dearest daughters & son

Knowing What You Want

Dearest Danjo,

Even though I've just written you a letter about demanding good behavior and cutting down on other parenting tactics such as explanations, negotiations and bribery, sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do.

In an recent attempt at bribery, I offered you gummy bears if you would walk home from school without whining or being carried. We agreed on five gummy bears, even though I was willing to offer more. You definitely left gummy bears on the table at that negotiation.

When we got back home, I wanted to take a picture of your always fashion forward outfit. Sometimes, you hop up on our porch in front of our red front door backdrop, ready for your closeup. Sometimes, you are Not Having It.

Me: I’ll give you five more gummy bears if you let me take a picture of you. That’s ten gummy bears!

DJ: I don’t want ten gummy bears. I want five.

Me: Are you sure?

DJ: Yes. I just want what I want.

And a truer sentence has never been uttered.

You are definitely a lady who knows what she wants.  And I'm glad to know that you can't be bought. But, just take the damn picture.

(You did, eventually.)

Who wouldn't want to document this outfit?

(I WIN!)

(This battle.)

(In the words of Jay-Z: "On to the next one. On to the next one.")

Love,

Mommy

the best worst day

Sometimes you just have one of those days. The Worst.

 

 

Yesterday, I forgot about gymnastics because I was taking a nap.

 

Today, driving down a narrow road in the rain, I knocked off someone’s driver’s side mirror and put a minor dent and scratch in our passenger side door.

 

While I found the owner at their house, I left Danielle in the car parked out front. When I got back from giving the owner my information, Danielle was hysterical--worried that the police got me [because I’ve told her before that I can’t leave her in the car alone while I go into the grocery store because the police will arrest me #doh #backfired].

 

That last one seems the worst.

 

When things like this happen, my first reflex is to beat myself up--to think about all the things I could have done differently, all the things I should not have done. I want to replay the events in my mind and cringe at my stupidity. Over and over. I want to call myself names. And apologize profusely. I am really hard on myself and I feel like I deserve the lashings.

 

But, I am trying not to be that version of Lauren anymore. It doesn’t do me service. I now recognize that I am not Wonder Woman. I am not perfect. I am not omnipotent. I am not infallible.

 

You know, I probably needed that nap more than the girls needed to go to gymnastics. And an accident is just an accident--and an extremely minor one at that--no one was hurt. And after Danielle climbed into my lap, intertwined our arms, squeezed us closer together, told me she loves me, I knew I didn’t permanently damage my child.

 

You see, the past is really just a concept--there is nothing I can do to change it. No amount of wondering--why I didn’t remember gymnastics or why my spatial awareness sucks or what if the police took me away--will change the past. I just have to acknowledge it, accept it and be in the present--the present where I’m rested, where I’m safe, where I’m loved.

 

Doesn't sound like a bad day after all.

 

Dearest Daughters, we need to be gentle with ourselves. We have to. The world will tell us when gymnastics bills are due, how much it will cost to replace a car mirror, what it takes to be a perfect mother. The world will tell us we’re not pretty enough or smart enough or strong enough. That we don’t deserve attention, time, forgiveness, love.

 

It’s going to seem like the hardest thing to do--because your brain and sometimes other people won’t let you forget--and it’s going to seem like you don’t deserve it--like you ought to stay in time out a little longer--but, listen: this is when you need it most.

 

So, be gentle. Breathe deep breaths. Hold yourself close. Whisper kind thoughts. Cloak yourself in warmth and unconditional love. Give yourself some grace. You have to.

 

Because Mommy said so.

 

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.

To Babybel on the Occasion of Being Five Years Old

My Dearest Babybel,

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Birthday, Babybel.

Love you no matter what,

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,

Taking My Mental Health for Granted

Dearest Daughters,

You may have noticed lately that we’ve been busy—traveling to and fro, camping, birthday-partying, wedding-ing, family reunion-ing, visiting friends and family, even Disneyland-ing! And locally, we’ve been hitting up the playground/library/family-friendly-activity circuit more than usual over the past few months.

And I can gladly say that all of our activity (my activity) is not rooted in mania; just in the enjoyment of life. I am even more elated to say that I feel mentally healthy—more than I ever have in my life.

Once upon a time I hurried through life, operating on Shoulds and Have Tos, unaware of my feelings and the stress I heaped upon myself, suppressed, fighting through life, against myself. I’d say part of the difficult and desperate life I lived was due to my bipolar diagnosis—the chemical imbalances, the moods, the high and low extremes I worked so long, alone and helplessly to moderate.

