Here Where I Have Landed

Solidarity

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Mon, 10 Jun 2013 20:09:00 +0000

“Me too! Me too! Me too!” Thumper utters in one breath as she trails behind her sister, trying to copy her next move, whatever that may be. Sitting at the back of the couch? Sure. Jumping off a mini ledge? Yes. Eating jellyfish and sushi? Of course!

Yes, we’re at this me too me too stage now, and that’s pretty much all we hear all day. The two-year-old may not end up enjoying everything, but she at least tries them because she wants to emulate her big sister, who, at 4.5 years, already has a rather profound influence on her development at this stage.

Big sisters do that apparently.

We get a lot of “I don’t yike this either!” as Thumper joins in on her sister’s protest du jour. And we certainly hear more “Missy hit me pirst (first)!“ than we care to. Naturally, where there are two, there’s bound to be blame and competition: “Me won!” “No, Thumper, I won!” “No, me won pirst!” “There’s no such thing. I won! You lost!” “Yes, me yost!”

There’s also plenty of pretend playing, with the girls alternating mommy and baby roles every day. Today, Thumper declared to me first thing in the morning, “Me the mommy; Missy is the baby” and she called out to Little Miss, “I’ll be wight back, teetaht (sweetheart)” in her most sophisticated mommy voice. It can be pretty hilarious, especially when we’re in public and Thumper runs after her sister, calling, “Mama, mama!” confusing or amusing the strangers around her.

I may not have a sibling, but I expected all of this. I knew this was a natural progression for a two-year-old making her own place within our family, vying for attention, establishing her identity relative to her bigger, more capable older sister.

Yet, sometimes, even when I am fully aware of to expect, I am taken aback when I am suddenly faced with what I knew would happen. Like this moment last Thursday:

After Little Miss huffily stormed into the bedroom and begrudgingly sat on the little green chair in the corner for a timeout, Thumper followed her and planted herself on the floor right beside her, facing her sister.

“Don’t go in there, Thumper. Your sister is in timeout.” I said, but it fell on deaf ears. Instead, I saw Thumper whispering to her sister, and she held out her hand to stop me from entering the bedroom.

Thumper knew I wasn’t pleased with her sister’s irreverence. I think she also suspected that Little Miss had a little bit of defiance left in her as she sat squirming and itching to retaliate further from her timeout chair.

That’s when Thumper gently patted her big sister’s knee and quietly said, “You stay here,” as if to say listen to mommy, stop fighting, and you can get out of here.

And in that same motion, when their eyes met, it felt like she had also assured her big sister that she was there, at her side, and more importantly, on her side.

Little Miss stopped twitching. Both girls turned to look at me with the same dark eyes, in solidarity, daring me to penetrate an invisible shield they had both created from an implicit understanding.

I took a moment to drink that moment in, and then chose to walk away, in awe of what I’d just witnessed. They were on the same side. Two against one.

Suddenly, that part of our future unfolded before me and sent an uncomfortable twist to my sides. I knew they would unite against me someday, but it did nothing to prepare me for it.

I have to admit, as much as I hated being the one to their two, I was proud to see them taking a stand together. Oh how I wish it was the beginning of an amazing and unbreakable bond between these girls.

A sisterhood of shared secrets, spoken and unspoken, of hands and hearts bound together, by blood and by choice.

As with any parent of two or more children, I can only hope that when I’m no longer here for them, they will be there for each other, which is why being one against their two doesn’t bother me as much.

How ironic that my greatest wish for them as a parent may someday also be my biggest challenge.

I Have Issues: The Party Girl Edition

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Tue, 04 Jun 2013 19:43:00 +0000

I have not yet composed the birthday letter to my newly minted two-year-old as per my usual Extreme Birthday Celebrant self. In fact, I didn’t do much of anything that’s usual for Thumper’s birthday this year.

When a birthday approaches, I get into this mode: I craft, I bake, I create, I get fancy. In short, my brain short-circuits a little, and I live outside my comfort zone for the days, even weeks, leading up to a birthday.

For Little Miss’ first year, I decided to go with a tea party (yes, for the one-year-old who could barely drink out of a cup herself, let alone enjoy the tea). It was inspired by a cameo pendant, so I special-ordered a cake to match it, I scoured the local vintage shops for dainty porcelain tea sets, shopped for attire (for both Little Miss and myself) that fit the theme, made scones, tea sandwiches, and teapot shaped cut-out cookies with her initials that I spent too many nights trying to perfect (and possibly cried over a little at 2 AM when they were nearly done, but not quite, and it seemed like it would never end).

Intricate, fussy work is just not my thing. It’s hardly ever my thing, but I thought, once a year, for my daughter’s birthday, I should do something special. Now, it’s twice a year, and so I toil with each birthday. Sometimes, like an idiot.

For Little Miss’ third birthday, my mom, My Guy, and I became a factory, churning out a gazillion and two cake pops for a balloon-themed party to go with the balloon pit, balloon decorations, and balloon favors. Naturally, I handcrafted balloon-inspired thank you cards after the event.

This year, I got Thumper 20 purple balloons and lost 10 of them to crazy winds before I could even reach home. It was painful to watch it fly away from my inches-away grasp, but not the end of the world, because that was just bonus. After our trip to the water park to celebrate her birthday, I’d resigned myself to a simpler celebration, so the balloons were actually a last-minute addition.

In fact, I refused to even call it a party – just a play date with friends – as a way to trick my brain to chill out. That also meant doubling my effort to quiet the chorus of guilt because this year, for this special two-year-old of mine, I didn’t do anything out of the ordinary.

With only three days from the time we returned from our trip to the weekend, which was when we invited our neighbors and Thumper’s closest playmates over for a belated celebration of her big 0-2, and with work taking up most of my “free” time, I had no choice but to surrender my Party OCD to the stars.

And boy, did I ever.

People were scheduled to arrive at 3:30, and I didn’t get home from the store (after losing half the balloons) until 2:30. Everything was purchased, from cupcakes to snacks, and I barely squeezed in a much needed shower. I only decided on Thumper’s birthday outfit when something new arrived in the mail that afternoon. The other option was something in the closet that she had never found the occasion to wear.

In the end, she had a great time. She didn’t know that the guests were casually invited, mentioned in passing during a play date, rather than an elaborate daddy-designed digital invitation card (he’d created an animated GIF invite for Little Miss’ party one year), she didn’t know 10 balloons were missing (and probably making some other kids smile when they spy them floating in the sky), she didn’t know that the hodgepodge of paper plates were leftovers from previous parties, and she didn’t know her cupcakes weren’t homemade.

Nor would she have cared.

I know. I have always known, but perhaps having been a full-time working mom before this led me to overcompensate. I felt compelled to make the weekends more lively for the kids (frenetic for the grownups) and the special days more special (but stressful for me) to make up for the time I didn’t get to spend with them.

