A Dog, A Family

We meet a lot of bloggers. Some stand out and we return again and again to their blog.

Since I began this blog in 2007 I've come to love many blogs, but in the past couple of years I've found one that I return to over and over again: The Good Life by Stasha at northwestmommy.

From her Monday Listicles to her amazing photography to her voice, Stasha's blog rings with honesty and beauty. She writes sincere comments and truly values everyone's voice.

And then today I discovered on her blog this beautiful short movie starring her son and dog. In case you haven't seen her dog in photos before, it is HUGE. But this short movie shows us the beauty of Stasha's life, so I hope you enjoy it as much as I have.

Here's the link: http://www.northwestmommy.com/2013/better-with-pets

I've shared this with family and friends already and now I want to share it with you in case you might want to pass it on to others!

The Things We Ask

I often catch myself 'telling' my daughters...

Please pick up your room.
Eat your peas.
This is the third time I've 'asked' you to get your shoes on this morning.

With all of this telling I begin to wonder what I ask them...

Did you go potty yet?
What would you like to drink, milk or water?
It's time to leave for school, where are your shoes?

The majority of our day is filled with these basic telling and asking statements.
Shouldn't it be filled with more thought-provoking ideas and questions?
Shouldn't I be framing their growth: mental, emotional, spiritual?

Maybe it's no wonder when I turn to my writing and find myself struggling to dig deep into the characters and carve out a unique plot.

Maybe life is just too simple minded, at the moment.

Before I know it my girls will be 13, 15, and 17, and then I'll be missing the simplicity of statements like "Make your bed" and "Did you wash your hands?"

This Blog is Stuck in the Muck

I've been on a long hiatus from blogging, so long I really don't know what to do with my blog anymore.

First, I pulled away from the Internet.
I couldn't recall when I deleted my Facebook account, so I had to look it up: May 2012.
Then I made my blog private, and no longer wrote posts.
I stopped reading blogs.
And that's when the absence of the Internet really sunk in...

It felt great, wonderful, freeing, wholesome, and relaxing.

And life with three daughters now with a husband consistently working six to seven days a week for the Navy keeps me so busy I have little time to write short stories.

Maybe I missed blogging a little bit. I definitely don't miss Facebook or Twitter.
I do miss reading the stories written by bloggers who share with us their daily struggles, their sorrows and joys, their frustrations and encouragements, their bravery to let it all out there.

So I keep turning back to my blog and wondering what to make of it.
It's here for my daughters to read one day, although my third daughter will find so little of her in it.

But I still don't feel comfortable with the idea of sharing parts of myself and my family with strangers. Not the people who comment on my blog, but the ones coming to my blog from far away places, never knowing who they are or what their purpose is.

So my blog will continue on, but with a vague focus on my family, serving more of a purpose to explore ideas and questions I have.

The MotherShip

Long ago my husband deployed.
(Six months is a long time in the land of a pregnant mommy chasing after her four- and two-year-old daughters)

After I lost sight of his ship on the horizon, I came home and plugged myself into blogging.

Blogging became my lifesaver, keeping me afloat through the highs and lows of this deployment by having an outlet at the end of the day when I struggled to stay sane. 

Blogging is a therapeutic form of medicine, especially for a pregnant mama missing her husband.

So here I sit, anticipating the first speck of my husband's ship on the horizon in a handful of weeks and finding myself wondering where will I go with my blog...

I can no longer see my toes, as our third daughter will make her grand entrance at the end of November.

I can no longer keep up with our other two daughters as they bolt up the stairs and run around naked before bath time.

I can no longer sit in my writing chair for more than 10 minutes before my 10 little toes become swollen piggies.

Sigh.

My creative juices are spent.
My body is conserving all of its energy to sustain me until my husband gets home.

During this deployment I realized that "I can do this," and more importantly, that the only thing I am looking forward to with the end of this deployment is being with my husband.

Honestly, the thoughts of "good, now he can take over" or "finally, someone else to wash the dishes and pick up toys" or "it's my turn to sleep in" have not crossed my mind. Abigail Green of Abby Off the Record recently hosted me on her blog for two days about being a temporary single mom, and one of her readers made a comment that really hit home.

Malia Jacobson wrote, "Owning the difficulties of parenting (along with the good times) without needing him to rescue me has freed me from a lot of resentment."

And this is so true for me. I just want my husband home to hear his laughter, to feel his warmth, to see him play Tutti Frutti with our daughters, to feel the house fill up with his presence.

And this is why I question what will become of my blog.

I may take off a week, a month, or longer from blogging. Or maybe I won't. Maybe I will feel the creative juices start to flow again. Maybe I will feel inspired by the birth of our third little girl. Maybe I will receive an acceptance letter for a manuscript or a notice that one of my short stories won in a contest and I'll want to share my news on my blog...

