Daisy Bell

One of my earliest memories is this song, my mom singing it to me over and over and over. We are laying in my bed and she is stroking my arm, and her voice soft and lilting, my eyes heavy, my blankie tucked under my arm.

And now, some thirty years later, I sing it to my daughters nightly, almost whispering it in their ears while they lay cuddled in my arms, their eyes heavy with sleep, their blankie or lovey tucked under the crook of their arm.

And after we read stories and we snuggle and I whisper sweet nothings in my daughters’ ears I sing Daisy, Daisy over and over and over always stopping mid-verse:

I’m half crazy all for the love of you…

Still the one

There were spontaneous weekend road trips. There were study dates. There were coffee dates. There was mini golf, sleepless nights, and lots of laughter. There were picnics on the beach. There were new jobs. There were butterflies and the skip of a heartbeat every time we kissed.

There was the threat of rain. There were ascot ties and tails and black tea-length dresses. There were yellow calla lilies and pink tulips. There was bubbly champagne. There were clicks of camera shutters and the stomp of dress shoes. There were his arms around my waist, my breath atop his lips, there was our future upon the horizon.

There are diapers and slobbery baby kisses and middle of the night snuggles. There is heartache. There is joy. There are tears. There is happiness and still lots of laughter. There are coffee dates and dinner dates and family dates. There are long lingering kisses and quick welcome home pecks on the cheek. There are muddy handprints on the walls. There is an adventure every single day.

Happy Eight Years my love. The best eight years of my life.

Ten things I love about my daughters right now

1. Every time I get Daisy dressed to go out, if I blink my eyes she strips and dresses up in a princess dress.

2. No matter what’s happening in the evening, when J walks into the door Lily drops everything to greet him with a hug.

3. We read chapter books regularly – Daisy gets one to two chapters before naptime from a book she and I read together (recently finished Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and starting Three Tales of My Father’s Dragon). Surprisingly, she is retaining some of the plot lines.

4. Lily really likes playing in water. And mud. And dirt. Really, anything messy.

5. Daisy has a couple dozen books and a seemingly limitless number of songs and rhymes memorized. She is constantly dragging a picture book of the shelf and “reading” it out loud – every word perfect.

6. After 13 months of reading daily to her, Lily is finally sitting still long enough to snuggle up and read a couple of picture books together. I love that snuggle time. Her favorite is Happy Birthday Mouse. She always claps when Mouse gets the cookie.

7. Daisy lives in a world all her own. Yesterday she told me a story that involved a polar bear, a dragon and a princess together on a lunar rover. She is particularly interested in Rapunzel and Thumbelina, so just about every story features someone named Rapunzel and/or Thumbelina as well.

8. Lily is a big believer in giving spontaneous kisses. It melts my heart every single time.

9. Lily’s one-year molars have finally cut through; along with four other teeth. After several rather painful weeks, I am happy to report that my sweet baby girl, who smiles and sleeps through the night, is back.

10. Yesterday, while at the checkout at Whole Foods, Daisy greeted the cashier with, “Hey Bebe, What’s Smokin’.” I just about died of mortification.

36 months

My darling monkey,

I have been pondering for days on the exact way I should begin your letter. Should I open with a tidbit about your blossoming creative imaginative play? Or a dissertation about the extraordinary intellectual leaps you are making? A list of ways in which your vocabulary is developing; for example, last week you used the word “melancholy” contextually correct. (MELANCHOLY!) Or how most people gasp when they hear you are just three after hearing how articulate, expressive and polite you are. (“What shall we do now, Momma?” or “I’m not quite ready, Momma” SHALL! QUITE!)

Or should I instead start this letter talking about your newfound love of artful self-expression? Your obsession with “writing letters.” Should I tell you about the ways your eyes light up when you see collage materials and glue on the table after naptime? Should I make jokes about your love affair with glitter? Should I tell you about the many, many afternoons you spend with a paintbrush in hand, painting picture after picture. Or perhaps, I should try and explain the sheer giddiness exuding from you when you cut the junk mail.

Maybe I should relay your love of ballet and tap. How you constantly dance around the room practicing first position and shuffle ball change as you sway your arms and move to whatever music you hear. Maybe I should discuss your obsession with all things fantasy – your fascination with your princess dresses to your constant appeals to go “mermaid watching.” Or maybe I should tell you how adorable it is seeing you mimic our daily activities – from seeing you sweep the back patio to making dinner for daddy with your play kitchen to giving your dolls a bath because they are “smelly.” Or maybe I should tell you how proud of you I was after your first swim lesson, you listened and followed directions and loved every second of being in the water, your first time without me.