Yet, despite the grocery-store-sponsored party, she smiled, she grinned, she snorted, she laughed, she said “butt-butt” and “toot” a lot, she announced “cake time!”, she kicked off her own Happy Birthday song, she said plenty of thank you’s, she kissed, she hugged, she twirled and fell, and she twirled some more.

The Teddy Grahams, raisins, juice, cheese sticks, grapes, and Goldfish crackers made the kids happy, and Thumper even got to devour one cupcake and three frostings. After the last of the guests left, she went to bed saying “Night night, mommy…I wub you…see you in the morning,” just like she does every night.

I didn’t have to do more. The thing is, I never had to. But now that I see that pre-party stress prep yields the same happy, contented birthday girl as pre-party no prep, I can’t believe I once cried into a cookie.

Wisconsin Dells in pictures (and words!)

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Fri, 31 May 2013 05:24:00 +0000

Four days, three nights, seven hundred water slides, and five tons of cheese later, we’re back from our mini getaway at the Wisconsin Dells. It was heaven for the girls - water park, theme park, hotel, restaurants, and movie theater in one colossal, never-ending building. In the words of my four-year-old, who couldn’t help but yell, “Oh my goodness, it’s humongous!” when she first spied the resort.

It rained a lot while we were there, but who cares? We didn’t have to leave the building to get anywhere! Well, except for the occasional trips for our meals (because we could only stand to have so much mediocre resort fare) and shopping. (Outlet mall right down the street!)

The first order of business, before we even set foot in our hotel, was to head to the outlet stores to procure appropriate attire. For this family, it usually means proper footwear. Yes, we have a thing for shoes. Even the little one had an opinion - “Puh-ple shoes!” – but that’s not a stretch. She would’ve asked for puh-ple milk if she could.

After that, we spent most of our days in the water. Little Miss wasted no time with Thumper and myself in the tiny tots area. She was off with her daddy, trying every slide she could go on, lucky that she barely made it past the 42-inch height restriction on most of these gigantic, twisty slides.

I was proud of my brave girl, but I was also grateful for the company of the little one who tentatively tried each slide in the section just for tots before she, too, mastered them, sometimes going up and down a particular one so many times that after 20, I stopped counting.

When they’re not growing fins, they’re at the theme park, where we had our first Ferris Wheel ride together as a family, and Little Miss’ and my first go-cart experience. The girls also tried mini-golfing for the first time, although Thumper was more exciting about aiming and throwing the (rather heavy) golf ball at us (ouch!) than actually getting it into the holes.

This trip was planned around Thumper’s second birthday, so on the last day there, we surprised her with a chocolate cupcake for breakfast, complete with two purple candles. Throughout our stay, we’d mention, “Who’s birthday is in X days?” and she’d smile, “Me!” And she would start to sing the Happy Birthday song to herself. "What are we going to have that day?” we’d ask, and she would tremble with excitement as she replied, “Cake!”

On the day of her birthday, we spent the morning in the water after cake and presents, and the rest of the afternoon traveling home. I felt bad that we had to get the birthday girl a Happy Meal for lunch so we could eat on the go, but it’s our special road trip meal that the girls looked forward to, so I suppose, if it did make her happy, I shouldn’t feel so guilty.

This is the same girl who, a few weeks ago pointed at the iconic golden arches as we passed one in the city and cheered, “HotDonald’s! HotDonald’s!” To which we laughed and responded, ”Thumper, it’s MAC-Donald’s!” So perhaps having HotDonald’s on her birthday was actually a good thing. For her, anyway. So, really, (in a tiny voice) go me?

However, we were in Wisconsin, which is famous for their beer and cheese, and everywhere we went had a menu that seemed poised to attack our arteries. If it isn’t cheesy, it’s deep-fried. Or cooked with beer. And by our fifth meal there, we pretty much exhausted the variety of food they had. In the entire town, not just the resort.

You know it’s pretty bad when my two-year-old squealed with delight and exclaimed, “Bwokee!” and “Maaaato!!!” (broccoli/tomato) and set her fries or pizza or chicken tenders aside for those. Granted, she does enjoy her veggies, but that zeal she displayed was especially telling of our poor diet there. Note to self for our next visit: Bring groceries; cook!

That was the one thing I wish I could change about our visit. Our one-bedroom suite came equipped with a nice-sized eat-in kitchen and living area. We should’ve made better use of it. Oh well, at least now I know, and next time (oh yes, there will be a next time) I will be prepared.

When we reached home, Thumper, who left the house a one-year-old and came home a two-year-old, opened more presents, and we ordered sushi and Thai for dinner as a proper celebratory meal for her. She was eager to stuff her face with stir-fried noodles and rice again, and who can blame her? When the spicy banana blossom salad hit my mouth, it was a Hallelujah (think Handel’s “Messiah”) moment for me.

Oh, it’s so good to be back.

* * *

So that was our trip in words. And now, the pictures!

Crocs for every girl in the house!

As if we didn’t have enough to schlep, we had to make sure to bring their pillows and sleeping buddies too

At Cracker Barrel, another road-trip staple

“Maaaato!!!” (These were actually from the burger fixings station, except to her, they were lunch)

Flight of beer from local brewery

Vacation staples: Pina Colada and Giant Margarita

Tentative steps at first

Little slide, little sister

Big slide, big sister

Mad skills, dude!

Ferris Wheel

Top of the Dells (on the Ferris Wheel)

Photo booth

Bumper boat

Yes, it’s a blur; I was just that fast. No really, it was me (and Little Miss), I swear

A rite of passage for daddy’s side of the family

‘Twas the night before she turned two…

It was just Thumper and me in the hotel room while her daddy and sister stayed at the Theme Park on the last night she was one. I kept her up, reluctant to say good night to my baby, knowing that when she awakes the next day, she would be two. Officially, no longer a “baby”.

But who am I kidding? These kids, these girls of ours, they’ll always be our babies.
No matter how fast and far they run from us…

When life gives you a fish eyeball

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Sat, 25 May 2013 05:04:00 +0000

When life gives you a fish eyeball (that fell out of your kid’s stuffed animal)…you do your best pirate impression.

Arrr!

And that’s reason number I-lost-count why I love my goofy family.

A little back story:
There are two stuffed fish that shares Thumper’s crib when she sleeps. One is pink, called Pink Fish, which is also the mommy, according to Thumper, who classifies all creatures as mommy or baby, and the other is purple, called Purple Fish – What? Don’t look at me. I didn’t name them!

One day, Pink Fish lost an eye from daddy’s aggressive man-handling, so we made the best of it. But it was Thumper who inspired us when she did a mini role play upon discovering the missing eye.

Thumper, to Purple Fish: Aaahh! Hide!
Then she brings the fish to me and says: Puh-ple Fish is scared!
Me: Oh? Why?
Thumper, with mock alarm: Puh-ple Fish scared; Mommy Fish a Pie-weht!

