dearest daughters & son

pacific the adjective

Dearest Daughters,

There is nothing better for my soul than the ocean.

I’m a Pisces, which is a water sign and though I hate to get in the water, I love looking at it, listening to it, feeling it.

This past weekend, I spent with my best friend, who is also your Auntie Ninang. She is the second best thing for my soul.

She is intelligent, very well-read, fun and a simply lovely travel companion, able to both go with the flow and also set the flow to a pace that is perfectly relaxing (i.e. not manic).

As I typed the word “pacific” into my iPhone this weekend, I noticed that the word did not autocorrect to the capitalized proper noun “Pacific,” as in the ocean. Puzzled, I asked Auntie Ninang if there was a circumstance in which Pacific is not capitalized. And being well-read as I noted before she told me “pacific” meant “peaceful in character.” Which was sort of a duh moment, but also an epiphany, like: of course my favorite ocean would be named after peace.

But then it got me thinking about how the ocean isn’t always peaceful. There are storms and tsunamis, there is the pounding of waves eroding cliffs, there are dangerous rip currents and dark depths, there is a lonely vastness and relentless character to the ocean.

And, yet, I still find peace in that great blue beyond. Peace, knowing that the ocean is ancient, that it is unending, that it is teeming with life, that it provides both a steady rhythm and a placid surface, that if you listen closely, you can hear a million sounds in the single crash of a wave and if you look closely, you can see all the colors there are.

[Insert cliché thought about the nature of the ocean and the nature of life here.]

Here are some photos of our weekend at that tumultously beautiful Pacific Ocean from the shores of Laguna Beach and Crystal Cove, inluding some good company, food and drink.

Just what my soul needed, something pacific:

Love you no matter what,

Woods, April 1, 2014

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You go to the woods to be alone.
I brought two dogs
and my unquiet mind
the bill for the new tires
the loan paperwork
the full house and the empty cardboard boxes
the question of my sanity
my stability
my ability

To climb this hill
to move a step forward
to move down the street
to move a step backward

My dogs, my thoughts and I
we climb high enough to see
the bay, the cities, the trains, the traffic
the airplanes taking off into the clouds

I hear a hummingbird chirping angrily
I watch the vultures circling
I notice the wildflowers
the aquamarine lake in the valley below

We walk higher still
above the trees
to see the approaching storm
rolling in from the west

I feel the power of the storm
The wind strengthening
rustling leaves
creaking the tall and wavering eucalyptus

The first drops

We descend
the rain cold
sheets then blankets
stinging
not comforting or picturesque
painful
and real and true

None of it is in my hands

I am not alone
not in my mind
not in the storm
not in the woods

Separation and Snow

Dearest Daughters,

I have separation anxiety.

Not from you so much (ha!), but from my own parents.

This is something that my ex-therapist readily and frequently pointed out to me. This is also one of the reasons she is my ex-therapist.

The thing is: I'm okay with the way I was raised, with the Filipino influenced culture I come from, with my dependence (and interdependence) on my parents and other family members. I recognize it as a true and rare gift how close I am to my parents, emotionally and physically.

It is true: I live literally around the corner from Lola and Lolopop. And even when I lived fifteen minutes away, it's a rare thing to go more than two days without seeing one or the other of my parents.

It's also true: that I went to college on the other side of the country (and was the only of my siblings to do so). And during my first year of college I came home every other month, perhaps worsening the homesickness, but it's also the only way I made it through.

By Western standards (or so I hear from the aforementioned therapist) I never developmentally separated from my parents, I am too dependent on them, I never left the proverbial nest and, supposedly, this affects my ability to function.

I will own up to the fact that I am more anxious when I do things on my own, or take trips with only my "own" nuclear family. I will accept that I have experienced separation anxiety. And that I need to work on trusting myself more.

But, I wouldn't have it any other way. I wouldn't go back and do anything differently.

I don't believe that my emotional or physical proximity or my dependence interfere with the life that I am meant to live. Those things enrich my life and your lives too.

If I have the option of bringing Lola with me to help me explore Paris with a four month old and two year old, why would I not?

If I'm having a crappy day and can drag myself and two children around the corner to an already-made dinner and the sanctuary of Lola's TV-playroom, why would I not?

