dearest daughters & son

To Danjo on the Occasion of Being Five Years Old, Version #2

Dearest Danielle/Yelly/DJ/Danjo/Miss Danielle Jolee,

This letter is belated. It wasn’t at first. I sat down before your birthday to write to you. And after 750 words, I stopped.

First Day of Transitional Kindergarten (a.k.a. One Reason Our Lives Recently Exploded)

The words rang hollow. I was trying to be cheerful and positive about your recent developmental milestones, all the ways you make me laugh, fill me with joy and light up my world.

But, I just couldn’t do it.

This past month has been difficult. And as it often seems with you, as soon as we get through your “most difficult stage,” we’re on to the next one. That is to say, less delicately, it gets worse and worse. It feels that way, at least.

Sure, you can walk now (some days of your choosing). Sure, you can talk now (some days of your choosing). Sure, you can get yourself dressed and your teeth brushed (some days of your choosing).

With each passing year, you can do new things. You’re a potty-trained, less clumsy and more talkative version of your former two, three and four-year-old selves. But, each day feels like two steps forward and three steps back, as you truly master the Art of Regression.

Starting school is For Reals a factor in your recent frustrating behavior--or, I should say, in our recent frustrating interactions.

And, it’s partly my fault really--not in the I’m The Worst Parent Ever and I Need The World to Affirm That I’m Not way, but in the I’m The Grown Up and I’m Doing My Best But I Needed to Learn a Few Things About Parenting The Creature That Is Danielle way. Like: I need to feed you more often. Or: Not ask you so many questions about your day.

I don’t say this to give you a complex, but it will: your sister was so easy to parent. In fact, I’m pretty sure she has raised herself thus far.

“Look, I’m such an amazing parent,” I thought. “It’s all paying off: my crunchy, emotional coaching, use your words, listen to your body, no, Bel Bel, we don’t do that, it’s not safe, it hurts our friend’s body and feelings, let’s have some ‘quiet time’ until you can be a good friend again, I like how you are doing good listening and taking your turn and waiting patiently and BEING THE BEST BABY IN THE WORLD.”

And those methods did help Bel Bel. But, now we’re here and you’re five.

And you’re still not using your words when you’re angry. You throw things at me. You hit. You kick. You spit. I have to physically drag you to your room when you need “quiet time” to “calm down until we can talk about it” from which you promptly remove yourself to throw something else at my back as I’m walking away, usually in tears of frustration (mine, not yours). You won’t eat when you need to. You won’t sleep when you need to. You don’t listen, you don’t answer my questions, you outright ignore me.

I once waxed poetic about being Your Ugly Place, but, man, it got real ugleeee.

This past weekend we experienced your worst, threat level orange, nuclear tantrum. And I’m not being dramatic. It will go down in history as The Target Tantrum. All because you wouldn’t go potty in the Target bathroom before we started shopping, but then you did want to, but then you didn’t want to wash your hands, but then you did, but then it was way too late, because you were too far gone and there was really nothing on Earth, nothing I could say that could have helped you calm down as you screamed, “NO, MAMA! NO, MAMA! NO! NO! NO! MAMA!”

Still, part of me wanted to do anything I could to get you to stop screaming at me in the bathroom stall. Gummy bears? Playing on my phone? A sunken treasure? The other part of me was sick and tired and completely ready to make Mommy’s Last Stand.

This is it, I thought. If I do it this one time, when an Icee and the opportunity to spend your birthday money in the toy section is on the line, maybe we won’t have to do this ever again? No more empty threats.

“We’re leaving.”

And the physical struggle from the bathroom to the sidewalk outside where I plopped you down was the longest two minutes of my life.

You kicked, you flailed, you “went boneless” (as the great author Mo Willems puts it), you hit, you screamed. This is all manageable and even laughable when you’re two or four, say, when you exchange glances with other parents, roll your eyes and chuckle, “heh, we’ve all been there, amiright?”

