Dear Baby,
It is only a few hours until midnight. And a new year is upon us. 2010. You third new years. Your 2nd bday is only a few months away. And it's all flown by. The last decade in fact. Flown by.
To ring in the year 2000, your father and I (then only engaged) went with a bunch of friends to Peyton, Arizona to my friend Jason Sheppard's Grandparents Cabin in the woods. We were all mildly concerned that all of the computers of the world were going to go agro when they hit 2000 and were more concerned that crazy people were gonna do crazy things in anticipation of the new millennium. It seemed wise to head to the woods, drink beer and play video games. So, that is where I was a decade ago.
This year, with your grandparents in Vegas, your dad and I have decided on a quiet night at home. 2010 will be rung in with a whisper in the Kellett house this year. But, not to worry, we're confident that it will be a great one...
Which leads me to the "lesson" of the night. And it's about rebirth and transformation. You see, baby, the greatest thing about a new year is that is it new. We can try something different. Be someone new. We can transform into anyone we want. Now this doesn't have to only happen at the new year, of course, it can happen anytime. But something about a new year makes it more poetic. I encourage you to constantly be brave enough to try new things. Find new versions of you. Never get complacent, baby. Get comfortable being uncomfortable. It's exciting!
I'm not one for resolutions but I am one for goals...which is sort of the same thing. But for some reason I feel like assholes make resolutions and never commit to them. Whereas awesome people with vision and imagination (e.g. your momma) like to make goals. My "goals" for this year are to:
1. Get in shape (this is a lifelong goal...and NOT a resolution e.g. assholes)
2. Spend more time doing for others (I feel most in touch with God when I'm doing good for strangers)
3. Be a better mommy (More quality time with you. More classes together. Read more books about ways to help you be the coolest baby EVER, etc.)
4. Be a better wife (Cook for your dad. Say "please" and "thank you" more. Have more date nights, etc.)
5. Be a better friend (Spend more time with people I love to be friends with. Let them know how grateful I am that they are in my life, etc.)
Now, I also want to make more money and do better at work, etc. But those are the shallow asshole goals. The five above are the good stuff. And I do believe that transformation is possible within myself...meaning it is possible for you. Any time you want.
Today you went to the park twice. Once with me this morning and once this afternoon with your dad (while he let me go see a mediocre movie). You LOVE the park. Mostly the sand. You love to shape it and hold it and pour it from one container to another. You are also into the slide but the sand is your favorite. You love to laugh. You laugh at the craziest stuff. It's awesome to see you laugh. You kiss me on the lips a lot. Which is something I used to see parents do and think was weird...but I get it now. It's pure and sweet and lovely. You play with blocks and love to throw the ball and read tons of books and can pee pee and poo poo on the potty. This has been a good year for you, baby. And, to think, next year will be even more amazing. Even more transformative...I can't wait.
Happy New Year, baby.
Love, Mommy
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Lesson #17: Expect the Unexpected
Dear Baby,
I'm a planner. I take great comfort in planning and scheduling. Because, for me, in a world of unknowns I like to know what I'm doing tomorrow, and next week, and next month, etc. Not sure what you'll be like yet. But this behavior of mine is something that, by the time you read this, you are not at all surprised by. Now, here's the kicker about planning. Things, no matter how much I try, don't always go according to plan. Now, this used to make me nuts. But then I "planned" to always expect things to not go according to plan. I still plan. I still hope when I plan that things will go according to that plan. But if they don't I'm okay with it. Now, I roll with it. Because I already planned to in the first place.
Last year was your first Christmas. And on the Sunday following Thanksgiving, we went to The Grove to the magical Santa House to meet Santa for the first time. I planned on us getting there right at 11am when the mall and Santa's House opened. But my plan was thwarted as people started lining up early. We waited for almost two hours to see Santa. It ended up being worth it. We (your Abuela, Abuelo, dad and I--you call them Abu-dab-a-dee, by the way) all drank coffee and told funny stories about meeting Santa when we were kids. And after we went to the yummy FARM to eat brunch. It was lovely. But I vowed that next year we would get there early.
So, true to form, this year I planned. We would pick up my folks at 10am. We would be at the mall by 10:30am. We would be ready. And that's what we did. And at 11:15am, we saw Santa (the same Santa as last year, by the way, which is cool when the mall can do that--wait, do you know about Santa yet? I mean, uh, how Santa has "helpers" that help him at Christmas. See me in person to get more details). So, yeah, 11:15 we see Santa. And at 11:30 we were seated at the FARM. All according to plan...except...this year you can walk and you got tired of waiting in line. So, by the time we got up to see Santa you were over it. You cried. You freaked. Getting that picture was a miracle. But we got it. Next year? Well, I'll plan on us looking at the cool fountain that has choreographed gysers. You dig that fountain. And then I'll have your dad call us when we are next in line. Next year I will plan better.
But last year, this year...I'll tell you one thing about them both. Despite the surprises, they were perfect because they were with you. I mean, I expected to love you baby, I did. But you surprised me by being the greatest little baby ever. And I remember sitting as a pregnant lady and looking at my big belly and I wondered who you would be. And I'm so glad that that baby I dreamed of is you. Sometimes the unexpected is better than you ever could have planned for.
Love, Mom
I'm a planner. I take great comfort in planning and scheduling. Because, for me, in a world of unknowns I like to know what I'm doing tomorrow, and next week, and next month, etc. Not sure what you'll be like yet. But this behavior of mine is something that, by the time you read this, you are not at all surprised by. Now, here's the kicker about planning. Things, no matter how much I try, don't always go according to plan. Now, this used to make me nuts. But then I "planned" to always expect things to not go according to plan. I still plan. I still hope when I plan that things will go according to that plan. But if they don't I'm okay with it. Now, I roll with it. Because I already planned to in the first place.
Last year was your first Christmas. And on the Sunday following Thanksgiving, we went to The Grove to the magical Santa House to meet Santa for the first time. I planned on us getting there right at 11am when the mall and Santa's House opened. But my plan was thwarted as people started lining up early. We waited for almost two hours to see Santa. It ended up being worth it. We (your Abuela, Abuelo, dad and I--you call them Abu-dab-a-dee, by the way) all drank coffee and told funny stories about meeting Santa when we were kids. And after we went to the yummy FARM to eat brunch. It was lovely. But I vowed that next year we would get there early.
So, true to form, this year I planned. We would pick up my folks at 10am. We would be at the mall by 10:30am. We would be ready. And that's what we did. And at 11:15am, we saw Santa (the same Santa as last year, by the way, which is cool when the mall can do that--wait, do you know about Santa yet? I mean, uh, how Santa has "helpers" that help him at Christmas. See me in person to get more details). So, yeah, 11:15 we see Santa. And at 11:30 we were seated at the FARM. All according to plan...except...this year you can walk and you got tired of waiting in line. So, by the time we got up to see Santa you were over it. You cried. You freaked. Getting that picture was a miracle. But we got it. Next year? Well, I'll plan on us looking at the cool fountain that has choreographed gysers. You dig that fountain. And then I'll have your dad call us when we are next in line. Next year I will plan better.
But last year, this year...I'll tell you one thing about them both. Despite the surprises, they were perfect because they were with you. I mean, I expected to love you baby, I did. But you surprised me by being the greatest little baby ever. And I remember sitting as a pregnant lady and looking at my big belly and I wondered who you would be. And I'm so glad that that baby I dreamed of is you. Sometimes the unexpected is better than you ever could have planned for.
Love, Mom
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Lesson #16 Chin Up
Dear Baby,
I am pretty good about researching. Not excellent but pretty good. Before you were born I must have read or skimmed 20+ books about babies and what to expect and what to buy, etc. I sat down with every woman I knew who had given birth and asked them numerous questions. I was so ready for your arrival. Your room was ready. I had the diapers. The bottles. The best. And now that you are almost two years-old, there is more to learn. More books. More friends with children that I call upon to make sure I am ready for what comes next.
So...what comes next is potty training. It begins at around two years-old. So, I've started to gather my research, thinking that I have a few months to prepare. But tonight you come to your daddy and pat your bum and point at the toilet. We were both stunned. Could it be? Were you telling us that you were ready to pee on the potty? So, off goes the diaper and there you are...all twenty-seven pounds of you...sitting on the big toilet. And before we knew it...you were peeing. It was beyond exciting! So, we get you a toddler toilet. And you have already christened it! And before bed you proudly peed in the toilet and then stood to look at your pee, proudly. As you were looking at your pee and your dad and I did a happy dance you took a dump on the floor. Awesome. We all had a good laugh.
So, I guess the lesson tonight is this...when you do something awesome you need to hold your head up high. Be proud! Even if what follows is shit.
