible crime and is facing arrest and a lengthy term, what do they have to lose by killing the police officer who is trying to arrest them? And shouldn't it be a really bad penalty for those who commit the most heinous crimes?

But over the years my work helped change the way I looked at capital punishment. But more importantly, my work forced me to really look to my faith for answers to everyday problems I faced working in the prisons. Many people I worked with became very jaded and cynical from working with the worst of criminals who end up in prison. It's hard to explain to someone who hasn't worked in a prison or jail, but it's like the people guarding the prison see and read so much bad stuff that they lose faith in human nature. Over time they become a little like the people they guard, not criminally, but psychologically. I saw this right away in others who worked there for years before me, and I didn't want to end up like them. I had no where else to turn, but my faith, for inspiration to go to work everyday, and to make the hundreds of little decisions that would define me as either a cynical person or a person of faith. And if I relied on my faith for the little decisions, then what about the big questions? I had to ask myself, as a Christian, what do I believe about killing? Well, based on my experience with criminals AND my personal faith journey, here are five reasons I can give you for opposing capital punishment:

1)  You can't get around it, the Bible clearly says killing is wrong. It doesn't provide for any exceptions. No wiggle room there.  I think the only possible exception is if you kill someone in the defense of your life or another's life, but the Bible doesn't even give you that. And it doesn't work to ignore the issue and pretend you're not responsible because you're not the one "pulling the switch." It's like being opposed to killing animals but eating steak.  As a member of our society, if you don't oppose the death penalty then you are just as guilty of killing the condemned person as the people on the jury who imposed it, the judge who allows it, the prison staff who facilitate it and the person who "pulls the switch."  Some Christians quote the Old Testament to justify capital punishment, but it's mostly God who goes around killing people and we are not God.  The other's who kill also do a lot of other bad things, so you can't say it's okay to kill because King David did it.

2)  Contrary to arguments of some, capital punishment does NOT deter anybody from committing murder.  I have talked to hundreds of murderers in detail about their motives for committing murder, and NOT ONE of them ever said they were thinking they'd get caught, much less that they might be put to death.  They were a) Overwhelmed with anger at the victim for some reason and couldn't stop themselves; or b) They committed the murder in the course of committing another crime, like a robbery gone bad, and never thought it would come to murder; or c) They are criminally insane and either driven by their inner demons to take someones life, they are incapable of feeling any remorse for their victims, or they don't think laws apply to them.

Sure, you could argue that the ones that were deterred wouldn't be in prison.  But I am convinced that my experience says something basic about human nature:  Most of us stop short of taking someone's life, regardless of the provocation.  Then there are those who may understand murder is wrong, but in a moment of anger or in a specific situation or because they just don't care about life, they lack the self control to stop. You can debate about what caused them to be like this: Is it genetics, upbringing, childhood trauma... But  in the situation or moment, nothing would have deterred them because they weren't thinking about being caught.

If you think about it, what does it mean when you say someone can be deterred from committing murder by any form of punishment?  Do we think murder is like jaywalking...if we think the police aren't looking it is OK? What kind of person thinks "Gee, I'm thinking I need to murder my wife, but I don't know...if I get caught I might be killed!  I guess I better not do that!"  If one believes people are like this, then I will pray for them because they have a really nihilistic view of people and the world.  My experience with criminals is that 90% are not violent.  They may sell drugs or steal your car stereo to support their drug habit, but if faced with getting caught and sent to prison, they submit to arrest rather than try to kill the officer to escape.  For them, it is like when we jaywalk, except their line of acceptable behavior is a little more extreme.

3) There is absolutely no question that capital punishment wastes tax dollars.  There is something called "Life without Possibility of Parole" which means that they will NEVER be released from prison under any circumstances.  We could house every inmate on "death row" in a normal maximum security prison for the rest of their natural lives for less than it costs to house inmates on death row, especially when you add in all the costs of handling the numerous appeals filed on behalf of death row inmates.  Some people argue that if we limited their appeals and killed them faster, it would save money.  But when you consider the number of inmates who have been sentenced to death and subsequently acquitted, if we are going to have capital punishment we MUST allow exhaustive appeals for every death row inmate to minimize the chance that an innocent person is executed.  Anyway, it is the nature of our justice system that the convicted have the right to appeal.  The alternative is a Russian style justice system where guilt is usually determined BEFORE the trial.