But, you are five. You are basically 40 pounds of muscle. You knocked off my glasses and my purse fell from my shoulders as I barely (if at all) managed to control your body. I had to drag you for portions of our Longest Ten Yards. I’m really not exaggerating.

People stared. And I’d like to believe they didn’t judge, but even pity still casts us as sad, helpless characters. And I’d like to say I didn’t care, but wouldn’t you? You, Danielle? Maybe not. You don’t care. But an adult who isn’t a sociopath? You care.

I was mortified--which is a word I’ve never genuinely used and have only seen in stories I read in Seventeen magazines in the 1990s about your tampon falling out of your backpack at school. I felt powerless and abused and inept and frustrated and the truest meaning of “at my wit’s end.”

As I sobbed outside of Target, trying to not let you see me cry, you flailed on the ground and made yourself throw up (a.k.a. gathered every ounces of saliva in your mouth to dramatically spit on the ground). And I wondered how I would ever make the fifty more yards to the car with you acting like this.

You are your own person, they say, with hearty guffaws. Oh, it will serve her well as an adult, they say. But they are not there, waiting to pick us up in the Target loading zone, or when you throw something at me while I’m driving, or when you snipe at me at school pickup when all I did was ask you how your day went, or when you scream at me for doing or not doing or slightly less than you’d prefer I’d do something, or when you try to tell me that things completely out of my control are “all your fault, Mama”--all I want do is cry and scream and curse the heavens like you do.

And, I do. Clearly.

But, I also try to explain to you. I try to guilt you. I try to bribe you. I try to negotiate with you. I try to plead with you.

I’ve babied you. Because, duh, you’re my baby. And you’re cute. And you make me laugh when you’re not making me cry.

I’ve taken your behavior personally--as an attack on my parenting methods, as an attack on my ability to be a parent, as an attack on me.

I’ve read you wrong. They’re right, you are your own person. And you call for a very different type of parenting than I know how to provide. I don’t know you.

So, we’re sending you away.

Okay, not really. But, I’m trying, grasping, learning.

Mostly, I’m trying to not take things personally--to not feel sorry for you, to not get too emotional or to not tap into your feelings as an approach to solve our conflicts.

No more explaining. No more warnings or second warnings or third warnings. No more “quiet reflection time”--let’s call it what it is: Time Out. Clear consequences and zero tolerance for disrespectful, unacceptable behavior.

And, more snacks. Lots more snacks. I don’t care if they’re marshmallows, but keeping you fed is half the battle.

It sounds so straightforward. And all the parents of decades past are shaking their heads. And I feel like a moron for thinking my instinctual parenting style (which worked with Bel), would work for All The Children.

Okay, now we’re 1300 words in. Maybe I should have just stuck with the fluff piece?

Seriously, truly, I do love you no matter what. I’ll try to remember that as I peel away from the curb, glancing in the rearview mirror to see you staging your inevitable Costco food court sit in over the Injustice of the Cheese Pizza You Ordered But Instead You Wanted Pepperoni But I Can’t Read Your Change of Mind So You Blame All Your Problems on Me and Throw Up All The Samples You Screamed About Wanting But Then Only Took One Bite Of Before You Threw Them at Your Sister.

And then, I’ll turn the car around and come back for you.

Love,

Mama

On the Occasion of Being Sick, In Pain or Generally Miserable

Dearest Daughters,

I brought Babybel to the doctor this morning where he confirmed double ear and sinus infections.

My stoic babe, I wish I could have taken away your suffering sooner.

When Danjo, my “less healthy” and—let’s face it—whinier child emits even the smallest of whimpers, I rush her to the doctor, one-hundred-percent certain she has an ear infection. Multiply that by about a million times and you’ll know what the past three years have felt like.

All the while, sweet girl, your germs were festering. And I only put two and two together when you woke in the middle of the night with your head throbbing, crying because you needed help falling asleep. You’re such a sound sleeper and haven’t needed help falling asleep since you were an infant.

I’m not writing this letter to rake myself over the coals.