I might have snorted water out of my nose then.

In other news, when you’re reading this, we’re either on our way to or already at the “Waterpark Capital of the World” a.k.a. Wisconsin Dells to celebrate my baby’s second birthday - a first visit for three out of four of us. We figured, with a family of daredevil aqua babies, we can’t go wrong with water, rides, water, and more water. And lots of dairy. It’s Wisconsin after all.

We’ve not had a vacation in a long time, so this will be a welcome respite from our routine, even though it’s just four short days, three hours away from home. And, really, when you have kids, vacation takes on a different meaning.

Last time I checked, wrangling little kids isn’t exactly relaxing. It’s just another kind of the stress from which we’re trying to escape (did we pack all necessary electronics and gadgetry plus their chargers? will they nap in the car? another meal with fries?!) – only this version is a lot cuter.

But even then, I just know it’s going to be a blast. With these goofballs, how can it not be?

* * *

Have a Happy Memorial Day weekend!

p.s. Follow me on Instagram for a play-by-play of our “Wild Nights in Wisconsin”. You know you want to…

Too much

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Wed, 22 May 2013 18:29:00 +0000

Thumper, who turns two in six days (WHAT??! NO!!!), often preempts my concerns after a fall with a quick, “I’m otay, mama!” or “Me pine (fine), mama!” before I could even ask about her spill. But, on Monday, with a fever that hovered steadily at around 103.5 all day, she couldn’t offer that peace of mind.

She woke at a little after 4 AM drenched in sweat and crying. My Guy brought her into bed with us after he took her temperature, and I knew it was not going to be an easy night. Or day, for that matter. I was half right.

As sick as she was, surprisingly, she didn’t fuss all that much. In fact, in between spikes of fever, she was rather entertaining. When the sound from a siren woke her up for the day, and she found herself between her parents, she exclaimed, “Eet up, duys! (Get up guys!) Fietwuck outside!” Soon after, she heard the birds that prompted her second exclamation for the day: “Hey duys, I heah buh-dies! (birdies)”

Yes, she’s easily excitable. My Guy and I were still groggy, both turning away from her, when this last one finally pulled me out of my sleep-soaked state: “Yook (look) duys! I have bown he-ah! (brown hair)” she announced as she clutched fistfuls of her own hair, like we hadn’t known that previously. I had to chuckle and give up on sleep. Apparently, that part was over, but what a way to wake up, with this smiling, precious toddler between us. It could’ve been a lot worse.

Eventually, it did get there. Her fever rose even higher and all she could manage was to lay quietly next to me in bed. Unlike the last time she was out of sorts, My Guy was at home so he could care for Little Miss, who felt left out because she was healthy and we weren’t doting on her like we were her sister. She started to complain of a headache, which was understandable, but not quite believable, but I decided to play along.

We tried to explain to the four-year-old that we would have done the same for her – to stay right next to her to care for her had she been the one afflicted – but appeals for empathy would only go so far at this stage.

After My Guy brought Little Miss to preschool, Thumper and I spent the rest of the morning in bed. She would only sleep if I was right next to her, with my hand clutched between hers, so as she lay there softly breathing, I thought about all the tasks I had planned for today that had to wait. Thankfully, I had a smart phone that allowed me to get to some client emails, but with only one hand, I accomplished little so I spent the rest of the time thinking about what led us here.

We had an unusually busy weekend, which started last Wednesday(!) when we went for a fan sneak preview of the latest Star Trek movie, “Star Trek Into Darkness”, and then went back again for a second viewing after we hosted a small party for friends on Saturday. (Can we say geeks?) Two movies in one week (and the same one, at that) was quite an indulgence, but it didn’t end there.

In between those were play dates with friends at the beach and the park, a jaunt to the library, a highly anticipated concert (The Shins!), and a lovely evening out to meet a fellow blogger, Rudri, who was visiting Chicago with her family.

I remember thinking over the weekend, man, I can’t wait till Monday (and who actually says that?) because we might have been a little overzealous with our social plans. Perhaps it was in response to My Guy’s more stable schedule, now that his business travels have slowed down, that we tried to fit as much in as we could, as if making up for when he was gone for much of last month.

Of course, the ever-present mama’s guilt led me to think that I might have run my toddler ragged with all the activities. But she didn’t go to the movies and concert or spend a late night out with friends. She was home, asleep! I argued with myself, grasping at any possibility that it might not have been my fault.

The little one spent the rest of the day drifting in and out of sleep, although her naptime in her crib only lasted an hour, which meant I still wasn’t able to catch up on the tasks I had on my to-do list. There were three deadlines that Monday, which I couldn’t get to over the weekend for obvious reasons, but knowing that we would have a sitter Monday morning convinced me that I would be able to get to all of it.

You’d think that nearly four and a half years of parenting would have taught me something. Like “expect the unexpected” and “things don’t always go according to plan”. Like a toddler with an inexplicable fever. So there went my brilliant plan. (Can you tell I’m still struggling with this whole work-at-home-mom (WAHM) thing?)

Thumper wouldn’t leave my side, and every time she was uncomfortable from the fever, she would cry, but she would still remember her manners as she implored “tissue please...” and once it’s in her hand, “thank you, mama,” in between sniffles.

It’s bad enough to helplessly watch her suffer through her ailment, but what killed me were the please and thank you’s that accompanied her requests. It’s so Thumper. Ever so sweet, and so full of surprises.

Watching “The Wonder Pets” at her request and occasionally singing along and cooing, “Aww…” at the sight of baby animals, which told me that she was at least not at an alarming state.

Occasionally, I could still bring a smile to her face, especially when I mentioned her upcoming birthday. “What are we going to do for your birthday?" I’d ask, and she’d respond with a twinkle in her eye, “Sing hattie dehd-day! Bow tandou (blow candle)…Eat tate! (cake) Weh (wear) hattie dehd-day hat!”

I didn’t tell her that we would also be at a waterpark resort at the Wisconsin Dells for the weekend to celebrate her special day. I wanted to wait to surprise her and see the reaction on this water baby’s face when she sees the place.

Her fever finally broke close to bedtime, after a dose of infant Tylenol, much to my reluctance at administering it. While not sprightly, she was delighted with her fruit popsicle, which was the only “solid” food she ate all day. There were multiple “water please” requests, but nothing else appealed to her. Not even the “jook” (rice porridge) that My Guy picked up from our favorite Chinese restaurant, a staple in our house for anyone afflicted by sickness because of my own half-Chinese upbringing that mandated this healing comfort food.

I spent the night finally getting to my tasks and woke early for a run the next day while everyone was still asleep. When I came home at 7:30, I was greeted by the sounds of a healthy toddler on the monitor. The rest of the day was spent at the playground, where she reveled in the sunlight that she missed the day before, slowly returning to her old self.

