Recycling that Prescription

As I sat on the examining table at my doctor's office, bending over so the doctor could look at the irritated mole on the back of my neck, I coughed. A phlegmy, thick, mucousy cough (sorry for TMI), a cough I've had for over a year that comes and goes.

Out whipped my doctor's prescription pad and he scribbled away.
Take this antibiotic, he said.

Oh, this cough, it's nothing, I said. Just drainage and it coats my throat.

He shook his head and insisted I fulfill the prescription for yet another antibiotic.

I call my doctor's office the antibiotic-happy clinic, because every time I go in for whatever random reason, I leave with at least one antibiotic prescription in hand.

And I rarely take them to the pharmacy to actually get the medicine.

Of course I do for serious things, like strep throat.

But my doctor once kept prescribing a variety of antibiotics, one after the other after the other, for the close within the appropriate range of bacteria in my urine. She wanted the numbers to be smack dab in the middle of the correct range.

Weeks and weeks went by of taking different types of antibiotics with no effect. And finally I said no.

I said no, because I am quite alright with the bacteria in my urine.
I am not alright with exposing my body and all of its microbes to different antibiotics that kill off healthy bacteria.

Maybe some of my readers will disagree with this, maybe they take everything the doctor prescribes, but maybe, just maybe, the doctors aren't always prescribing antibiotics as they should. Maybe some doctors are too antibiotic-happy?

Shutting Down

Shutting down happens often in our lives...

Writers block and the mind turns off, fingers poised above the keyboard, hovering, waiting.

Internet wireless turns off in the middle of My Little Pony, resulting in shrieks, even though this is the 100th time they've seen that particular episode.

My tongue, my words, my mind shut down at any attempt to have a conversation with any adult that doesn't involve the words poop, cutie-pie, kisses, and sleep.

But now, now we have another shut down, a big one: the government.

I'm grateful our President has come to the aid of military families: we will receive our paychecks. My husband continues to go to work every day for the Navy, and we won't be receiving IOU's from the government. An IOU like my sisters and I used to write on scraps of paper when we 'borrowed' a left-over piece of Halloween candy or a favorite colored pencil.

IOU Sis for eating your last sucker.

While members of congress don't have to worry about their finances this week other federal workers will go without pay.

And doors will be closed. One shutdown leading to the shutdown of many others: parks, the National Zoo, museums, offices, federal loans...

But one thing won't shut down: the voice of the American people. Our voice can conquer this shutdown. Make a change. Open up.

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.

Struggling with Privacy

My voice on this blog has been silent for months. When my father passed away from cancer I withdrew. I deleted my Facebook account (and have been happier without it) and I stayed home more. For some time now I have been thinking about closing down my blog as well.

Why do I write on this blog and hit submit for strangers to read anywhere in the world? So many bloggers have commented on this blog, genuine comments that helped me get through my husband's deployment when I was pregnant with our third daughter and that offered me comfort when my father died. I am grateful for their support, so grateful. But why did I write about all of my 'stuff' in the first place for anyone to read? Why am I writing this now?

To figure things out. To work through my emotional and mental questions.

But in the months that I've been absent here, I have found the sources of viewers coming from foreign websites and I wonder what it is they are getting from my blog. And then I think about what I want from this blog. Yes, it is so helpful to share with other bloggers our ideas, concerns, feelings, challenges, but then I wonder who else is reading this information and what they are learning about me.

So for now I am going to switch on the privacy option for my blog until I reach a point in the future when I feel like coming out from under my shell again.

This post will be up for a few days to say thank to everyone who has ever visited my blog! I appreciate you as readers and bloggers.

Dance of the Labyrinth

My daughter running through a corn maze in British Columbia

As a new, overwhelmed mom to a colicky baby I spent most days in the dark, running through what felt like a labyrinth without a beginning nor an end.

Why was my daughter screaming and crying all day and all night?
How did I not lose myself entirely in being a mother?
Why was I my own Goblin King?