It’s that, in this moment, I see myself in you. I see my inner five year old. And I want to tell her so many things.

Maybe it is my stoicism that helped me mask my mortal weaknesses like illness or depression or the simple ups and downs of life. Or maybe it was those things that lead to my stoicism.

Either way, I see the same thing happening in you. You act so strong and so brave; and I want to tell you that you don’t have to act that way. That you just are, even in your weakness, because of your weakness. We are born strong, reslient. You have nothing to prove.

No sooner had the doctor written out your prescription than you fell apart. I shouldn’t say you fell apart so much as you finally had permission or allowed yourself to be the sick five-year-old you have been the past few days. You suddenly felt sad and worried and just plain crummy.

And that feeling resonated with me—the floodgates opening after so many days, months, years of holding them shut.

As I held you in my lap while waiting at the pharmacy, cradling your barely-cradle-able body, you shivered, your body fighting back germs, and you fighting back tears.

All I wanted to do was to tell you that I’m here, that you’ll be just fine, that there’s no reason to cry. But, the truth is: I won’t always be here, that sometimes you won’t be fine and that you have all the reason in the world to cry.

(Dearest Readers, if you’re burnt out on my mindfulness and emotional coaching lectures, then you can stop reading three paragraphs ago.)

One of the hardest things to do as a parent, is to sit with you in your pain, to let you cry and feel sad, worried and crappy. To let the tears flow. To tell you that it is so, so, so okay to feel everything you are feeling even if it means more tears and even a little bit of hysterical vomit.

So, we let your tears flow some more, let them mingle with my own, reminding myself it’s okay to cry too (in our second week of illness)—let the people in the pharmacy line tilt their heads at us, wondering if they should call a relative, an authority, an emergency responder or some combination thereof.

And when I’m (mostly) done crying, I know it’s my job to coach you through those crappy feelings—as I have done so many times for myself.

I sat there, praying to God that the pharmacist would call our name already, wanting to go home too, wondering what I could possibly do—not to make you stop crying, but to help you through your pain to the other side, as I like to think of it.

And I imagined my most helpful ally in times of anxiety and panic: water—from whence we come, quenching thirst, the first medicine, the ocean, tears and sweat and baptism.

I told you a story about the waves. I asked you to imagine yourself floating in the water peacefully, maybe in a boat or on a blowup alligator. And you looked at me like the crazy, crunchy momma I am. And I told you that feeling sad and yucky is like a storm. The waves are really rough right now, but the storm will pass, you just have to breathe.

I’ll pause the mumbo jumbo melodrama for a second to say that breathing, prayer or reciting mantra will no more cure you of your sinus infection than they did my depression. But, it sure does help you make it through the storm.

You have to know that a storm can’t last forever. That you can ride the waves, let them wash over you. That soon the pain-reliever and antibiotics (thank you for modern medicine) will start working. That your fever will subside. That your pain will diminish. That you will find comfort and relief (in your lovey, netflix and mommy’s hugs). That your strong and wonderful body will do the work it needs to do to heal. That popsicles and crackers will sustain you.

That you can trust in all of this and in the knowledge that you are safe and secure. That you can let go of trying to feel better, let go of the yuckiness and finally rest (literally, please, go to sleep).

And in this small instance when you wake, the storm will have subsided. And, it is my hope, that you will have learned a little bit about how to weather life’s storms no matter how small they are or how big they feel.

Love you no matter what,

P.S. By the time I published this, you woke up, your fever was gone, you ate some jello, kept down your antibiotics. You were back to your healthy self, thoughtfully asking your sister about what you missed at school and whether you could eat the Valentine's candy she brought home for you. That is to say, you survived the storm, more importantly, Mommy did too!

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

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

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,

----------

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!

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.

Have I Told You Tuesday: Mommy Panics

Dearest Daughters,

This is hard.

And a really new thing. New, like, baby chick new. Like, two days ago new. Well, my realization is new, but the history of what I'm about to tell you is at least as old as me.