But as I sit here, feeling like I've got a case of the blogging blaahgs because of being utterly exhausted, I know one thing: when I step on board my husband's ship in one month (after waddling up the bridge) I will melt into my husband's arms and I will no longer need a lifesaver to stay afloat.

I will want to be with him instead of in front of my computer writing on my blog.

So I just wanted to write this post in case any of my readers have been feeling let down that I have not been coming to your blog and commenting as much as I used to. I sincerely love your blogs as much as I love my blog. My blog means a great deal to me as it is a place for me to explore my thoughts and feelings. And I am so grateful to all of you for keeping me afloat during my husband's deployment.

I hope this message doesn't appear as if I am abandoning you. I won't be, I just may not be present as often as I have been.

I'm going to continue writing on my blog and reading your blogs, but I just don't know when and how often, so I thought it best to share with you the reasons behind my absence.

Blogging has been a mothership in a way for the past several months, but my true source of inspiration is soon to be rekindled: being with my husband and daughters, all together.

What Rebels Are Made Of

A visit to the past...

So I've only been drunk once in my life. I enjoy wine (not beer or martinis), but I've never felt the desire to get drunk, except once.

Like any typical college girl, I decided to finally figure out what all the hype was about on my 21st birthday. Skipping an evening out with my rowdy sorority girl-friends, I asked my three organic chemistry lab partners to join me at Nick's English Hut after we finished creating a form of Aspirin. No, we didn't try it out (on ourselves).

The lab took us over five hours to do since I broke a $180 flask half-way through and we had to start over, so obviously I had to treat my three lab buddies to some drinks even though it was my birthday.

My three lab friends knew it was my 21st and that I intended to experiment with the drunk sensation, so they ordered me a pitcher of beer, a shot of some sort (it was green and red and had the name 'turtle' in its title), and another drink with lots of glitter in it.

I took it ALL in by myself, and within two hours I was back home, opening the passenger door, falling onto the street with my legs still in the car, giggling and claiming I could make it to my volleyball game within the hour.

My amazing best friend, Emily, took me inside and put me to bed. She helped me six times during the night when I got sick and couldn't make it to the toilet, and she cleaned the toilet for me in the morning!

At some point during the night I shouted to her that I was hot, hot tamales, before I sank back into drunken sleep.

The next morning I awoke and made it to my fungi lab with a face that was literally green. My Berkeley-hippy professor actually asked me why I was a pale shade of mold. Pretty embarrassing, but I survived.

Why did I wait until I was 21 to get annihilated? Once was enough for me, and I've never gotten drunk since. But I am perplexed why I lacked a rebellious streak when I was in high school and college? All of my friends got drunk all the time, but I was the one who volunteered to be the designated driver.

I have never been a rebel (unless you count living in the rain forest by myself for two years as an act of rebellion, but for me it was a normal, easy thing to do that didn't involve extra courage or fearlessness on my part. It was simple and fun. I wanted to get away from a fast, crazy, technology-filled, materialistic world, so I went to live in hut for awhile).

The only time the desired-rebel part of my writer-mama shadow is allowed to come out is when I am writing about a character that has traits of people I've known in my past. Their rebellions, their freedoms, their choices all come through in my writing; I don't know if I envy them or fear them.

I don't consider my lifestyle to be that of a wallflower; I am fairly liberal, laid-back, and adventurous, but I don't see myself as feisty, rowdy or the life of the party.

Trying to put myself in the shoes of a rebel is not easy to do since I've never really experienced that frame of mind. I can try to fake it in my writing, but it seems so obvious to me that my words show that I've never really done some of these things.

Young adult novels today are full of extreme experiences to draw the reader in (e.g., alcoholic friends, abusive parents, drug-addicted siblings, rape/incest/teen pregnancy, murder, abandonment, etc). I've read numerous award-winning books, and they all have at least one of these topics in the story.

It's depressing, but I wonder if more and more adolescents are relating to this material.

When I was in high school the hot topics were sex and booze, but now it seems like these topics are light and the heavy ones in the award-winning novels today are the ones publishers want to see.

My experience with the light topics is certainly more than my experience with the heavy ones, so as a writer I struggle with writing stories that teens relate to on such deep (depressing) levels.

Is my main character in my young adult novel too simple, too boring, because he faces different types of challenges instead of experiencing acts of rebellion in his life?

Well, I may be simple and down-to-earth, but this is what makes me happy. I'm certainly looking forward to having my first glass of wine once my baby is born (after I've pumped or nursed), but one glass is enough for me.

