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Mama Moxie

On most days, my life events are cataloged as happening before or after having children.  Once I earned my procreation stripes, much like all big events, things changed:  little, creepy fingers appear under the door when I urinate, orange rinds and stale goldfish crackers line my purse and upon removing clothes from the dryer, I am gifted a pile of used band aids.  Three hundred and sixty-four days out of the year, I spend my energy building up and growing the hearts and minds of my offspring.  Today, folks, I am choosing to think about my mothering mojo:

1.      I am a mama-explorer.  Move over Lewis, Clark and Dora.  I used to spend my time looking for the perfect red shoes.  Hours were given to discovering the perfect inclined path to give my quads a worthwhile burn.  Now, 53% of my energy is spent looking for my children.  When in public, there is the rare occasion they are exactly where one would expect.  On most days, restaurant jaunts involve one of them under the table grabbing toes for entertainment.  I assume this may grow into some form of a fetish.  To you, strange child, I will slightly judge you and whole-heartedly support your tootsie needs.  Even the new one is hard to find (Evidence A).  I know he can’t be the one at the top.  That child is much too clean to belong to our grimy clan.  

So, even as the owner of bifocals and likely undiagnosed hearing loss, I consider myself a badass seeker of small children.  Record shows I have not lost one yet (for more than 27 minutes).

2.     I am an anomaly.  I have discovered that I am able to defy the laws of science.  I am a freakin’ specimen of scientific art.   I no longer sit at a table to complete a meal.  Eating junctures entail me getting up approximately 13 times to retrieve various items.  Even without the consumption of a whole meal, my waistline magically continues to expand.  Amazing, right?  It’s like math doesn’t work on me.  Figure this out, Einstein. 

3.     I laugh in the face terror.  As a mother, I can (kind of) handle all versions of terrifying moments.  Honestly, I loathed scary movies.  As a tot, I saw Carrie’s hands come out of the soft earth to grab Sue’s legs, and I was never the same.  No longer the watcher of chilling cinema, I now tap into my fear with my own children.  A few weeks ago, Story’s cry woke me up from a brief slumbering jaunt.  Slightly nauseated from the lack of sleep, I stumbled towards the bassinet only to be confronted by Evidence B.   

It took me a few seconds to realize that my real child was residing in the living room, and the demon baby in the crib was a product of one of my children’s emulations of parenting.  Truth be told, sleeping can be horrific as a mother.  On most nights, a small child is guaranteed to come into our chambers.  Bennet usually enters moaning and with hair covering a majority of his face.  He moves slowly, and that adds to the horror of it all.  Ruby, on the other hand, enters like a ninja.  She will stand at the door or in front of your face with a large, disturbing grin.  The eyes, in the daytime, are lovely and hold so much joy.

Once the sun sets, this shit gets scary.

4.  I dress for success.  Gone are the days of trying to squeeze into my pre-baby jeans one week after expelling a human.  Folks, I have figured out how to have the perfect body after having a baby. Listen closely. First, I cinch my vanity with a belt of reality.  I just did the most amazing thing by growing a human, and real postpartums include soft bellies, sore lady parts, tired eyes and happy hearts.  Next, I accessorize with comfort and ease.  Take note of my standard wardrobe:

Monday:  Clean nursing tank and holey maternity yoga pants

Tuesday: Same (slightly stained) nursing tank covered up with holey t-shirt, same holey maternity yoga pants

Wednesday:  Same (aromatic) nursing tank complemented with husband's hooded sweatshirt, same yoga pants with unidentified stains, heating pad accessory to unclog milk duct

Third, I coordinate my daily existence with a bold sense of humor.  Case in point:  I finally put on some jeans.  They felt funny, and I chalked it up to my motherly body.  After lunch and four hours of wear, I realized the pockets of my pants graced my new hips.  Backwards, comfy and bigger, front pockets--all the makings of pants for a 90's music video.  This stuff is just too legit to quit.  

Last, I relish in my post-baby body badges.  The line down my stomach accentuates the vessel that carried my little bug.  Sore and tender mammary glands turn this middle-aged woman into a superhero who makes human food.  The skin tags on my neck kindly remind me of the hormones and magic that took place within my 5'1" frame to nourish my son.  

Really, this third go around, I finally understand.  Magazines and society tells us that we should prioritize erasing/eradicating/eliminating everything that contributed to that sweet baby being cradled in our arms.  I'm okay with moms eating healthy and feeling good about themselves.  I am not okay with women feeling ashamed about their warrior body.  We have done something miraculous, and we should honor our miracles.

So, there you have it.  This is what 6.1 years of mama experience gets you.  It may not be the prettiest or useful of information, but it's all mine.  And, I am okay with all of it.  On days when this mothering thing gets hard (which is all days that end in a "y"), I'll keep all this in mind and heart.  And, if that doesn't work, I still have my fun crew to create some new (and likely awkward) adventures.  