The other explanation for the life I led is that I was just so damn hard on myself. I had unrealistic expectations of myself, of my life. Perfectionist expectations I could never live up to—that kept me from ever being happy, from ever accepting myself as I am, from ever feeling I was or had enough, from ever experiencing my own life.

And then there was a time when it all crashed down upon me. I felt hopeless. And I know I’ve told this story before, but looking back on the past year, reflecting on the darkness, it all feels like yesterday.

When I think about the pain I felt, my lack of desire to live, my inability to care for you, let alone myself—those feelings all come rushing back. I’m transported to those days of panic and depression, those days I rocked myself back and forth, unable to leave my parents’ guest bedroom, hardly able to watch anything but Storage Wars because anything else reminded me of the life Outside—a life I felt undeserving of and unable to live anymore.

And then there was the time when little by little the panic and anxiety dissipated. I took my medication and I worked SO SO SO SO FREAKIN' hard in talk therapy.

And now here I am. And mostly, those dark days and thoughts never cross my mind. There are days when I leave the house, when I go visit friends or family, when I plan and execute and celebrate a grand third birthday party without any thought of anxiety, without any worry.

I ask for help when I need it. I navigate stress better. I’ve learned to say “no” when needed. I’ve learned to plan better. I’ve learned how to identify and work through manic or depressive episodes. I’ve learned to accept my reality, to stop comparing my life to the lives of others.

I’ve learned to accept that my self-worth is in no way connected to the undone dishes, to the amount of TV you watch, to my education, to my employment, to how much I sleep, to how much I do or what I get done. I know now that I am enough—enough Mommy, enough wife, enough daughter, enough Lauren.

And that revelation is such relief. I feel lighter. I feel free.

So now, most days I leave home without my Emergency Just-In-Case Supply of Xanax. That may not sound like a big deal if you’ve never dealt with anxiety and I don’t mean to sound like I have or ever did have a pharmaceutical dependency, but for the last year I have made sure to never leave home without my medical equivalent of a blankie: teeth brushed? Wallet? Cell phone? Drugs? Check, check, check, check!

Whether or not I used or needed Xanax, every morning for over a year, the possibility of panic crossed my mind. And no matter how far in the past my last panic attack was, I was compelled to think that it could happen again at any moment. Even as days turned into weeks and months and over a year, a pall was cast over every day. I lived, if not in constant dread and fear of panic, at least under its shadow.

But now, I feel like things are not only “normal” once again, but also better than ever. I am better equipped to handle stress, to handle feelings, to handle crowds and panic triggers, to handle my own life.

These days, I take my mental health for granted the way that I imagine most people do every day of their lives when they wake up and make their coffee and welcome the day ahead.

And it feels great.

Love,

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,

More on Introversion

Dearest Daughters,

I've been attending a mindfulness class on Wednesday nights. This is a good thing because:

1) I am doing something for myself, by myself, period.

2) I am expanding my understanding of the mindfulness and meditation practice that I began a few months ago.

3) In his support of my efforts to care for myself (when I finally and sincerely ask), your Dad has committed to come home a bit early on Wednesdays and spends time alone with you playing pirates or Just Dance or, as the case was last night, indoctrinating you into the world of professional sports fanaticism. [Go, Giants!]

On my way home from class last night, my radio tuned to public broadcasting, a serendipitous TED Talk about introversion was playing.

(source)

Turns out it was by the same woman who wrote about Rovers and Sitters in the New York Times last year (remember when I wrote about that?) And continuing her line of research about the value of introverts, she published a book earlier this year: Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking. (Adding that to my reading list.)

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The introvert and academic in me had me bounding into the house to tell your Daddy all about the science and psychology and general amazingness of introverts. But, I'll spare you the animated synopsis and just let you watch the TED talk itself:

After spending the evening in a bit of solitude of my own (albeit amongst meditating strangers), this was a nice bookend to my day.

Like the talk says, we live in a Culture of Personality, not a Culture of Character. So, sometimes it takes some mental and real work for not only society, but little ol' me to stop self-negating, to value myself as I am, stop forcing myself into another mold, embrace the contents of my "suitcase," find my own time alone in the woods or a class or running or just staring into the abyss.

Dearest Daughters, come stare with me? According to Susan Cain, it'll do all of us some good.