After naptime, we picked Little Miss up early from preschool, and My Guy took us all out for ice cream to celebrate good health and glorious sunshine. (Can I just quickly mention how much I love our current lifestyle where we can just take a break and spend time together in the middle of the afternoon?)

Does this look like a child who had a 103.5 fever the day before?

At the end of the day, when I was trying to console a crying Little Miss (although I forget the reason why – perhaps because they’re often not really end-of-the-world important like they make it out to be) as I was tucking her in at bedtime, Thumper, who was already comfortably snuggled under her own blanket next to us in the crib, called out: “You otay, Missy? Mama, Missy needs tissue.”

Yup, that sounds like the Thumper I know (and adore to pieces), always looking out for everyone around her.

After tending to my big girl, I turned to the little one for a last kiss goodnight and to make sure she had everything she needed for the night, when she offered without my prompting, “Me pine, mama; me happy.”

And all was right with the world again.

Mother’s Day 2013

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Tue, 14 May 2013 19:38:00 +0000

Sometimes I come out of a weekend thinking, wow. Just wow. And I can scarcely begin to describe how I arrived at this point. But I will make an attempt anyhow, because, well, what else will I be doing here? Sing?

On Saturday, I left the house at 7:30 AM for a five-mile run (my first morning run in a long time, and since we’re doing a play-by-play here, I might as well admit that it felt pretty wonderful too), and came home for a quick swig of coffee while the girls got ready to leave for their soccer class. Then we left together so I could go to my yoga class for 90 minutes while their dad watched the girls during soccer.

The funny thing is, there is a wall of windows that overlooks the soccer field from my yoga class, and every now and then, I could see Little Miss with the ball and her sister trailing behind her. I know we’re expected to disconnect from the outside world during yoga, but I couldn’t help myself. It was highly entertaining, albeit a little distracting.

By the time I was done, we were all ready for a hearty brunch at a neighborhood restaurant, where Little Miss, who was usually full of interruptions, sat quietly as she drew me this lovely picture and wrote the words all by herself. (Had she not run out of space, it would have said "Mommy” since we’re not quite at the “Mom” stage yet. Thankfully.)

I have to say, having a full conversation with My Guy as we ate was as delicious as the plate of asparagus and brie omelet and crispy house potatoes I had in front of me.

After an active morning, the girls napped soundly while the grownups did some work on the computer. We rested just enough for our next round of adventure: Family Swim!

The girls, who haven’t been in the pool since our vacation in Puerto Rico, were absolutely delighted. That’s also when Thumper confirmed our suspicions: she was fearless in the water. Just put a foam noodle under her armpits, and she’s off! My Guy would stand Thumper up above the pool and ask her to jump at the count of three, except, that never really happened. Sometimes it’s onetwothreefourfiveSIX! before jumping, and sometimes, it would go up to 11. Very random. Very funny. But she never once hesitated to dive in.

Little Miss had her own moves in the water too. The foam noodle was also new to her, but it didn’t take her long to figure out how to float and glide across the water with relative ease, insisting that we only helped upon her request.

Being in the water is such a joy for me as some of my favorite childhood memories happened at the pool. The fact that my family was equally enchanted by the water was a colossal bonus. We decided to become members of the YMCA just so we could make the Family Swim time a regular thing. It’s our happy place, it would seem.

As with after every trip to the pool, we were all famished by the time we were done, and we picked a nearby restaurant, devoured some noodles, and because we decided to fudge the girls’ bedtime a little that evening, ventured into World Market, where I went crazy at the candy aisle. I’ve never been known to resist temptation, so why start now? On our way home, we each had a Happy Hippo from one of my favorite chocolate brands, Kinder, and called it a day.

And oh, what a day. Exhausting yet energizing. Busy but relaxing. Who knew all that physical activity would feel so satisfying?

In the car, on our way home, I said to My Guy, “You know, you could call this our Mother’s Day celebration, and I would be perfectly happy.”

Because it was true. I had an amazing day.

But he wouldn’t have it.

True to his nature, he already had the next day planned, from the time I woke to the time I went to bed.

Mother’s Day started with our first meal at my favorite breakfast restaurant, where I feasted on divine sour-cherry-chocolate French toast. Then we took a scenic drive to the Chicago Botanic Gardens and spent the morning ooh-ing and aah-ing over tulips, rhododendrons, and lilies. This was Thumper’s year at the Gardens it would seem because purple, her favorite, was everywhere. Luckily for Little Miss, they weren’t short on pink either.

Both pictures show the Japanese Garden, my favorite part.

Naturally, with two little ones, we had to break the day in two to squeeze in the all-important nap. On this day, I skipped my usual Sunday run and chose to nap instead. (Gasp!!!) But then again, Mother’s Day comes but once a year. I had to take advantage of the license to take advantage.

I also had to conserve my energy because after our rest came more celebrating! Our third stop of the day was for dinner at our favorite Ethiopian restaurant, where everyone in my family has a favorite dish and no one leaves hungry. Ever.

After copious amounts of “Meat!”, as my toddler would demand, I dropped Thumper and My Guy off at home and drove Little Miss and me to a little theater in the suburbs for a live performance of one of her favorite stories, Beauty & the Beast. It was a big-girl-and-mama date night, and the fact that it was special was not lost on her as I fielded her barrage of questions and comments about the show and our night at the theater.

When we arrived home after the show, My Guy excitedly announced to me that Thumper was asleep in Little Miss’ big-girl bed, instead of her own crib. It was completely unexpected as she hadn’t shown any real interest up to this point, and I made him give me the play-by-play of how it all went down.

It was a milestone after all! And I couldn’t believe I wasn’t there for it! My soon-to-be two-year-old (in exactly two weeks, but who’s counting) was finally in a big-girl bed! Little Miss went to sleep in our guest bed that night - a spot with which she’s now familiar since we separate them on nights we hear a party in their bedroom, instead of quietly going to bed - and we ended the night with a couple of episodes of “The Game of Thrones” and a bottle of sumptuous Tripel Karmeliet beer.

Before turning in ourselves, we looked in on Thumper, who woke from sleep, got on her feet on the bed with a stuffed animal in each hand and asked to be put back in her crib: “Seep in my kib daddy...seep in my kib...”

Ah. All’s well with the world again. I can continue to pretend she’s still my baby, and not the toddler that she really is.

For Mother’s Day, I only had two requests of My Guy. 1) That I was not asked to think about a single meal that day, so whether he decided to cook or take us out, I didn’t want to have to make a choice because I do that five times a day, every day; and 2) That he made the bed in the morning (something that I made a point to do myself every day because it made me feel good).

He did all of that, of course. And much, much more. Because he’s awesome like that.

The pampering was nice, but that’s not why I loved the weekend.

I loved it because on Saturday, we were just going about our business as usual and playing by ear with most of what we ended up doing that day, yet everything came together so perfectly that we couldn’t have planned it better.