It Takes a Village, People

My brain is numb from large amounts of worthless, oh-so-good-bad television.   My shoulders and neck contain a deep rooted pain from holding a new human—a pain that I have only felt once before trying to peer across a sea of pretty men to taste the ache of Erasure’s onstage Oh l’amor.  And, the front of my shirt has hardened from repeated exposure to dried, leaking human milk.  I am living the life of mothering a newborn and existing as a non-practicing zombie.  Today was a pretty good day.  I thought about showering, and I discovered that I could put on a cardigan to cover up my stains—this is wardrobe upcycling at its best.    At this moment, I am sitting here, consuming a huge bottle of Topo Chico and listening to the silence of 3 sleeping children, 1 slumbering pug and an exhausted husband.  And, even with the continual undercurrent of exhaustion, I feel lucky.  My village has provided and provided and provided.  And, this time around, I chose to accept the love. 

Rewind to four weeks prior.   Jeremy and I were getting the girls ready for school.  Baby Story was still in the intensive care unit at the hospital, and we were getting into the routine of our new normal.  My days were spent attached to a machine that would artificially tell my body to dispel milk into plastic bottles of various sizes.  When not feeling the harsh tugs of the pump, I was transporting the milky goods to baby boy 2-3 times a day.   On this particular morning, I was suffocating from life’s thick, heavy air.  I felt annoyed with all I had to do, and I could sense my husband trying his best to appease my (unsure and likely unrealistic) needs.  “How can I help?” he kindly asked as I packed lunches.  Let’s make it clear that his daily existence continually puts forth energy to make my life better, and my brain knows this.  I, however, chose snarkiness to accompany my purposefully curt words, “Usually a mom comes and helps when her daughter has a baby.”  “I don’t have a mom,” I said looking at his sad eyes.  “So, I’ll do this by myself.”  I chose hurtful words, and he did not fault me for it.  As I reflect on that particular day, I feel ashamed for indulgent pity party.  I acknowledge that I am human, and my ego, hormones and exhaustion reigned that morning. 

Growing up, Mom assured me that I would always have my family.  I needed to put life’s eggs in baskets weaved with genetic twine.  Living Queen’s mantra, she expected friendships to eventually bite the dust.  She acknowledged when classmates would wrong me and highlighted when friendship went awry.  During her last year of life, loving people tried to help.  Trudy would come and visit, and Mom would go into her bedroom.  Dee offered to take her to yoga to ease her pain, and Mom declined.  Fannie Mae would call and Mom would give me the phone.  Day after day, I felt the affection of those of who loved her.  Day after day, I watched her dismiss the compassion that was readily there for her.  As the buffer to the kind and good world that surrounded her, I ate the leftover kindness that was set before us.  And, I indulged in the humanity.  With life’s additional lessons (and the recipient of poor night vision and neck wrinkles), I now understand that my parents’ hard work did not allow for more than meeting our household needs.  My parents sacrificed.  They forewent the luxuries of companionship, recreation and  respite from daily responsibilities.  They let me win.  I get to be the champion of a full life that holds lasting friendships, breakfast tacos and afternoon naps. 

Fast-forward a decade and four pregnancies later and I clearly see the full scope of my village.  A cooler sits in front of our door, and food magically appears from our lovely, tall elves.  These same people, I know, are managing their own lives:  growing people in their tummies, managing ill parents, transitioning to new jobs, trying to complete the second season of Orange is the New Black.   Vehicles arrive at our house at the end of the school day containing little people with our genetic make-up.  Vehicles also come to take our children on playdates to give us a reprieve from thrice the power of kid-energy (kid-energy = 9X adult-energy).  Messages are sent with witty humor, heartfelt words and tips for unclogging milk ducts (put something with vibration against the evil blockage—it works!!!).  An entire suitcase arrived containing baby clothes, lactation cookies, handmade art and gifts for all members of the household.  I awoke from a nap, and there was tower of diapers and sea of baby clothes beside me.  I am the lucky one walking on postpartum sunshine. 

Some in our village we have known for decades.  You are our chosen family, and we love you.  Others have only had one conversation with us.  We look forward to making more memories with you, and we love you, as well.  Regardless of our mutual history, the care is evident.   We are overwhelmed.  Considering the increase in my waking hours, I have spent a significant amount of time feeling your loving hands and thoughtful sentiments.  As I look at the sleeping baby face next to me, I am reminded of the matriarch of my village.  I am grateful to you, Mom.  Thank you for giving me life—a world beyond endless work hours and hardship.  And to my entire village, your love fills my soul with the best stuff and my belly with scrumptious food.  Sweet dreams are made of this—it just so happens to be my wonderful reality.

Our Story

Timing is a funny thing.  It comforted me when I decided to quit my doctoral program in December of 2003.  Soon after, Mom's cancer returned, and I moved back home without regrets of completing my academic marathon.  Timing can be brilliant for self-preservation.  Sometimes, the magic of timing reconfirms the kismet nature of all that is meant to be.  This happened when I realized I "liked-liked" Jeremy in college.  After a week of not being able to eat (this never happens), I finally realized that my good friend had stumbled into the land of "Hey, let's kiss!" instead of "Wanna eat some tacos for lunch?"  It was a Sunday, and I tried to track him down.  Finally, at 1am, I sat in front of the campus library, exhausted from my daylong search.  Then, he walks up to the library entrance to study for a test.  I confessed my love, he said thank you, he bought nice, pleated pants the following week for a date and the rest is love-history.  Timing brought me him. 