4)  Speaking of innocent people being found guilty of murder and sentenced to death:  There are proven cases where, despite the appellate system, innocent people have been executed.  There was a man in Texas last year whose innocence was clearly proven after his trial but, never-the-less, he was executed after the Supreme Court refused to permit any more appeals and the Governor refused to grant a pardon.  What is the moral cost to us, the stain on our souls, if we allow EVEN ONE innocent person to be executed on our behalf?  Life without Parole can be reversed if the person is subsequently acquitted.  Death cannot be reversed.

5)  Even if none of the above are persuasive, consider this:  THE JUSTICE SYSTEM IS RACIST!!!  I've seen the result first hand. Blacks and Latinos are far more likely to be arrested, receive a stiffer plea-bargain offers, go to prison, and yes, to receive capital punishment than are whites.  People of color receive far greater sentences than white people who commit the same crime under the same circumstances.  The causes are many.  Among them:  Inner-city predominantly Black and Latino people usually do not have the resources to hire a good private attorney to represent them; instead they are stuck with an overworked and often younger, inexperienced public defender.  Judges and juries are predominantly white, even in big cities.  Some of the judges and juries could be unconsciously biased, or just plain racist? (Ya think!) Inner-city youth  often grow up in situations that seem hopeless - raised by a single parent who has to work two jobs just to survive, high unemployment, few good role models, dilapidated schools with burned-out teachers who are past caring, gangs, pervasive drug culture - they can easily fall into a pattern of increasingly destructive and illegal behavior.  It is hard to blame a kid entirely when they see no one in their neighborhood succeed, except the local drug dealers who drive nice cars and wear expensive clothes.

Bottom line, we live in a society where racism still exists.  Sometimes there are bigoted people.  More often it is just a social structure that favors people with more money, which roughly correlates with less skin color; what I have always called "institutional racism."  Until we can GUARANTEE that every accused person receives absolutely fair and impartial treatment in the judicial system, I think it is morally bankrupt...no, it is OUTRIGHT SINFUL, to continue executing more people of color than whites.

These are my thoughts, but not necessarily the only way to look at the issue.  I hope it is helpful, but however you vote on this issue, I know you will vote your heart, because I know you have a good heart.

Love you,

Uncle Joel [Lolopop]

Out and About: Lake Chabot

Dearest Daughters,

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

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

And, looky here:

 

Starting our hike at Lake Chabot Regional Park.

Snack break. About two minutes in to the hike.

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

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

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

Errrybody say: hiking!

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

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

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

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

Racing back to the car after a lovely hike!

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

 

And thank goodness.

Love,

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

Dearest Babybel,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And no one lost an eye!

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

Your hair is beautiful. And looks different every day.

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love you no matter what!

 

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Manic Monday: embracing and sharing my diagnosis

Dearest Daughters,

I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you this, but I find myself in new territory; I’m not sure that there is such a thing as a “right” way.

So, I’ll just tell you.

I’ve been diagnosed with bipolar disorder.

You’re three years old and twenty-one months old, so this is of little consequence to you at the moment.

Since my rash of panic attacks, your village of aunties, uncles, ninangs, ninongs and Lola and Lolopop swept you up and away into their arms and laps and homes. Not for a moment did you experience any sense of instability or abandonment. You both are so fully and completely loved. We are so blessed.

Meanwhile, my world lacked any semblance of stability.

I knew something was up with the panic attacks. And when we returned from vacation, I proceeded with caution, lining up all the necessary appointments.

This is a Big Deal, I thought. I gotta handle this ish! Stat!

Little did I know that the panic attacks were just primal, biological (however confused by evolution) fore-shocks, warning me of the earthquake to come.