I also loved it because on Sunday, despite several glitches, My Guy still managed to pull off an amazing Mother’s Day celebration for me. We almost had to wait 30 minutes for a table at breakfast, but we avoided the long wait because he offered to hold Thumper on his lap while we ate at the restaurant counter (no waiting!). It was Little Miss’ first time on a swiveling high stool, so it actually turned out to be a fun experience for her.

When Little Miss pitched a fit later that day because she couldn’t wear the dress of her choice for dinner (in our defense, it was a sleeveless number, and it was a rather chilly day), My Guy swooped in and averted the crisis just by talking her out of it. And as you know, trying to reason with an unreasonable preschooler can be a monumental task, so props to him, who usually has less patience for insolence than I do, for even trying.

And the best part? The house was as I would’ve kept it - the bed was made, the kitchen and dining room table were clean, and the toys were put away. It was a very good day, no, weekend, for me.

A heartfelt gratitude goes out to My Guy for making this Mother’s Day so very special, and to my family for making even the most ordinary day feel that way sometimes.

Once in awhile, we get it right

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Thu, 09 May 2013 04:27:00 +0000

A dandelion bouquet, from my sweet girls

7:30 PM. The babysitter showed up right on time. My Guy had just tucked the girls in bed, but they weren’t asleep. We chose to put them in separate rooms tonight so they wouldn’t have a giggle-chat fest in their room, throwing the new sitter off, making her wonder, on her first encounter with them, if the occasional high-pitched cackle or the fussing because one sister was trying to disturb the other was normal.

It’s all normal. But she didn’t know that. And it was too soon to acquaint her with the antics of my boisterous girls. I’d like her to come back, so I was all about making it easier for the sitter.

After introductions - her name was Mary - we brought her to the girls so they could meet her. I was a little hesitant initially, wondering if Thumper, who was always blissfully asleep before we left for all of our date nights previously, would react negatively to an unfamiliar face. But she’s experienced a few sitters during the day; perhaps this wouldn’t faze her.

My Guy first walked Mary into Thumper’s room. It was shrouded in darkness except for the glowing blue night light from the corner closest to her crib. Our little 23-month-old sat up, curious about the stranger. He then picked her up and said, “Hey, Thumper, this is Mary.”

But before he could continue, she said in a quiet voice, “Hi Mayee” and, to everyone’s surprise, puckered her lips and leaned in for a kiss, which Mary reciprocated.

“She’s your babysitter tonight,” My Guy explained. “Mommy and daddy are going out, and she’ll be here to take care of you, okay?”

“Otay,” said the little love.

After a few more exchanges, Thumper hugged her daddy goodbye and bid them both goodnight before they closed the door behind them.

One down. One more to go.

With Little Miss, it was more of the same. Minus the kiss. Our four-year-old, who’s seasoned at this whole babysitter business, greeted Mary politely before snuggling in for the rest of the night, and called out to her daddy, “See you in the morning!”

Mary uttered her delight at their warm reception of her. I smiled. I was surprised myself, but, at the same time, I wasn’t.

In the car, on the way to our night of debauchery - well, I suppose it depends on how you define that; ours involved poussin, sweetbreads, snails, mussels, and ale - I couldn’t help but feel incredibly proud, not just of my girls, but of us, as parents.

All these years of worrying and fretting, decisions and indecisions, wondering and hoping, agreeing and disagreeing - it felt like all of that arrived at this moment to tell us that yes, this is what we wanted. And, holy shit, this is what we have!

Beautiful, wonderful little girls who say goodnight when it’s time to sleep, and let us turn out the lights and walk away. Who are polite and unafraid when meeting a stranger. Who trust us to leave them in good hands. Who are comfortable with the idea of us leaving, knowing we will come back. (Because we always do.) Who allow us the time and the ability to enjoy our relationship with each other apart from them, and the space to be who we need to be individually as well. (Because those are important too.)

Who know that, in the end, it’s all about them.

Yes, even the part about making ourselves happy as a couple, and as a person. That’s about them too, because when it feels like we are each nurtured, in our own way, in this family, we have so much more to give to others, to each other, in return.

As any parent, we work hard to “get it right”, but no matter what, there are no guarantees. We constantly battle our own doubts and insecurities - is this the right thing to do? will they be okay? what if it’s the wrong decision? - and we hope that, in the end, something works.

And right now, something is working. Something feels right.

When we walked in through our door after midnight, Mary reported that she spent her time watching “The Game of Thrones” with no interruptions while the girls slumbered soundly. We had expected it, because once they were down, they rarely ever woke from sleep. Even then, I heaved a sigh of relief, as I do every time I hear that after an evening out.

That night, I also threw a wave of gratitude to the stars, feeling extremely lucky that we have it so easy as parents, but knowing, at the same time, that luck had little to do with it.

* * *

If you’ve ever had an a-ha moment that made you feel like you’re doing something right as a parent (because goodness knows there are plenty of things that make us feel like we’re doing something wrong), please share. I’d love to hear it.

It’s not always glamorous and romantic

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Tue, 30 Apr 2013 02:40:00 +0000

This picture was taken after I completed my half marathon this past Saturday. You’re probably thinking, aww, look at the little one admiring her medal. Uhm, actually, she was looking for the quickest route to her milk supply.

I left at 6:15 that morning to make the 7 AM start time, before the girls were even awake, which means Thumper didn’t get her usual morning nourishment. When she saw me approaching after I crossed the finish line that day, she was thrilled to see me, not so much for my accomplishment, but for the milk she saw walking towards her.

Nonetheless, I was incredibly happy to see them at the end of my 13.1-mile run. They were, after all, the reason I ran. And on that sunny April morning, they were also the reason I finished the race.

You see, I’d like to say that, because of my training, it was an easy course for me, but I would be lying. Months of running in frigid weather left me ill-prepared for the 50-degree sunshine that the cheering spectators welcomed. I was sweltering in my two-layer outfit, and, on more than one occasion, I was tempted to just stop and walk away from it.

But I didn’t. I was determined to share a proud moment with my family at the end, even if it meant crawling to the finish line, and that was pretty much the only thing that kept me going.

Here’s the progression of my thoughts as my feet pounded the road for two hours:

- Ooh, I need to check out this restaurant later. Looks pretty good.

- Aww, what a lovely tree-lined street.

- Sunny day...glad I wore my hat.

- Wait, is that a hill? That looks like a hill.

- Okay what happened to the breeze?

- Prairie land! Nice.

- Oops, I’m hunching. Shoulders back, midfoot strike, breathe breathe in, breathe breathe out

- What does her shirt say?

- Look at those two older ladies in their chair giving high five’s. I should give them one too.

- A bridge over a creek! How romantic. But where are the trees? Some shade from the sun would be nice.

- Uh-oh, another hill.

- Sheesh, is this sun ever going to let up?

- Water. Water. Water.

- Trees!!!

- Where are the %#*&@#* leaves?!