This moment is very fresh and some would advise against publishing my un-vetted, un-in-retrospect feelings on the Internet. But, I thought, maybe someone out there can sympathize or tell me it'll be okay or give me some tips? I also thought: but, I don't want my in-laws or my sister or my aunts and uncles to know!

Ultimately, that thought compelled me to share this. Because, I present so much of our lives on this website; it was my original premise to be transparent, to share the good and the bad of parenthood, of being a family, of your beloved mommy; so it would be just plain wrong to act as if today was no different from yesterday.

Basically, I have anxiety issues. And, currently, am developing a self-diagnosed panic disorder. It's so melodramatic! But, I'm highly self-aware so, I both laugh and cry to think of it! LOL! Waaaah!

Well, there's lots that I can say and will continue to say, background and foreshadowing and a whole story that was and is and will continue to be.

For now, suffice it to say, I've endured two panic attacks in one week. (All on our sunny, happy vacation! Which, I do not mislead, was thoroughly happy and sunny in-between the panic attacks.) And that was the beginning of the end.

This is a stream-of-consciousness email I wrote to Lolopop this morning, so sorry if it doesn't all make sense or you're missing some background info, but here goes:

Thanks, Daddy.

I'm going to my PCP on Wednesday, hopefully to get a referral to talk to a psychiatrist or psychotherapist or whomever. I plan to insist on it.

Not sure if it's a curse or a blessing, but it's really been the past year that I've started to realize my "suddenly not feeling good" is related to my anxiety levels and are basically panic attacks. And I'm starting to recognize my triggers, primarily travel, crowds, social situations I have pre-existing dread about and being in places where I feel trapped. This is on top of whatever general stress, worry and anxiety I have in my day-to-day life, which I tend to discount, given that I live a pretty blessed life. But, it's become a vicious cycle, fueled by not taking care of myself, not eating often enough, not drinking enough water, ignoring headaches or other minor ailments, not exercising or having time to de-stress, drinking too much coffee (damn you, Keurig!), trying to do much for too many.

I think back to incidents as a child that I'd characterize as panic attacks, and to times in college, just getting on the airplane to leave that I thought I wouldn't make it. But, I always did. It's with the addition of children, of these little dependent creatures, that my anxiety has increased, that I've had more frequent and stronger, more uncontrollable panic attacks.

So, this realization is what's driving me crazy. I understand and can explain and intellectualize my anxiety, but I can't help it. While in retrospect I can see what triggered my recent panic attacks, in the moment I didn't know they were going to happen. It was unexpected, I thought everything was fine. And then I'm consumed by a rush of adrenaline, heart-racing, nausea and (yay!) diarrhea. Then, it's a snowball, a monster, I'd even go so far to say that it feels like a demon takes over and I can't control it. And I want to. And the anxiety about throwing up, about how to get out of the bathroom, let alone the HUGE Los Angeles Zoo (!), about beadle and the girls and their health and happiness, about my inability to take care of them, let alone myself; it all just builds and builds and I can't stop it.

Beadle's being good and supportive, as I talk and talk and talk about it. And I sound so sane when I talk, but I feel like a crazy person inside. I'm just living in fear of when another panic attack will happen. Especially since beadle is leaving for a week. I can hardly look at the girls without starting to feel sick with anxiety that I'll have a panic attack and be unable to care for them. I'm afraid to leave the house, my stomach turns when I think about standing in line to buy groceries.

Each night, since Saturday, I think: I just need to go to bed, to end this day, to reset and in the morning it will be better. This morning has been fine so far, but all we've done is dropped beadle off at BART. I have plans this afternoon to drop the girls off with Dina and go grocery shopping and I'm sure I'll be fine. But, this little demon looms in the back of my mind. I just keep trying to distract myself, to play with play dough and keep talking to the girls, to read something on my iPhone when my thoughts start to turn. But, even that feels strained, I know I'm just tricking myself and I feel a little fake, like I'm just numbing my senses, taking my glasses off, trying to concentrate on nothing at all while trying to concentrate on something specific.