You’ll recall that in the week after our vacation, I was extremely anxious. Armed with Xanax, I continued to take on the world with feigned confidence, determination to overcome my body and psyche’s hesitancy. I wrote about how I still ran my errands, how I was working on puzzles and doing crafts, how I built an EFFING sandbox in ONE EFFING DAY. I kept blogging. And blogging. And blogging. And talking. And my mind raced, particularly about panic attacks. Round and round in circles.

This, my daughters, is what armed with a diagnosis, new information and perspective, we would call a hypomanic episode. Hypomania is less severe than mania. You have all the energy and drive without the thinking you have Super Powers to Fly Off the Roof part (I’ll let you read more about that stuff here.)

But, I didn’t know it then. Not yet.

And then there followed the dark days. Very dark days. Days I spent curled up in bed, crying and yelling at God, certain that I would never make it out alive. That there was no hope.

It sounds like depression cliches. Uh, duh. Because, as you'll know, if you've ever been depressed, THAT'S HOW IT REALLY IS. Fucking hopeless. (So hopeless that I had to use the real F-word, THAT'S how much I didn't want to exist.)

I moved to Lola and Lolopop's house for a week, where I spent most of the week fetal-position sleeping with Mr. Loyal Cuddly Lapu Dog at my feet and watching television and crying to pass the time between therapy appointments.

My family, talk-therapy and this book saved my life, quite literally.

Kabat-Zinn, J., & University of Massachusetts Medical Center/Worcester. Stress Reduction Clinic. (1990). Full catastrophe living: Using the wisdom of your body and mind to face stress, pain, and illness. New York: Dell Books.

Now, I'm here, thankful that I made it to the other side. Trying to fit it all together. To look for patterns, early warning signs, to figure out how I’ll live the rest of my life with what seems to be bipolar disorder.

Before I was put on mood stabilizing drugs, I felt crazy.

Loved-ones reassured me: if you can say that you’re crazy, then you’re not. Crazy people don’t know that they're crazy.

But, I knew I was crazy. I knew I wasn’t myself. That something else was in control, something that I couldn’t fight alone, something bigger than me, something caused by more than just a stressful vacation or baby blues or an intense five years of marriage and back-to-back child-bearing.

So, for now, I find comfort in my diagnosis. It’s like a doh!-hand-to-forehead-epiphany moment. So, that’s what you were doing all this time? You, Silly Brain, you!

I don’t have all the answers. There are so many unknowns, uncertainties and doubts.

But, this is how my psychiatrist, my therapist and our family are proceeding.

We’re taking it one day at a time. And I’m developing a toolbox of resources and coping-mechanisms that will get me through the next minute, to the next day, to the distant future.

It’s not easy.

And I’m angry. I wish this wasn’t my lot in life. I want things to be back to “normal” RIGHT NOW! To be able to travel again. To be able to go to the grocery store again, God, help me!? To be “all there” and not anxious about caring for you girls RIGHT NOW!

But, I’m learning, ironically, that ALL there truly is, is RIGHT NOW. The past and the future are concepts. And my RIGHT NOW is where I have to live.

So, I’m doing what I have to do to inhabit the Right Now. Prescription drugs, yoga, mediation, sleeping, watching whatever reality show marathon is on today, repeating cheese-ball affirmations to myself as I fall asleep, reading, work-booking, therapy.

Whew! It’s a lot of work. Trying to do nothing. (And trying to not feel guilty about adjusting to my new life of relaxation routines.)

I miss writing to you. And I know that there are a lot of Our People who are out there thinking about and praying for us, who deserve to know a little of what's up with the DDs. More importantly, I like to write.

You’ll have to bear with me. I’m not sure what character or tone my future writings on Dearest Daughters will take. But, now that this is all out in the open, I might find myself back here writing to you from time to time.

I couldn’t, with integrity, continue to write about playdough and snails and peaceful mornings spent in the backyard without being forthcoming about the true context of our lives at this moment.

Girls, please remember, I love you no matter what!