Love, Mom
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Lesson #15 Keep Moving Forward
Dear Baby,
Life has gotten busy so I haven't been able to log your growth. I'm sorry about that, baby. But here I am logging in and writing.
You have changed so much since my last post. You are now 19 months old and speak quite a bit. You say "Hi", "Done", "Up","Go","Dog", "Out", "Abu" (for Abuelos) "Wet", "Daddy" and my favorite "Mom". Your voice is sweet and clear and your laugh fills me with both peace and joy. You are an excellent eater. You enjoy dipping your eggs in ketchup (really, you enjoy dipping anything in ketchup...even oatmeal and fruit). You like to listen to Adele while you eat. You love to color and read Curious George books. You are over your stroller and would rather walk everywhere. You love parks and aquariums and malls. You love animals and like to hug children. So far you are not anything near being an asshole. So far, so good!
Todays lesson is about moving forward. Now, I should preface this lesson with one simple proviso: don't do anything on videotape that you wouldn't want your grandma to see. That lesson can bleed into all decisions...basically, be mindful of your choices. Try to make good ones. And when you make bad ones, which you will--hey we all do and have--learn from it and move forward. Know better. Do better.
I get caught up in the past. I'm not proud of it but sometimes I sit in past mistakes instead of taking the lesson and moving on. And I try daily to move forward. And I urge you to do the same. Cause only assholes sit in their crap pondering "should'ves and could'ves". Spending time and energy pondering things that you can't change is a waste of resources. So, move forward, baby. Always forward.
Love, Mom
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Lesson #14: Be The Change You Want To See
Dear Baby,
When I get home from work, after you've had your dinner, your dad and I take you for a walk. It's my second favorite time of day (the first being when I hear you wake up and I walk into your room to lift you from your crib and give you the first of many daily kisses). So, we usually put a sweater on you for the walk. We pack up your Cheerios (which we call "Ch-ch-ch's, a clever way for your dad and I to say "Cheerios" without you knowing what we're talking about. The flaw in this plan? That you are so dang smart...you now know that Ch-ch-ch's are, in fact, Cheerios) and put fresh water in your sippy cup and head out. We walk to the nearby University and take in the spectacular views of our fair city. We catch up on our day and sing you songs and you like it when we both hold your hand as the stroller strolls...a tricky task. But also a glorious one.
But, within the last week, you no longer want to be in your stroller. You want to walk, too. You are very independent. It's rather stunning to see. You don't want to hold our hands anymore, either. You want to do it all by yourself. And, when you fall, you pop back up and just keep on walking. You also greet passersby. You wave at everyone that passes by. You are unbelievably friendly and no matter how stern a strangers face is...when you approach with your crazy curls and determined gate they can't help but crack. They wave back and smile with a joy that your father and I get to witness hundreds of times a day.
Your early independence has me both filled with pride and filled with heartache. At sixteen months you are already realizing the truth that I hope to keep from you for as long as possible...you don't need me. You can do it yourself. And are adorable as you do it. I already imagine the day when you will ask me to drop you off around the corner from your destination. And it makes me realize that it's all going by so fast. Already you are a little girl. No longer the infant. No longer the beloved bump in my belly.
So, because it's going by so quick, we must get to today's lesson. Brought to you by Ghandi and mommy..."Be The Change You Want To See In The World." It's simple. It's elegant. It's something that you are instinctually doing already...by waving at stern strangers and melting their hearts and reminding them that there is good. That there is sweetness. Because a sweet and determined little girl with pink Robeez boots, a striped pink sweater and a curl-hawk just looked at them and waved.
I love you so much sweet girl.
Mommy
Friday, July 17, 2009
Lesson # 13: Don't Be A Crazy Bitch.
Dear Baby:
The wisdom I am about to lay upon you has come through years of seeing my wonderful, talented beautiful girlfriends either settle for douchbags or walk around the world aimlessly without a shred of understanding about the human man and the ways we make them crazy.
Here’s the truth. Men aren’t the problem. They aren’t. I love men. And based on the way you already flirt, at fifteen months old, I'm gathering that you love them too. They are simple creatures...men. You adhere to a few simple rules and you can make them happy and when a man is happy he treats his lady right. And I very much want you to be with someone who treats you right, baby.
You however, as the lady, can’t be a crazy bitch. Now, I don’t like either of these words. Crazy or bitch. But, properly defined, crazy means: senseless; impractical; totally unsound. And bitch means: female dog or a malicious, unpleasant, selfish person. Can we behave in ways that make us senseless and unpleasant? Uh, yeah! Many of your mommy's BFF's, your "aunties", can and do behave in this way. And this is where we ladies fail. We become crazy bitches. And as much as it pains me to say it...you will probably also have this tendancy. It is possible and even the best of us has gone there. Don’t be in denial. We bleed for five days once a month and don’t die…the world needs to cut us some slack cause that is NUTS. We have hormones rushing through our body, a body that can make and grow human life and then create the superfood for that human. That’s is crazy!! And with all of the bleeding and cramping and mood swings and pushing something the size of a bowling ball out of something that was the size of a grape…well, we are allowed to be a bit bitchy. Let’s embrace it. It’s okay. It’s not fair. But it has more good parts than bad.
But what happens, baby, is that women blame men. But I think that is wrong. Instead, we need to overcome our inner crazy bitch…tame her and make her a thoughtful lady. This is possible. A thoughtful lady does not stalk ex-boyfriends. So, if you “drive-by” your man’s home at three am to see if the lights are on and then peek into his window cause you wanna see if some other crazy bitch is with him then…you are a crazy bitch! Don't do that.
Men are not mind readers. You have to be clear and tell them what you want. A lot of women want men to "want" to buy them flowers, or do nice things for them. That is crazy! You need to communicate. Talk. Stay calm. Don't take yourself too seriously. This lesson will have many parts, baby. But in attempting to raise you to not be an asshole I have to also ask that you to not be a crazy bitch either. You are too good for that.
And I am happy to say that already you communicate what you want very clearly. You point and use your sign language. You tell me when you want "more". You are clear about when you want to dance or play or walk. You love chicken and spinach. You are well on your way to being super awesome. My favorite thing that you currently do is the triple kiss. When your dad and I kiss you want to also be a part of that kiss. It's adorable. You make me laugh and you find a way to make everything else on earth seem totally and completely unimportant.
So, with 13 lessons down, I must admit, that you are already way more awesome that I ever could have expected. 15 months down...so far, so good.
I love you,
Mom
The wisdom I am about to lay upon you has come through years of seeing my wonderful, talented beautiful girlfriends either settle for douchbags or walk around the world aimlessly without a shred of understanding about the human man and the ways we make them crazy.
Here’s the truth. Men aren’t the problem. They aren’t. I love men. And based on the way you already flirt, at fifteen months old, I'm gathering that you love them too. They are simple creatures...men. You adhere to a few simple rules and you can make them happy and when a man is happy he treats his lady right. And I very much want you to be with someone who treats you right, baby.
You however, as the lady, can’t be a crazy bitch. Now, I don’t like either of these words. Crazy or bitch. But, properly defined, crazy means: senseless; impractical; totally unsound. And bitch means: female dog or a malicious, unpleasant, selfish person. Can we behave in ways that make us senseless and unpleasant? Uh, yeah! Many of your mommy's BFF's, your "aunties", can and do behave in this way. And this is where we ladies fail. We become crazy bitches. And as much as it pains me to say it...you will probably also have this tendancy. It is possible and even the best of us has gone there. Don’t be in denial. We bleed for five days once a month and don’t die…the world needs to cut us some slack cause that is NUTS. We have hormones rushing through our body, a body that can make and grow human life and then create the superfood for that human. That’s is crazy!! And with all of the bleeding and cramping and mood swings and pushing something the size of a bowling ball out of something that was the size of a grape…well, we are allowed to be a bit bitchy. Let’s embrace it. It’s okay. It’s not fair. But it has more good parts than bad.
But what happens, baby, is that women blame men. But I think that is wrong. Instead, we need to overcome our inner crazy bitch…tame her and make her a thoughtful lady. This is possible. A thoughtful lady does not stalk ex-boyfriends. So, if you “drive-by” your man’s home at three am to see if the lights are on and then peek into his window cause you wanna see if some other crazy bitch is with him then…you are a crazy bitch! Don't do that.
Men are not mind readers. You have to be clear and tell them what you want. A lot of women want men to "want" to buy them flowers, or do nice things for them. That is crazy! You need to communicate. Talk. Stay calm. Don't take yourself too seriously. This lesson will have many parts, baby. But in attempting to raise you to not be an asshole I have to also ask that you to not be a crazy bitch either. You are too good for that.
