Better Late Than Never

i started this father's day tribute yesterday, but we were so busy actually celebrating...no time to blog. so today, we started thai school/camp for the two older kids and the wee one is sleeping...AND i folded the laundry. AND i started dinner. AND i returned two clients' phone calls. so, now, my dear husband, you get center stage here on me blog.

it seems aeons ago that you were this guy...

and now you're this guy...

there was lots in between...

one thing remains the same: those kids are damn lucky.

i love you...happy father's day!

r.

First Days of Summer

with m out of school, our summer days have just begun. with a particularly busy spring (that has given me a new-found respect for professional event planners and fundraisers), i experienced first-hand the old adage: life is as complicated as you make it. 

i love my job and pursuing interests outside of being a wife and mother, but i am glad that for right now, all that has calmed down and  there is this.

Something Happened on the Way to Mother's Day

nate was particularly bent about the fact that i would not let him eat the flower on my tray. jack was doing his usual i-will-not-pose-for-pictures squirm and marley is just hoping that the kid on the floor will stop screaming long enough for the spotlight to be on her mother's day gift.


my smile? well, you just gotta, don't you?

happy mother's day to my mommas out there!! xoxo

Fear Itself

i was on the radio yesterday. terrified barely covers how the very thought of public speaking makes me feel. the idea that many people -- many, many people -- would be hearing my voice, my opinions, my thoughts? yup. sheer terror.

now, let me rewind for a sec. my daughter, who is seven and finishing up first grade, started off her school career, well, shy. she would sit in the back of the class, coast and often hope that the teacher wouldn't notice her. no spotlight, paaalease. nothing to see here. just mindin' my own business. thank you. she would tell me that she just felt scared. scared of what, i would ask. scared that she would give the wrong answer and sound silly. can you imagine?

i can.

now let me rewind even further. i'm seven and finishing up first grade. i started off my school career quiet. diligent, creative and, you guessed it, shy. unsure. just let me write my words, draw my pictures, add my numbers. but, please, please, please don't make me say anything out loud.

at home, i wasn't shy. in fact, i was quite loud. but in school. in front of other people. friendly, nice, but not a hand-raiser. nope.

thirty-plus years later, i've learned that unless i want to sit on a computer and blog all day (um...), i have to do  things that are uncomfortable. that make me nervous. that have the potential to make me look and feel stupid. sometimes i do great and other times i do look stupid.  but, i always know i grow from it. and now that i have a daughter -- much like her mother in so many ways -- i have an even bigger reason to try.

husband and daughter listened to the show online; i'm still too squeamish to do it. according to husband, daughter beamed the whole time, hearing my voice. i had told her i was nervous. she knew i was scared. but she saw me do it anyway.

afterwards, my husband sent me an email:
i'm very, very proud of you! you did something you were nervous about and you did it fearlessly. marley listened to it too...she was very, very excited. an old proverb -- a boy says, "dad, can you be brave if you're scared of something?" dad says, "son, that's the only time you can be brave." 


you taught our daughter that today.

A Fond Farewell

i came home from work the other night to find the kids a-twitter with excitement over their new discovery: a robin's egg. the egg had fallen from a nest somewhere, but other than a tiny crack, was fully intact. the kids fashioned a new cozy nest out of grass and twigs, brought their new little blue friend inside, and promptly made him a member of our family.

my husband and i figured there would be no harm in letting "eggie" hang out for a bit. and with the kids besotted, what else could we really say? so, there eggie stayed...on our dining room table. he was greeted each day with a cheery "good morning!" from both kids. my daughter would come home from school every afternoon and run right up to eggie, stroking him gently and whispering to him.

then one day. it happened. i was in the next room when all of the sudden i heard a cry. a pained, panicked, anguished cry. i ran in to find...eggie. in pieces. first thought? disease. luckily eggie broke on a placemat so just ran that over to the sink. as my daughter sobbed and screamed "he's gone! he's gone!" i scrubbed her hands. then we sat down. at that point, i noticed the 4-year-old had tears streaming down his face. "oh eggie! poor eggie!" he sobbed. i held the two of them on my lap, both inconsolable.

but it didn't end there. a few seconds later, i felt a tug on my leg. the baby had toddled over. seeing how upset his siblings were, he began to cry in support. and so it went for about 10 minutes. tears and sobs punctuated with cries of "eggie! he's gone! eggie's gone!"

finally, when the volume started to die down, i could talk. "eggie was pretty awesome wasn't he? i'm going to miss him too." and because i write when i'm sad (and happy and mad and tired and frustrated and excited), i said, "why don't we write and draw some pictures to show eggie how much we're going to miss him?" tears stopped. markers came out. and here's what we got.

goodbye dear eggie. you were loved. and we'll miss you.