I just hope that the simplicity and down-to-earth approach of my writing for teens can interest them and make them think. If I ever publish my YA novel.

In the meantime, I look at my daughters and wonder:
Will they be rebels one day?
Will they grow up among peers who experience abuse, alcoholism, drugs, rape, murder, etc?
Will they want to read about these experiences in books?
Will they be content to experience an act of rebellion once or will it become a habit?
Will they look at me as a softy, a boring mommy or as an adventure-seeking mommy who just has no interest in getting drunk?

Hunger of the Mind

A tree-hugger's tree-climber 

(don't worry, I photoshopped myself out of the picture)

Back in St. Louis in the early 2000's I stumbled along in graduate school. Call me nerdy, but here's what excited me:

helping baby trees grow in deforested areas of the rainforest

 (you'd be surprised that most tree seedlings die in an area that's been cleared of rainforest)

(For those of you who aren't numbed already by the science of this post, specifically I researched the way a type of fungus (mycorrhizal) helped tree seedlings to grow in cow pastures while insects (herbivores) devoured the nutrient-rich seedling leaves)

It was, in my world, thrilling! I was the mother to thousands of baby trees who were crying out "Don't eat me bugs!"

Now that world of science and research is far far away. I'm probably closer to trees as instruments of perfecting how to climb than how they sustain our planet.

I miss the demands on my mind. Motherhood is demanding, but my mind is not a sponge for things like listening to Dora sing "Come on Vamanos" or reading Big Dog...Little Dog six times in a row or picking up the Tinker Toys again.

My mind is hungry for the intellectual games of being an adult.

How do you keep your mind active? What challenges you so that your brain doesn't become as soft and depleted as Sponge Bob's?

The Baby Baby

Dear Baby,

We created you from love Little One.

We discovered your miracle of life shortly before your daddy deployed. So while your daddy was deployed I surprised him by having a 4D ultrasound before Father's Day! From the second I saw your tiny 10 cm long body, I fell in love. You raised your little arms to your face when I gently poked a finger into my belly. Your perfect tiny body held me spellbound.

An enormous grin lit up my face at hearing the technician say "See these three lines, you're having a girl."

Your sisters predicted you would be a girl! And your daddy and I are so incredibly happy and so blessed.

I mailed the 10 minute video of the 4D ultrasound to your daddy, who was half-way around the world. Sitting inside his ship, he watched you come to life on his computer screen and heard every word spoken at the ultrasound appointment.

I got to see you again when you were 20 weeks old. You amazed me by moving so much and displaying your beautiful profile so well for the technician to measure you.

And here I sit with you inside of me. You are 24 weeks old and already I feel you kicking when I put the palm of my hand on my belly.

Who is this little one inside of me?


What will your laugh sound like?


What will make your face shine?

Do you smile when you hear your sisters singing to you from the outside world?

I love you as much as I love your sisters. Your daddy loves you this much, too. We are so blessed and can't wait for you to join our family little one.

We love you!



P.S. Please remember I love you if one day I am screaming at you and your sisters when you are all 18, 16, and 14 and living under one roof, trying to share one bathroom while getting ready for school in the morning.

Are You There God? It's Me, Mama.

My four-year-old daughter points to my baby belly and asks, "Mama, did God make the baby?"

And I think, here we go.

The topic of how babies are made physically is no longer a difficult one compared to the new topic my daughter loves to bring up: God and Jesus.

Since this is my blog, I guess I can blog about anything. Right?

Normally I don't write about my spiritual, religious or political beliefs.
The reason: I just like to write about motherhood and writing more than the Bible and the state of our government.

But now two lines have crossed: motherhood and God, so here I go...

My daughter attends the preschool at our church. She comes home singing songs about Jesus. She tells me about her weekly trip to chapel. She asks me to read stories to her from her children's Bible. And I love that she is so taken with the story of God and Jesus, but...

But when she says that God made us, flashing lights go off in my head:

Should I just listen for now?

Should I tell her what I believe? 

(That God is a universal spirit encompassing all life, present and past, and that the Big Bang did occur, that evolution is a process of life, and that God is part of it all.)

Should I tell her that I still don't know after all these years what I believe about Jesus? 

Is it true what the Bible says about him? 

Did heaven not exist before Jesus? 

Should I project my belief about heaven and hell on her?

(That heaven exists for everyone, 

even if it is just a small piece of goodness from someone's soul that is in heaven. 

And that hell does not exist.)

Should I teach her about all religions and their god(s)?

Do I let her find her own way, her own beliefs?

I am still trying to figure out what I believe, but she is my daughter. I attended a church service once and watched the nods of heads accepting everything the priest said: "abortion is wrong, a woman's place should be submissive, sinners never go to heaven unless they confess and even then maybe not."