So, Lady Time, has graced me with her whimsy and magic a few times.  This last week, she threw me a doozy. I can’t help but think that Mom was slightly amused.  And, she completely expected it all.

Mom,

I know I keep you alive with my words and actions.  Therapy taught me this, and it works…on most days.  I have figured out how to bear the sad days without you.  It’s the proud moments where I find myself foraging through the past to feel and see your pride.  Twelve days ago I stood in front of a lovely sea of speech-language pathologists and audiologists and talked to them about my profession.  I worked hard for months, and the morning was grand.  When they asked me to speak last fall, I started crying.  And, I really haven’t stopped.  I just know you would have been so proud.  So, I found a way for you to be there.  I shared our stories.  I told them about Dad being a POW after the war.  I showed them your wedding photo.  I told them our most meaningful tale—you and Dad escaped Vietnam in the middle of the night.  Gold bars were exchanged with the Vietcong for passage to Hong Kong.  Dad navigated a 10 feet by 80 feet wooden boat holding the hopeful wishes of 56 people.  Then, Mom, I told them about the storm.  Strong winds rocked the boat from side to side, each time bringing all passengers closer to the depths of the South China Sea.  It was going to capsize. The audience was in awe when I recounted how the whale appeared and held the boat upright until the waters calmed.  They clapped when I said everyone arrived safely after 11 days on the water.  They gasped when I revealed that you were 9 months pregnant, and they smiled when they realized I was born the following day.  The day was the culmination of our family’s hard work.  

For an hour and half, life’s timing aligned:  my passion for my job, our family history and validation that abiding by my true self is always the best route.  Jeremy sat in the audience, and his pride was overflowing.  Jennifer and her wet eyes were there, too.  Between the two of them, I know they tried their best to represent you.  And, they were successful.  Afterwards, I sat on my hotel bed, ate a big burger and settled my happy heart and 8-months-of-pregnancy-body down for a much needed nap. 

The big day was over, and I was ready for calmer days.  My intuition was wrong, and Lady Time let me know that I was not in control.  The very next evening my water broke in the hotel room.  I was only 34 weeks pregnant.  We drove 100 miles in the middle of the night to get back to Austin.  It was a peaceful day of laboring and (more) hard work.  With each contraction, I would turn inward and gain strength from the women in my life.  Their voices and encouragement would take me through the intensity of my body’s work.   When I had to work the hardest, I saw you behind my closed eyes, holding the baby we lost last year.  Your voice did not waver, and your words brought me so much comfort.  After pushing for a few minutes, I gave birth to your grandson.  I have a boy, Story Matthew Palafox.  

Two girls and a boy—just like our family.  I can’t help but think that it’s more than just coincidence.  Time seems to be repeating herself.  There’s a part of me that strangely feels that I was supposed to have him the day after our meaningful moment on that stage.  My moment did not involve a boat, a storm or a whale, but it surely contained some pretty big feelings.  Gut says that you held onto powerful feelings while on that small vessel. Time found a way to weave a common, connected thread between us.  Though unintentional, I am the exact age you were when Dan was born.  Time has a sense of humor and fun, as well.

A few days ago, someone asked me how I was doing with everything without you here.  And, to be honest, I realized that my usual heartache has dulled this past year.  I have found ways for you to be a part of my days.  I miss you terribly, but I found comfort and light in the smallest of life’s crevices.  I just keep my eyes open a bit more.  Time has given me scope and strength.  Time has also kindly given me sweet reminders that our lives are continually connected.  Me and you, Mom.

Ten

It has be ten years since Mom passed away.  I am overwhelmed by this time marker.  Part of me cannot fathom that it has been more than a week.  It feels fresh and raw and nonsensical.  Then, there is the other half of the (much too tart and burnt) pie—it feels like decades.  So much has happened since that winter day:  marriage, moves, sweet babies, a stroke, Dad moving in and out, a miscarriage, new homes, new jobs.   I am not sure how I have managed to keep moving forward.   Jeremy found me in bed crying the other day.  I mumbled something about always having such immense feeling about all things and nothing at all.  As always, he validated, consoled and weaved the kindest version of his humor into my tender being.

On the eve of her anniversary, we drove homeward.  The car was packed full of Christmas presents and a quiet undercurrent of heartache.  My strong need for emotional stability is always ruffled by the events that transpire between the 20^th of December and New Year’s Day.  Within the timeframe of a week and half, we have my brother's birthday, the anniversary of Mom’s passing, Christmas Eve anticipation, Christmas hullabaloo and the inconsequential events that transpire before the shiny ball of New Year’s eagerness dropping.   With the bustle of the holiday madness, we always make the time to be together to honor Mom on the 23rd.  Flowers and a homemade wreath, made by my sister, are always in tow on the thirty minute drive to Restland.  I quietly sit in the car.  Jeremy gives me this time to quarrel with the quiet musings of my brain and heart.  Essentially, I am laying the final bricks of my wall to ensure that I can hold my angst safely inside.  This year my mammoth feelings overfloweth—maybe it was the extra-hard year we had, the doom of the decade mark, the meaningful accomplishments missed by Mom?