And I am happy to say that already you communicate what you want very clearly. You point and use your sign language. You tell me when you want "more". You are clear about when you want to dance or play or walk. You love chicken and spinach. You are well on your way to being super awesome. My favorite thing that you currently do is the triple kiss. When your dad and I kiss you want to also be a part of that kiss. It's adorable. You make me laugh and you find a way to make everything else on earth seem totally and completely unimportant.
So, with 13 lessons down, I must admit, that you are already way more awesome that I ever could have expected. 15 months down...so far, so good.
I love you,
Mom
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Lesson #12: Be a Good Host & A Good Guest
Dear Baby:
This past weekend your dad and I went up to Portland for an annual event that the cousins on my mother's side take part in called "Cousin's Weekend". It started as "Girl's Week" back when I was a child. All of the girl cousins would come to Beaverton (where I lived til I was 14) and we all stayed in the motor home that your grandfather had parked next to our house. It was a glorious week where we would go to the park and watch movies and makeup dance routines, etc. I looked forward to it more than summer itself. And then, well, we all grew up.
And then, in 2005, your great Grandmother Lydia passed away. All of the cousins came together to mourn her passing and attend the services. And it was in hanging out again, now as adults, that we realized how much we missed each other. How much "checking in" once a year (at least) made us all better people. So we decided to include the boys and "Cousin's Weekend" was born.
The first year, your dad and I hosted in Los Angeles. All of us slept in our tiny 980 square foot home...happy as can be. The second year, Adi and Jake hosted in Seattle (you were a newborn so we missed that one...and we're still getting heat for it) and this past one was in Portland. Ana hosted. We all stayed in her adorable home. We drank wine and played charades til 4am. We talked and laughed and tried to catch up with each other in the short time alloted us. We toured the city and ate too much and hugged and couldn't believe how quickly the weekend flew by. It was glorious and I am honored to be a part of this family and so touched that everyone now makes this weekend an annual priority.
Now, the lesson. It's about being a good host and also being a good guest. Assholes don't know how to host or how to be gracious guests. Usually assholes are too selfish to host anything and are such poor guests that they are never asked back. So, it is very important to have you grow into an awesome host and guest.
An awesome host makes their home comfortable for their guests. They make sure their guests are well fed and hydrated. They make sure their guests are introduced to the other guests. They make people feel at home and make thier home a place that people hope to be invited to again and again. An awesome guest has jobs, too. First, they must always bring something. Even if they are told that they don't need to. Always bring a small gesture of gratitude at being invited into someones space, baby. A bottle of wine, flowers, a book, cupcakes. It doesn't have to be expensive. But it is a must in your mommys opinion. A good guest also says: "Please" and "Thank you" which is an area I have already covered. A good guest then has a good time. They don't sit in the corner making fun of people and they do participate in games and conversation with an open mind. Then, before they leave, they offer to help clean. It's simple. So, do that.
Love,
Mom
This past weekend your dad and I went up to Portland for an annual event that the cousins on my mother's side take part in called "Cousin's Weekend". It started as "Girl's Week" back when I was a child. All of the girl cousins would come to Beaverton (where I lived til I was 14) and we all stayed in the motor home that your grandfather had parked next to our house. It was a glorious week where we would go to the park and watch movies and makeup dance routines, etc. I looked forward to it more than summer itself. And then, well, we all grew up.
And then, in 2005, your great Grandmother Lydia passed away. All of the cousins came together to mourn her passing and attend the services. And it was in hanging out again, now as adults, that we realized how much we missed each other. How much "checking in" once a year (at least) made us all better people. So we decided to include the boys and "Cousin's Weekend" was born.
The first year, your dad and I hosted in Los Angeles. All of us slept in our tiny 980 square foot home...happy as can be. The second year, Adi and Jake hosted in Seattle (you were a newborn so we missed that one...and we're still getting heat for it) and this past one was in Portland. Ana hosted. We all stayed in her adorable home. We drank wine and played charades til 4am. We talked and laughed and tried to catch up with each other in the short time alloted us. We toured the city and ate too much and hugged and couldn't believe how quickly the weekend flew by. It was glorious and I am honored to be a part of this family and so touched that everyone now makes this weekend an annual priority.
Now, the lesson. It's about being a good host and also being a good guest. Assholes don't know how to host or how to be gracious guests. Usually assholes are too selfish to host anything and are such poor guests that they are never asked back. So, it is very important to have you grow into an awesome host and guest.
An awesome host makes their home comfortable for their guests. They make sure their guests are well fed and hydrated. They make sure their guests are introduced to the other guests. They make people feel at home and make thier home a place that people hope to be invited to again and again. An awesome guest has jobs, too. First, they must always bring something. Even if they are told that they don't need to. Always bring a small gesture of gratitude at being invited into someones space, baby. A bottle of wine, flowers, a book, cupcakes. It doesn't have to be expensive. But it is a must in your mommys opinion. A good guest also says: "Please" and "Thank you" which is an area I have already covered. A good guest then has a good time. They don't sit in the corner making fun of people and they do participate in games and conversation with an open mind. Then, before they leave, they offer to help clean. It's simple. So, do that.
Love,
Mom
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Lesson #11: Slow Motion
Dear Baby:
Two days ago we took an afternoon walk.
Now that you're walking, you like to take these afternoon constitutionals. I walk next to you as you amble down the street pointing at the bird in the sky, the cat across the street, the college kid that rides by on his bike. You wave at the passersby and stop to smell the flowers. Literally. Taking that walk with you two days ago was glorious. Two houses down, a woman and her two sons came out of their home with two dogs. A little dog and a big dog. You love dogs. So, you got very very excited seeing them approach. Now, I've lived in this house for over five years, baby, and in all of that time I have never met the woman that lives two doors down. Her name is Shelly. I know that now because of you.
I am not someone who stops to smell the flowers, baby. I'm a worker. I make goals and I achieve them. I don't talk to the neighbors unless I have to. Not because I'm not friendly. But because I don't have time. Time is always the enemy. I never have enough of it. It's like my heroin as I'm always chasing it. But now...it's different. You have shown me the value of pausing. No, it's not even pausing...it's moving in slow motion. It's leaving my cell phone with it's instant messages, emails and twitter. It's leaving the rat race to move in slow motion with you. It's smelling the flowers and looking at the birds and waving at the college student on the bike and meeting the neighbors...finally.
We came home from our walk and ate a dinner of turkey, endemame, carrots, avocado and raspberries. I gave you a bath and put you in the polka dot footsie pajamas. I read you "Pat the Bunny" and "Goodnight Gorilla", gave you a few ounces of milk and then put you into your crib with your light pink bunny nee-nee. I said "Good Night" and you waved at me as I blew you a kiss from the doorway to your bedroom...and the next morning was my first day back at work. Back to the rat race.
But I'm changed. Happier, peaceful, more clear. And I'm pretty sure it's because of that walk. So, the lesson today, sweet baby, comes from you to me. Sometimes moving in slow motion gets you much further ahead. Thank you for the lesson.
Love, Mommy
Two days ago we took an afternoon walk.
Now that you're walking, you like to take these afternoon constitutionals. I walk next to you as you amble down the street pointing at the bird in the sky, the cat across the street, the college kid that rides by on his bike. You wave at the passersby and stop to smell the flowers. Literally. Taking that walk with you two days ago was glorious. Two houses down, a woman and her two sons came out of their home with two dogs. A little dog and a big dog. You love dogs. So, you got very very excited seeing them approach. Now, I've lived in this house for over five years, baby, and in all of that time I have never met the woman that lives two doors down. Her name is Shelly. I know that now because of you.
I am not someone who stops to smell the flowers, baby. I'm a worker. I make goals and I achieve them. I don't talk to the neighbors unless I have to. Not because I'm not friendly. But because I don't have time. Time is always the enemy. I never have enough of it. It's like my heroin as I'm always chasing it. But now...it's different. You have shown me the value of pausing. No, it's not even pausing...it's moving in slow motion. It's leaving my cell phone with it's instant messages, emails and twitter. It's leaving the rat race to move in slow motion with you. It's smelling the flowers and looking at the birds and waving at the college student on the bike and meeting the neighbors...finally.
We came home from our walk and ate a dinner of turkey, endemame, carrots, avocado and raspberries. I gave you a bath and put you in the polka dot footsie pajamas. I read you "Pat the Bunny" and "Goodnight Gorilla", gave you a few ounces of milk and then put you into your crib with your light pink bunny nee-nee. I said "Good Night" and you waved at me as I blew you a kiss from the doorway to your bedroom...and the next morning was my first day back at work. Back to the rat race.
But I'm changed. Happier, peaceful, more clear. And I'm pretty sure it's because of that walk. So, the lesson today, sweet baby, comes from you to me. Sometimes moving in slow motion gets you much further ahead. Thank you for the lesson.