In that moment it became clear to me: I never want to accept someone's words on blind faith. It just doesn't mesh well with my scientific mind that is constantly searching for the truth.

So instead of preaching to my child, I teach. I ask questions. I listen. I guide her. I wait for her to explore answers in her mind.

She's only four.

Someday I will delve into it more deeply. I am passionate about life, its creation, its miracle, and its evolution.

But it is more important to me now that my daughter is given a chance to think, to learn how to observe and question the world around her.

The Simple Things

I don't pretend to be a fashionista. I long ago found fads and fashion to be a waste of time, money and effort.

So when a mom gave me a piece of unsolicited advice about fashion,

"Take it from me, wait until your daughter starts the school year, so she can find out what clothing is in. Then go out and buy her those outfits. She won't be ridiculed that way,"

I bit the "hmphf" that almost flipped off my tongue.

I abhor materialism. I hated high school hallways where girls eyed girls to see who was wearing the latest trend. I don't see the point in owning 30 pairs of shoes. But this is just me, my choices. I don't think badly of people who choose to have five closets full of clothes. I just don't understand them.

I didn't and don't dress in a brown paper bag. But sadly, these days I probably fall more on the "frumpy mama" end of the scale rather than the "ultra-chic mama" end. I'm doing good to shower and wear non-wrinkled clothes most days.

My daughters make up for my lack of enthusiasm towards clothing. My four-year-old is determined to become a fashion designer and loves to pick out different ensembles. My two-year-old has to wear a tutu with every outfit every day (I am still in denial that I have purchased five tutus for her; I'm not perfect).

I loved living in the rainforest for many reasons, one of them being the lack of materialism. The women in the valley where I lived each owned one dress, something floral and handmade. They loved to simply sit down and enjoy a "cafecito" with friends. No one rushed, things moved slow. It was simple. It was beautiful.

What kind of world am I creating for my children? They have too many toys, DVDs, books (well, I don't know if that's possible), and choices. I know I won't put any emphasis what so ever on buying the 'in' clothes for my daughters, but I do buy them clothes, way too many clothes. I feel like a hypocrite every time I let my children get a new DVD or a new toy, because as much as I dislike materialism, I am feeding this way of living more than I should be.

Why is it so hard to live more simply?

Link up to Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop today!

Living Each Day As If...

I do not like thinking in the "What Ifs" frame of mind. It doesn't get me anywhere. It's unhealthy.

But all it takes is one piece of devastating, scary, depressing piece of news to make my mind spin:

What if 'that' happened to my daughters? 

I don't sit and dwell on played out scenarios. That would depress me even more. The "what if that happened to my daughters?" is a fleeting question, but enough to pull at my heart and pull my children closer to me.

How many parents live each day as if it is their last, or their child's last?

When I was a young child, a mother (not mine), said to me "Live every day as if it is your last." But it didn't sit right with me. And then I watched this mother and her family spiral into major problems where loved ones were hurt, actions were regretted, and permanent damage was done. Alcohol, drugs, unwanted pregnancies, and death hit this family. I don't think all of these devastating events happened because this mother lived every day as if it were her last, but the choices she made in her life definitely did not put her on the right path.

If we lived every day as if it were our last we might use up our entire savings before "Judgement Day" or call in sick to work or allow our children to play hookie.

I don't live everyday as if it is my last; however, the fear of losing my children tempts me to give in to their every demand. The frightening things going on in the world make me want to take my girls on "It's a Small World" ride at Disneyland and never get off. I could die unexpectedly and regret in heaven that I should have cuddled my loved ones more and stressed out less. (I honestly don't believe a soul has regrets in heaven, but you never know.)

So I try to keep a firm grip on reality, on my mind. I don't give in to my fears and I don't live each day as if it is my last.

I discipline.
I write when I should be playing.
I sleep when I should be writing.
And I leave the laundry and dirty dishes until tomorrow.

(If I do die I am sure to be remembered as that mom with 'a really messy house')

I've never played out in my head the scenario "What would I do today if I knew I was going to die tomorrow?" but I have thought about what my death might mean for my husband and children. Have I created something that would remind them of how much I love them?

It is very sad that some people do know it is their last day. Those who have suffered from diseases, infections, illnesses for so long may suffer the fear and knowledge that they may not survive one more day. I pray they don't have regrets. That they don't feel the burden of "what if" or "why didn't I," but mostly I pray they love the life they have lived. 

My grandma once told me, shortly after my grandfather passed away, "Kim, Van (my grandfather) told me I could go first. But he's gone. He left me here alone without him." And my grandma lived for two more years and near the end she was ready to go to heaven to be with her husband and her brother and her parents. She had been waiting for her last day.