We were the first to arrive at the site.  Miss Bennet enthusiastically awoke and wanted to see the beautiful grounds.  Fearing what would happen if I just stood still, I gave myself a menial task.  I carefully lifted the bronze, inverted vase.  Benny quickly pushed me aside to look down the hole that held the vase since last winter.  “Ya-Ya!!  Is she down there, Mama?!  Mama?!  I don’t see her!”  Her words were both endearing and cutting.  A few of us laughed and that helped break up the thick, cold air.  Thankfully, she was appeased with my vague response entailing spirits going upward and bodies staying in the ground.  Her need to be mentally occupied was already fulfilled by how to arrange the flowers in the vase and the best way to stand the wreath she helped craft with Auntie Kim.  As we quietly stood by Mom’s gravesite, Bennet continued to be her lively, loving self.  She ran around, made silly jokes about bouncy body parts and laughed her sprightly laugh—oh, I was so thankful for it.  She kept my heart from sinking down a steep hole of self-indulgence pity and grief. 

I reminded myself that even after ten years, we were all there together.  Since that day a decade ago, we have now added two little people (one who looks like Mom and the other who acts like her), a baby making his/her presence known with little kicks and jabs felt in my tummy and our dear, lovely Lisa—they all add so much to our already-quirky, loving family.  With time, the circle will grow.  And, with time, more healing will be done.

I must admit that this year, compared to the nine others, restored the most to my soul.  I have tried my best to harness my big feelings into gratitude and reflection these last few weeks.  So, I wrote 10 letters to 10 individuals who have been instrumental in my continual healing. 

And, for every single person who has given love and care the last decade, I have 10,000 years worth of gratefulness for you.  Mom's hand kept me safe in the picture above.  I now have many more hands holding me up, cheering me on and loving me so.

Are You There, Buddha? It's Me, Phuong.

It’s 1:46am, and I am wide awake.  I am going to chalk this up to the fact that there is a growing human appendage continuously punching my lady-pouch.  Or, it could be the fact that I cannot breath because of the influenza that has dug its Jamberried claws into my nasal passages.  Combined with the calming blue night light and cascading vapors of the humidifier (man, I should Instagram this!), my mind starts to wonder about what really is going on inside my body right now.  

Buddha, you epitomize compassion and mindfulness.  So, I thought you may be able to provide some insight into this whole pregnancy experience in a non-judgey way.  Lorde knows that unsolicited advice comes as freely as bathroom treks for pregnant women (and that I’ll never be royal).  So, I am grateful for your discretion (this is my subtle way of letting those who do not want to read deep, inner-teachings of my pregnant body to opt out right now) and pregnancy truths.  Here are my realities:

Why, oh why, the nausea?  I think this is my 22^nd or 17^th week of pregnancy.  This is my third baby.  So, to be honest, I pretty much lost track since the day I had sex.  Based on previous experiences, I have nausea 24 hours a day between weeks 6-14.  You know what, I am waaaay past that timeline, and this whole living-on-a-boat feeling still exists.  What the hell?  Do you even believe in hell? (I digress).  Come to find out, my prenatal pills may be the cause of this trauma.  How can this be?  I bought them at Whole Foods, and everything from there is good for me because it costs a shit-ton. 

Breasts are Unbralievable!  As someone who essentially had concaving breasts until I had my first child, I am thankful for the small mounds that I now carry upon my chest.  And, the work they did to feed Bennet and Ruby was breasttakingly amazing.  I just wonder how much prep time they need to do their jobs, because these ladies are getting heavy.  The daily task of putting on a bra requires forklifts and shoehorns.  The nightly task of taking off a brassiere could result in getting knocked out by two heavy sacks of mammary glands.  Poor Ruby—she was standing too close, and her large, sweet head was just the right height.  It was a good lesson for Benny, though.

What Effing Glow?  I really did marry the kindest man in the world, and I know I am lucky.  On a regular basis, he will make references to my “glow”.  I really do try my hardest to acknowledge his kind words, because I know he means them with all his heart.  When in reality, I know what he really sees is a thin layer of throw-up that I likely did not clean off well.  Or, it could be the stain of tears (damn hormones and Depeche Mode songs) that has permanently made residence upon my cherubic face.

Dry panties are overrated, right?  During my first pregnancy, the principal at my school made a joke about foregoing bladder control once I had children.  I chuckled because 1) it was inappropriate and awkward and 2) I had a bladder of steel (I was raised on bok choy and fatty pork for goodness sakes).  Alas, I realized how true her words rang when I excitedly went for a run at the gym when Bennet was two months old.  As I rounded out my workout, I naturally pushed up the speed on the treadmill.  As my post-pregnancy ego burst wide pride, my legs were being warmed by the continuous flow of motherly urine.  At the time, I was appalled.  After some very intimate physical therapy, a few pregnancies under my belt and lack of all pride, I am now okay with this new normal.  And, I am just happy this bout of flu has only resulted in 1, 253 sneezes.  Pantyliners should definitely be renamed Partyfinders.