Love, Mommy
Friday, May 22, 2009
Lesson #10: Our First Last
Dear Baby,
I officially stopped breast feeding you yesterday. It was a perfect, sun-drenched, baby blue sky type of day and I was putting you down for your afternoon nap. It was a nice way to say "goodbye" to this lovely adventure called breastfeeding.
The reasons why yesterday was THE DAY are many. First, you don't seem to need it anymore now that you are eating many different types of foods and drinking cow's milk. And, really, you have already weaned yourself...just taking to the boob for a few minutes before you sleep. Secondly, I will be going back to work soon and need to stop anyway. Third, I made it to fourteen months. My goal was a year and I breast fed you for a glorious sixty days longer than I anticipated...so, it seemed like this was as good a time as any. And, and, and I was going to the dermatologist because mommy's skin is like that of a pizza-faced teen and I knew that the derm would inject my cystic acne with cortisone (God I hope you have your father's milky perfect complexion...so far, so good) and I knew that I couldn't breastfeed you after that. Plus, there is the matter of the ulcer I've had since I was three months pregnant that I was told I couldn't treat until I was done breastfeeding. So, alas, it came time for mommy to get sorted on the inside and out. And so, yesterday became the last time.
I was singing to you, as I do. This time it was a mix of "You are my sunshine", "Edelweiss" and a made up song called "Izzy Girl" that is reminiscent of a Supreme's tune. I looked at your face while you drank and wondered if you knew it was the last time, too. You looked even more angelic that normal--which, c'mon, is pretty angelic. You would stop drinking after a few chugs and smile, my nipple still in your mouth. It made me laugh. And that made you laugh. I wondered if you would miss it the way, I knew, I would. You resumed drinking. I tried to memorize everything about the moment. How the room was a pleasant temperature with the breeze from your open window gently providing a little cool. The breeze had the faint small of jasmine that your dad planted when we first moved into the house five years ago. The jasmine is quite impressive now, filling our yard and pleasing our noses whenever we step foot onto our back deck. You were wearing the super soft pink polka dot ensemble and while I fed you, you playfully pulled off your socks, as you do. Then you took your naked feet and put them up to my mouth and I immediately began to kiss and nibble them. More laughter from us both.
I tried to hide my tears from you. I sang as pretty as I could but my voice kept cracking with my sobs. You and I have been experiencing so many "firsts" and it pained me to be experiencing a "last". There was a heartache in me that was bittersweet. Because I feel that it was one of the great privileges of my life to be able to breastfeed you. I've had so many girlfriends that have had trouble with it so I feel ridiculously grateful to have been able to do it. To have done it as long as I did. To have been your only source of nutrition. I loved every moment of it, baby. Even the pumping in the car on the way home from meetings. The checking my milk with fancy alcohol detection strips on the occasional night I'd have a bottle of beer to make sure the milk was safe for you to drink. The pain when the detection strip told me that I had to toss the milk I pumped and I had to watch the liquid gold make it's way down the sink. The waking up at odd hours to pop a boob into your mouth so that we could both go back to the land of Nod. It was all perfection.
How is this a lesson? Well, I suppose the lesson is: "Cherish every moment". I know. It's so cliche even I want to vomit all over myself. And assholes use cliches instead of forming original thought so we must do better. But every cliche is a cliche for a reason, eh? Perhaps behind, even the cheesiest ones, there is a morsel of something real and wise. Or perhaps the lesson is that sometimes the things you fear end up being some of your favorite things in life. Because I wasn't sold on breast feeding, if I'm being completely honest. Oh, I was committed to doing it. Was dead set on doing it for a year. But I am not someone that likes their nipples being touched and played with (oh, baby, I'm so sorry on some level that you now know that)...and I feared and did not look forward to breastfeeding. And here we are, fourteen months later, and I will miss it terribly. And I it will be one of the things I look forward to when I have the next baby--your little brother or sister...a few years from now.
Yes, let's make that the lesson. Sometimes the things you fear may end up being some of the best things that ever happen to you.
I love you tons and tons,
Mommy
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Lesson #9: One Size Doesn't Fit All
Dear Baby,
You will hear a lot over the course of your life about size. I wish that wasn't the case but all I can hope is that I will instill enough good self esteem in you so that your focus is on fit not size. Fit is a whole other thing. Fit is what you want to be. Fit means being "in good health". And I wish always for you to be healthy, baby.
Fit also means how clothes "fit" you. Buy clothes that fit well. Don't buy clothes based on size. Often people are so obsessed with wanting to be a particular size that they wear ill fitting clothes. Then they walk around muffin topping out of a pair of size 2 jeans as opposed to just buying the size 4 that actually "fits". Those size 2's make an asshole out of them baby. And your mother has been that asshole one time too many. Learn from my mistake.
Focusing on being fit also will encourage you to go out into the world and move. Being a healthy person means going on walks and playing sports or even just dancing in the living room to your favorite song. My goal is to raise you in an active home, to encourage you to eat healthfully and to put focus on fitness and balance.
Another reason I don't want you to focus on size is because you probably won't be big in stature. As the daughter of a woman who is 5'1" on a good day and a father that is 5'9 on a better day, you probably won't be tall. I won't sugar coat it, baby, you probably won't be average. You'll probably be small. And you can see this as a call to be big in how you live your life. I, as a small lady, have always tried to live big and I highly recommend it. In good news, you will probably have small feet which means you'll get great deals at shoe sales as people rarely have small feet. Also, sometimes you can shop at children's stores...I do from time to time. So, there are perks. And mostly, from a scientific standpoint (sortof) we are very economical. We require less natural resources to stay alive. Less food. Less oxygen. Less space. Being small makes us naturally green and while our shoes are small so is our carbon footprint.
So, let's not focus on size, baby. As it turns out, size doesn't matter.
xo, Mom
Fit also means how clothes "fit" you. Buy clothes that fit well. Don't buy clothes based on size. Often people are so obsessed with wanting to be a particular size that they wear ill fitting clothes. Then they walk around muffin topping out of a pair of size 2 jeans as opposed to just buying the size 4 that actually "fits". Those size 2's make an asshole out of them baby. And your mother has been that asshole one time too many. Learn from my mistake.
Focusing on being fit also will encourage you to go out into the world and move. Being a healthy person means going on walks and playing sports or even just dancing in the living room to your favorite song. My goal is to raise you in an active home, to encourage you to eat healthfully and to put focus on fitness and balance.
Another reason I don't want you to focus on size is because you probably won't be big in stature. As the daughter of a woman who is 5'1" on a good day and a father that is 5'9 on a better day, you probably won't be tall. I won't sugar coat it, baby, you probably won't be average. You'll probably be small. And you can see this as a call to be big in how you live your life. I, as a small lady, have always tried to live big and I highly recommend it. In good news, you will probably have small feet which means you'll get great deals at shoe sales as people rarely have small feet. Also, sometimes you can shop at children's stores...I do from time to time. So, there are perks. And mostly, from a scientific standpoint (sortof) we are very economical. We require less natural resources to stay alive. Less food. Less oxygen. Less space. Being small makes us naturally green and while our shoes are small so is our carbon footprint.
So, let's not focus on size, baby. As it turns out, size doesn't matter.
xo, Mom
Friday, May 1, 2009
Lesson #8: Lies
Dear Baby,
Today, as I was changing your diaper a large piece of your solid poo dropped onto the changing mat next to you. You were about to grab it when, without even flinching, I grabbed it and disposed of it in your fancy VIPP diaper pail. I was so proud of myself for not even flinching! Picking up your poo was a no brainer. Man, how this year has changed me! It is such a pleasure to be your mommy, baby. To keep you clean and fed and smiling. Your smile is the best payment there is. And that is no lie.
But there are other lies, baby. Lies that others will tell you, lies you will tell other and lies you will tell yourself. Lies suck. Assholes lie easily. It's like breathing for them. So, we need not to lie. What lying does is poisonous. Because it makes you unaccountable. And, as strong women, we need to own up to who we are, mistakes me make and why we do or don't do things...honestly.
If you are running late, or didn't do your homework, or forgot a birthday it is important to own up to that. Say you are sorry (that's whole other lesson, coming soon) and move on with a clear conscience. Yes, people might get mad at you but maybe that's good. Maybe seeing them get upset and hurt because of your behavior will make it so you don't do that again. Maybe it will make you grow as a person. So, own up to your mistakes and don't make excuses. No one likes people who make excuses.
Often people lie because they think by doing so they won't get into trouble or won't hurt someones feelings. Feeling are tricky. Because this type of lie, ones the relate to other people, are not about our own accountability. And that is where the "white" lie enters the picture.