My grandma and papa inspire me to live each day to the fullest but not as if it is my last. My children and my husband make me want to live until tomorrow and the next. They make me want to live the day, each day, appreciating the moments, but not living as if these moments won't happen again tomorrow.

How do you live each day? As if it is your last or knowing tomorrow will come?

Return to Sender

I said good-bye to my high school students in Virginia, and moved to British Columbia, pregnant, and wondering where my life was going. In the next five months I began to dig into my childhood hobby: writing.

What did I expect when I was expecting my first child? I expected I should be able to write children's books. I churned out a dozen or so manuscripts and sent them off all before my daughter was born. (I didn't go at it completely blind, I did take the writing course offered through the Institute of Children's Literature, which was  pretty fantastic!)

It's no surprise that I got rejected. But it did surprise me. And as a novice, rejections were rough. I don't regret sending those manuscripts out (secretly I pray the individuals who read them have since forgotten my name). But I do wish I had just slapped a big stamp across the envelope that read: RETURN TO SENDER. Just sending a manuscript out in the mail is a rush. Getting a rejection letter isn't.

Now, after four years, I've worked my way around age groups and genres and I've finally found my niche: short stories. I don't stop there as I like writing essays and the novel I'm working on, but writing a short story is fulfilling enough without having to send it out to a publisher.

My daughters and I have been sending my husband many care packages since he deployed. Recently, after a hard day where my daughter taught me about unconditional love, it dawned on me: I need a care package. One sent by me, marked Return to Sender. My husband's care packages for me and our girls are absolutely wonderful and unique and truly touching.

But what would I send myself?

A Back Massage  
 Twizzlers 
A beautiful new journal    
Maternity PJs 
My Hubby (to handle our 4a.m. riser)   
Lots and Lots of Lindt Hazelnut Chocolates  
A Snuggle Pillow 
A Head Massage

A Foot Massage   

A Sense of Humor 

My Hubby (to spoon with me)  

Cozy socks

The Dog Whisperer (so my puppy could be trained better)   

A Week's Worth of my Mom's Homemade Meals  

A Plane Ticket (to go visit my hubby) 
My Hubby (to lean on)


Yes, that's my Return to Sender care package!! I'm sure it would work. Now, if only I could make it last for the rest of this deployment...

What would be in your Return to Sender care package?

What to Do With Those Imperfections

Celebrate them!

My day began with building forts, having tea parties, breaking a brand new bottle of Worcester sauce, burning five candles so my kitchen doesn't smell like hamburgers all day, taking my oldest girl to preschool, playing catch with our sheltie puppy and youngest girl, and blowing bubbles with my youngest until she wanted to watch Dora. All before 10a.m. this morning; quite a perfect morning!

And then I stopped on over at Mommy Pants to see what was on her mind today. And she told me the 10 things she likes about herself. And I thought, Hmmm... What would be on my list? And where did Mommy Pants find her inspiration for her list?

So I linked over to C. Mom and discovered this:

More Than One Identity

"The child goes through the full-time mother like a dye through water: there is no part of her that remains uncoloured."

Rachel Cusk in "Aftermath"

Published in Granta, Spring 2011

In the blogosphere, it's an all-too-common statement we hear from blogging mothers:

I lost myself in motherhood.

I know I did. Not just after my first was born. But also after my second came into the world.

My Best Hour

Just another typical, average morning...

4:00a.m. - I awake thinking I heard my two-year-old daughter calling for me.

4:20a.m. - Two-year-old is actually SCREAMING for me.

4:30a.m. - Daughter refuses to cuddle with me in my bed, still SCREAMING b/c she wants to go downstairs.

4:31a.m. - Six-month-old puppy starts to whine and bark.

4:33a.m. - Daughter sits on the couch while I put the puppy outside.

4:40a.m. - Puppy starts to wake up entire neighborhood with her barking and chasing after a stray cat.

4:41a.m. - Me, in my PJs and disheveled hair, chasing the puppy who is chasing the cat in the backyard.

4:45a.m. - Two-year-old daughter is eating only the marshmallows from a bowl of Lucky Charms.

4:50a.m. - My four-year-old is now awake and asking for a bowl of Lucky Charms.

4:55a.m. - I vow to never buy Lucky Charms again as I vacuum up all of the non-marshmallow bits.

5:00a.m. - I chase my two-year-old who pooped in her diaper & is now running off, diaperless.