- Why the hell did I sign up for this again?

- Photographer. Should I smile? Don’t be ridiculous. Concentrate.

- Shoulders back, midfoot strike, breathe breathe in, breathe breathe out

- What the heck is he wearing?

- Yay! Half way!

- This hat needs to come off. I’d rather be blinded than melted by the sun.

- Is that guy grilling? Right by a marathon? Now that’s just cruel.

- 10 miles should be coming soon. Come on 10 miles. Come on!

- Oh my god, it’s only been eight miles???

- Water. Water. Water.

- Where the @*$# are you 10 miles?

- Hill? Again?! (It was a small incline, but it felt like Kilimanjaro at that point)

- This heat is killing me. Look at that smart woman in her tank top. I feel like an idiot in my outfit.

- Note to self: Dress better next time. Next time? What next time? $@&# that.

- Oh look, another one in her tank top. Bitch.

- Hey isn’t that the same guy holding the same sign from Mile 1?

- Am I starting to hallucinate?

- Focus! Shoulders back, midfoot strike, breathe breathe in, breathe breathe out

- Yes! 10 miles! I made it. Last leg!

- Wait, didn’t I already hear this song in the beginning?

- Are we there yet? Where the #@^& is the next mile marker?

- This sucks. Why am I doing this again?

- Oh right, the girls. Couldn’t I just take up knitting? What’s wrong with me?? #$^@*&$!

- I see Mile 12. That’s 12 miles right? Please tell me that’s 12. Please please please…

- TWELVE!!! Oh my god, the end is near.

- Come on feet, let’s go. Hello? Feet? You there?

- Forget my time goal. I just want to finish. And see my babies. And never run another race again!

- Are #%&^@ we %@* there #%*#% yet??

- Hey people, stop saying “you’re almost there” - you’ve been saying that for the last 15 minutes!!! Where the #$)@*&@ is “there”?!

- Where the $*@# is this path leading us? Where is the #%$^%@ finish line?

- Another turn??? Come ON!

- Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god! FINISH LINE!!!

2 hours, 9 minutes and 2 seconds after I started, I finally reached the end. I made it just under my goal time of 2:10. Since it was my first half marathon (and perhaps my only), I wasn’t very ambitious; I was just aiming to finish. And that (insert big sigh of relief) I did.

I spied my friend, who ran the race with me (“with” as in she was way ahead, and I didn’t even bother trying to catch up) cheering for me at the end, but I didn’t see my family. Blocked by a million others and prohibited from the stadium field, where the finish line was, they couldn’t see me from the bleachers either.

So much for the grand finale.

I received my medal but skipped the water and refueling stations and went to look for them. When I spotted my favorite faces in the crowd, I was breathless with gratitude - they’re here!!! And the smiles I received in return were priceless. Almost made the grueling two hours worth it to me. Almost.

I handed Little Miss the medal so she would do the honors of placing it around my neck. She probably had little clue as to the significance of this moment, and both girls will most likely not remember this race, but it didn’t matter. I will remember it.

13.1 miles. I did it. I accomplished what I had set out to do. And the best part was that my girls were there. Along with the man who made all of this possible for me.

As someone who only started running seven months ago, completing a half marathon was a big accomplishment for me. It’s my way of saying to my girls, look what you can achieve with hard work and determination.

But knowing how little that moment meant to them at that time, it’s also my way of saying, in the grand scheme of things, you may not always be remembered for all the things you’ve done, but it doesn’t mean they’re not worth doing.

Just like parenting.

As parents, we are familiar with the unglamorous life of planning meals, scrubbing vomit, making doctor’s appointments, and researching summer camps, but we all do it because we hope that someday, all this will add up in helping our kids achieve the life we think they deserve.

After my friend and I took our official marathon pictures, she, who’s also the mom of two girls, got in her car to take her 10-year-old to her violin lesson, and I carried my fussy toddler, who was demanding milk, all the way up the bleachers on Jell-O legs.

While other runners and supporters crowded the Illini stadium to cheer and celebrate, we rushed to the car so I could nurse Thumper. The medal I just earned - something that took months of training to acquire - only got in the way of what she needed, so she pushed it aside. Oh, the irony.

On our drive back, “Wonderwall” by Oasis, a song that My Guy and I sang together during karaoke once (and if you knew him, you’d know how rare that was), came on the radio, and I turned to my girls and belted it out to them, much to their utter delight and amusement.

Watching them giggle, I realized that there may not be pomp and ceremony for this mama, but my spirits were high and my heart was so full of love for this family that I couldn’t possibly want for anything more.

Well, other than the celebratory monstrous burger with bacon, fried egg, cheese, grilled pineapple, and caramelized onions. With fries. I’ve certainly earned it, that’s for sure.

* * *

My Oscar-speech moment:

Thank you to my dearest friend, R, who ran with me, who got me to sign up in the first place, who was the first person, nearly 20 years ago, to get me to work out so I could lose my freshmen 20 (and I did!). I thought it was only appropriate to run with someone who has not only inspired me in fitness, but also in motherhood. She is a wonderful woman, and an even more amazing friend.

Thank you to my girls for being exactly who they are, inspiring me to become who I’d like to be.

And, saving the best for last, thank you, My Guy, for believing in me even when I doubt myself, for bringing me everything out of my arm’s reach as I was nursing and elevating my sore legs, and for letting me go as far as I can - sometimes even pushing me to get there - but always being right here when I get back.

How solo parenting is like running a half marathon

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Thu, 25 Apr 2013 02:46:00 +0000

A full moon over Lake Michigan

I took this picture on my way home from yoga this evening. I couldn’t help taking the little detour as I was in awe of the reflection on the water. This is the sixth and last night of My Guy’s work trip, and what a night on which to end this surprisingly wonderful week.

I know. I said the “w” word. I also said surprising, because I really wasn’t expecting that. Sure, we had a meltdown or two (or maaaaybe three), but for the most part, solo parenting for the past six days has been relatively easy. And yes, even that “w” word.

But of course I use the term solo loosely, as my best friend, their favorite Auntie, was here the first day, when she helped wrangle my girls at soccer while I was finding my peace at my yoga class on Saturday. And My Guy’s best friend, their favorite Uncle, came by this evening so I could go to my Wednesday-night class while he read them stories and put them to bed.

The babysitter watched Thumper while I worked and ran a few hours this week, and my neighbors were able to help by taking Little Miss to school and watching both girls while I ran my last few miles in preparation for my first half-marathon race this weekend.

Speaking of the race, I realize from my training that solo parenting is very much like running a half marathon. No, seriously, hear me out.

PACE

Per training recommendations, we start at a slow, comfortable pace, then we pick it up a third of a way through and steadily build our speed, finally surging the last few miles from the energy we’ve been conserving throughout the run. This sounds a lot like my days at home.