"White" lies can be dangerous. But, I suppose, kind lies are sometimes necessary. "Does this dress make my ass look big?" That is the perfect example of a question that may require a kind lie. What if it does? Then, maybe you shouldn't be completely truthful. Maybe a kind lie is okay. But only sometimes, baby.
Even in those precarious circumstances, I would encourage you to try to find some truth and say that truth instead of the "white" lie. If a friend asks if the dress makes them look fat you can focus on their eyes or feet or hair. Something that is beautiful about them and compliment that instead. Or, you can use a trick that Sister Mary Fidelis, my old grade school principle, told me. You can always say the word "amazing" and still be technically correct. "The dress looks amazing"...doesn't mean it looks good. You can also say "awesome" or "unforgetable" or "it makes a statement", etc. So, I have just given you ways to be honest even in tricky sensitive situations without lying. The word "amazing" has gotten your mommy out of many sticky situations.
Don't be a liar. You are better than that. And, once you have caught someone in a lie, which has happened to me on numerous occasions, you won't want to be the person doing the lying. It's cowardice, baby. And this momma didn't raise no coward.
I love you honestly and truthfully. Poop and all.
xo, Mommy
Today, as I was changing your diaper a large piece of your solid poo dropped onto the changing mat next to you. You were about to grab it when, without even flinching, I grabbed it and disposed of it in your fancy VIPP diaper pail. I was so proud of myself for not even flinching! Picking up your poo was a no brainer. Man, how this year has changed me! It is such a pleasure to be your mommy, baby. To keep you clean and fed and smiling. Your smile is the best payment there is. And that is no lie.
But there are other lies, baby. Lies that others will tell you, lies you will tell other and lies you will tell yourself. Lies suck. Assholes lie easily. It's like breathing for them. So, we need not to lie. What lying does is poisonous. Because it makes you unaccountable. And, as strong women, we need to own up to who we are, mistakes me make and why we do or don't do things...honestly.
If you are running late, or didn't do your homework, or forgot a birthday it is important to own up to that. Say you are sorry (that's whole other lesson, coming soon) and move on with a clear conscience. Yes, people might get mad at you but maybe that's good. Maybe seeing them get upset and hurt because of your behavior will make it so you don't do that again. Maybe it will make you grow as a person. So, own up to your mistakes and don't make excuses. No one likes people who make excuses.
Often people lie because they think by doing so they won't get into trouble or won't hurt someones feelings. Feeling are tricky. Because this type of lie, ones the relate to other people, are not about our own accountability. And that is where the "white" lie enters the picture.
"White" lies can be dangerous. But, I suppose, kind lies are sometimes necessary. "Does this dress make my ass look big?" That is the perfect example of a question that may require a kind lie. What if it does? Then, maybe you shouldn't be completely truthful. Maybe a kind lie is okay. But only sometimes, baby.
Even in those precarious circumstances, I would encourage you to try to find some truth and say that truth instead of the "white" lie. If a friend asks if the dress makes them look fat you can focus on their eyes or feet or hair. Something that is beautiful about them and compliment that instead. Or, you can use a trick that Sister Mary Fidelis, my old grade school principle, told me. You can always say the word "amazing" and still be technically correct. "The dress looks amazing"...doesn't mean it looks good. You can also say "awesome" or "unforgetable" or "it makes a statement", etc. So, I have just given you ways to be honest even in tricky sensitive situations without lying. The word "amazing" has gotten your mommy out of many sticky situations.
Don't be a liar. You are better than that. And, once you have caught someone in a lie, which has happened to me on numerous occasions, you won't want to be the person doing the lying. It's cowardice, baby. And this momma didn't raise no coward.
I love you honestly and truthfully. Poop and all.
xo, Mommy
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Lesson #7: It's Not Always Fair
Dear Baby,
Last night, as I was giving you your final boobie milk, I call it boobie milk, you started to play with my bra strap. What's funny is you did so with your foot. I found this to be highly hilarious and started to laugh. Which caused you to laugh. Which caused me to laugh more. We had our first giggle attack together. It was, for me, a sign of what's to come and it filled me a kind of joy I have only experienced since you entered my life. Bliss. A feeling of peace and joy and glee all at the same time. Then I put you in your crib, told you I loved you and you lay your head down to go to sleep.
Todays lesson is a hard one. Life, sweet baby, isn't always fair. Sometimes it will be awesome and sometimes it will suck. There is no rhyme or reason for it and sometimes it is all completely beyond your control. So, you need to learn to roll with it. It's what I try to do. I try to inhale and exhale and be like a duck. Water just rolls off of a ducks back. Plus, it can swim, walk and fly. Seriously, next time, if that sort of thing exists--then I'm coming back as a duck.
So, yeah, sometimes bad things will happen to good people. Sometimes people you love will get sick or get robbed or get into accidents. And, in turn, sometimes good things will happen to bad people and you'll be like "WTF?" Well, hopefully, you won't swear but sometimes swearing is appropriate. As is the case when good things happen to bad people. But, again, you just have to roll with it. Mind your own business. Stay in your own lane with you eye on the prize. The prize should be becoming the person you want to grow into. Each day you should actively try to take steps to become that person. And allow for that person to change.
I can tell you that I used to want to be a thick skinned person who would do cross word puzzles on the weekends. Seriously. Both of those were high on my list of "Things the most awesome version of 'me' would do and be." But I blow at crossword puzzles and don't enjoy them at all. Why was I trying so hard to do something that I didn't enjoy doing? It was only because I had this vision in my head of a "me" that did that. But in my vision I LOVED doing it. The reality was quite different. The same is true for my thin skin. I'm sensitive. My feelings get hurt. I am highly emotional. You, undoubtadly know this about me by now. And I always fantisized that I would grow into someone who didn't care so much. But after years of trying I've realized that, like my brunette head of hair that I used to wish was blonde, I was just born with thin skin. It is as much a part of me as my brown eyes and 5'1" stature. It is also, I believe, what makes my a good artist and good wife and good friend and hopefully, a good mommy. So, finally, I embrace my thin skin and realize that it doesn't have to be a bad thing.
So, as it turns out the list of who I want to be has changed. I love Scrabble and have thin skin...and, what's funny is, that by being honest with myself and more accepting of myself I am two steps closer to being the "me" I want to be. And the closer we get to that the closer we get to making peace with things around us being unfair. We might even be able to look at the unfairness as an opportunity for growth and learning.
Did I just blow your mind with all of that, baby? Let it sink in and know that I love you exactly the way you are.
Love, Mom
Last night, as I was giving you your final boobie milk, I call it boobie milk, you started to play with my bra strap. What's funny is you did so with your foot. I found this to be highly hilarious and started to laugh. Which caused you to laugh. Which caused me to laugh more. We had our first giggle attack together. It was, for me, a sign of what's to come and it filled me a kind of joy I have only experienced since you entered my life. Bliss. A feeling of peace and joy and glee all at the same time. Then I put you in your crib, told you I loved you and you lay your head down to go to sleep.
Todays lesson is a hard one. Life, sweet baby, isn't always fair. Sometimes it will be awesome and sometimes it will suck. There is no rhyme or reason for it and sometimes it is all completely beyond your control. So, you need to learn to roll with it. It's what I try to do. I try to inhale and exhale and be like a duck. Water just rolls off of a ducks back. Plus, it can swim, walk and fly. Seriously, next time, if that sort of thing exists--then I'm coming back as a duck.
So, yeah, sometimes bad things will happen to good people. Sometimes people you love will get sick or get robbed or get into accidents. And, in turn, sometimes good things will happen to bad people and you'll be like "WTF?" Well, hopefully, you won't swear but sometimes swearing is appropriate. As is the case when good things happen to bad people. But, again, you just have to roll with it. Mind your own business. Stay in your own lane with you eye on the prize. The prize should be becoming the person you want to grow into. Each day you should actively try to take steps to become that person. And allow for that person to change.
I can tell you that I used to want to be a thick skinned person who would do cross word puzzles on the weekends. Seriously. Both of those were high on my list of "Things the most awesome version of 'me' would do and be." But I blow at crossword puzzles and don't enjoy them at all. Why was I trying so hard to do something that I didn't enjoy doing? It was only because I had this vision in my head of a "me" that did that. But in my vision I LOVED doing it. The reality was quite different. The same is true for my thin skin. I'm sensitive. My feelings get hurt. I am highly emotional. You, undoubtadly know this about me by now. And I always fantisized that I would grow into someone who didn't care so much. But after years of trying I've realized that, like my brunette head of hair that I used to wish was blonde, I was just born with thin skin. It is as much a part of me as my brown eyes and 5'1" stature. It is also, I believe, what makes my a good artist and good wife and good friend and hopefully, a good mommy. So, finally, I embrace my thin skin and realize that it doesn't have to be a bad thing.