Four years later and I am safely outside of that maze, no longer lost in the labyrinth of being a new mom.

My high-spirited four-year-old enters labyrinths of her own as she tries to understand rules, discipline, the tides of emotions, the absence of her deployed father, friendships at preschool, and the tug-o-war between independence and wanting mommy.

Unlike the innocence encapsulated inside my daughter's labyrinths, we adults may feel the Goblin King breathing down our unshielded necks at various points of our lives.

Most of the time the Goblin King isn't David Bowie, but ourselves.

I push myself to keep the day on schedule: shoes on before we leave the door, potty flushed, nap time rigid, TV as limited as possible, sugar off limits, outdoor time maximized, bed time as soon as possible, night time stories kept to three...

But who am I kidding?
What is the labyrinth I am trying to solve?
Why do I put pressure on myself?

Our days are actually far from a kept schedule. We go to the car barefoot, we flush when there's a brown deposit, naps may occur in the car, an entire movie may be watched while consuming not one, but two Dum Dums, we blow bubbles in the backyard for only a few minutes before my daughters want to go back inside, my girls watch an episode of Blues Clues with me while eating popcorn and staying up a half hour later, I read an extra book, I tell one more story...

But my day still feels like a maze at times.
Trying to navigate the uncharted waters of my oldest as her emotions sway to the extremes within the hour.
Being "on" 24/7 during this deployment.
Reminding myself that my time with my girls is our time, even if I am longing to sit in my writing chair and write.
Wondering how I'll gain back my confidence in my body one day.
Working towards living more simply with less "things" in our lives.

Perhaps our labyrinths evolve over time, a new one always dancing before us just as we exit the last one, eager to infold us in its walls.

Do you walk through labyrinths every day? What mazes are your children trying to solve?

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.

Stepping Into Shoes

We often hear ourselves saying "I wear many hats," but what we don't always talk about are the numerous shoes we step into every day.

Being a mom means feeling quite alone...

I am the only one on this planet who is going on three hours of sleep.

No other mother has to deal with a sick dog and a sick child at the same time.

Those other moms, the ones who publish novel after novel, 

they all have full-time, live-in nannies, right?

Everyone else is having a date night, while I'm the only one alone in a house with sleeping children.

But blogging let's us know, despite our reservation to trust it, that in fact, we are not alone. Quite possibly in this very moment another mom is alone in front of her computer, with her little ones tucked asleep, her husband deployed half-way around the world, and she is lonely.

I tentatively try to step into her shoes.

And she isn't the only one. I attempt to imagine what it might feel like to be in the shoes of the mom who locked her keys and children inside her car or in the shoes of the dad who coaches his son's soccer team or in the shoes of the mom who works 50 hour weeks or in the shoes of the mom who is single and deploys, leaving her child with her elderly mother or the dad who comes to the playground every day with his children and stares at his phone the entire time...

Several years ago I listened to a man giving a talk about measuring sticks.

He asked us, "Do you measure the people around you with your own personal measuring stick?"

He continued on to question "Who are you to measure someone else's morals and actions with your own stick?"

And I looked around, I still look around sometimes, and realize I am judging. I am assuming I know what a person is thinking, feeling, living.

But I don't.

Who am I to judge?

When my hair has gone unwashed for two days, my shirt has stains, my two-year-old's mouth is showing evidence of the morning's breakfast, and my four-year-old's sassy mouth is drawing attention, I wonder "Is someone judging me?" They don't know the whole story of why we all appear this way. They only see the surface of the moment.

And that is all they get.

So I tuck my measuring stick away. I've learned to appreciate the challenges of being a parent, and know that many others have it a lot rougher than me:

A mom who gives birth to twin boys with four other children at home and her husband deploys a month later.

Parents who deal with fear on a daily basis that their five-year-old's disease may take her life. 

A father who is struggling to understand why his four-year-old daughter refuses to talk after her mother, his wife, left them...