Scenes From a Birthday Party

yes. i thought the same thing...and no, you're not a pervert. and if you are then so am i.

True Dat

This Has to Stop Happening

I was at the grocery store with my baby today and inevitably a stranger starts goo-goo-shmoo-shmoo-poo-poo-doo-doo-moo-moo-coo-coo-cuckoo at the baby. And then, right on cue, I start talking. Through the baby. Except my voice isn't my voice. It's really, really high. Like only dogs should be able to hear it. And I don't speak in complete sentences because, you know, I'm a baby. Except not. I'm the baby's mom. But the baby doesn't talk. So I am doing a really bad impression of the baby talking to a stranger as the baby sits there making no noise.

And then, as my voice reaches a fevered pitch -- so high I am positive the cantaloupes next to me are going to explode -- I drool. Like on myself. Like down my chin. Right in the middle of my baby talk/impression/puppeteering.

Poetic.

A Baked Ziti

Our children are what brought us together as they are the same age and often play together. But, beyond the children, we message, talk and email  about motherhood, husbands, work...life. We laugh at the sheer exhaustion of it all. We think the same things are funny. We think the same things are unfunny. We are more than just playdate pals. We are friends.

Lately, we have spent afternoons talking excitedly about the baby -- her third -- growing in her rapidly expanding belly. She asks me if she's crazy for having a third. I tell her "you get used to it." We laugh. I touch her belly and my heart dances remembering my own belly, swollen with our third...just a little over a year ago.

She is excited. It's not easy to get pregnant. The pregnancies themselves aren't easy. But there they are: beautiful, challenging, funny, joyful, inquisitive and sweet. Her children. Her blessings she calls them.

My friend called me this morning. I already knew.

The baby at almost 16 weeks...gone. No heartbeat. A routine ultrasound. No heartbeat. My friend had been sick this winter -- pneumonia. And then a UTI. "I should have taken better care of myself," she cries into the phone. Tears stream down my face. My voice catches in my throat and I cover my mouth to muffle my own crying.

"I woke up this morning thinking it was a dream. A horrible dream."

I tell her she is not to blame. But, every mother knows and feels every day with every fiber of her being that she is to blame for everything. The weight of her children rests squarely...

She was to deliver the baby tomorrow. Induced. But, instead they have moved it up. "We will meet our baby tonight," she writes me. Her poor, still baby. Filled with hope, promise, and life.

I will make her a baked ziti and bring it to her home. I will feel like a moron walking up to her house with my pitiful offering meant to ease the unthinkable. It will be the absolute stupidest thing I have ever done for someone. The most ridiculous gesture of help I have ever made. But I don't want to do nothing. Yet nothing is pretty much all I can do. So, I will show up at her house with that shitty baked ziti, which she can freeze, thaw and eat with her family.
So she doesn't have to think about making dinner.

Because her baby died.

Sexy Underwear

It's been a rough week. It's been a rough couple of weeks. Middle kid. Pneumonia. Hospital visits. Last one. Overnight. IVs. Antibiotics. Blood. Vomiting. Hospital gowns. Xrays. Like I said. It's been rough.

We got home today and he's feeling much, much better. But the house is chaos. Ok, it's not chaos. It's just chaos to me.

In a nutshell...I haven't had time to do laundry. So, I've cycled through all my favorite comfy, cute cotton panties. I've then gone through my second-tier cotton panties -- a little threadbear, but still acceptable. Then, I've cycled through my panties that should just be completely tossed. Like one has a huge hole right in the front crotch area. I am not sure a.) how that hole came to be in that particular area seeing as I have no penis and b.) why I still have them. To answer the b. question because the a. question is simply unanswerable, I am positive it has something to do with my genetic makeup. In particular, being related to my father, a man who has no problem wearing tshirts, socks, sweaters, pants and shoes that have large, gaping holes in them ("What? It's still good.")