What’s the point of nipples?  Again, I know my body is preparing to feed a child—nipples darken and enlarge so the baby can find the food source.  In theory, it’s a very cool phenomenon.  In real life and real time, my nipples are stoic and crazy erect--mounted on my sovereign breasts much like the Queen’s Guards.  With this new superpower, I could land a plane flying through fog by merely lifting my shirt.  Or, if we were all trapped in a glass building, I could definitely Macgyver us out by cutting the glass with the tips of my bosoms. 

And, why do my girls confuse the word pimples for nipples?  Bennet keeps telling people she does not want pimples (nipples, really!), and people just keep telling her to wash her face. 

Memory Loss & Found You know, Buddha, each pregnancy has become more challenging.  One would think that I would choose to forego this tiresome process.   Of course, we have already discussed the months of nausea, sexy incontinence and battery of bodily changes.  This pregnancy has also included some novelty:  a rash under both armpits, early onset of skin tags and an airplane trip that resulted in me filling up many white bags in front of coworkers (bless their hearts for stealing bags from other passengers).  It’s funny how the mind empties the negative and fills it up with a plethora of reasons to have another little human. 

Buddha, I am not sure my aforementioned sufferings will yield pregnancy-enlightenment.  I do know that based on karma, the law of cause of effect, Jeremy and I are putting some good into this world because we have received so much joy from our Bennet and Ruby.  

(We love how they stand in front of very large, joyful doors.)

(Joy can be found from all angles and in Fort Worth suburbia.)

(Joy can found on the sidewalk and on the streets.)

We are tired as hell, but the wrinkles around our eyes are lined with glee, humor and abounding love.  The wisdom gained and the compassion we have learned to give over the last six years is all we have right now.  Gut tells me this will be enough for our next adventure.

If not, we will still have booby puns, ineffective strategies for escaping a building and George Michael.

All of Me

My little birds,

Mama turns 36 years old today, and I want you to see and know all parts of me.  YaYa has been gone for almost ten years, and I have so many thoughts and questions for her.  I have searched for a close-up picture of just her smiling while she was raising me, and I can't find one.  I want you to have all your serious and silly questions answered. I want you to know the  person that existed before I became a Mama, and I want you to value the parts of me that are outside of parenting, feeding your strong, energetic bodies and folding laundry.  Oodles and oodles of your laundry.

1.  I am a mediocre driver, and I only slightly enjoy it when there is a breakfast taco at the destination.  I am horrid at four-way stops.  In 80% of four-way-instances, I will see fellow drivers throw their hands at me in exasperation or mouth expletives beginning in an "f" and ending with an "-itch" (these are valuable words--remember to use them only in instances that make a big impact and please use them in their correct, grammatical form).  I knew I was a bad driver early on.  I babysat for a family in high school, and on the drive home, Mama ended up in a cornfield.  It was dark and scary, and I remember envisioning a boy named Malakai jumping out with a scythe.  I made it home okay, and I learned an important lesson--cornfields should be avoided at all costs.  FYI:  Years later Daddy and Mama were lost in a corn maze in Wisconsin for three hours.

2.  Mama talks a lot now, but I was a very quiet kid.  As the oldest of three children, I was the first to go to school.  Kindergarten was a scary place, and Mama did not know any English.  So, I did not talk all year.  Two little girls, Sarah P. and Becky C., played with Mama.  They did all the talking.  Most importantly, they made me feel valued.  Remember, I hold kindness in the highest regard, and I learned this lesson first.  So, I started as someone who only knew Vietnamese.  Bennet, this is why I am thrilled you are learning Vietnamese at school.  Your experiences are surely different than mine, but you come from an important story.  And, you are beginning to weave your own story with the thread of our family's meaningful experiences.  This is awesome.

3.  While on the forty acres of the University of Texas, Mama worked hard to keep up my GPA.  I also took the time to make lifelong friends and engage in some ninja-shenanigans.  I was able to secure/steal a child-sized ninja costume from Uncle Nils.  Once darkness settled in for the evening, I would jump out of trees or trashcans to scare friends (this fact may have changed post Mama's ninja-antics).  This was not a smart idea, but it was oh-so-entertaining.  Try to find the fun--even when you feel grumpy.


4.  Mama loved being pregnant-80%of the time.  During weeks 6-14, it was pure, absolute hell.  I would be nauseated 24 hours in the day.  With each pregnancy, horrid symptoms were added.  It was like winning at Plinko on the Price is Right--except I repeatedly  guessed the wrong amount when called up to the stage, threw-up on live television and simultaneously wet myself in my uncomfortable, (classy) whale costume.  I did love feeling your kicks and punches.  It is one of the best feelings in the world, and I was lucky to be your continuous punching bag.

5.  I love, love being your mama.  You may not hear it in my voice or see it on my face, but I love it--I love the crazy, hectic lives we have.  After deciding to tell Daddy I liked him as more than a friend in college, making the choice to have each of you has been the smartest decisions of my life.  You were wanted years before you arrived, and I will bust my rear to see you grow into compassionate, evolving, contributing and content humans.  In the meantime, I will enjoy all of our smallish and big moments.