I begin our morning by offering the girls cereal, toast, or bagel for breakfast because that’s pretty much all my bleary-eyed self is capable of after being reluctantly dragged out of bed. (That’s also why homemade pancakes and waffles only happen when daddy is around.)

Little Miss then dresses herself, which explains the clash of colors, stripes, and patterns in her outfit du jour, before she runs downstairs to walk with our neighbor and her son to preschool, while her sister gets busy being creative as I sit next to her with my coffee, waiting for the caffeine to kick in.

When I compliment her work, this girl says, “thank you,” with pride

Throughout the day, when I’m home with Thumper, I attempt to juggle playtime and housework, naptime and freelance writing, maintaining a steady pace, until I pick my four-year-old up from preschool. That’s when we play a little before I start the sprint towards bedtime with dinner, bath (which tends to become optional when My Guy isn’t around), and stories.

This is also when I need my energy the most as the the girls are more likely to retaliate, negotiate, and throw a tantrum when things don’t go their way. But when I cross the finish line, which, in our case, means closing their bedroom door behind me at around 7:30 PM, the entire evening is mine. Thus begins the recovery process.

RECOVERY

In running, I stretch, ice my legs, and drink chocolate milk to restore my energy and repair my muscles. In parenting, when I’m not trying to meet project deadlines, I’m cleaning the girls’ mess or I’m parked in front of the TV, entranced by hours and hours of “Veronica Mars” - my latest retro TV series of choice - with some ice cream in hand.

I feel a little guilty that I’m not writing or reading more (and about the copious amounts of ice cream), but honestly, I have no mental capacity for much else after constantly negotiating with two little tyrants at the end of the day. The bedtime sprint is actually My Guy’s specialty since he’s the one who plays with them, then does bath, stories, and bedtime.

With him away, I find that I’m completely drained by the time the sun and the kids go down, and what little brain power I have left, I use for work, and if I’m completely out, mindless TV is my only option.

MIX IT UP

In training for the race, we’re also advised to mix things up and include speed work, hills, and long runs to build speed, strength, and stamina. Again, I find this advice useful in solo parenting.

Brunch

In the nearly full week that My Guy is away, the girls and I have brunched at our favorite spot with their Auntie, attended a birthday party, hosted two play dates, visited the playground, and shopped for running gear (for me) and groceries. I’ve also invited my mama friends over for an evening together. Tomorrow, we’ll have a breakfast date with a neighbor and her daughter, followed by a trip to the library for story hour.

Truthfully, just writing that exhausts me. As an introvert, I’m a fan of alone time, and I could go for days without immersing myself in social situations. In fact, I prefer it. But I realize that, in order for the six days to work, I’m going to have to get out of my comfort zone and do that which is necessary, not just easy.

PUSH HARDER

That’s an aspect of the training I dread and love at the same time – pushing ourselves past our own limits. Because that’s when improvement happens. With that in mind, I keep our social calendar busy, and it keeps us all equally distracted from the countdown clock. Introversion be damned; I have my sanity to protect.

So there you have it. A half marathon training that prepares me for the finish line on race day and every day. Who knew? Until my race this Saturday (*gulp*), I can’t tell you just how well I will do, but I have to say, judging from the girls’ easy-going manner, willingness to cooperate, and ready smiles this week, it has certainly taught me to be a better solo parent.

As far as the girls are concerned, it’s a win, regardless of what happens at the race.

My name is Justine, and I am a...

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Wed, 17 Apr 2013 04:44:00 +0000

When I gave birth to Little Miss over four years ago, I started to belong to a new community of parents. More specifically, mothers. Friendships formed because of our need to find others like us - we can’t be the only ones with circles under our eyes and baby socks in our work bag.

About 11 months later, I started this blog to write about this experience - I did it for me, so I could write, and especially for my daughter, now daughters, so they could have these memories. I became their memory keeper.

It didn’t take me long to find a robust group of bloggers in this virtual space, specifically mothers who blog, doing more or less the same thing I was, and again, I found myself immersed in a new community. This is where we commiserate about our adventures in parenthood, laugh with one another about our follies and our children’s escapades, and figure it all out, one day - and sometimes, one word - at a time.

Seven months ago, on a crisp September morning, I started running for the first time in my life. The plan was to run three times a week, for health. And apart from being sidelined by an injury back in January, I have done just that. Rain or shine, snow, sleet, bitter cold, or hail. I ran through it all. While the moment my daughter took her first breath I became a mother and when I hit publish on my first post I became a blogger (although calling myself a writer came years later), I didn’t become a runner with my first steps. Or my first mile. Or my first 5K race on Thanksgiving Day.

I wasn’t a runner even on that sunny January day when I completed my first 10-mile run in 30-degree weather. Or at least I wouldn’t allow myself that label. It felt like I hadn’t earned it. At least not yet. So in the weeks that followed, I would continue to run three days a week consistently and heal my injuries or discomfort with foam rollers, compression socks, and ice packs for the days that I didn’t.

Thumper, my 22-month-old, would run ahead of us sometimes and yell, ‘Yuck me! ‘m wunning. Exercise!” I don’t think her four-year-old sister learned the term exercise until she had to do it herself at preschool, well past the age of two. She might have been pushing three, and she certainly didn’t learn it by watching me.

When I’m not running, I would see runners on the street or by the lakefront and I’d feel jealous - I wanted to be the one running. As the weather showed signs of winter’s end, the first spring outfit I bought was a running skirt. With my first big paycheck from my freelance work this year, I bought myself a spring running jacket and Little Miss a pair of running shoes.

And I registered for a half-marathon. Gulp.

Even with all of that, I wasn’t ready to call myself a runner. I’d toy with the term using hashtags on my workouts that also publish to Twitter - #runner, #runnersview - but I had never directly referred to myself as one. I couldn’t. The term seemed to imply so much more than just lacing up and hitting the pavement, which was what I’d been doing. More or less.

Then tragedy struck at the Boston Marathon this past Monday. Two explosions. Three dead, one of them an eight-year-old boy who was there to cheer for his dad. Over a hundred others wounded. My heart went out to everyone affected by this tragedy. The dead, the grieving, the injured, the stranded, the lost, the runners.

The runners. For some reason, that hit me the hardest. They’ve worked so hard to get there. Months, even years, of hard work and sacrifice culminating on a day like that. Triumphant in their accomplishment, but robbed of their moment of glory because of a heinous act.

I ran 12 miles on Sunday against a relentless wind. It felt really tough, and many times, I wanted to give up, wondering why I was putting myself through all that when I could be in the comfort of my home with my family. When I think of that training run, I realized that, as difficult as it felt for me, it was a mere fraction of what the marathoners had to go through to get to Boston.

They’ve had to work through pain, gruelling hills, extreme temperatures, and whatever it took to qualify and then run in Boston. And just like that, a day that should have been theirs, that should have been rife with smiles and celebrations, was taken away from them.