If you girls can spend even a minute of your day with your Lola and Lolopop, why would I deprive you (or them) of that time?

For sure, when my parents die, I'll have some serious shit to deal with. But, until then, I'll spend as much time with my parents as I can. I'll make them dinner. I'll get manicures with Lola and run errands with Lolopop. I'll allow them to provide as much support as they want in raising my Dearest Daughters.

Maybe I'm more sensitive than the average person, maybe I'm weaker?

Or maybe I'm just lucky?

[Setting an entire childhood aside--that's too obvious] I wouldn't have survived college, this past year or our recent trip to the snow without Lola and Lolopop. (And, pup pup Lapu!)

Dear Lord, help me when and if my Dearest Daughters leave my side! That's a whole 'nother separation anxiety ball game!

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.

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Reframing, Optimism, Choosing Happiness

Dearest Daughters,

One of the most helpful concepts I've learned in therapy recently is reframing.

It helps me see my husband, your Daddy, asleep on the couch as a peaceful part of the home I've created, not reaching for a beer or some other vice at the end of his day, but comfortable and at ease falling asleep, his daughters playing nearby. Instead of seeing him as a snoring lump, not helping with dinner or child care and ignoring his daughters.

I can see this horrible event--Danjo's dog bite, getting in a car where I'm not the driver, being stuck in a seemingly endless conversation, my entire psychological life crisis--in a different light, instead of fixating on the negative, the things that can't be changed or the past. Danjo is resilient, I can enjoy the scenery, I can be a supportive listening friend, I can envision a whole new way to live.

The past and the future are concepts, right? There is only now. And how one sees now. And while one may argue that there are certain truths to each version of my husband or the dog bite or a boring conversation, the truths don't matter much when it comes to my choice about how to see these situations and the world.

And it's more than just a question of pessimism versus optimism. And I certainly wouldn't advocate any sort of Disney-esque-Princess-rose-colored-glasses-in-the-face-of-the-Beast kind of enchantment or ignorance.

Though there is evidence that optimists are:

    - More successful in school, at work, and in athletics
    - Healthier and longer lived
    - More satisfied with their marriages
    - Less likely to suffer from depression
    - Less anxious (Carter, 2010, p. 78)

I'll take an order of that.

But further, I'm speaking to my experience of being an extreme perfectionist, an over-thinking, judging and critical person, who clings to past failures and makes "logical" guesswork of a future that doesn't exist yet. I'll tell you, this serves no one.

I'll never fulfill the bubbly positive archetype. But, I'm learning to manufacture my own happiness--this is a concept put forth by (once again) my parenting guru, Christine Carter in Raising Happiness.

This does not mean suppressing negative emotions or feelings, but it means being able to bring up or draw on positive emotions when we need them. And to see negative emotions as an opportunity for growth.

You've heard it all, I'm sure: laughter is the best medicine, the thing about smiling more actually making you happy. And it's all true and scientific and stuff.

In addition, "[p]ositive emotions 'undo' the physiological response of negative ones, calming the heart rate and reducing levels of stress-related hormones in our bodies. They turn off, or tone down, our flight-or-fight response" (p. 96).

I'll take two orders of that.

And there is an actual ratio for this "undoing"--it's 3:1--three positive feelings for every one negative feeling (p. 97).

Both living with gratitude and choosing forgiveness over anger have beneficial psychological and physiological effects (p. 69, p.73).

In short, we can choose to be happy.

This does not mean I won't be a pessimist or I'll never have negative experiences. I do not promise that life will be easy and without obstacles or periods of, in my case, depression.

But, I will promise to model for you girls how to reframe, how to choose happiness, to call on positive emotions, to forgive, to do a happy dance.

To look at a cold, stormy day and to see an opportunity to splash, to hold an umbrella, to feel the rain on your face and the wind in your hair, to watch the worms on the ground, to see the green and growing plants and best of all, to warm up with a mug of hot chocolate and "maatch-mallows."

Love,

This Delicious Life

Dearest Daughters,

I had a panic attack about a week ago, two Saturdays ago. It was mild. And utterly embarrassing.

Because I'm supposed to be better, to be getting better. And most of the time I am. But when I'm not, I'm really really really not.