I know, in general, what I need to do. I took some time to do some breathing and yoga last night. I took Maribel to the doctor yesterday, because I had to and I was focused enough on the task at hand to not even think about having a panic attack, until we were sitting in the waiting room and the downward spiral of "what ifs" and "where's the bathroom" and "what do I do with Maribel?" began. But, we were called into the office, I distracted myself with my phone and we made it home fine, my heart racing nonetheless. Beadle was home so I made us take a walk to McDonald's to get ice cream, but I couldn't go in, for fear of the smells and people. I didn't even feel like eating ice cream!!!

It's just the thought of a panic attack that gets my heart racing, so I feel paralyzed, I don't even want to enter that territory. And I feel so so so so mentally ill. Like, literally. I'm a crazy person right now, my brain is eating itself.

Beadle said, "you're just over-thinking it." To which, I replied, "that's exactly the point."

I'm pretty sure that over-thinking and excessive worrying are in my genetic code. So, I accept that my anxiety is a pre-existing condition and that I need to be intentional about, going forward, trying to maintain a general anxiety level 3 or 4, rather than the 7 or so at which I usually operate.

So, again: take care of myself, physically, emotionally, etc.

But, it's the meantime that worries me.

Maybe another day without incident, another night's sleep and I'll stop worrying about panicking?

Or, just give me the drugs for now!!! I'll talk coping mechanisms and guided imagery and general de-stressing-counseling and exercise later!

Can't wait until you guys get home! To give me big hugs and let me cry and tell me everything will be okay.

Love,
Lauren

To Babybel on the Occasion of Being Thirty Four Months Old

Dearest Babybel,

You are blessed to have so many cousins.

I am blessed that you're finally at an age where I can throw you in a room with said cousins and forget about you. Between your older cousins and your same-aged cousins, you had plenty of supervision and entertainment during our Thanksgiving visits.

In fact, when your cousins are around it's less a matter of encouraging you to play with them and more a matter of you running away to the play room, not seeing you for five hours while you avoid all adult interaction.

Once in awhile you make a boo-boo inspired appearance or surface for a drink. And once in awhile, I catch snippets of your cousin adventures.

Yesterday, you were coloring.

Cousin A: Look at my drawing of my family!
Bel: Awww, that's so awesome! How clever you are!
Cousin A: Thank you. How clever you are too.

Who wouldn't want to spend time with such civilized little human beings?

Until they start playing "mean bouncer" and kick you out of the club. Which was a little sad for your Dad, the cool-kid-extrovert, to witness when all your cousins young and old were busy playing and you were the only one NOT ALLOWED!!! VIP access to the play room.

It's a good lesson. Because even bad experiences help you to grasp the concepts of Kindness and Caring. Our Lessons of the Year at Chez Gibbeadle.

There was a time period when you ignored your sister. A blubbering ball of spit-up and vomit, she was of little significance to you. Then, she started to mess with your shit. And you'd retaliate, and I'd respond, letting you know it was "NOT OKAY. Period." to hit, shove, push or bury her in pillows. But, you were both a little on the young side to really understand The Why part.

Now that she's a walker and understands basic English, you have begun to play together. It warms my heart to see your joy as you run in circles around each other or throw Duplos at each other.

And let's be honest. The more you two can entertain yourselves together or apart, the more time I have to waste on the Internet.

But, you are both still toddlers. Depending on my mood or where I am in preparing dinner, I let you two duke it out. But, occasionally I'm driven to intervene and actually "parent."

To Babybel on the Occasion of Being Thirty-Three Months Old

Dearest Babybel,

I can't handle you right now.

Seriously. I can not.

Here are four things I can't handle about you.

1) I can't handle your silly, crazy humor. You're a crack-up.

It seems you've reached a developmental stage where things that are funny to grown-ups are also funny to you.