Aspirations for Our Daughters

Day Five of a Blog Series on Conversations with My Daughters

"Conversation 5: Girls Gone Wild Are a Dime a Dozen - Dare to Be Virtuous"

In case you missed it, I am doing a five post blog series on conversations with my daughters. After reading Vicki Courtney's book, 5 Conversations You Must Have With Your Daughter, I decided to reflect on how each conversation takes place between me and my daughters (ages almost-4 and 2).

I wonder why this final conversation in Vicki Courtney's books should have me the most concerned. Why should this conversation worry me more than "The Talk"?

Perhaps it is because I was the 'good girl' growing up. I didn't do drugs, smoke, lose my virginity, cheat, lie, steal or runaway from home. I'm not saying I was perfect. I was moody, stubborn, way too independent, and not willing to give up my alone time to be with friends. But by the time I left for college, I don't believe I really caused too much heartache for anyone, except myself.

It was hard to feel unhappy with myself. To see all of my girl friends having prom dates and boyfriends. To see the wild side of teenagers come to the surface with a beer in their hands, their inhibitions let loose. To see my peers pass through obstacles by using aids that I couldn't overcome because I chose to remain virtuous. 

What was wrong with me? (a question I asked myself at that time)

 It was a rough time. I was glad to leave adolescence behind.

This is why I dread this conversation with my daughters. This is why reading Vicki's last part of her book is so important, for me.

My daughters are too young to have role models in the real world. Tomorrow, they may esteem to be like Miley Cyrus, Selena Gomez or Vanessa Hudgens. I hope it will be Hermione Granger, but that's just me. For now, however, Dora, Velma and Daphne, Ruby, and Hello Kitty are their role models. 

They don't know about "Girl Power" yet. 

They don't see "sexy" or "conservative." 

They haven't met a "Diva."

In their small real world, the females they can look up to include me, their grandmothers, their aunts, their teachers, and their babysitter. 

My oldest daughter sees an older girl doing some serious making out with a boy in the neighborhood pool next to our house. She asks, "Why are they doing that?" and I tell her, "I guess they like each other a lot." But I hold back on saying my opinion, "but they shouldn't be doing it there."

My daughter asks me, "Can I pull my dress down to be off my shoulders like Belle's? Can I show my boobies?" and I look at the Disney princesses in their gowns, who yes show their shoulders and an ample chest. "Sweetie, you can pull it down a little bit, but we don't show our boobies."

My daughter asks, "When can I get my ears pierced?" and I answer, "When you are older."

Are these minute conversations the building blocks of being virtuous? In my heart, I don't believe so. I feel that my examples, the examples of the women in my daughter's lives, show and teach my daughters more than words, at this point in time.

I should clarify one thing: I am not worried that my daughters may one day have a reputation. I'm not concerned what others think of my daughters. And I certainly am not secretly hoping my daughters will be perfect.

I have one main worry: Will my daughters be happy with who they choose to be? 

I pray they will make smart choices. 

I hope they will always be safe and healthy.  

I hope they will have friends who influence them in positive ways. 

I hope they will have great role models.

But mostly I pray that they will be happy. 

 

A Volcanologist, A Dinosaur Hunter, and A Mommy

Day Four of a Blog Series on Conversations with My Daughters

"Conversation 4: It's OK to Dream about Marriage and Motherhood!"

In case you missed it, I am doing a five post blog series on conversations with my daughters. After reading Vicki Courtney's book, 5 Conversations You Must Have With Your Daughter, I decided to reflect on how each conversation takes place between me and my daughters (ages almost-4 and 2).

The course of families over time shows humans going from large, clan-like families (hunters and gathers) to nuclear families to single-parent families. My daughters have friends who live with neither parent, who live with not only their parents but grandparents and aunts and uncles as well, and who live in more than one home with a set of parents in each home.

My daughter of almost four years notices these differences. So naturally, the question of why families are different comes up, and our conversation sways towards marriage.

"Mommy," my daughter asks me, "when will I get to have a baby?"

My answer comes without thinking: "Once you fall in love and get married, Sweetie." 

"When will I get married?"

"Not until you are a lot older."

I close the car door and glance at her preschool, wondering what she heard today, what she learned from her friends. 

"Mommy," she asks as I sit in my seat and start the car, "Who will I marry?" 

"Someone you really love a lot, so much that you want to spend the rest of your life with him."

"I want to marry Daddy," she says in all seriousness. 

I smile in the rear view mirror at my daughter. She gazes out her window, turning over in her mind any ideas she has about marriage and love and babies (at her young age, I hope it is all magical and simple).

I look at myself in the mirror and see the crows feet at the corner of my eyes. I begin to drive home.