Good friends asked us out to a movie and I thought I could handle it. I dared to think that my life was back to normal, was a life wherein I could play all day and party at night, a life wherein I could throw caution to the wind and say "yes" every single time, never striking out.

Between my psychiatrist, my therapist and me, we could provide you with a myriad of reasons and theories this panic attack struck. This one. And all the others.

But, the thing that I know best now about anxiety and panic attacks is: there is an end.

There is another side. The world won't end. I'll be able to breath freely again soon. My sweaty palms will dry. My racing heart will slow.

I just have to push through to the other side. To ride the proverbial wave. To squeeze your Daddy's hand under the table as hard as the day you were born. To keep breathing. To mindfully control my thoughts, not letting them drift and spiral into darkness, holding myself in the present.

Until it all passes.

The waves and pangs of anxiety, breaking against the shore, crashing, finally diffusing into the sand.

Another day dawns. And another. And another.

Letting go of the past, I moved forward into the week, noting all the delicious things that fill the space of my life, the space where all is calm, all is well, all is right with the world.

“Let everything happen to you
Beauty and terror
Just keep going
No feeling is final”
― Rainer Maria Rilke

The giggles and the screams of cousins playing.

The aforementioned apple pie.

The stifling inland heat that pushed us to the shore, salty and cool. The ocean, vast, boundless--as Lola remarked--our view and vision suddenly flooded by the sparkling water of the Pacific, as we turned onto Highway 1. The way my heart sung at its sight, feeling the sacredness, the holiness, the weight of the ocean, it's cleansing and powerful nature.

“I finally figured out the only reason to be alive is to enjoy it.” ― Rita Mae Brown

The love between a grandmother and her grandchild, also boundless, playful and stern. I think, a perfect love, unadulturated by the parental scars of expectations and put-your-shoes-on-now and time outs.

A baby, still a baby, sick and helpless, crawling into bed at night, which defies all the rules, but her body, sinking down into my arms with the weight of sleep feeling so right.

Extra days spent with my sick baby, cuddling on the couch, playing on the floor, listening to her enjoy her free older-sister-less range of the house.

“What day is it?"
"It's today," squeaked Piglet.
My favorite day," said Pooh.”
― A.A. Milne

Creation, creativity, a space to experiment and grow. The kitchen table, overrun by scratch paper and crayons, where everyday I find a new treasure
to behold, proof that they were here, where I now stand, looking down, hours or moments ago.

“Forever is composed of nows.” ― Emily Dickinson

The strong personalities that surround me. Danjo, who insists on wearing either nothing or a full ballerina skirt--or "mina" as she calls it. The adventures Bel leads her little sister on, throughout our house, in closets and corners and the couch cushions, the reason and knowledge she tries to bestow upon her little sister, explaining as she goes. Danjo, ignoring, but always a shadow.

“Happiness, not in another place but this place...not for another hour, but this hour.” ― Walt Whitman

How an idea can spark and catch. And a painted toe becomes a painted leg becomes a reason to take your shirt off.


And those baby bellies. The embarrassment with which you will look back upon these pictures. But, the beauty I see. In your play. In your personalities, reckless and meticulous. In your spirits.

Pizza night and a fortunately misspoken request. Full tummies, we are thankful for, always.

“Be present in all things and thankful for all things.” ― Maya Angelou

Your daddy, who sometimes gets home early and saves the day. Whose lap is big enough for two daughters, waiting for dinner to be ready.

The autumn sun, pouring into and warming our home, as the days and nights cool.

A certain puppy dog, always near, patient, concerned when his babies cry, and a little bit jealous, wishing he could crawl into my lap too.

The cookies. That is all. (Recipe here.)

And joy and freedom. Getting dirty. And wet, when Mommy relents, finally letting you play with the hose.

“You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment. Fools stand on their island of opportunities and look toward another land. There is no other land; there is no other life but this.” ― Henry David Thoreau

And stillness.

Refreshing quiet and calm. Awestruck, taken-aback, re-focusing moments. Peace. And love.

And a week has passed. Like that. Quick and easy. Too fast, sometimes too real.

Literally and figuratively delicious.

Love,

Turn, Turn, Turn: Apple Picking at Gizdich Ranch

Dearest Daughters,

I went apple picking for the first time my senior year of college.

It was so very New England.