6.  Here is Mama on her 36th birthday.  I am happy and loved and proud to be yours.

(Photo taken by grumpy, loving, fun Bennet Lien)

My Simple Soundtrack

It would always take a long time for our water to get lukewarm.  So, my childhood mornings were partially spent in our only bathroom.  It was the 80’s--water conservation was not on my radar, and Boy George was my daily soundtrack.  The frigid water ran at full-force while I methodically brushed my crooked teeth.  By the time I was done, the tepid liquid would coat my round face in some form of readiness.  As I stumbled into an awkward trot towards teenagedom, my morning-routine-thoughts would be rampant.  Will I ever fill an A-cup bra?  Will I get in trouble for leaving class and climbing a ladder to the top of the high school?  A woman nursing a hungry man--Steinbeck is a genius.   Over time, the quiet dialogue of the running water became my daily sunrise companion. 

This evening, I stood at the sink to wash the dinner dishes.  The water heated quickly, and I got to work.  My heart warms and slightly aches.   Mom, you did this every evening, and it’s how I picture you most when I think of you.  Our single-wide did have a dishwasher, and it made sense to use it as a drying rack.  Remember?  The window before me overlooked our large backyard, and Jeremy was catching the girls at the base of the slide.   

Pandora was playing my constant singer songwriter station; however, the chortles, happy screams and occasional cries of my silly children jumpstarted my ears and filled my whole body.  Our evening was simple, and we needed it. 

While most use the final notes Auld Lang Syne as the catalyst for yearly aspirations, my annual start typically begins with the advent of school days.  As an educator, this is habit.  Sailors curse, Texans say “pen” for “pin” and teachers become afresh and anew with hot August days and 10 cent folder sales.  Our 2013-2014 was hard.  Our family unit basked in big losses and daily discomfort.  Our positive temperaments (barely) persevered, and we made it okay.  We have our health, the kids are happy and we still find ourselves busting out an occasional dance.  

Tonight, Jeremy grilled some chicken.   The evening prior, I took the time to make some homemade salsa.  Not one to typically enjoy the process of making food, as of late, I exposed another version of myself.  I made Mom’s banana bread last week, and now I made some salsa with a healthy dose of cilantro.  Who am I?  The girls took their place on the window bench, and Jeremy and I salivated at our creations.  

Our tongues awesomely burned with the moderate dose of jalapeños, and our palette happily sang as the sour crème soothed the heat.  The freshly grated Irish cheese took her place atop the tender chicken, and the homespun pico-de-gallo perfectly adorned the meal.  We filled our bellies.  With each bite, my yearly battery refueled.  The meal was perfectly interrupted by the demands of an evening jaunt in the backyard.  My kind Jeremy took them outside, and I gladly stayed inside with my thoughts and cleaning hands. 

On this evening, I let the water run.  Her sundown song brought the same ease and familiarity as her morning musings of long-ago.  I am still working on the Grateful that is still to be found from our last year, and I know that’s okay.  I am looking forward to the new and wonderful that I know awaits us, and I already have what it takes to make it a good year.  They're right in front of me—still chortling, happily screaming and occasionally crying on this lovely evening.

  

Om and Sh*t

I am a minimalist—I opt for paperless car insurance bills (because that’s all they offer), only take the number of napkins needed for one anticipated drink spill per offspring and do yoga poses every other week.  (Some may argue that I am merely stretching my arms.  To those people, I say, I do not put a great deal of mental energy into office-voyeurs.)  On the Consumption Scale, I would like to think that I am hovering way below average.  Just by living in Austin and owning a Subaru, I should have a few points of consumption-cred knocked off my overall score, right?  Recently, I was sitting at our kitchen table drinking my morning coffee.  Since I am of the minimal-sort, I just let my mind be in the moment.  I am the essence of zen (or I may have had nodded off).  My children were yelling about booby cracks (cleavage), and I simply let the screech of their voices go into my ears, accepted their passionate stances, and embraced their inappropriate conversations..   My sitting-śavāsana was interrupted by the various clanking of crap being poured onto the table. 

As I was sitting on my motherly laurels, Jeremy was using the morning time to clean out Ruby’s backpack.  For a human who has only existed in this realm for less than 40 months and weighs a mere 26 pounds, she has surely acquired a heavy load of kid-shit.  Let me present Evidence A: 

Visions of my sweet future-Ruby hoarding all brands of whitening toothpaste flashed before my almond eyes.  I could not bear to see her über-white teeth existing in a small apartment with various collections of doll heads, magical crystals derived from unicorn sweat and jars of Jiffy.  With my final sip of java, my maternal instincts kicked in, and I started to organize.  Zen-no-longer, my left brain kicked in and I grouped the items.  The bloody aftermath of my consolidation skills resulted in several collections.  Now, in my dictionary, a collection is when two or more items with similar characteristics are together.  For example, the other day I locked eyes with the man I married.  Our brood was simultaneously and loudly saying, “We won’t, we won’t back down!”  (Disney channel movie quotes are the devil.)  As we existed in the same space, a collection of tired, middle-aged parents fearing the impending Lord of the Rings-esque revolt occured.  Ruby’s collection entailed the following: 