During the drive I dissect my conversation:

• Does she need to know it's possible to have a baby without love, without marriage?
• Is it right to promote the idea of loving just one person for the rest of your life?
• Should I teach her that she has to be old (enough) to do all of those things?
• Am I only showing her a conservative view of love and marriage? 
• Should I tell her that marriage and love can happen between women and men as well as between individuals of the same gender?
• What if I don't teach her about the love I hope she has one day?

I grew up in a nuclear family. My parents are still married to each other. My mom stayed home to raise us. My dad and mom did not go on fancy vacations alone or buy fancy things for themselves; they gave my sisters and me their time, their energy, their support, and all of their love. And I have always associated their love, their marriage, their parenting style as the major foundation of our family.

It is a given, that I want this for my children. I want their future as adults to be as happy as that of my parents and me.

My daughter recently told me her ambitions. 

"When I grow up I want to be a volcanologist, a dinosaur hunter, an astronaut, a fashion designer, and a mommy. I want to be it ALL!" 

To which I reply, "You can, Sweetie."

I wanted to be a stay-at-home mom, because I loved coming home each day from school knowing my mom would be there, opening the door and giving me a hug. I felt safe in our house. Friends came over who did not wish to open their door to an empty house. I didn't have to worry about the pressure to drink or do drugs or have sex at my house, because my mom was home. 

And she was truly home, she was there getting my friends and me a snack and asking us about our school day. Not in an attempt to be buddy buddy, but as a mother trying to communicate with children.

I may not be opening the door to all of the possibilities of love and marriage and motherhood for my daughters right now. But I am showing them one form of love and marriage and motherhood, the form I chose for myself, the kind that feels right for me. And I honor it by sharing it with my daughters every day.

I hope one day my daughters will find love, but I have a hope that is bigger than that for them: I hope one day my daughters will love themselves.

I hope one day my daughters will marry if that is what they wish.

I hope one day my daughters will have children if they desire them.

I hope one day that if my daughters come asking me a question about love and marriage and motherhood, that I can answer them truthfully and honestly from my heart.

And for more posts by other bloggers that angle in on our mother's teachings, please stop by Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop today!

 

Conversations With . . .

Two girls, soon to be three. My girls.

Soon after hearing the news that I am going to have a third daughter, like on the drive home from the ultrasound office, a question popped up in front of me as I watched two teenage girls walk down the sidewalk in barely there clothing: How do I prepare my daughters for their future?

How many times in a day are we as women bombarded with how we should look and act and feel? So many that I've lost count. I'm grateful we don't have cable; it means my daughters aren't exposed to this form of media.

But it's all there, waiting for them: the billboards, the fashion magazines, the ads, the Internet, their peers... Of course, we can't live in a bubble.

My mom taught me from early on the value of looking someone in the eye during a conversation. From this, I learned the importance of the conversation: the kind of conversation - the realistic kind.

So during my drive home and feeling overwhelmed by the responsibility of raising three daughters in today's world, I realized conversations can start early. I'm not talking about serious conversations that unsettle a four-year-old and two-year-old, but conversations nevertheless to help them as they grow up in today's world.

I've always parented from the style of 'learning as we go along.' But this time, I decided I didn't want to get it wrong, so I bought a parenting book: Five Conversations You Must Have With Your Daughter, by Vicki Courtney. Vicki Courtney's book, Five Conversations You Must Have With Your Daughter, captured me from the beginning.

(I've only read one parenting book prior to now: Raising Your Spirited Child, by Mary Sheedy Kurcinka, when my husband and I were seeking answers to why our colicky daughter transformed into a high-spirited little girl with amazing talents who keeps us on our toes. And it was a tremendous help! But since then, I haven't picked up another parenting book.)



When images like this pop up in the media:

my first reaction is to laugh.

These beautiful women have been Photoshopped so obviously that it looks so unreal, so fake it is laughable. But then the serious side of me kicks in and the sunny side fades way into a somber mood.

My girls, many girls, don't know that images are skewed, changed, altered, airbrushed, chopped, and chiseled. What they see is, in their minds, real.

Society and the media keep us in a vicious cycle of wanting and teasing and disappointing and searching. But a mom is not helpless, we are quite powerful actually. My mom is a role model for this.

Sure I grew up wishing I had straight hair instead of corkscrew curls, size A or even B instead of a C, an hourglass shape instead of a rectangle, and of course, a smaller nose. But I didn't lose sleep over my wishes, I didn't have an eating disorder thankfully, and I didn't go the route of changing my appearance to make myself into the ideal female body projected by the media. And I thank my mother for keeping me on course. She taught me what was important: my self, my inner me, my character.

She made me strong.
She gave me a gift, the power of belief in oneself.

And it all came about through conversations. The power of words astounds me.

So for my next five posts I am doing a series on five conversations I have with my own daughters. Five conversations that stem from Vicki Courtney's book and how even conversations with my little ones may help guide them on the right path.