Or maybe I should tell you how incredible it has been to see you grow as a loving big sister. Maybe I should tell you how much it makes my heart sing watching you love on Lily. Maybe I should tell you how you reached out and comforted her when she received her one-year vaccinations: “Sissy, it’s okay, be brave like me, I’ll hold your hand.” Your empathy astounds me.

Or maybe I should tell you how much joy it brings me to see your fascination with and connection with the outdoors. Maybe I should focus on how much I love our lazy sunny afternoons where we wander down to the green open space and watch the creek bubble by under the wooden bridge. Or how much we love to picnic, or watch your love of hiking and running and long walks develop. Or maybe I should tell you about the elaborate stories you concoct with only a single flower as your inspiration.

It’s all so amazing, so unbelievably amazing, that I cannot even begin to capture the magic of this age with you in words.

I love you more than all the stars in the sky and the water in the ocean.

Love, Momma

The BIG three

I saw this idea on Pinterest a few months ago and filed it away. You ask your child the same twenty question on their birthday every year, so you can see how they change. So today, over a picnic lunch at The Gardens at Heather Farm I fired away: 

1. What is your favorite color: pink

2. What is your favorite toy: Legos

3. What is your favorite fruit: strawberries

4. What is your favorite movie/TV show? Curious George

5. What is your favorite thing to wear: Minnie Mouse shirt & pink crocks (for the record, she does wear bottoms, I just don’t think she’s partial to anything specific)

6. What is your favorite animal: a lion

7. What is your favorite song: ABC’s & Tangled (Momma’s note: When will my life begin)

8. What is your favorite book? Pirate & Dragon books (Momma’s note: I was not expecting this, Winnie-the-Pooh or Fancy Nancy would have been my pick, but now that I think of it we have been reading an awful lot of The land of long ago and The pirate cruncher.) 

9. Who is your best friend: Annabel

10. What is your favorite breakfast: Daddy’s pancakes

11. What is your favorite lunch: peanut butter & jelly (too bad today we had cheese, crackers, granola bars and apples with peanut butter)

12. What is your favorite dinner: grilled cheese

13. What is your favorite snack: smoothies

14. What is your favorite dessert: cupcakes with sprinkles & chocolate ice cream

15. What do you sleep with at night: Blankie

16. What is your favorite thing to play outside: paint & run

17. What do you want for your birthday dinner: peas mixed with strawberries (Momma’s note: you have only eaten peas at one point in your life, when you were 9 months old, and then only freshly pureed from the farmer’s market. You have never eaten them since no matter how hard I try or how many different ways they are presented to you. So, what we will instead have are Panini sandwiches with deli ham and cheese with sweet potatoes “fries.” We will have peas as a side dish alongside strawberries, but I fully intend on being the only one who eats the peas.

18. What do you want to be when you grow up: a Mommy & a garbage truck driver

19. Where is your favorite place to go: to the library

20. What is your favorite game: chase with sissy

p.s: the birthday girl picked her outfit today, down to the mix-matched socks paired with pink crocks.

A photo essay: Our day

early morning snuggles. greek yogurt with sliced banana and grape nuts. vanilla latte. a morning nursing session. baking soda & vinegar volcanos. legos. wooden block towers. mommy’s heels.

a long walk. pears. skipping. jumping. hopping like a frog. princess “packback.” mr. magee learns to ski. “la p’tite monnaie.” a german fairytale: the snowdrop. “clic-clac oh c’est beau”

 

sunshine. peanut butter. avocado & hawaiian roll sandwiches. grass. books. balls. running. galloping. dirt. casey. ring-a-round-the-rosie.

laughing. hill-rolling. giggling. smiles. cold water. tag. fresh air. 

the Winnie-the-pooh Storybook collection. the land of long ago. Bernstein bears. the going to bed book. soft pants. cuddles. freshly washed hands. blankie. sleepy yawns.

naptime bliss. folded little girl clothes. coffee. sugar cookie. macbook air. emails. lesson planning. editing essays. texts. thank you notes. gilmore girls. menu planning. bread machine. a clean sink.

    

after nap hugs. cow’s milk. skype with grandma & grandpa. sleepy grins. slobbery kisses.

gin & tonic. daddy tickles. homemade pulled pork & pineapple pizza. family movie night: beauty & the beast. clean sheets. bath time with daddy. nursing  and songs. hanging out with my love. Jane Austen’s Emma.  

a pretty-darn perfect friday.