So, as it turns out the list of who I want to be has changed. I love Scrabble and have thin skin...and, what's funny is, that by being honest with myself and more accepting of myself I am two steps closer to being the "me" I want to be. And the closer we get to that the closer we get to making peace with things around us being unfair. We might even be able to look at the unfairness as an opportunity for growth and learning.
Did I just blow your mind with all of that, baby? Let it sink in and know that I love you exactly the way you are.
Love, Mom
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Lesson #6 Equal Rights
Dear Baby:
You nod now. Before I went to my meeting today, your dad said "Do you think mommy looks pretty?" and you smiled your Cheshire cat smile and nodded. C'mon! Your cuteness is out of this world.
So, today, aside from your delightful nodding, one thing happened that is of note . I went to lunch with Jolie at this place called AMMO, it probably won't exist when you are grown, baby, but it was yummy. Anyway, while there, I had to use the restroom before leaving. There were two single restrooms. One marked with the traditional female restroom figure (wearing a skirt) and the other marked with the traditional male restroom figure (wearing trousers). There was a young woman wearing a salmon colored skirt waiting for the ladies room and I asked her if she had tried the men's. She looked at me like I had three heads. As you know baby, I don't have three heads. If I did I would be able to get a lot more done and would wear hats more.
So, I ignore her rude glare and check the door to the men's room. Turn's out it was available and there were no men in line so I happily entered. I use it. And after washing my hands I exit. And what do I see when I exit? Salmon lady still standing there waiting for the women's restroom only now her frown looked more like a scowl. I smiled my "I'm sorry I kick ass and you don't" smile and floated back to the table. And I started thinking. What was so wrong about me using the men's room? What happened to equal rights? And, for that matter, what happened to being quick when doing ones business? I swear, baby, I don't know why there is always a line for the ladies room and the men's room is always avail. What takes these women so long? Yes, I know, it's easier for me to dispose of their waste. Their appendage literally hangs off of them allowing for easy exit (by now we will have had our "sex" talk and you'll know that men have a penis and women have a vagina...I won't use silly names like dingle dangle and hoo-hoo. Although, if I did both those names would be delightful). But doing our "business" isn't that much more complicated than men doing theirs. We disrobe, we squat, we wipe, we rerobe. Yes, some don't squat. SOme use the toilet liners. If there is no toilet liner you have to use toilet paper and apply it carefully to the toilet seat which can take time, I get it. But even still, I'm not sure what's taking so long in there. Are women doing Sudoku? Are they applying makeup? Are they making mental to-do lists? I mean, really? So, in general, I urge ladies to getty up in there.
But I digress, it should be totally okay for us ladies to use the men's room. And, to be fair, I was wearing trousers today. So, I could always plead confusion, as my outfit looked more like the male placard than the female one. The lesson here? Don't make anyone allow you feel bad for doing your business. Do what you've got to do and afterwards wash your hands. For at least twenty seconds (maybe more if using the men's room--just to be safe).
Equal rights, baby! Equal rights.
Love, Mom
You nod now. Before I went to my meeting today, your dad said "Do you think mommy looks pretty?" and you smiled your Cheshire cat smile and nodded. C'mon! Your cuteness is out of this world.
So, today, aside from your delightful nodding, one thing happened that is of note . I went to lunch with Jolie at this place called AMMO, it probably won't exist when you are grown, baby, but it was yummy. Anyway, while there, I had to use the restroom before leaving. There were two single restrooms. One marked with the traditional female restroom figure (wearing a skirt) and the other marked with the traditional male restroom figure (wearing trousers). There was a young woman wearing a salmon colored skirt waiting for the ladies room and I asked her if she had tried the men's. She looked at me like I had three heads. As you know baby, I don't have three heads. If I did I would be able to get a lot more done and would wear hats more.
So, I ignore her rude glare and check the door to the men's room. Turn's out it was available and there were no men in line so I happily entered. I use it. And after washing my hands I exit. And what do I see when I exit? Salmon lady still standing there waiting for the women's restroom only now her frown looked more like a scowl. I smiled my "I'm sorry I kick ass and you don't" smile and floated back to the table. And I started thinking. What was so wrong about me using the men's room? What happened to equal rights? And, for that matter, what happened to being quick when doing ones business? I swear, baby, I don't know why there is always a line for the ladies room and the men's room is always avail. What takes these women so long? Yes, I know, it's easier for me to dispose of their waste. Their appendage literally hangs off of them allowing for easy exit (by now we will have had our "sex" talk and you'll know that men have a penis and women have a vagina...I won't use silly names like dingle dangle and hoo-hoo. Although, if I did both those names would be delightful). But doing our "business" isn't that much more complicated than men doing theirs. We disrobe, we squat, we wipe, we rerobe. Yes, some don't squat. SOme use the toilet liners. If there is no toilet liner you have to use toilet paper and apply it carefully to the toilet seat which can take time, I get it. But even still, I'm not sure what's taking so long in there. Are women doing Sudoku? Are they applying makeup? Are they making mental to-do lists? I mean, really? So, in general, I urge ladies to getty up in there.
But I digress, it should be totally okay for us ladies to use the men's room. And, to be fair, I was wearing trousers today. So, I could always plead confusion, as my outfit looked more like the male placard than the female one. The lesson here? Don't make anyone allow you feel bad for doing your business. Do what you've got to do and afterwards wash your hands. For at least twenty seconds (maybe more if using the men's room--just to be safe).
Equal rights, baby! Equal rights.
Love, Mom
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Lesson #5 Religion
Dear Baby,
I will raise you with religion. I think kids need to have rules and things to believe in. So, among Santa, the Tooth Fairy and The Easter Bunny, you will learn about Jesus. But you will also learn about Buddah and Mohamed and Satyavati. I won't be all religious about religion, baby. I will encourage you to think freely, outside of the box, to question and to find your own answers. I will also teach you to not be judgemental about other people and their beliefs. Cause that's not cool. You can question others beliefs but only assholes make people feel bad for believing what they believe. People have often questioned my beliefs, it's something that people do, baby. And it's okay. Becasuse these assholes will get you to question what you believe and it will help you determine what you "really" believe and what you don't. So, be grateful to the assholes for that.
But don't be an asshole. Don't use relgion as a way to feel superior to others. If you chose to follow a religion, do so because it brings you peace and guides you towards being the best "you" that you can be.
Your British uncle Jon says that "Religion is something that people have made up to make themselves feel better" and that may be the case. I can tell you it has made me feel better. When you great-grandma, my grandma passed away, it made me feel much better to think that she was sitting on a cloud somewhere in peace. It brought me comfort. And I'd like to think there is more. I'd like to believe there is a God and a grand purpose for everything. But I don't know. What I do know is that kindness is real. People are real. And if you follow one rule in your life religiously then it should be the Golden Rule: Do unto others as you would have them do to you. Whatever else you believe, that one is the one your momma endorses whole heartedly. If you don't want to be judged then don't judge. If you don't want people to be mean to you then don't be mean. Etc.
Much to talk about on this topic, baby. This lesson was too serious and I promise that they all won't be. Perhaps we should be religious about laughing. Yup, that's a ritual we should make a daily habit of doing. And that's a vow I happily take.
xo, Mom
I will raise you with religion. I think kids need to have rules and things to believe in. So, among Santa, the Tooth Fairy and The Easter Bunny, you will learn about Jesus. But you will also learn about Buddah and Mohamed and Satyavati. I won't be all religious about religion, baby. I will encourage you to think freely, outside of the box, to question and to find your own answers. I will also teach you to not be judgemental about other people and their beliefs. Cause that's not cool. You can question others beliefs but only assholes make people feel bad for believing what they believe. People have often questioned my beliefs, it's something that people do, baby. And it's okay. Becasuse these assholes will get you to question what you believe and it will help you determine what you "really" believe and what you don't. So, be grateful to the assholes for that.
But don't be an asshole. Don't use relgion as a way to feel superior to others. If you chose to follow a religion, do so because it brings you peace and guides you towards being the best "you" that you can be.
Your British uncle Jon says that "Religion is something that people have made up to make themselves feel better" and that may be the case. I can tell you it has made me feel better. When you great-grandma, my grandma passed away, it made me feel much better to think that she was sitting on a cloud somewhere in peace. It brought me comfort. And I'd like to think there is more. I'd like to believe there is a God and a grand purpose for everything. But I don't know. What I do know is that kindness is real. People are real. And if you follow one rule in your life religiously then it should be the Golden Rule: Do unto others as you would have them do to you. Whatever else you believe, that one is the one your momma endorses whole heartedly. If you don't want to be judged then don't judge. If you don't want people to be mean to you then don't be mean. Etc.