I had Saddy Saturn out East with me, so Auntie Ninang Katherine and I hopped in the car one Saturday and picked some apples at a farm down the road from Wellesley.

At least, I think we picked apples. I mostly just remember a train ride. And being scolded by Auntie Ninang Katherine for sticking my arms outside of the train.

I wasn't drunk or anything.

Really, I promise.

I just can't remember real good.

I didn't know what Fall was until I moved to New England. And it was beautiful for a second, then it got all slippery-decomposing-leaves-on-the-ground and grey, dying depressing.

I much preferred Spring. And that, too, I learned the true meaning of in New England where it was such a beautiful relief and show of God's renewing grace after the Worst Season Ever: Winter.

I am a California girl. And now that I'm comfortably back in my temperate climate, I can glorify and wax nostalgic about the Fall.

It's still seventy degrees outside, but I'm pretending it's Fall.

It occurred to me last fall that maybe they grow apples in California too.

So, I did a little Internet searchy search and both you girls, Daddy and I went apple picking.

That's all to say that I never wrote a post about our trip and the unprocessed photos from that trip have been sitting in a file on my desktop since Forever. Not really. I hyperbolize, obviously. Since, say, give or take, last Fall.

Here some are now:

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Oh, the seasons. They do change. Are a changin'. Whatever.

My babies be gettin big:

 

September 2011

September 2012

And... scene.

Back to the present.

Last week, having fired myself from my Monday/Wednesday day job at the school, I found myself returning to my Tuesdays and Thursdays of self-care and RRR (relaxation routines and rituals) instead of Crazy Errand and Household Running. This is a lot of Days of The Week Talk. I don't expect you to follow it all.

Suffice it to say, my Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays were reclaimed as days to spend (in a better mind-heart-body-state) with my DDs, doing our routine thing. That is: morning outing, lunch, nap, snack, "watching stories"/cooking dinner, dinner, bath, books, bed! Amen.

So, last Monday I had the bright idea... yes, I'm finally getting to the point... to go apple picking again.

Like: a tradition or something! Crazy idea. I astound myself sometimes.

Except Daddy had to work. Because that's what he does on Mondays. And we missed him, but going on a Monday was waaaay nicer (that is, less busy) than going on a weekend like we did last year.

And this year, we brought Lola and Lolopop along to Gizdich Ranch in Watsonville, CA (about a one and a half hour drive from home).

Golden Delicious-es. Oh, and the apples too.

Last year we "accidentally" picked thirty pounds out of excitement. And then had to process all that apple. This year I let the girls do most of the picking. Grand total: seventeen pounds. We'll put up applesauce again. But, we'll also try fruit leather. And try to just freeze some chopped apples for pies later on.

Wearing the sweater I knit her, even though she doesn't like it, because I convinced her it was a "Fall Apple Picking Sweater."

 

My favorite part of the day: Lola telling the girls about the back-breaking work of picking strawberries and her wormy/snakey work on a tomato harvester as a youth. "Go to college," she says. And "thank you farmworkers," we said as we drove past all manner of working fields.

Apple-Ollalieberry Pie

See you next year!

Love you a bushel and a peck (hee hee),

Keep it Simple, Silly

Dearest Daughters,

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

It was simple. Just as life should be.

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

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

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

Life is not complicated.

I make life complicated.

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

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

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

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

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

- taking naps with my kids instead of planning for dinner

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

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

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

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

- reading more books, listening to more music

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

 

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

 

Point Reyes National Seashore

Tomales Bay

 
Coastal pastoral: my favorite combination!

Nature at my doorstep!

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

Love,

 

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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,

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,

Sand Circle DIY

Dearest Daughters,

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

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

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

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

I could build a sandbox, I thought.

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

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

Oh and Pinterest was ever the tease.

Source: apartmenttherapy.com via Terry on Pinterest

Source: remodelista.com via Anna on Pinterest

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

 

 

 

 

Source: younghouselove.com via Melissa on Pinterest

 

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

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

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

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

The inspiration:

Source: google.com via Lauren on Pinterest

 

Source: recycledcrafts.craftgossip.com via Lauren on Pinterest

 

Source: apartmenttherapy.com via Lauren on Pinterest

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dun-zo. Daddy-o.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Come on over! You know where to find us.

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

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

Love,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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