Letter to my bumblebee: ONE

Dear Lily,

Today, my love, marks your first birthday. It seems just like yesterday that you and I were snuggled up for the first time and I was falling irrevocably in love. This last year has been magic, my darling. And while we have only known each other for a short twelve months, I feel like you have been here forever, as though we have met before.

That said, girlie, parenting you has thrown me for a loop. You are turning into a regular mischief-maker. Most of the time you are sweet and charming, and people are always commenting on how adorable your smile is, but it’s all a deceptive ploy. Underneath all those shy snuggles and magnetic grins is a pistol of a troublemaker, a child who wants nothing more than to wreak havoc.

So, you know that when you are not allowed to, say, play in Casey’s water bowl, or perhaps, touch the fireplace, or even splash in the toilet bowl, but you completely ignore my warnings and go ahead with your playing anyways? And then just try to worm your way out of trouble by giving me a coy smile and a slobbery kiss? This I blame on your father. You get your addiction to avocados from me and you get your ability to manipulate the heck out of me from your father. Oh, and you probably got your love of steak from him as well.

This month has been filled with twice as much manipulation as last month, which I think is because you have spent the last couple of months turning into a tiny little rocket. For the past few weeks you’ve been taking your first steps – a step between the table and the couch, a step away from my arms. You still rely on cruising and crawling for most of your mobility, but every now and then you just let go and propel your body forward standing on your own two legs. This absolutely astounds me. I mean, you spent six months as a completely immobile lump, drinking only my milk and screaming as your only means of communication. And now, one year later you can almost walk, you have a half-dozen words and you eat anything I put on your plate. Amazing.

In all honestly, love bug, while today is your first birthday, to us this milestone is really just another lovely family day. We loved you yesterday and we love you today and we will love you tomorrow and THAT, that is a big deal. That matters more than anything.

I love you more than all the stars in the sky and the water in the ocean.

Love,

Momma

Happiness and Delight

We are well into the new year, and halfway through my winter break. Soon I will start (and finish) my syllabus for the spring semester. Soon I will start on our 2012 tax return. Soon I will organize last years pictures and transfer my files to my new MacBook Air. Soon I will finish organizing the office/playroom loft space.

Instead, I am spending our days hiking in the mud and twirling about in princess dresses. It’s play-dates with old and new friends and adventures at the Cabot Space & Science Center. It’s bundled up park picnics with warm leftover soup drunk from a thermos and apples as an afternoon snack. It’s a night in San Luis Obispo with my love. It’s lazy mornings that consist of fairy tales, puppet shows and painting with long late afternoons of reading snuggled together with hot mugs of cocoa. It’s taking care of croupy preschoolers and teething babies. It’s weekends consisting of family walks, beer with friends and movie nights. 

There just doesn’t seem to be time for anything else.

A year of first, lasts and in-betweens

Another year has come and gone. Another calendar has filled itself up with birthday parties, toddler scribbling, doctor appointments, play dates and anniversary reminders. Another blank calendar sits on the corner of my desk, the empty spaces waiting for my pen markings. Exclamation marks signify a night away on the central coast with my love to celebrate the marriage of a very dear family friend. A balloon sticker marks the first birthday of my youngest daughter. A heart marks the third anniversary of a beloved cousin lost, while another heart circling the eighth of April marks my eighth wedding anniversary.

This year held lots of firsts and lasts for us. The first time we sold a house. The last time we walked the hallway of our little home on Bessemer Street. The first time I kissed Lily, moments after her birth. The last night we spent as a family of three, with Daisy wedged between us. The first day of work, teaching a new class, days after I signed the HR paperwork. The last time I patted my parents’ dog, Annie. The first time I left the girls with a non-relative babysitter, my first time as a marathon spectator. The last time I drove my blue CR-V, the last time I changed Daisy’s diaper. Lily’s first Christmas. 

I find myself remembering these moments, and I cannot help but think that 2012 was, for us, a year of transitions. A year of redefining our goals, a year of reprioritizing, a year of being intentional: in all that we do. I look forward to the New Year, starting out with waking up next to my love, our girls showering us with morning kisses, and knowing that whatever 2013 throws our way our family will tackle the first, lasts and in-betweens together.

On feeling hope

We were in the car, driving home, listening to NPR. A news reporter came on air, interrupting the typical programming, reporting on the horrific shooting in Newtown, Conn.

As I listened to the story, my eyes threatening with tears, I thought of the parents who lost their children today, not just their children, but the promise of a future: the loss of their unknown grandbabies, the loss of their happiness, and the loss of their comfort. I thought of how one man, one boy really, took away a piece of their life that they can never fully recover from.