And so, with the crotch-hole underwear not even an option, I glance for a second at my husband's boxer briefs. My husband is 6'2" and 200 pounds. I'm 5'2" and 110 pounds. I would be akin to wearing oversize athletic shorts. Grossly oversized. I'd have to roll them up three times to even attempt to keep the waist from resting at my knees.

So, I'm left with the compartment of undergarments that gets pulled out only, only, only if I need a bartering tool. Like I want someone , like the-father-of-my-children someone, to put away the laundry.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, we have lace. And satin. Together. In one very small garment that basically makes you feel like you are flossing your vagina.

What choice do I have? I suppose I could go commando. But I'm just not a commando kind of girl. Need something to protect her from the elements. Ya' know? So here I sit, exhausted from the week of health-related drama. In my sweats. Ready for bed. With lace up my ass.

Goodnight.

Type A?

i was out with a couple of girlfriends the other night and we got to talking about kids' scheduling and activities. out of the three of us, i am the one who has a school-age child. i was telling them how i never expected marley's schedule to be as busy as it is. we're talking swimming, ice skating, soccer...there are two days out of the week that she does not have an after-school activity.

we are totally that family. you know. the middle- to upper-middle class suburban family you read about where the kids have a ton o' shit going on and no one is happy. the mom is bitter about having to drive everyone around to these activities; the kids are on overload at the sheer number of activities; and the stress level is through the roof. yup, we're headed full-steam in that direction...or are we?

one of my friends responded with a story about an over-worked, over-activity-ed, stressed-out mother who up and canceled all her kids activities. every last one. like in no activities at all. which made me think...no activities? what would that be like? it was never a question that my kids would participate in sports, learn how to do things like swim and skate, and maybe even play an instrument.

which harkens the question...what is it all for? is it worth it? are we imposing an over-scheduled schedule on our kids?

there is no question that there is a lot going on in our family. so far, i don't feel stressed about it. truth be told, i sometimes feel like i should complain about that part of my routine, but i actually don't feel very complain-y about it at all. i may be nuts here, but i actually like it.

no lie.

from the kid side, let it be noted that there is no whining about swimming, skating or playing soccer. not yet anyway. we are still at an age where it is all exciting. the wonder of learning something new...i remember when i was teaching my daughter to ride a bike. the look on her face when she realized i wasn't holding her anymore and she was doing it all herself? i'll take a cup of that every morning, please. and thank you.

which kinda explains, i think, why i believe -- with every fiber of my being -- that extra-curricular activities are worthwhile. not everyone will agree, but this is my blog and i'll cry if i want to.

i grew up in a home where we always had stuff going on. we didn't sit around much. we played with neighborhood kids on certain days of the week, but overall, not much time hanging around the house. we were out. i always give my mother credit for spearheading all our activities because as a thai woman, she wasn't always familiar with the ins and outs of these mysterious things american kids did with their time when they weren't in school.

but she had vision.

she signed us up for swim team and when we showed up for the first meeting, we were rudely awakened when the coach threw us, head first, into the competitive sporting event of our lives -- a swim meet. talk about cold water on the face. i love the immigrant-ness of that story and my parents honestly thinking it was just a gathering of moms and dads and kids to talk about swimming and stuff.

i didn't even have a proper swim team swim suit. i wore a pink halter top swim suit with tiny flowers all over it. like i was headed to the beach. there is an old picture of me at that first meet, taking an awkward freestyle stroke with my head raised straight up to breathe (did not know how to turn my head to the side yet) and my hair matted down the sides and front of my head (hadn't discovered swim caps yet). i looked like i was drowning.

but i didn't.

as an adult, i feel like that aspect of my parents' parenting was really strong. i don't recall feeling stressed by the activities -- or volume of activities. they were fun (ok, fine, maybe some of them became a little less fun during the Sullen Period, circa '89-91). beyond the fun of a little girl learning all this cool new stuff is an adult woman who has a life that is continually enriched by the music, sports and dance opportunities her parents gave her. even the stuff i couldn't stand -- like thai summer school -- i am grateful for today.