Lolopop has always noted both your sister's and your "sense of humor." As babies, you'd make a face or some sort of unintelligible declaration. "She's telling a baby joke," he'd note. Then, you'd dissolve into giggles. Or scrunch of your face and smile like, "that was a good one, huh, Mommy?"

Then, we moved to the stage of decipherable declarations, but the humor was lost on us adults.

"Eyeballs!" has been a perennial favorite. Or, "NO NOSE!" which I like to think that I get, so I laugh along. But, I see you rolling your eyes, like: "She soooo doesn't get it. No use pretending, lady."

More recently you've been laughing at things that adults laugh at.

You know, the good stuff. Bodily functions and their respective parts. People, especially your sister, falling down. And characters in movies saying or doing silly things.

Babybel's Rememberances

Dearest Daughters,

It's sort of an intense week, between Danjo's first birthday and baptism, inspiring my last couple of "religious" posts and the upcoming ten year memorial of September 11th. I have an upcoming post about September 11th, my memory of it and what it means for you girls who, ten years ago, were not yet a twinkle in my eye. Also, a birthday post for Danjo that I REFUSE to write because I REFUSE to belive that she is turing ONE on Saturday.

But, today, for the sake of both levity and brevity, I give you, verbatim, Babybel's "Remembrances" in the car this morning.

---

We drive past Chili's Restaurant.

"Mommy, remember I suka-ed [Filipino-lish for "vomited"] there?"

[The event she recalls, was about a year ago, because Danjo was a tiny baby at the time. Like mother, like daughter. I can list every time I've ever vomited.]

"I was waiting for you. And I was sad. And I cried. And I suka-ed ALL OVER. Ninang and Lola were there. But, not Daddy."

---

"Mommy, remember when Lolopop swim under the sea with the turtle? When I'm get bigger I can do that. I'm swim with the turtle. And look at his FACE! When I'm bigger like Lolopop."

---

"Mommy, remember when I'm went to the park? And go round and round and round? And twisty turny slide? And my best friend, David and Ava, my best friend, and Elyse and Simona, my best friends? And we all fall down and laugh and laugh. And I'm wear my princess dress. You put me in bed. And I'm saw a princess. And then, I woke up!"

So either you're dreaming great playground princess dreams or you snuck out last night. If you're the parent of one of her best friends, please let me know if your child is also exhibiting signs of late-night fairytale romps at the park.

Love,

Have I Told You Tuesday: The Infamous Park Bench Edition

Dearest Daughters,

There's this story that I go back and forth about telling you. Should I? Shouldn't I?

How much do you REALLY need to know about your mother? Will telling this story embarrass me or shame my family in front of the WHOLE World Wide Web?

Then again, it's humorous and there is, indeed, a lesson to be learned. And it's really not THAT dramatic, it was just one night I made a bad choice. And you know how I am about the whole "make good choices" thing.

Also, this site, at it's core, is about vulnerability. About saying the things other people don't or won't say. About not hiding things from you. Most importantly, about being honest with myself.

If you're my parent-in-law or future employer, my apologies. Pretend you didn't read this. Or all those things I write about poop and vomit.

...

I spent the night on a park bench. In a foreign country. THERE! I said it.

It was February in Rio de Janeiro, which is in the Southern hemisphere, so it was a nice night. I wasn't cold at all! And it was in Urca, a really nice, secluded neighborhood of Rio. And it was right outside of the building that I was locked out of, so I was TOTALLY safe.

(original image source)

Nevertheless, not the smartest idea.

Sickies

Dearest Daughters,

Got Sicky Number One to fall asleep by cuddling her on the couch. That hasn't happened in a long time. You must be sick:

Meanwhile, Sicky Number Two is too busy with her Mission to Dominate All Inanimate Objects in Our Home to let the bug keep her down.

She looks sprightly, but trust me, if her diapers could talk, they would tell you a different story.

Get better soon, my girls. So, I can go back to ANYTHING more pleasant than catching, containing and cleaning up, how shall we say it?... um, the symptoms?

Love,