I turned off the news cycle, unable to listen, feeling sick to my stomach. Instead, I found myself reciting the poem, “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:

I heard the bells on Christmas day / Their old familiar carols play, And wild and sweet the words repeat / Of peace on earth, good-will to men.

I thought how, as the day had come,  / The belfries of Christendom. Had rolled along th’unbroken song / Of peace on earth, good-will to men.

Till ringing, singing on its way. / The world revolved from night to day / A voice, a chime, a chant sublime, / Of peace on earth, good-will to men.

Then from each black, accursed mouth / The cannon thundered in the South,  / And with the sound / The carols drowned / Of peace on earth, good-will to men.

It was as if an earthquake rent / The hearth-stones of a continent, / And made forlorn / The households born / Of peace on earth, good-will to men.

And in despair I bowed my head: / ‘There is no peace on earth’ I said‘ / For hate is strong, and mocks the song / Of peace on earth, good-will to men.’

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:  / ‘God is not dead, nor doth He sleep; / The wrong shall fail, the right prevail. / With peace on earth, good-will to men.’

I wish my daughters were inheriting a world where such deep hurt did not exist. I wish I could protect them forever from knowing loss, from knowing pain, from knowing that the world can be an unsafe place. The poem above speaks of despair, hopelessness over the state of humanity, but ultimately it speaks of hope. The bells sweet sound swell over the roar of the cannons and sanguinity is restored. The poem insists that God still influences the world, touches humanity, and the joyous Christmas bells proclaim God’s presence. The ringing bells unite the world in joy.

As we pull into the garage Daisy asks to make a Christmas project, while I hear Lily waking up from a short-lived nap, ready to nurse. I gather the girls into my arms, asking for kisses and hugs, them both freely dolling them out, I commit this moment, these hugs and slobbery kisses, to memory.

The words of Longfellow’s poem still ring in my heart as I set up the painting supplies for Daisy, put on Pandora, and get us set up for lunch. “I heard the bells on Christmas Day” reminds me of the enduring concept that despite tragedy, loss and warfare, there is within most of us the hope and wish for “peace on earth, good-will to men.”

And this is the real message of Christmas.

On Turkeys, Marathons & Cleaning Sprees

How has the start of your holiday season been? Mine has been pretty nice, a bit chaotic, and has involved lots of sleepless nights, the eternal optimism in me thinks it has been mostly nice because it  has involved lots of cookies, online shopping and listening to Christmas music.

As for Thanksgiving, our little household hosted the big feast for all eleven our immediate family members. Both sets of grandparents, brothers and a girlfriend were all in attendance. On Wednesday night, right after I burned a boiling pot of peeled potatoes, the thought I kept having was this: you know that crack I was apparently smoking when I decided I could handle hosting Thanksgiving dinner? Get me some more of that. I’m going to need it.

But the day turned out fine, of course; better than fine, perhaps. We moved the table from the nook to take over the family area and gathered every chair I could find, and used a few of Daisy’s art projects and collected a couple pinecones as my tablescapes (and for the record, I had no idea what a tablescape was before the invention of Pinterest), and turned the lights down low so no-one could see the dog hair on the futon and the crumbs on the floor. I brought out my wedding china and mismatched some other sets of plates – and got everyone nice and liquored up before I told J it was time to carve the turkey. We feasted and laughed, told embarrassing stories, and drank plenty of wine.

Friday of Thanksgiving weekend consisted of family pictures, a delicious sushi lunch, furniture rearranging and a double date. Family eventually left leaving behind multiple dozens of cookies and several pies. We muddled through another week of sleepless nights, due to the unending energy of a teething 10 month old, all the while distributing leftover cookies and pies to neighbors and friends (of course, this is after I spent an entire two hour naptime dunking cookies into my never-ending cup of coffee). On Friday night J and I had a Parks & Recreation marathon after the girls’ bath and bedtime, and on Saturday we drove out to Sacramento right in front of a massive thunderstorm which local news and the Doppler had been threatening all week. And on Sunday, in the pouring rain J ran his second marathon, and he officially became “a runner.” Complete with war wounds and all.

He did a fabulous job, running all 26.2 miles in the rain and the wind and chilly weather on little sleep (did I mention the teething baby?), although I was never happier to go home and take a hot shower. Cheering on a loved one in a marathon is tough work.

Of course, the next week had J walking around like he was in his mid-seventies. On Thursday night, I forced a mini-celebration at Chez Stars of sorts, to celebrate the end of J’s long training and his completion of a 2012 goal and Lily’s new tooth. We toasted and drank and then realized that this was just the first of 20 teeth to make an appearance over the next year. On Friday, I promptly went out and bought another bottle of Advil, a huge container of teething tablets, and scotch.