Pushmi-Pullyu Fickle Beast - Part Two

Two years ago the Pushmi-Pullyu Fickle Beast reared its two-headed self: Writer vs. Mama, playing a game of tug-o-war. Should I write or should I play?

That beast has since been tamed, soothed, understood, and nourished, a wee bit. But it's still a beast.

And now I see Part Two of the Pushmi-Pullyu Fickle Beast emerging: Independence and Needy. This time, however, the two-headed beast isn't me.

Meet Pushmi-Pullyu Fickle Beast #2: my youngest daughter.

She doesn't really act like a wild beast, although I can only imagine that maybe she feels like one inside when the baby in her cries for me while the two-year-old in her shouts "I can do this on my own!"

My wonderful little girl clings to me one minute and then pushes me away. And it's funny how this tug-o-war inside of her brings to the surface my own two-headed beast. Should I baby her, cuddle her in these lingering moments of when she is still so close in age to a baby, or should I give her that space, the freedom to step closer to being more independent like her older sister?

Children are fascinating to watch. And I feel doubly blessed that I have two little girls I get to observe and study and secretly smile at during all of the challenges they go through. And best of all, it's me they run to at the end of it all for either a congratulatory high-five or a make-it-feel better hug.

The Finality of Enough

My girls are like taffy, pulling me in different directions. My writing, just the same.

I get tugged in the direction of short stories, only to try out a same story multiple times in different voices. Then I get pulled in the direction of essays and find myself revising and revising, never know when it is enough.

My oldest daughter pulls on my sleeve when I am laying in her bed at night telling her a story, "Wake up Mommy. Finish telling me the story." I ended it five times already, but she wants more. She wants a tapestry. "One more, and that's it. That's enough," I say. Finally she is satisfied and I stumble out of her room and down to mine, where I fall asleep dreaming of more endings to her story.

My youngest daughter tugs on me, all day long, to be held. She can't handle the notion that my body can't take it, holding her 30 pounds over my pregnant belly. Five minutes, 20 minutes, it's never enough for her. She wants me to hold her, I think because she hears me saying "I can't. It's too much. That's enough."

I sit down in my writing chair and begin my young adult novel again. I've lost count of how many times I've restarted this novel. Even though I've written more than half of it, I've chucked it all and I begin again.

"Enough!" I want to scream. "Just write the damn thing."


Enoughs fill my day. Did I drink enough water today for the baby? How can I get enough sleep tonight? Our puppy didn't get enough one-on-one time today. Will my daughters have enough to do tomorrow so I can write in the afternoon? My little girls filled me with enough hugs and kisses to last me until morning when I get to be with them again.

At the end of the day I know one thing to be true: enoughs can pull at me, drain me, stress me, but they can also fill me and sustain me. And enoughs never truly end.

My Two New Skills

Motherhood has taught me, or greatly enhanced, two life skills: instincts and patience.

From the time my first daughter started crawling, I learned the instinctual "three-second process of prediction." What was she going to get into in three seconds? What is she reaching for that she could get to before me?

Then she started walking (for a month) and then running (all the time). My three-second instinct narrowed to two seconds. Is she headed for the street? Is she going to pull all the library books off the shelf again? My two second instinct allowed me to be one step ahead of her. It was a survival game.

But then her street smarts chimed in, and ever since I've been able to be five feet apart from my daughter and not worry, too much. She understands not to run away. She knows what isn't safe to do. I'm lucky.

And thank goodness for my skill of instincts, because I'm relying on them so much now with my two-year-old who loves to distance herself from me without any worry.

With two young girls my second skill, patience, is definitely front and center in my daily life. I focus on this

a flower my girls have been waiting and waiting for since the Easter bunny left them this egg. And yesterday it finally bloomed. The outside shell is covered with fuzzy white mold, but my daughters could care less. Their patience for a flower is mastery; however, their patience for dinner when I am cooking it isn't quite up to par. But they are children, I remind myself.

It is my patience that I need to work on. Patience has been creeping in since I became a mom. From waiting for my daughters to put on a sock to watching them look at themselves in the bathroom mirror (making faces and singing) until they remember 'oh yea, I have to brush my teeth' and to letting my older daughter do her carseat buckle all by herself. They insist upon independence and self-reliance. I want this for them, but only patience keeps me from jumping in and doing it myself. (I'm not a saint, some days I do jump in and do the seatbelt buckle or brush their teeth.)

But I can safely say that I feel like I have two new (or improved) life skills tucked inside my tool belt now: that of instincts and patience. And I'm sure one day they will come in handy when a job resume asks me for my skills and qualifications.