1.  Buttons:  So boring and round

2.  Wooden blocks with buttons:  So thrilling, round and with angles!

3.  Creepy, little dolls:  Remember Dollhouse Murders?

4.  Writing utensils:  Ruby appears to steal these from various places.  Quick, little hands on that one.

5.  Various coins:  Thank goodness it's real money.  I accidently gave a homeless man Chuck E. Cheese coins last weekend, and he gave me a nasty look.  Bennet looked confused, and Jeremy appeared apalled at my (accidental!) stinginess.

6.  Small rocks:  Ruby loves to collect little rocks and carry them as babies--faceless babies with no limbs who are easily misplaced.

7.  Slinkies:  How does one acquire multiple slinkies in the year 2014?

8..Clothespins:  We use these to keep chips from getting stale not for drying our clothes like good   people do.

And, of course, there were also single items mingling:

1.  Used spoon:  This is so nasty.  Her parents must be unsanitary.

2.  Band-aid remants:    Because I am a parent who cares about open wounds (but not throwing away trash).

3.  Used napkin:  This is disgusting.  Her parents must be unsanitary and need to consider going green by using cloth napkins.

4.  Watch:  Understanding time and the ability to read a watch is overrated.

5.  Bag for magical crystals:  This item is clutch for any parent and wizard.
6.  A note in her lunchbox:  This makes up for not using cloth napkins regularly.

Okay, so I admit I have some work to do.  I am all about purging and simplicity, and I appear to be a walking, yogi hypocrite.  I must do better and teach my children the importance of nothingness.  In the meantime, I will clear my mind of this shit with a good ole tree pose.  Let me present Evidence B with little Ruby Lee: 

Om and om.  

You're Here

Today is like no other day.  My thoughts eventually turn down a path that is paved with small and big moments about you, Mom.  I’m not quite sure where you end, and I start.  It’s a race with no other runners, and I don’t ever win. 

I keep our stories to myself, and my inner-voice is laced with your messages.  I hear your words when Bennet is making another righteous argument, and I keep your messages in my already-packed head.  Every time I see Ruby sleeping, I say quietly to myself, “Love, you look so much like her.”  This is what I have done for so long.  My energy has been given to the lack of your existence in the girls’ lives.  Ironic how draining it is to give much energy to something that is not present on earth.   Let’s be honest—it’s not even about the children.  It’s about me, your eldest daughter, and I know it. 

Something has changed in the last few months.   I have been seeing Julie each week, and she has given me something that I have unknowingly needed this past decade.  She gave me permission to let you be alive in our lives.  I have been selfish, and I have kept you all to myself.  I am good at talking, and yet, I rarely speak your name in their presence.  You were nameless to them up until now.  Mom, they call you Ya-Ya.  It is perfect, and each time their sweet voices say it, my breath stops.  This has brought me much joy.  It also makes my heart ache, but it’s different.  There is hope in this.  There is peace in knowing that you are now alive to them.  It is starting to change, and I am finally beginning to heal. It's time.  

You’re here.  We were eating dinner not so long ago.   “Mama?” said Ruby, “Ya-ya loves the clapping song.  Remember the song?  Miss Alyssa showed us in school.”  She then put her small hands together to clap and scrunched up her round face to recall the tune.   (You always clapped when you sang to Kim, Dan and I.)  Then, she jumped off of the window seat, ran over to our family photos, pointed to your picture, and said so matter-of-factly, “There she is!  There is Ya-Ya!  See, Mama?  See?”

You’re here.  While sitting on the couch one evening, Bennet indignantly said, “Hey!   I am making Ya-Ya a picture.  How do I get it to her?!”  This moment reached into the darkest parts of me and shined the slightest sliver of light.  She came up with a solution, and I have no words for it. 

This morning on the way to school, she asked if you received your picture.  I took it upon myself to let her absolutely know that her artwork for you arrived timely and was well-received.

You’re here.  I told Bennet our favorite story.  I told her about how great-grandma left her husband when grandma was just a little girl.  I told her about how they lived in a mud home in the forest.  Were they lonely, Mama?  Then, I told her about how thieves would try to dig tunnels into the mud house.  She was very upset about this.   The robbers are the s-word!  They are stupid and mean.  I then told her the brilliant plan.  “Bennet, there was a plan.  Great-grandma had lots of different men’s shoes in the house.  So, when they heard digging, she would put a different shoe on each foot.  She would tell grandma to do the same.  Then, they stomped around the house.  And, you know what?  The robbers would hear the shoes and think that big men lived in the house.  So, they would go away!  They left?!  Great-grandma used her brain!  Here is the picture she drew after I told the story.  Mom, do you see me in the picture?  She drew me as an angel.  Mama, that’s you.  You were not born yet.  So, you’re still in heaven, okay?