Of course, then I had grand plans for this past weekend: sleeping in, writing a final exam, Christmas shopping, editing essays and homemade cioppino. However, sadly the stomach flu found our household, the 24 hour bug that took me down hard on Saturday, and left me ravenous on Sunday evening with a house that looked like a hurricane had hit, leading to yesterday’s long-overdue cleaning and purging rampage – tiresome but ultimately satisfying – which means I’m now typing this from a house with bare toy baskets, squeaky clean toilets and shiny floorboards that smell pleasingly of almonds.

A settlement of differences

When I was pregnant with Daisy, I read everything I could about parenting philosophies: attachment parenting, baby wise, co-sleeping and cry-it-out (CIO), bedtime routines and schedules. I read about the dangers of co-sleeping and the evils of CIO. I read about the pros and cons of pacifier use and the benefits of developing a breastfeeding relationship.

I swore up and down that I would never co-sleep, that my baby would sleep in their crib every night, all night long. And more often than not these days, at least one of our girls is in our bed at some point in the night. I swore that I would never endorse the CIO method, and yet I sit here researching those dreaded sleep-training practices, to help Lily fall and stay asleep at night and at nap. I swore that I was never going to let my baby use a pacifier. How could parents DARE let their innocent babes use pacifiers? Didn’t they know the correlation of ear infections or the long-term effects of their teeth? And yet, with Lily, I find myself keeping a pacifier in the front pocket of the ergo, in her car seat, another in the stroller and one or two in her bedroom. Just in case, you know?

For the most part, J and I have stuck to our guns. We wanted to cloth diaper and we did. We did not want to use formula and we have not. We wanted to make our own baby food and we have. We wanted to try baby wearing, and we have. We believe in family meal times, so regardless of time or place we eat at least one meal a day together as a family.

If I have learned anything over these past three years, however, it is that compromise is the name of the parenting game. I swore that I would never clothe a little girl in pink – and today my daughters’ closet looks like a Pepto Bismol commercial, complete with Disney princess logo clothing. I swore that I would not let my children watch TV – and most days of the week Daisy watches an episode of Curious George or Sesame Street while I make dinner or work. I thought I would never use a Sippy cup, but lo and behold, Sippy cups of water litter my home. And, of course, there are the pacifiers.

These are my nevers, the things I claimed that I would never do, and then so totally did. Most of the time there’s no need to compromise what you have faith in as a parent. But it seems to me that just about every parent compromises at least once.

Or, if they are like me, like five billion times.

Nine months later

To my little alligator,

Last Tuesday you turned nine months old. NINE MONTHS! At nine months of age, you give kisses on command, wave goodbye, and clap after each and every meal. You pull yourself up; you crawl up steps and give high fives. You babble and laugh and squeal and squawk. You splash in the bathtub; you pound on your wooden blocks, you crawl wickedly fast across the room to knock over big sister’s tower. You recognize the rhythms in your favorite books. And you scream.

Lily, my love, you have lungs made of steel and you aren’t afraid to use them.

You are not allowed to play in the dishwasher, screaming ensues. You are hungry: screaming. The sun is in your eyes: screaming. Your sister took your ball: screaming. You need your diaper changed: screaming. You don’t want your diaper changed: screaming. You milk teeth are cutting through: screaming. You’re not ready for a nap: screaming. You are ready for a nap: screaming. You have been awake for 30 seconds and no one has retrieved you to nurse: screaming.

It’s like you’re trying to make me lose my marbles.

Your father and I celebrated your nine-month birthday by dropping you and your sister off with your maternal grandparents and taking an overnight trip to Palm Springs. For the first 60 minutes in the car, we sat in silence, and enjoyed the peace. Then, we decided to check in and see how it was going. We hung up seconds later when we heard the screaming. We decided it was good to be away.

Your sister was dressed as a rainbow ballerina fairy (although she added her new Mouse ears from our recent Disneyland trip, she’s missing her decorated wings, and you can’t see her rainbow-hued wand) and you were the cutest little monkey for Halloween.

 You have already learned the way to my heart: your smile.

Besides suffering mild hearing loss, you are such a joy to be around. People constantly exclaim at what a happy baby you are, smiling, laughing and flirting. You love to be held, you love to cuddle, and you love to be within an arms distance of me. I’ll tell you, it’s the ultimate ego booster. You seriously HATE to get your diaper changed and fight through the whole ordeal, and if I make a split-second falter, you’re already halfway across the room with a naked bum staring back at me. It’s hard to believe that you are the same helpless newborn we brought home from the hospital nine months ago. I am constantly amazed at how much you have changed in such a short time. While you’ll always be my baby, I’m beginning to catch glimpses of the toddler you are becoming, and I see many temper tantrums in our future.