Stepping into shoes... I don't know if it makes a difference, but at least it reminds me not to judge, not to think I am alone, and not to believe no one has it rougher than me. It helps me to appreciate every moment I have every day.

Yin Yang: Part Two

From the time our first daughter arrived we have been told the same thing over and over: 

"She is a mini-me of your husband!"

And four years later it is still true. Her face, her expressions, and most of all, her personality.

The presence of my oldest daughter makes it feel as if my husband is still here every day with me, despite the thousands of miles that separate us during his deployment.

So one would assume that since I love and understand my husband, raising his mini-me would be a piece of cake.

But I am finding myself more and more encircled in the yin yang relationship with her.

Maybe it is just her age. Maybe it is the effect of her father's absence on her. Or maybe it's me?

Whatever the matter, my heart and mind struggle with understanding her, with knowing what method of discipline will work with her, with comprehending what is best for my high-spirited daughter. And because of this struggle, my heart aches, wanting her to know that I love her so incredibly much even if it doesn't seem like I do when we are at odds.

While I try to engage her in raising caterpillars or playing in a water puddle, 

my daughter is seeking the thrill of pretending to be Spiderman or wanting to watch more TV or imagining riding a rollercoaster.

While I seek silence and a calm moment, 

my daughter races around, pretending to be a musketeer or a superhero.

While I cave under attention, 

my daughter shouts, "Look at Me!" all day long.

We aren't opposites, but we do compliment each other. My actions and words feed her, replenishing her spirit. And in the same moment, she does the same for me.

I love my daughter for who she is. I love that she knows all of the superheros by name and wants to build a pedal car from scratch with her daddy once he gets back home. I love that she dreams of being a volcanologist to experience the thrill of being inside a volcano. I love that she is fascinated by motion and thrills and excitement.

I love that she has dreams of her own.

And I believe that I know and understand her, but it doesn't always seem easy to do so.

With my own mini-me, our second daughter who is two, it's really easy to get inside her mind and know what's going on.  And maybe that makes it that much more challenging to get inside my oldest daughter's mind?

I don't always get it right with her. I don't always give her enough hugs or attention. And I don't always have enough patience to watch her try to blow up a balloon over and over while she says, "Mommy, watch this," and follows me around the house, wanting me to watch her do it for the 1,000th time. 

At the end of the day, especially if it's a day where I've had to be hard on her, I just want my daughter to know one thing: that I love her with all of my heart, and I'm trying to understand her.

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?

The Twinkie Indulgence

Free time is a luxury, I know that now.

Memories of reading for six hours straight or watching three romantic comedies back to back are bittersweet. How did I ever have the time to run two hours a day five days a week? How did I get lost oil painting for eight hours straight without feeling hungry or tired?

Sleep, I took it for granted when I had it so good.

These days I can barely catch my breath, let alone sit down and put my feet up.

Once a week my daughters are both at school (a Mom's Morning Out) for a few hours. I rush home to mow the lawn, walk our puppy and write. Or I clean the house. Or I run errands. But I never, NEVER, relax. I push myself to fill every single second of my free time with work.

But this week, I did something I haven't done for years. Years!

I bought a Twinkie (the last one I ate occurred in the early 90's) and the September Oprah magazine.
I came home to an empty house, and put the puppy in the backyard.
I sat down on the couch and put my feet up.
And I read my magazine, cover to cover, while enjoying every morsel of my Twinkie.

And best of all, I didn't feel a single ounce of guilt.

I don't know what made today different than my other free days. Why did I buy a Twinkie and the Oprah magazine? I don't know. But it felt so good!

When was the last time you truly indulged yourself without sweating the guilt out on the side?

The Wild Tree

Every woman needs a wild tree.

A tree she turns to in times of need: her shelter, her provider, her care giver.

Her wild tree is hers and hers alone.

She may find shelter in her lover's arms.
She may be provided a cup of comforting tea from a friend.
She may become a girl again in her mother's caring arms.