Love,

In full disclosure...

I was all set to publish the post below about identifying the positive parts of my life on Thursday morning. But, after another panic attack at home on Wednesday afternoon, a rough and hopeless couple of days followed, so I never posted it.

Today, I'm out of bed, finally got to a therapy session and my babies are back to visit me for a few hours (they've been under the care of a village of friends of family while beadle stayed home to support me). (I couldn't bear to hear their voices or cries for me through the bedroom door; it worsened my anxiety and a sent me spiralling into inescapable thoughts and feelings.) But, they're here now. And cuddling. And puzzling. And I'm coping.

Heavy sighs and continued prayers.

Also: will take a short blogging hiatus.

Thanks for all the love and support. I am very very truly blessed to be loved by so many and to have the "troops" that rushed to our aid over the past two days.

In the meantime, here's the thing I wrote before, a reminder that there will be a whole lot of ups and downs, steps forwards and backwards, just plain good days and bad days, and it's all part of the process.

Dearest Daughters,

One thing about depression/anxiety is that it causes you to fixate on things. My thing, in particular, involves what I feel to be the inevitable, worst-possible, most-out-of-control outcome on all of planet earth: having a panic attack, in a crowded public space, far from my home, while two unpredictable children are under my care.

That's about 78% of what I think about. The other 22% of the time, I think about how stupid that is and how it sucks to be me. And you, because you have me as a mother.

Oh what a self-fullfilling prophecy! And self-perpetuating too.

I've got an equation for how this feels (right now). It's very mathematical:

(anxiety = depression = more anxiety = more depression) x infinity = the rest of my life

If only we could fuel vehicles on the fear that drives me!? (Hold on a sec, I'm calling a venture capital company right now...)

(They didn't go for it.)

So, you can see why a lot of what I write here focuses on the negative, on the parts that need healing, on the worst of the worst.

It's not only that I'm being transparent and vulnerable, it's also that I'd be able to look back on what I've written here and think, "that was some serious shit and I lived to tell of it."

I'd like to be able to laugh, nay, to scoff at my fears. Not in a belittling way, but in an I-conquered-that way--I climbed that mountain or trudged through that valley and whatnot.

So, in full disclosure, I must also, for the record, attest that while I've probably experienced my emotionally worst day EVER in life so far, there have been many things that go right and that are in my control every single day.

Here's a non-exhaustive list:

- I built a sandbox!

- And have done work on the yard, got a patio set, so we can spend endless hours soaking up Vitamin D.

- I have no problem going to familiar places without Xanax, even with one or both of my Dearest Daughters (depending on the day, of course), i.e. the doctor's office, dropping and picking up your daddy from work, dropping you off with Auntie Jonelle or Auntie Dina, stopping at the pharmacy, getting ice cream at the McDonald's dive-thru, going to church (both of them, actually), going to Lola and Lolopop's house.

Our successful trip to CVS. That may or may not be a bag of M&Ms that Danjo is waving.

- I'm able to run errands by myself (sometimes assisted by Xanax, sometimes not).

- I went to see The Avengers.

- I've been shopping (in stores with walls and bright lights and choices) with Lola a couple of times.

- While driving, I sit calmly in line at stoplights (almost) everyday without wishing I had a monster truck to drive over all the waiting cars.

- I'm taking care of myself, asking for what I need (including asking my husband to stay home. BIG DEAL.), trying not to feel overwhelmed by options, pracitioners, insurance hurdles.

- I haven't lost all civility. But, maybe because I'm taking more intentional care of myself (or maybe it's the drugs), I've unabashedly stood-up for myself, said no, been forthwith, set limits on several recent occasions when I might have otherwise spent time being too polite or accomodating to my own detriment.

- My closet and shoes are organized. It might feel obsessive at times and it's TBD whether it's emotionally productive, but there are benefits to controlling the parts of my environment that I can: I can see our bedroom floor!

- On the other hand, I'm letting go of things that I used to feel compelled to control. For example, your daddy's been doing the grocery shopping and he basically gets some version of the right thing. And I deal with it. And it costs less overall anyway, because he's better at sticking to the list.