But, Lily, my love, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

I love you more than all the stars in the sky and the waters in the ocean.

Love,

Momma

Tuesday

It’s the perfect sort of morning. Quiet. Light. We eat breakfast: yogurt drizzled with pureed strawberries, leftover from our frozen farmer’s market stash, topped with crunchy homemade granola. We hop like kangaroos across our tiny backyard. We feed the dog. We nurse. We water our lime tree and our herb garden. We read library books. We run a load of laundry. We walk to the neighborhood bookstore to buy a birthday gift and catch the end of story time. Lily naps tucked inside the Ergo. We sing silly made up songs. We feed the ducks. We recite poetry. We tell stories of princesses and dragons and far-away castles. We eat peanut butter sandwiches on our way home underneath the shade of a tree. We sing Skinny Marinky Dinky Dink. We fly like butterflies and slither like snakes across the grass in the park. We color and glue and cut.

We cuddle at naptime, all three of us stretched out in bed. Snuggling. Nursing. Reading story after story. Singing “Daisy” and “Sunshine.” I think of the papers to grade, the essays to edit, the laundry to fold, but instead, I hold my girls just a little bit tighter, sighing deeply as I drift off to sleep.

The perfect sort of morning is exhausting. 

The next Picasso

I have been trying to establish a painting or art day with Daisy (and eventually Lily). We do so many things together. We read and play with blocks. We sing songs, recite poetry and work on oral narration. We play with play-dough and cloud dough and ooblick. We color with crayons and markers. We make chalk drawings. We go on field trips and adventures, but we hardly ever paint.

Painting day was Wednesday. Yesterday, after naps we gathered supplies: paint brushes, trucks to make paint tracks, leaves and acorns to use as stamps, a pie tin to hold the paint, and a bowl of clean water, and her scrap paper for her canvas.

I left Daisy running her cars through the paint and onto her paper in a very civilized fashion while I return an important phone call. Not even three minutes later, I looked up and thought a smurf had exploded in our backyard. Blue paint was everywhere. And I watched her paint the slide, her legs, her hair, the walls. Daisy was still painting when I left for work.

Painting day was on Wednesday. Last night when I got home from class, J told me I needed to find another day.

And all I can say is thank goodness for washable paint.

Psalm 103

It’s been nearly a month since my last post. I’ve started one several times, sitting down to write out a blurb and post a few pictures in reference to Lily’s recent baptism. We had family come and celebrate from out of town. We toasted with old and new friends. But, as is typical in September, life started to run away from me.

When we first approached our pastor about baptizing Lily, he requested a meeting to discuss baby baptism. He asked us, Why? Why do you want to baptize Lily? We gave the standard responses: it’s a rite of passage, it’s an affirmation of faith as parents, it’s the beginning of a lifelong journey. He seemed satisfied, even impressed, with our answers. We scheduled our date.

For many reasons, I don’t talk much about my faith. I don’t talk about it here, in a public forum. I don’t bring it up in conversations unless prompted. As a Methodist, I shy away from evangelism, as an introvert, I withdraw from controversial topics. I rarely talk to the girls about religion, even. I tell Bible stories, and we read from our Children’s bible, but I never talk about praying or praising. We don't memorize scripture. We seem to focus instead on learning our letters and shapes, reading fairy tales, instilling a sharing heart, a happy attitude and proper bathroom etiquette.

And then, two weeks ago, Casey, our beloved seven year old mutt became sick, really sick. I packed up the girls, loaded up the diaper bag, carried Casey to the car and headed out to the vet. While we were waiting for lab results, we walked to Starbucks for some fresh air and a much needed caffeinated afternoon boost. I was tired with a pounding headache, and I was worried about the mounting veterinary bills. 

On our way back to the vet, Daisy asked if Casey would be okay. She told me she was nervous and scared. I realized, right then, that it matters not if and when I baptize my children, but to teach them to trust and to praise – no matter our circumstance. Instead of just reassuring Daisy as I normally do, I stopped right there, and we sat down on the curb of the parking lot. My toddler sitting next to me, my newly baptized baby resting in the Ergo, mocha in hand and diaper bag falling off my shoulder. We stopped and we prayed. We gave our worries to God, we prayed for health for Casey, for ourselves. We thanked Him for His goodness. We asked Him to instill joy in our hearts, gratitude for grace and mercy and for the life of Jesus to spill over into our everyday actions.