But her wild tree... it sets this woman free into the wilds of her spirit.

What is your wild tree?
Is it writing, your blog, a book, God, painting, water, walking, random acts of kindness, laughter...?

My wild tree is the wind moving through a tree's branches.
The fluttering of leaves, the whispers on my ears, the whiff of tree bark...
       it shelters my soul, provides me with new energy, and helps me to feel centered.

I abandon all of my mixed up thoughts and emotions when I witness the wind blowing through a tree.
It sets my mind free. I am given the gift to enter the wildness of being a woman.

What is your wild tree?

A Call to Arms

I'm enlisting all able bodies to be on the receiving end of the "all-day cling" in my house!

I love hugs, abrazos, прегръдка, 拥抱, yakap, memeluk, kumkumbatia, kram, ôm. 

I bet you didn't know I can speak nine different languages, I didn't either, until now. 

If I really did I think I'd be in Brussels with the UN.

I digress; back to my advertisement...

I seriously need arms to hold my two-year-old. She is an angel!

The arms must be strong, however, she is a 30 pound monkey with great toe gripping capabilities.

She gives the neck lots of loving smooches.

She giggles and sings for minutes on end.

She's warm and smells of sweet summer grass and chlorine.
She combs through corkscrew-curly hair of the holder until it is a mass of frizz, on one side of the head.

After awhile you'll forget she is a separate entity as her body will mold to yours until she's an extension of yourself.
And best of all, you get an unending hug of love.

I must forewarn you that she might cry if it is not her mommy's arms that hold her.

You see, I want to hold her, and I do, despite my doctor's disapproval.
But it's getting harder and riskier for me to do so. I'm only 24 months weeks along in my pregnancy, but I am sticking this much out (I've already had people ask me if I'm due this month):

If I get no takers, I will send this on to my husband and request that he come home early from his deployment to hold his little girl, who matches her growing clinginess with every inch my belly expands. She knows that soon she won't be the baby of the family by late November, and she's trying to get as much of me as possible in the mean time.

I love my little girl so much. Maybe I won't give up holding her just yet.
But what will I do if I seriously can't pick her up and hold her before my husband gets home?
It honestly is starting to break my heart to see her sad if I can't hold her as long as she wants me to.

The Dreaded Suit

Loss (Yet Gained)

Skin stretched

rippled with marks

Muscles divided

diastasis

Ribs expanded 

never shrunk

Hips widened

staying put

A vanishing 

former body

morphs into something

gained.

Three pregnancies of transverse lie babies (holding 10 lb. babies entirely out of my pelvis) equates to looking in the mirror at a foreign body. So much is lost, forever. Yet, the marks and sags and rolls show my gains. Who needs mirrors when I've got smiling girls doing the wiggle in front of me?

Then swimsuit season hits.

I made it through two  pregnancies without having to step into a maternity swimsuit.

But this time around, no such luck.

The neighborhood pool is next to our house.
Both of my girls are fish they love the water so much.
Unlike my first two (early summer babies), my third baby isn't due until late fall.

So, I broke down and purchased a maternity swimsuit online.

I didn't want a two piece or even a tankini. My baby belly is already so big and full of a starburst of stretch marks, that it stays hidden under wrap as it should.

But this one piece shows major cleavage, so I wear a tank top over it. Silly, I know. But I don't want the dads at the pool to be eyeing my belly nor my boobs.

I love being pregnant. I love the feel of my little girl tapping and kicking away inside me. But my reflection in the mirror is hard to swallow. I always have the watermelon baby belly since I don't carry the babies deep inside of me. My stomach muscle walls separate. I get swollen and puffy. Even sitting here in my writing chair, typing on my blog, my toes are all swollen little sausages.

How ever do women give birth to 20 some children? I met a Costa Rican woman who had 23 children, and she was still petite and vivacious and beautiful.

I don't think I'll ever be able to fit back into my old swimsuits, much less my old clothes.

Is there any hope?