Much to talk about on this topic, baby. This lesson was too serious and I promise that they all won't be. Perhaps we should be religious about laughing. Yup, that's a ritual we should make a daily habit of doing. And that's a vow I happily take.
xo, Mom
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Lesson #4 Shoulds
Dear Baby,
You took seven consecutive steps today. It started with three a few weeks ago and now it is seven. I believe that, within the week, you will be off and running. I am so proud of you, baby. I love watching you grow and seeing what new thing you will do and learn. Your latest thing is to clap your hands together and then lift them over your head as if to say "all done." It is truly adorable.
So, as you take your first steps, it hits me that this first year really has flown by. And I now feel compelled to really start to focus on what I want to teach you during your life. Because I should slowly start introducing these things now. This has led me to start to form a skeleton parenting syllabus. Sure, this blog acts as a basic lesson guide from things quirky to things important. But I want to focus my teachings as your momma. And I have started to put together a "should" list. These are things you really should learn how to do. And things that, admittedly, I can't do...yet. But I am determined to learn and teach you.
1. How to ride a bike. I know. This is awful. I did learn when I was about seven. My dad taught me. But later that day, as I was high off of finally mastering my pink banana seat, a car nearly ran me off the road. I flew off of the bike and got many scrapes and scuffs. But the real damage was done to my psyche. And, since then, every time I try to get on a bike I get all sweaty and panicky. I should have gotten right back on. But I didn't. Recently, your wonderful father found my old pink banana seat bike from out of your grandparents garage. He took it to the bike shop and got it polished up and put training wheels on it for me. And I am determined to ride again. So we can ride together. I figure I've got six more years to practice.
2. Drive a stick shift. Now this might just be moot as we'll all be traveling around in our hover crafts by the time you are sixteen. But it is something I never learned to do--even though my high school boyfriend, Buzz (yes, that was really his name), tried to teach me one summer. We went to the stadium parking at the Jack Murphy Stadium in San Diego...now it's like the Qualcom Stadium and by the time you know where it is it will probably be the McDonald's Stadium -- but I tried and gave up. And, really, I didn't try that hard. I just wanted to be smootching that summer not learning how to drive a stick shift. I regret that I didn't learn. But don't regret the smootching.
3. How to change a tire. I think I could do this in a pinch. But the truth is, I don't know. This is something that I am going to master so I can show you how to do it. As your momma, I want to raise a girl who is self sufficient and not a damsel in distress. I want you to know that you don't have to wait for your prince to come. You can do thinks all by yourself!
So begins my parenting syllabus. It will also be filled with things I can already do well, don't worry. But those are lessons for another day.
Congratulations of your first steps, baby. I look forward to all of your firsts and am excited that we will take some of those firsts together.
Love, Mom
You took seven consecutive steps today. It started with three a few weeks ago and now it is seven. I believe that, within the week, you will be off and running. I am so proud of you, baby. I love watching you grow and seeing what new thing you will do and learn. Your latest thing is to clap your hands together and then lift them over your head as if to say "all done." It is truly adorable.
So, as you take your first steps, it hits me that this first year really has flown by. And I now feel compelled to really start to focus on what I want to teach you during your life. Because I should slowly start introducing these things now. This has led me to start to form a skeleton parenting syllabus. Sure, this blog acts as a basic lesson guide from things quirky to things important. But I want to focus my teachings as your momma. And I have started to put together a "should" list. These are things you really should learn how to do. And things that, admittedly, I can't do...yet. But I am determined to learn and teach you.
1. How to ride a bike. I know. This is awful. I did learn when I was about seven. My dad taught me. But later that day, as I was high off of finally mastering my pink banana seat, a car nearly ran me off the road. I flew off of the bike and got many scrapes and scuffs. But the real damage was done to my psyche. And, since then, every time I try to get on a bike I get all sweaty and panicky. I should have gotten right back on. But I didn't. Recently, your wonderful father found my old pink banana seat bike from out of your grandparents garage. He took it to the bike shop and got it polished up and put training wheels on it for me. And I am determined to ride again. So we can ride together. I figure I've got six more years to practice.
2. Drive a stick shift. Now this might just be moot as we'll all be traveling around in our hover crafts by the time you are sixteen. But it is something I never learned to do--even though my high school boyfriend, Buzz (yes, that was really his name), tried to teach me one summer. We went to the stadium parking at the Jack Murphy Stadium in San Diego...now it's like the Qualcom Stadium and by the time you know where it is it will probably be the McDonald's Stadium -- but I tried and gave up. And, really, I didn't try that hard. I just wanted to be smootching that summer not learning how to drive a stick shift. I regret that I didn't learn. But don't regret the smootching.
3. How to change a tire. I think I could do this in a pinch. But the truth is, I don't know. This is something that I am going to master so I can show you how to do it. As your momma, I want to raise a girl who is self sufficient and not a damsel in distress. I want you to know that you don't have to wait for your prince to come. You can do thinks all by yourself!
So begins my parenting syllabus. It will also be filled with things I can already do well, don't worry. But those are lessons for another day.
Congratulations of your first steps, baby. I look forward to all of your firsts and am excited that we will take some of those firsts together.
Love, Mom
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Lesson #3: Don't Be Fake
Dear Baby,
When I was in First Grade my parents, your loving grandparents, enrolled me in piano class. My teacher was a tiny octogenarian named Mrs. Lazlo. I never did get her first name. Shame, actually. I would have loved to know it now. Anyway, Mrs. Lazlo was little but mean! And had an accent...I believe it was German. And her fingers nails were thick with fungus and, in a sad attempt to hide the fungus, covered in a coral colored finger nail polish that only hightened the look of sick. But the little firecracker could play the piano. Dang could she play. It was my favorite part of the lesson, hearing her play. I would often try to find new ways for her to play something to me. And on those Thursday afternoon's, in the tiny little room on the second floor of my grade school/convent (yup, the top level of St. Mary's of the Vally Grade School in Beaverton, Oregon is a convent), she would rock Beethoven or Bach or Mozart. It was awesome.
What was not awesome, however, was her ability to teach. Maybe it was the thick German accent, maybe it was the fact that she didn't really like kids or have any patience for them, or maybe it was because she was gifted and it irritated her to hear her prescious music mangled, but I never learned how to read music from her. And, what's worse, I was too affraid to tell her that I wasn't learning. Luckily, I had a great ear. So, when Mrs. Lazlo would attempt to teach me a new piece, I asked her to play it for me so that I could get "inspired" to learn it. What I was really doing was learning how it sounded. And then I would somehow figure out how to memorize the way her fingers moved across the black and white keys. So, the day of the big recital would come and I would proudly approach the piano, lay out my sheet music and begin to play. I would know where I was supposed to turn the page. And on cue, would turn it. But I wasn't reading music. I was faking.
For eight years I did this. EIGHT YEARS!! And that recital, on the eve of my eigth grade graduation, was the last time I could play a whole song on the piano. A few years into high school my mother had friends over and pulled out some sheet music for me to play something for them and I couldn't. I believe at the time she thought I was too full of teenage angst to be delightful for a moment and entertain her friends. And she wasn't wrong (althought I certainly hope you rise above teenage angst...don't worry, I won't hold it against you if you don't). But the truth was, I was a faker. A terrible terrible faker. I wasted my parents money and wasted Mrs. Lazlo's time. And I vowed, in all of my teenage angst, to never fake it again.
I was being an asshole, Izzy. I was. I was too proud to admit that I needed special help. That I wasn't "getting" it and I felt like a failure. And in the end, my faking made it so that I did fail by never learning how to play the piano. Something that, now, I would love to know how to do. So, I give you permission to fail. Give yourself permission fail. But whatever you do, don't fake it.
All my love (for reals),
Mom
When I was in First Grade my parents, your loving grandparents, enrolled me in piano class. My teacher was a tiny octogenarian named Mrs. Lazlo. I never did get her first name. Shame, actually. I would have loved to know it now. Anyway, Mrs. Lazlo was little but mean! And had an accent...I believe it was German. And her fingers nails were thick with fungus and, in a sad attempt to hide the fungus, covered in a coral colored finger nail polish that only hightened the look of sick. But the little firecracker could play the piano. Dang could she play. It was my favorite part of the lesson, hearing her play. I would often try to find new ways for her to play something to me. And on those Thursday afternoon's, in the tiny little room on the second floor of my grade school/convent (yup, the top level of St. Mary's of the Vally Grade School in Beaverton, Oregon is a convent), she would rock Beethoven or Bach or Mozart. It was awesome.