Love,

P.S. Bearing in mind the fact that I am raising at least one introvert (in addition to caring for myself):

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Stop and smell the process

Dearest Daughters,

I've been teaching myself how to spend time by myself. With myself. A skill I hope you are developing. Because I ain't so great at it.

Being by myself is a hard feat for someone like me, so accustomed to 28 driven years of doing, achieving and over-doing, over-achieving. It's like telling the Earth to stop spinning, telling TV producers to stop making shows about pregnant teenagers from New Jersey, telling toddlers to stop picking their noses, telling Bel she's not actually speaking Spanish, telling Danjo she can't climb that coconut tree. You catch my drift? Seemingly pointless.

At first, when my anxiety was so pervasive, spending so much time alone felt like a great gift. (Of which I felt unworthy, if my brain wasn't making things complicated enough, it had to throw in a dose of self-doubt and a dash of self-depricamentalation-ating. That's not a word, but it feels like one.)

But, as my mood has leveled out, my desire to watch yet another episode of Real Housewives waned, and my household-related routines have fallen into place, I started to find myself, well, bored stiff. Home alone for stretches of HOURS!

It's almost offensive to our capitalist, Puritan, motherhood ethics. What the hell am I supposed to do with HOURS? Especially if I'm not supposed to be doing anything!?

With a bipolar diagnosis (or maybe in any state), this is tricky territory. There is a fine line between doing and doing too much. Between need to's and should do's and want to's. Between meaningfully occupying oneself and needlessly busying oneself. And over-thinking it the whole damn day.

Of course, I'm trying to keep my eye on that line, so I don't cross it into mania or into simply avoiding, hiding from my hot-mess-self. When I sit down, after my morning routine, after guests have left, after you girls are asleep, I struggle to be still and with myself, fighting the urge to get up again, to finish or to start a project, to call a friend, to plug brainlessly into the multimedia world.

So, in addition to just sitting with myself in formal meditation or yoga, I urge myself to focus on process, rather than results, as I go about my day. Colloquially, to stop and smell the roses.

 

Teaching Danjo how to stop and smell the roses, she taught me how to stop and smell, even, the bushes.

 

Instead of baking bread because I have to or I should. Instead of taking a walk because I need exercise. Instead of walking circles around the house, finding things to put away, wipe down, fix or otherwise do, because I can't sit still with myself for one lousy minute.

Instead. When I can win the battle over myself, I take time to soak in the process. To find the joy and beauty, moment by moment. To tolerate my own company in hopes that I will one day enjoy it. To find me, to be me, not do me.

(Note to Drake: you are wrong, doing you don't work, since you can't even remember what you were doing. Also, why are Canadians taking over America? That's not rhetorical, please explain in the comments, Drake. I'm pretty sure you need a flow chart to navigate all that, but I'm going to let someone else take my idea and run with it ala this Get Low flow chart. You're welcome, Internet, for that brilliant idea. Now, scamper off and do your homework.)

When I start to get uncomfortable with myself (like maybe in that last paragraph?), I come back to the poem below (that I posted here when my life was unravelling). And I try to immerse myself in the process of my life (if only by re-visiting my photo stream), basking in the moments where I felt that life was unfolding before me instead of fighting against me.

(I know the poem is a repeat as are some of the photos for those who follow us on Facebook and Instagram, but put a cork in it and enjoy them again, all right? Consider it a meditative practice, at least, in tolerating redundancy and adorable children.)

"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

 

A little bit of container gardening. With emphasis on containing (myself).

Play is process. Art is process. Play is art is play is process. Huh?

 

Polish and patience.

Baking. Fills time and tummies.

Knead. Knead. Knead. Our weekly pizza dough.

A photo of the results, but baking bread has process written all over it.

Walking at a toddler's pace, slows me down and helps me put time and space in perspective.

Push. Push. Push. To the beat of my heart and the feel of my breath.

Knit. Knit. Knit. Repeat. Probably until December.

Taking in and taking note of the neighborhood flora, otherwise passed over on speedy walks or drowned out in the suburban tract home monotony.

Love,

Question for the People: Are there any activities you do that focus on process? Do tell!

 

 

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To curb my mania and Internet addiction, I only write once a week (if that) on this here blog. So, if you like seeing photos of baked goods, cute kids and the ways I keep myself un-busy during the week, make sure to like Dearest Daughters on Facebook.

 

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.