dearest daughters & son

To Babybel On The Occasion of Being Fourteen Years Old

To Babybel On The Occasion of Being Fourteen Years Old,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love you no matter what,

Mommy

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.

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,

--------

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

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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,

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

Dearest Daughters,

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

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

You quickly come around.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love you no matter what,

I've tasted life and it happens to taste like chocolate ice cream

Dearest Daughters,

There's nothing like a knock-down-drag-out fight with an ordinarily agreeable 3-year-old; when your husband's out of town; when your little brother, a mere sixteen months your minor and closer than close, moved across the country--wait, there's more--when you suddenly have two jobs where once you had none; when your therapist has been out of town the past three weeks; when your newly-minted two year old has diarrhea and has also managed to un-sleep-train-herself, climbing, unnoticed, into your bed in the middle of the night while you're on heavy sleep-inducing drugs; when you haven't gone for a run or done yoga in longer than you'd like to admit--all to make you feel, as the three year old is screaming and throwing pajamas at you thirty minutes past bedtime, like you just might be the worst mother in the world.

And then, you calmly, as calmly as you can, hold back the tears of frustration and rejection-by-your-beloved-child, resist the urge to collapse on the floor next to your babies and the dog you're dog-sitting that's, btw, having a doggy panic attack. You put everyone, including yourself, in a separate room until we can all calm down. You take a breath. Maybe a hundred.

You tell the two year old to get back into bed. Once. Maybe a hundred times.

You tell the three year old, as her hysteria subsides, that she did not win this bout. That she can be as mad and sad and frustrated as she wants about not having the right jammies, but it is NOT OKAY to scream or throw things at Mommy.

And Daddy will happen to call in the middle of it all. He'll hear both sides of the story. And run interference--and unknowingly set a melancholy upon the house, his absence palpable.

And you'll hug your three-year-old with her unruly curls, sitting in her Hello Kitty panties at the end of her bed. And she'll tell you "sorry for yelling and throwing."

And you'll reply, "sorry for not listening about your pajamas," but edging in again, for good moral measure, "it is okay to be mad, but it is not okay to scream and throw things."

"I'm sorry we had a fight," you'll say, as you brush her hair out of her face and give her a kiss on her sweaty, tired forehead.

"I love you no matter what," you'll add.

"And I love you too," she'll say.

"And, Danielle, GET BACK INTO BED!" you'll both remind the acrobatic two-year-old, reeking again of liquid poop.

And when all is said and done, when the diaper's been changed, the prayers prayed, the lullaby crooned, it's an hour after bed time when you turn off the lights, shut the door and decide it's time for The Chocolate Ice Cream.

And it will seem so trivial. And melodramatic, the thick dark chocolate coating your tongue. And like you have no right to complain when there are people without health care or clean water or any family at all.

Nevertheless, you'll remind yourself, the feelings must be felt for life to move on.

And you'll search for some wisdom, for something bigger than yourself. This is also known as: looking up quotes on goodreads.com and putting them on your blog.

“to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.”
― Ellen Bass

“Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don't resist them; that only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like.”
― Lao Tzu

“For after all, the best thing one can do when it is raining is let it rain.”
― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

“Feelings come and go like clouds in a windy sky. Conscious breathing is my anchor.”
― Thich Nhat Hanh, Stepping into Freedom: Rules of Monastic Practice for Novices

“Feelings, whether of compassion or irritation, should be welcomed, recognized, and treated on an absolutely equal basis; because both are ourselves. The tangerine I am eating is me. The mustard greens I am planting are me. I plant with all my heart and mind. I clean this teapot with the kind of attention I would have were I giving the baby Buddha or Jesus a bath. Nothing should be treated more carefully than anything else. In mindfulness, compassion, irritation, mustard green plant, and teapot are all sacred.”
― Thich Nhat Hanh, The Miracle of Mindfulness

“You might be tempted to avoid the messiness of daily living for the tranquility of stillness and peacefulness. This of course would be an attachment to stillness, and like any strong attachment, it leads to delusion. It arrests development and short-circuits the cultivation of wisdom.”
― Jon Kabat-Zinn, Wherever You Go, There You Are

“People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that’s bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they’re afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they’re wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It’s all in how you carry it. That’s what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you’re letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain.”

― Jim Morrison

 

“Life is not a problem to be solved, but a reality to be experienced.”
― Søren Kierkegaard

 

“If you've never eaten while crying you don't know what life tastes like.”
― Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

And, with that, your spoon scrapes the bottom of the re-purposed salsa container, holding your homemade chocolate zinfandel ice cream.