Then, she went to my bedroom, found two of Jeremy's shoes, put them on, stomped around her room and quietly muttered about silly robbers. 

Mom, you’re finally here.  I've missed you.  

My Pride (and Prejudice)

The day I found out I was having a daughter, I cried.  What the hell am I supposed to do with a girl? I prefered jeans, never owned a Barbie, flirted as well as a bucket of fried chicken and occasionally (or daily) smelled my armpits.  With every cell in my body, I could not bear the thought of having my first child be a girl.  I was my mother’s first daughter, and our relationship was passionate in the best and worst of ways.  History, I felt, was repeating itself, and I was not emotionally and physically prepared.  Then, I decided that my daughter would be resilient, smart, autonomous and ooze gumption.  Ann Richards, the badass, would be a dim light next to my kid.  On a Tuesday, at exactly 11:00 pm, the world granted my wish.  Bennet, named after the loving and self-assured Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice, has rocked my world since that April day.  I am  a woman wizard--I willed my kid’s personality.

She is the most complex, passionate and prideful (other than my mother) human I know.  I do not yell, and I stumble upon some beast version of myself that is roaring words at her face.  Working with children feels natural to me, and she makes me work so damn hard.  I naturally labored for 10 hours on Pictocin (similar to being repeatedly punched by warlocks falling from the sky) with her, and every interaction since then has remained the same—honest, from-the-gut, passionate and effortful.  She can bring me my highest highs, and she has shown me the lowest of valleys as a mother.  And you know what, I cannot contain my excitement for the woman she will one day become. 

I cannot wait for the day you let go of you pride to see your full, wonderful and bountiful worth.

I cannot wait for the day you show your true dancing, loving, emotional self without abashment.  

I cannot wait for the moment you realize how much the world needs you.

Sweet dear, you are my Amazing.  Today, I want to thank you for your wisdom.  You have taught me much.

Don’t put up with people’s shit  Since day one, some may say that Bennet is fickled when it comes to letting people in.  What I have come to realize is that she is open and honest with those who approach her without an ego.  If you try too hard, it ain’t happening.  Use lies?  She’ll see through it.  Try to coax her with lack of sincerity, she’ll just walk away.  However, be truthful, be kind and give her your time, and you have sealed a friendship for all days.  She does not have time for anything less than uber-meaningful.  This, folks, is life-efficiency at its best.  Give time to those who matter most. 

Find another way  At the age of one, Bennet wanted a cookie.  So, I gave her one.  “Mama, more cookie.”  On this day, I was not willing to agree to her conditions.  “No, Bennet.”  My father then came to the table, and Bennet quickly said, “A cookie for Popeye.”  She reached for another cookie and placed it in front of him.  As he was about to grab the treat, she simply said, “Popeye share,” and looked at him straight in the eyes.  My dad was so tickled by her selfish and brilliant antics that he gave her the whole damn thing.  She got her way, and she used her brain. 

(Really) Listen to music  Bennet loves, loves, loves music.  She can differentiate between all of the singer-songwriters.  “Mama, Passenger, Ed Sheeran and Ben Howard sound a lot alike.”  When a beat is dropped, sheesh, you best get out of the way.  Her body will start to shake, convulse and move with as much force and energy as the Beastie Boys (one of her faves).  At 13 months, Bennet would start to tear up and cry if we played a ballad.  Whether it was a slow lullaby or a perfect classical piece, her whole body would respond.  She takes the time (and heart) to find beauty in one of life’s greatest pleasures.  Music is good for the soul, and she lives this daily.

Love and love and love  She has so much love to give.  She thinks about the homeless, dogs who are lost and those who love her most.  Recently, I told Bennet about my miscarriage.  She is a baby whisperer.  She wears a real Bjorn around the house and in public.  Her favorite smell is baby (and books).  She carries her babies in a real infant car seat (this makes us look like lazy parents) and puts it in the trunk of the Subaru (this makes us look like criminals).

After several days of Mama crying and  being sad, I knew it was time to bring her in.  After watching Up, Bennet knew that sometimes babies don’t live here on earth.  She has asked a lot of questions, and we have answered them all.   I took a slow breath and told her my story.

Bennet:  Mama, your baby is in heaven?

Me:  Yes.

Bennet:  How big was the baby?

Me:  She was small, love.

Bennet:  That’s why you’re sad? Because she's not here?

Me.  Yes.

Bennet:  I love you. 

She proceeded to give me a hug and subsequent hugs over the next several days.  For some reason, her hugs consoled me the most.  She could sense when I needed one, and simply gave what she could at that very moment—her awesome and honest compassion. 

Be comfortable with YOU For the last several months, Bennet has become Simon.  She cut her hair, buys clothes from the boys’ section and spends her time correcting those who call her by the wrong pronoun.  While there are moments when she wants to be Bennet, Simon is the one typically hanging out at abode la Palafox.  I know I did not find this kind of self-honesty until I was in my twenties (same time I discovered brie —another life gift).  He has already stumbled upon this self-comfort and makes no excuses for it.  This blows my mind.

And, you know what, history is repeating itself.  This relationship is my most passionate.  We will both be better for it.  I just know it.