What was not awesome, however, was her ability to teach. Maybe it was the thick German accent, maybe it was the fact that she didn't really like kids or have any patience for them, or maybe it was because she was gifted and it irritated her to hear her prescious music mangled, but I never learned how to read music from her. And, what's worse, I was too affraid to tell her that I wasn't learning. Luckily, I had a great ear. So, when Mrs. Lazlo would attempt to teach me a new piece, I asked her to play it for me so that I could get "inspired" to learn it. What I was really doing was learning how it sounded. And then I would somehow figure out how to memorize the way her fingers moved across the black and white keys. So, the day of the big recital would come and I would proudly approach the piano, lay out my sheet music and begin to play. I would know where I was supposed to turn the page. And on cue, would turn it. But I wasn't reading music. I was faking.
For eight years I did this. EIGHT YEARS!! And that recital, on the eve of my eigth grade graduation, was the last time I could play a whole song on the piano. A few years into high school my mother had friends over and pulled out some sheet music for me to play something for them and I couldn't. I believe at the time she thought I was too full of teenage angst to be delightful for a moment and entertain her friends. And she wasn't wrong (althought I certainly hope you rise above teenage angst...don't worry, I won't hold it against you if you don't). But the truth was, I was a faker. A terrible terrible faker. I wasted my parents money and wasted Mrs. Lazlo's time. And I vowed, in all of my teenage angst, to never fake it again.
I was being an asshole, Izzy. I was. I was too proud to admit that I needed special help. That I wasn't "getting" it and I felt like a failure. And in the end, my faking made it so that I did fail by never learning how to play the piano. Something that, now, I would love to know how to do. So, I give you permission to fail. Give yourself permission fail. But whatever you do, don't fake it.
All my love (for reals),
Mom
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Lesson #2: Magic Words
Dear Baby:
Todays lesson is about pleasantries. Specifically, the words "please" and "thank you". Assholes tend not to say either. This is one of the many reasons why they are assholes. These words are also known as "magic words". I don't think they should be referred to as magic. Mainly because people should be polite to each other without any magic being involved.
The word "please" is added to a command. It softens it. It makes you immediately grateful to someone for the task that you are asking them to do. That's nice. I want you to be nice. So, please say please.
The word "Thank you" extends that gratitude by showing that you appreciate the other persons time and energy. Say "thank you" many times a day. Say it to the guy that bags your groceries. The valet that brings your car back to you. The waitress that refills your water. Say it to me when I make you dinner and say it to your father when he picks you up from soccer, or ballet or skeet shooting practice (whatever you're in to, babe, we'll support you!). If you say it often then that is one step closer to you being the most awesome person ever. Which, is the goal here, c'mon on! So, please say "thank you". Thank you.
Since your birth, your father and I have decided to make it a point to say "please" and "thank you" to each other and, in turn, to the world. And it is unbelievable how much mileage those words can get. It immediately makes every task more pleasurable to preform. And I feel more appreciated, as does he, in doing tasks in the home and in the world.
Yesterday, I thanked the guy who was wiping down the elliptical machine at the gym (not sure if those will exist by the time you read this, Izzy, but elliptical machine's is how your mommy can eat lots of sweets and still fit into her size 4 jeans). When I thanked him he looked up at me with his beaten brown eyes and I thought he was about to cry. Then he said, "No one has ever thanked me for this before. Thank you for thanking me." Man. I almost started to cry. He made me feel good for making him feel appreciated. It really makes you think that the world just might be a better place if we just took the time to be more pleasant.
And maybe, just maybe, that is magic.
Todays lesson is about pleasantries. Specifically, the words "please" and "thank you". Assholes tend not to say either. This is one of the many reasons why they are assholes. These words are also known as "magic words". I don't think they should be referred to as magic. Mainly because people should be polite to each other without any magic being involved.
The word "please" is added to a command. It softens it. It makes you immediately grateful to someone for the task that you are asking them to do. That's nice. I want you to be nice. So, please say please.
The word "Thank you" extends that gratitude by showing that you appreciate the other persons time and energy. Say "thank you" many times a day. Say it to the guy that bags your groceries. The valet that brings your car back to you. The waitress that refills your water. Say it to me when I make you dinner and say it to your father when he picks you up from soccer, or ballet or skeet shooting practice (whatever you're in to, babe, we'll support you!). If you say it often then that is one step closer to you being the most awesome person ever. Which, is the goal here, c'mon on! So, please say "thank you". Thank you.
Since your birth, your father and I have decided to make it a point to say "please" and "thank you" to each other and, in turn, to the world. And it is unbelievable how much mileage those words can get. It immediately makes every task more pleasurable to preform. And I feel more appreciated, as does he, in doing tasks in the home and in the world.
Yesterday, I thanked the guy who was wiping down the elliptical machine at the gym (not sure if those will exist by the time you read this, Izzy, but elliptical machine's is how your mommy can eat lots of sweets and still fit into her size 4 jeans). When I thanked him he looked up at me with his beaten brown eyes and I thought he was about to cry. Then he said, "No one has ever thanked me for this before. Thank you for thanking me." Man. I almost started to cry. He made me feel good for making him feel appreciated. It really makes you think that the world just might be a better place if we just took the time to be more pleasant.
And maybe, just maybe, that is magic.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Lesson #1
Dear Baby,
Please don't grow up to be an asshole. I have been, at times, an asshole and I will attempt, in my time as your mommy, to teach you how not to be one. Ever. No one likes an asshole.
I had a very sad realization the other day. I'll never know my parents as thirty year-olds. I'll never see what they were like at parties, or drunk with friends, or at a game night, or slow dancing at a wedding as their thirty year-old selves. I know them now. I adore them now. But it would be so cool to be able to jump in a time machine and have a conversation with them then. Have a beer with my dad then...back when he was a smoker. And we'd share a cigarette.
It was this realization that made we want to start this "diary". Cause the thing is, Izzy, as you age...so will I. And while today I'm fun and cool-ish, who knows who the hell I'll be when you are ten, or fifteen, or twenty-one. Maybe I'll stop swearing for your sake. Maybe I'll get a bowl cut and never wear heels again. Who the heck knows?
So, I felt it important to write to you now. As someone in their thirties. So you could look back and hear my stories and learn my lessons now. Cause with time, I may forget who I was and I may surpass this rudamentary "me". So, learn now, baby girl. Here we go.
First topic? Bangs. Think long and hard before you cut bangs. Bangs are the Ike to my Tina. (Man, will that reference hold up? If google still exists or wikepedia or, dang, whatever crazy hologram technology please look up Tina Turner. And rock out to some of her songs eg. "Proud Mary", while you're at it. The lady kicks ass). So, yeah, I always think me and bangs will live happily ever after. That they will make my life better. So, I get them cut and every time they punch me in the face, figuratively. And I am made a fool. I then swear I will never do bangs again but, a few months later, I forgive bangs and think this next time will be different. In short, bangs have made an asshole out of me. Maybe you will be able to pull of bangs. But know that, unless they are swept to the side, your mother can't.
I love you...And stand up straight. I'm sure while you're reading this you are slumping.
xo, Mom
Please don't grow up to be an asshole. I have been, at times, an asshole and I will attempt, in my time as your mommy, to teach you how not to be one. Ever. No one likes an asshole.
I had a very sad realization the other day. I'll never know my parents as thirty year-olds. I'll never see what they were like at parties, or drunk with friends, or at a game night, or slow dancing at a wedding as their thirty year-old selves. I know them now. I adore them now. But it would be so cool to be able to jump in a time machine and have a conversation with them then. Have a beer with my dad then...back when he was a smoker. And we'd share a cigarette.
It was this realization that made we want to start this "diary". Cause the thing is, Izzy, as you age...so will I. And while today I'm fun and cool-ish, who knows who the hell I'll be when you are ten, or fifteen, or twenty-one. Maybe I'll stop swearing for your sake. Maybe I'll get a bowl cut and never wear heels again. Who the heck knows?
So, I felt it important to write to you now. As someone in their thirties. So you could look back and hear my stories and learn my lessons now. Cause with time, I may forget who I was and I may surpass this rudamentary "me". So, learn now, baby girl. Here we go.
First topic? Bangs. Think long and hard before you cut bangs. Bangs are the Ike to my Tina. (Man, will that reference hold up? If google still exists or wikepedia or, dang, whatever crazy hologram technology please look up Tina Turner. And rock out to some of her songs eg. "Proud Mary", while you're at it. The lady kicks ass). So, yeah, I always think me and bangs will live happily ever after. That they will make my life better. So, I get them cut and every time they punch me in the face, figuratively. And I am made a fool. I then swear I will never do bangs again but, a few months later, I forgive bangs and think this next time will be different. In short, bangs have made an asshole out of me. Maybe you will be able to pull of bangs. But know that, unless they are swept to the side, your mother can't.
I love you...And stand up straight. I'm sure while you're reading this you are slumping.
xo, Mom
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