As we sat on the curb, I recited Psalm 103: Bless the Lord, O my soul, And all that is within me, bless His holy name! And forget not all His benefits; Who forgives all your iniquities; Who heals all your diseases; Who redeems your life from destruction; Who crowns you with loving kindness and tender mercies, Who satisfies your mouth with good things, so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s.  

This is why I baptized my children. I want to teach my girls to pray, no matter where and when. I want to teach Daisy and Lily to trust in the Lord, to hand our worries over to Him. To worship His name. And yes, I don’t need to baptize my girls to do this, but hey, it’s a great reason to drink champagne.

Ps: Casey is now, after much prayer and medication, back to her squirrel chasing, cookie-loving self. It seems that she has Addison’s disease, and was suffering from Addisonian crisis. We are all very happy, and Casey seem to think we should celebrate with a nightly scoop of vanilla ice cream. She usually gets it.

Letter to my monkey: 30 months

Dear Daisy,

Emily Dickinson, an American poet, once wrote, We’d never know how high we are, til we are called to rise; if we are true to plan, our statures touch the sky.

I want to pass that one to you because these past few months have been a bit of a rollercoaster. Between another fast move, freelance working picking back up, a new teaching gig, potty learning and regular summer busyness your routines and rhythms have been thrown for a loop.

For me, it’s easy to get sucked into the daily inconveniences and detours of life. But, this quote reminds me of what’s really important and what’s not worthy of more than a moment of our time and attention. To slow down, to stop multitasking every moment away. Basically, the lesson I’m trying to teach you my love is that the true measurement isn’t in what happens to us, but how we deal with it. I want us to remember that sometimes our plans don’t always work out the way we wish, and we need to rise above the clouds to get a fresh perspective. 

Moving on to a lighter note, there are three really big cool things that have happened these past six months. The first one is that you use the toilet almost all by yourself. It’s freaking amazing. 

Second is your verbal development. It seems to be out of this world. Not only have you have added a whole slew of words to your arsenal including “lethargic” “gorgeous,” “vital” and “nervous,” but now differentiate between greens, blues and reds, also using adjectives such as “lime” to “aqua” and “ruby” for various shades. Not only has your vocabulary been blowing my mind, but you speak in full and complete sentences with minimal grammatical errors. Well, except that you use your ballet terms as verbs, such as “Momma, I’m arabesquing.”

Lastly, you and your sister have started interacting more. This is quickly becoming my favorite thing. You are sharing with her, laughing with her and playing with her. You sit and read to her, comfort her when she’s crying and teach her animal sounds and numbers. Sometimes you are jealous when she’s taking my attention, but at the end of the day; a sister is a blessing. You will always, no matter what, have each other. And try as I might, I simply cannot think of anything more beautiful than that.

Yesterday you turned two and half years old. Thirty months. We spent the morning reading, we took a long walk, played puzzles, and had tea in your kitchen. In the afternoon you pretended to be a dinosaur. You helped slice the heirloom tomatoes for marinara sauce and we enjoyed homemade popsicles as an afternoon snack. We had dinner al fresco. In the morning when you woke up snuggled up in my arms, you told me that you could touch the sky. Your hands were waved high into the air, stretched as far as you could reach, fingers wriggling.

Oh, little sunshine, never stop reaching. Everyday, reach just a little bit higher.

I love you more than all the stars in the sky and the water in the ocean.

Love,

Momma

Another day, another move

Moving sucks, there is no other way to describe it. And here at Chez Stars, we are nearing the end of another move. And I know the next thing you’re going to ask is, didn’t you JUST move? And you’d probably say next that having moved twice in the span of six months I’d be a pro at it, but in all honestly, I think I’m getting worse. For this move, it was somewhat sudden, and we were moving a mere eight miles up the road, to another rental, so I ended up procrastinating and threw bed sheets into boxes with cereal bowls and boxes of books mixed with office supplies and toddler-sized hair ties. And in the unpacking I am now paying the price.

The thing with moving is that it always takes so much longer than you think it will. If you think it’ll take two days, it takes four. If you think it’ll take four days, it takes a week – and sometimes you will wake up in the morning trying to locate your toddler’s clothes so she won’t have to wear the same read swimsuit cover-up disguised as a dress for the fifth day in a row and think WILL I EVER BE DONE?

Just as an FYI, moving with a toddler, baby and a dog never helps matters.

I guess the bright side of moving, if there is one, is that it gives you a chance to really decide if all your stuff is worthy of making that eight mile trek. Of course, then you have to meticulously record each item going into the donation pile, and bag it up, and transport it over to your nearest Goodwill donation stop. Personally, after this move I’m not sure which is easier. Although, I will question any book brought into this house to stay.