i love that when my daughter took ballet, we practiced first, second, third position together (6). i loved watching her try her hand at thai dancing and talking about how important the curve of her hand is when performing (7,8,9). i love playing carmen (or chopsticks) on the keyboard for my kids and seeing their faces light up like i'm a superstar (8,9,10,11.12). i love that i can swim -- really well in fact -- anytime i want or need to. and when the stars are aligned, i can even be an iron girl (8,9,10,11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17). i love holding hands and skating with my daughter. those sunday afternoons going 'round and 'round the rink, both of us singing along to selena gomez blaring overhead? joy (9,10). i love playing tennis with my husband and yelling 'in your face!' when he misses a shot (10, 11, 12, 14, 13, 14).

all these moments are childhood gifts from my mother and father. they allow me, today, to enjoy the activity and adventure in life both as a mother and on my own. they also gave me a blueprint for one of the greatest gifts i hope to bestow upon my own children: the feeling -- that glorious feeling -- that they can.

Forgot This One...

this is how i party with legos...dump and throw, dump and throw, dump and...

Hello...

My name is Nate. And I'm a hurricane.

First and Last

Our last baby celebrated his first birthday a few weeks ago. We did the first birthday cake thing, he dove right in -- blue frosting and all.

Sometimes I look at my third child and see my first. They look almost identical as babies. But it's more than that. I remember my daughter's first birthday and how I felt. Yes, the love was there, but life was in flux. Motherhood was in flux. Marriage was in flux. I was in flux. Almost like my husband and I were still bit actors in this play called "Parenthood & Marriage" and fumbling aimlessly through our lines.

Then came #2 and things were less chaotic for a time, but still...finding our way. His first birthday was haphazard. I tried, but I was still fumbling, juggling, seeking, trying, falling, crumbling beneath the weight of it all...

When I saw my last baby turn one, there was nothing but pure joy. Every moment of his party, I smiled. I savored every second. The family and friends around us. My baby tasting cake for the first time. Watching his little face in wonder when we all started to sing. And most of all, seeing my first baby, now almost seven years old, helping carry the cake in for her little brother.

Now, please don't misunderstand. I forgot to buy plastic forks for the cake so we were furiously washing dirty forks that had been used for the lunch so our guests wouldn't have to eat cake like our one-year-old. But, that shit doesn't matter. It really doesn't.

Without the babies that came before, I wouldn't have learned that lesson, plus all the lessons I needed to learn (and keep learning) to enjoy motherhood and marriage the way I do today. All the frustration and uncertainty that come along with a first child and many of the difficult, painful things that were happening at the time...it all had to happen. It all was meant to be.

So "Happy First Birthday" to my third and last baby. But, to my first baby...I want to say, "This is for you too. Thank you for being with me through the hard stuff. Some day you will know fully how hard it was, but in a way that won't scare you. Your brothers didn't have to bear what you had to bear. You helped us learn and grow. Because of that, we are the parents today we always wanted to be. It wouldn't have happened without you. I love you, my sweet, strong girl... Mama."

The Final Walk

Photo Sharing - Video Sharing - Photo Printing

there will be a lot of these moments this year....last first walk, last first birthday cake, last first word (which was 'mama' thank you very much)....

sigh.

Moms Can Have Crushes Too

my husband and I have one particular trait in common -- obsessiveness. i'm not talking single-white-female obsessiveness (ok, i admit that depends on your vantage point), but more like when we find something we like and are interested in, we cannot. let. it. go. for like weeks and weeks and weeks on end.

that's where the similarities end, though. my husband gets obsessed with stuff like civil war history books, athlete biographies and boardwalk empire. me? lady gaga. real housewives of new jersey, and apple cheesecake bars the bakery down the street makes. oh...it hurts so good.

my current obsession, which has been steadily growing to near-frantic proportions for close to three weeks now is...ryan gosling. i know, i know. join the rest of the female population over the age of 16.

i've always liked ryan gosling. respected him as an actor. loved his weirdness in lars and the real girl and his vulnerability in half-nelson. good actor. pretty cute.

but, things got, as my husband likes to put it, a "wee bit creepy" when i decided to on-demand crazy, stupid love. then netflixed drive. then ordered ides of march. and then took it old-school and rented the notebook.

full-on ryan gosling tear. and i simply can't, will never understand why-oh-why he couldn't make it work with rachel mcadams (remember this?).

so, last week i met my husband for lunch. as i walked up to the chinese restaurant, i quickly realized how i am different from those other gos-obsessed women:


t with his new ryan gosling haircut.

i'm now officially crushing on my husband, which pays better dividends than the ryan gosling thing.