Summer Biggest List

Thing 1 and Thing 2 - have you discovered Corey's blog yet? And her awesome book for kids: Hop Plop! Well hop on over to Thing 1 and Thing 2, she's got an awesome list of Summer Biggest.

I thought I'd go ahead and ride her coattails and come up with my own Summer Biggest List:

Biggest Dream- My short stories place in the writing contests I entered them into

Biggest Regret- Not traveling more with my girls before I got too far along in my pregnancy

Biggest Hurdle- Lack of sleep from getting up at 4 every morning with my 2-year-old

Biggest Accomplishment- Finishing several short stories

Biggest Mistake- Getting into the routine of letting my daughters watch a movie at 5 in the morning

Biggest Sacrifice- Giving up my decaf soy java chip light frappuccino because I'm pregnant

Biggest Weakness- Drinking McDonald's sweet iced tea in place of the Starbucks frappuccino

Biggest Goal- To make the most of the final three months of my husband's deployment despite missing him

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.

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?

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:

A Fan of Unconditional Love

At first, I thought it was funny. My husband deploys and my girls go from bad sleepers to the worst. But now it's been three months and my two-year-old has a permanent wake up time somewhere between 4 and 4:30a.m.

Not wake up, like drowsy, let's cuddle Mama. Nope.

Wake up, like I'm ready to start my day! And I'm gonna SCREAM until we go downstairs.

"No Night, Mama!!" my little ray of sunshine says at 4:10 in the morning.

I get it. I "used" to be a 5:30 riser, until I became a mother. Waking at 5:30 let me conquer the world while everyone was still asleep. And I was NEVER grumpy.

But this 4:30 wake up call seven days a week, on my own, well, my pregnant body can't take much more of it. I am Mrs. Grumpy.

In a crowd, you can pick me out:

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. 

 

Wishes Do Come True

Since I became a mother almost four years ago I've had several moments where I've crossed parallels into the other universe, the one where I am not a mother, the one where I am single, working in the Peace Corps or living in the rainforest, the one I thought I was destined to live because my dream of falling in love with the right man and having a family seemed not possible for someone like me.

Today my oldest daughter found an old journal of mine from Costa Rica. Using the blank pages near the back of it she drew this

a portrait of my husband in his Navy uniform.

I got hit with a double whammy of shocks. The first, to see that my soon-to-be four-year-old could draw something so well. The second, that it was done on a piece of paper that I've held on to for over 10 years, paper from a journal that I wrote in when I was single and dreaming my big dream and crying at night because I was so lonely, so alone, and feeling hopeless that maybe my 'somewhere out there' wasn't really there.

It's happened many times, looking through the glass to the other universe... my daughters stepping into my old heals from college, my oldest tracing her finger over a leaf print I made of a Hasseltia tree that stood outside my casita in Costa Rica, my youngest pulling my 'going out dancing' shirt from college and asking me to wear it (even though I am four months, looking six months pregnant), my daughters trying on a hat my first boyfriend from Nicaragua gave me 11 years ago, my oldest putting a Bouganvilla flower from our backyard behind her ear like I used to do with mine when I was in my 20's...

In each of these miniscule moments I travel back in time in a flash. I never knew when I put on those heals that someday I'd have little girls wanting to wear them. When my fingers took a leaf from my favorite tree and made a rubbing of it, I never knew someday I'd have a beautiful daughter whose heart is as big as her fathers who would outline the veins of the leaf under her fingertips. And I never knew a flower behind a little girls' ear could connect me to her beyond time and space.

I want to tell my daughters to dare to dream those big and impossible dreams, no matter how you see yourself, no matter what people think of you, no matter if you are the loner, thinker, philosopher one in a sea of girls who appear more at ease with themselves.

I'm glad I never stopped dreaming that I'd fall in love and have children. But it's these little moments, like my daughter drawing a picture on a piece of paper, a piece of paper that long ago had no such destiny, that makes goose bumps race across my arms and my heart to skip a beat.