And, I guess you could say, you've tasted life.

It was a little salty, but mostly sweet, bitter and pungent, sticky and cold, mind-numbing and velvety, rich and thick, hard to chew, but easy to swallow.

Love,

To Danjo on the Occasion of Being Twenty-Two Months Old

Dearest Danjo,

Hello there, silly goose!

You and your sister came home from vacation last night. And it was horrendous.

Like horror movie horrendous: tantrums, spinning heads, vomit and, I kid you not, avocado green diarrhea. You. Are. Welcome. For that visual. (You're not eating while you're reading this, right? Oh, you are? Avocado on your salad? Guacamole? Mmmmmm.)

I've written before about the world-wide phenomenon of Ugliness Upon Arrival. It goes that, even, the most well-behaved children, having spent a lovely day (or week) away from their mother, pleasant little civilized humans, out and about in the public eye; these creatures completely deteriorate upon sight of said mother and arrival home. And yesterday afternoon was further proof that I am, indeed, your ugly place.

Your saving grace: bedtime.

And a new day, wherein I squeeze you close, send you off to daycare and sit here, nostalgically recalling your twenty-second month of life, lingering on the good stuff.

Every month I tell you that words don't do you justice. So, instead of writing this month, I made this for you:

To Danjo on the Occassion of Being Twenty-Two Months Old from Lauren Gibbs-Beadle on Vimeo.

 

Love,

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Holler! Make sure to like Dearest Daughters on Facebook if you want to keep up with Danjo on the Daily. See you here next week!

To Danjo on the Occasion of Being Twenty-One Months Old

Dearest Danjo,

You are my baby.


Even though you're nearly two years old. And need to start getting your act together. Before I kick you out of the house, Missy.

You have certainly entered your terrible twos, in this, your second year of life. You hit. And yell untranslated profanities. And throw yourself on the ground. And yell "NO" in response to almost everything and anyone, except your buddy Lolopop. You continue to get into and onto your environment, particularly if the objects around you seem to pose a physical threat or challenge.

You've begun to utter decipherable phrases, mostly to express your desires:

Iwandown = I want down

Iwanwapu = I want water OR I want Lapu

Iwanuppies = I want you to pick me up

Iwango = GET ME OUT OF THIS HOUSE BEFORE I EXPLODE

Idonwanit = I don't want it or DID YOU HEAR ME, LADY? I DON'T WANT IT. DAMMIT!

And a smattering of words, pronunced in a yet to be determined accent, e.g. cao = car, ca = cow, puppa = puppy/dog, et alia.

And when words fail, you do not shy from grabbing my hand, pulling with all your might and yanking me in the direction of your desires, until a series of yes or no questions confirms your six AM demand for jelly beans or your eagerness to go outside for a "run" (because you don't take "walks"--those are for mere mortals).

You are such a people person. You know how to make the people around you laugh, melt and generally cave to your every whim.

You are the child of a million looks. Your face makes expressions that cannot be captured by the English (or any) language; looks that are only done justice by being in your overwhelming presence.

I'm glad to have been forced by the state of my mental health to learn how to live in, be aware of and embrace the present. So I can capture, preserve in my heart, all those looks, all those hand tugs and all those adoring (i.e. manipulative) kisses and squeezes you dole out.

You, as children are wont to do, are growing before my eyes. A-mazing.

Nevertheless, you are still my baby.

And, holding you in the morning when you wake up, snuggling into my side, settling in, filling the empty space around my body where you belong--I soak you up and in. And the thought crosses my mind that you may be my last baby.

In my plan of plans and my mind of minds I was going to have, at least, another child. But, circumstances being as they are, there is a distinct, though not definitive--if I'm learning anything, it's that there is no such thing as defintive--possibility that you are my last baby.

So, we haven't weaned you off of a bottle (which you do prefer). And from time to time, you're afforded the luxuries of being a baby: being rocked to sleep, finding your way into our bed in the middle of the night, your wishes indulged. You're given the benefit of the doubt that you "don't know better" when it's very likely that you do.

Please do stop me when it seems that I'm holding on to something that's no longer there, living in the past. But, for now, I'll embrace the moment, in which, you're only twenty-one months old, not even two, still a baby.

Love you no matter what,

 

 

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My new project

"Love after Love"

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

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

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

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

- Derek Walcott

More on poem and Jon Kabat-Zinn's Science of Mindfulness can be found here.

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.