And of course, once everything has made the move over, you then are surrounded by a disaster of half unpacked boxes and  furniture.  But at least it’s a different kind of disaster, I guess, one peppered with the sporadic frisson of excitement that comes with deciding where to put the spice rack in the kitchen. Don’t pretend like that doesn’t make you happy.

Anyways, the worst is over, I think, only a tiny sliver left. Although, the “tiny sliver” is clearing out the garage which is where we placed all the stuff deemed “miscellaneous” which basically means we still can’t park the cars in there yet. But what’s breaking down boxes, reorganizing yard tools and storing high school year books when you’ve packed and unpacked the bulk of your life already, you know? 

Half a year

Dear Lily,

Over the weekend we gave you your first bite of solid food: freshly steamed and pureed carrots. Carrots that your sister and I picked out from the farmer’s market. You eyed those orange babies while I peeled them. You drooled while you sat on my hip watching while I whirled them in the food processor. You smacked your lips while I spooned them into a bowl. We sat down to eat dinner, baby spoon in hand. Ready to feed you your first bite. Instead, you yanked the spoon from my fingers and jammed it in your mouth on your own.

That, my love, basically sums up your first six months of life: Independence. When I carry you in the Ergo, you squirm and contort your body so that you can face outward. You love to be outside, watching the world go by. Sitting among the other children, watching them play.

I have loved watching your personality develop over these last few months. Driven by this independent spirit, your father and I now fear for your teenage days. Most people, grandparents, aunties, friends and strangers alike, exclaim at what a happy and personable baby you are, constantly smiling, laughing and gurgling. This is all true, but darling, they are not around when your wrath is unleashed. You can scream and cry and carry on with the best of them, complete with huge dramatic sighs, shudders and crocodile-sized tears. My parents tell stories that I was the best door slammer to walk the earth. I suspect you may take over my title.

While you are only six month old, you are roughly 18 pounds, and nearly 28 inches long. Your giant baby genes astound much of the population. Most people are amazed when I claim you are a wee six months old. In fact, last week a young lady told me to “shut the front door” when I said that you were not quite six months yet. So, I did. But, these thunder thighs come in handy when you play in your jumper. You can get some solid air bouncing, belly-laughing and having so much fun. You like to listen to the music, spin the ducks, but what you really like is to jump. The higher, the faster, the better.

As your first half year of life comes to a close, I have been spending a lot of time thinking about how to tell you just how loved and adored you are. I cannot think of just the right words, though, and then last week while we laid in the grass soaking up some vitamin D, the words flew off the page of Wherever You Are by Nancy Tillman. They sum up perfectly just how I feel:

“I wanted you more than you will ever know, so I sent love to follow wherever you go. In the green of the grass. In the smell of the sea. In the clouds floating by. At the top of a tree. In the sound crickets make at the end of the day. You are loved. You are loved. You are loved. They all say.”

Little bumblebee, you are so loved, loved more than all the stars in the sky and the waters in the ocean.

Love,

Momma

Love stinks

The other day I met one of my closest friends in Berkeley; we met for a girl’s night out: dinner and drinks and pedicures. We had a blast talking about our girls, swapping stories, and general catching up. I treated myself to a pair of cute dragonfly earrings when I went into a shop to make change. I picked out a bright, teal-colored toenail polish. I listened to Bob Dylan and Tom Petty on my 40-minute drive. I loved the few hours break from nursing and potty-training, trading it for drinking beer, laughing, a foot massage, and… the smell of Indian food. 

I stood waiting a few minutes standing in front of the restaurant, with the aromatic smell of garlic and burnt oil mixing in the air, and something about it stirred in me a longing for the times that Andy and I went out for Indian food. The buttery naan, the faint fragrance of coconut married with coriander. The memory dropped on me like a ton of bricks: the night in London, after one too many beers, laughing way too hard, and tracking down the best place for Chicken Tikka Masala in all of Britain. I could almost see the street; almost remember the conversation, the view hazy from the years of separation.

Smell is such a powerful sense. Sometimes I’ll be running in the early morning and I’ll catch the faint scent of dirt and the hot air and suddenly I’m 18 again, running along the American River Trail, chatting with my teammates. Coppertone sunscreen equals days on end at Lake Mead. The aroma of freshly cut grass reminds me of my Dad, working in the yard every Saturday morning. Freshly baked bread will forever remind me of my mother. And, now the smell of curry mingled with paprika reminds me of Andy. 

Ahh, love really does stink.