- I've completed many, many, many puzzles!

Here I am, trying to be gentle and kind and encouraging to myself. Whew, now that that's done, I'll head back to my corner. Feel free to join me, my always-and-forever-even-if-Mommy's-not-all-there, Dearest Daughters

Love,

P.S. And also, I wrote this just in case one of the People sees me in public and thinks: "Isn't she, like, supposed to be crazy and vomitting or something? Hurry! Run! Fast!" Yeah, you don't have to do that. And you can talk to me too, if you want. I'm not that kind of zombie.

Another Happy Place: Nature

Dearest Daughters,

In about a month (God, drug and therapy-willing), we'll be headed out on our annual camping trip with your Lolopop, Lola and cousins.

And this year, Danjo, you will get to join in the forest-exploring, beach-combing adventures. Which, you would think might give me a panic attack right now, but I know it will all be just fine. Because your older cousins, your Lolopop and Lola will all be there to make sure you don't eat banana slugs.

Meanwhile, I'll take naps in the sun and breath fresh air and eat s'mores all day.

So, this is another something from WAY LONG AGO! What the heck? Time flies!

Join me in a happy place! From our camping trip last year.

Love,

Family Vacation in Ventura: ten things to do with toddlers on vacation

Dearest Daughters,

Thanks to your Ninang Auntie Jonelle, who offered us use of her timeshare, we were able to take our first ever nuclear family vacation, unrelated to business travel!

We usually travel in hordes, Lola and Lolopop's brood alone consisting of over twenty people. Or we're accompanying your daddy on his business travel, which don't get me wrong, provides amazing opportunities, but the trade-off is that he's often busy working. Anyway, it's significant. Trust.

We also were able to spend time with Ninang Auntie Katherine who drove up from Los Angles not once, but twice to spend her days off with us!

Also, got to spend some QT with one of Daddy's aunts in Arroyo Grande for a quick road trip layover. That was a very special treat for you girls who were lavished with toys, attention and a humongous and gorgeous home to stay and play in.

Here's a photo recap of our aptly-paced, lazy, beachy, puzzly visit to Ventura. And some advice for vacationing with young children. Some things are Ventura-specific, but could probably be applied to most any vacation.

First peek of the "real ocean". Not the "pretend ocean," by Bel's distinction.

1. Embrace and enjoy lots and lots of hanging out in our vacation accommodations:

(creating family folklore around "Blue" the sea gull who visited us at sunset every evening)

2. Find a couple of low-energy attractions. In our case: Downtown Ventura, the Mission and Ventura County Museum (perfect quick and effortless visits for short attention spans!)

3. Hang out at a local playground. We found Marina Park. Kids don't need nothing fancy on vacation. But, the view of the beach sure helps Mommy tolerate push-swing arm and playground monotony!

4. Try a non-peak season visit! Ventura Harbor, typical touristy over-priced restaurants, but during the non-peak season, lots of space to let Danjo run (careful not to let her run down the boat docks and straight into the harbor.) And a fun arcade and ice cream to boot:

5. MUST FIND WATER! Harbor Cove Beach, not the most picturesque of beaches, but sheltered by two rock jetties, so safe for toddlers to play all day. And a great place to watch various watercraft head out to sea as well as the amazing, dive-bombing Brown Pelicans which are EVERYWHERE in the harbor area:

6. Discover a nature or visitor center! They're small and support our national or state parks systems. Channel Islands National Park Visitor Center, has a small museum, perfect for a pre-nap, no-boat-needed, virtual visit to the islands:

7. Find some transportation to ride or visit. Fillmore and Western Railway, an historic railway about 30 minutes from Ventura. There happened to be a Thomas event during our vacation, but we might have gone anyway to see the small train museum and checkout the trains on the yard.

Whew! And, in between all that exploration, we didn't forget to take time for:

8. long play-baths

9. long walks to nowhere in particular

and

10. much-needed naps

Love,