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

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

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

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

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

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.

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