As a mother, I can’t get past the image of the eight-year-old who lost his life in the explosion. As a blogger, I’m writing to process my feelings, as most writers do, hoping that these words would reach someone who would, in turn, reach back out to me so we can talk and feel together, and try to make sense of that which is senseless.

And on a day where runners wore their previous race shirts or ran to show their solidarity for Boston, I did too.

My Facebook stream, where I receive much of my running inspiration from groups like Run Hard - Always Finish and Distant Runners, exploded with show of support by and for the running community. Many of whom participated in the Boston Marathon, but many more who were just in awe of those who did.

This community of runners is comprised of all types of people, and as such, it embraces us all. Two miles or five. 26.2 or 50. Eight-minute or 16-minute mile. They say that we are all runners. And I'm starting to believe them.

I no longer feel like I need to run a marathon or log several more miles or races to belong. Or more importantly, after witnessing the incredible spirit of this group in light of this tragedy, I want to belong.

And to do so, I will first have to own this: I am a runner.

Today, I ran five miles in honor of Boston. In 10 days, I will run 13.1 for me.

I am a runner.
I am a runner. I am a runner.

Justine - mother, writer, runner...

I love the sound of that.

image source: Run by Fey IIyas.

Rainy days

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Wed, 10 Apr 2013 17:54:00 +0000

T.S. Elliot was right - April is the cruelest month. It’s been raining all week, and I’m not a fan of the rain. At least not in early spring, when it’s still cold, so when you’re wet from the rain, you’re soaked to the bone with a chill you can’t shake.

Not surprisingly, the rain doesn’t faze my four-year-old. Little Miss is happy to run out in her raincoat and wellingtons to jump from puddle to puddle. On our way to school this week, she did just that. In my rain boots, I decided to join her.

Huh. Whaddya know? I liked it.

Maybe it’s her infectious glee, because for a moment there, I was able to forget my prissy little self and just go with the flow. Jump. Jump. Splash. Giggle. Giggle. Spy another. Run to it. And repeat.

Going with the flow.

That made me think of all these other times this week - or this month? - that we’ve had to pivot unexpectedly to deal with unpredictability. Rain? Puddle jump. Daddy missed his flight home? Find a way to keep the girls up (hello, The Sound of Music!) to surprise him.

I feel like this month is all about working around work. My Guy has been putting in mad hours for a client who seems to have an insatiable appetite for change, but it’s the kind of work he enjoys so it’s great for him, great for our bank account, but it’s also disruptive to family life.

Some days, the girls and I hardly see him. And while that’s less than ideal, I also understand that this is part of the life we chose. Even though we left our corporate jobs to spend more time with the family, we aren’t guaranteed a steady flow of clients that would keep our bills paid.

When work comes, we put in our best effort because when the well of clients run a little dry, which can certainly happen, we can spend that time with family and not have to worry about an empty bank account.

Right now, we’re paying our dues - he, slogging away at work; me, trying to juggle my own freelance work, which is flourishing now, and keeping it all together for us at home. Sometimes succeeding, sometimes, not so much.

But most days, we just make do with what we have.

Like, after a week of long hours at work, My Guy took off a little earlier on a fine spring day so we could all go to the playground and enjoy the sunny day together.

Or when he did get to work from home and not travel from meeting to meeting, he took advantage of the ability to shut down for a little bit to take his girls out for a meal and to the beach. After tucking them in bed for the night, he went right back to slaving on his computer. Until 3a.m. On a Friday night.

But sometimes, he’s at the complete mercy of others’ schedule, and can’t make it home to see his girls. That’s when I brought one of them to surprise him at work instead.

Spring break devoured by deadlines? Let’s create one of our own at home. These new swimsuits look far better on the girls than off them, hidden in the closet.

We find a way. We make do.

Rainy days may be hard, but I’m learning that as long as there’re rain boots, there’s always a puddle or two waiting to be discovered. And since it’s often followed by joyful laughter, how bad could that be?

April also marks the awakening of life after a winter’s hibernation. Gone is the biting cold air, and the sunshine we see is also the one we can really feel. The kind that allows us to shed our layers and walk barefoot in the sand.

When I’m home, I can leave the windows open while a gentle breeze and soothing sounds from a nearby wind chime pour into my living room.

Sure, it rains a lot in spring and it may be uncomfortable, but it’s the good kind of discomfort, because in the end, that’s how the flowers and verdant fields come to life.

And in between those life-giving rainy days are ones where kids are happily swinging at the park, giggling and growing, as they face the light of the sun.

* * *

This is a Wordful Wednesday post. Click on over to Parenting by Dummies to join the carnival!

Second Child Syndrome, a.k.a. Shafted

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Thu, 04 Apr 2013 18:19:00 +0000

You know how you can tell Thumper has a big sister?

Pink and purple were the first colors she learned. And words like “princess”, “crown”, “fairy” and “wand” (said in perfect toddlerese, of course, like pin-ceth, complete with the adorable lisp) entered into her vocabulary way sooner than it did for Little Miss, who didn’t show interest in the kingdom of pink and princesses until she was almost three. Damn you preschool!

Thanks to these same footsteps set by her older sister, Thumper has also mastered tattling. “Missy’s hurting me!”

Blaming: “Missy did it!”

Complaining: “It’s too wowd! (loud)”

Being dramatic: “Daddy’s downstairs, the whoooole time!” (upon realizing that he never left the house to begin with.)

Talking back to the TV: “Where’s C?”, a character in Super Why asks, to which she responds, “Wight there!” or when he asks, “Which of these will help Rapunzel get down from the tower? Bed, book, or ladder? Is it bed?” and she yells back, “No! Yadder!”

Wanting to be included: “Wait! I want go with you too!”

Staking her claim: “Hey! That’s my puhple ah-pa-pus (octopus)!”

All this before turning two. I can only imagine what four will be like.

Oh, but there’s more.

Unlike her sister, who learned preschool humor, like using “butt” and “toot” inappropriately, a few months into preschool, Thumper is already getting creative with them. Her favorite, which makes us all giggle, even when we try not to, is to replace song lyrics with “butt”.

“Twinkle, twinkle little Butt!
How I wonder what you Butt
Up above the world so Butt
Like a diamond in the Butt”

That is all her, and she’s very proud of her version, barely holding herself together with each line and cracking up at the end. She’s such a character. Our little imp.

While much of it is personality driven, you can also tell that she’s learning some things sooner than most firstborns because it’s harder to contain what she observes and obtains from her worldlier-than-her big sister.

It’s not uncommon to hear a volley of “butt” and “toot” between them, and somehow, the following has made its way to our bath ritual: “Yuck (look) Mommy, I’m nakey!” utters Thumper as she parades around the house sans clothes, and then she turns to moon me, “Mommy, ‘mack (smack) by butt!”

Apart from developing language at a quicker pace, which I think is wonderful for all of us as she’s able to express herself better, “I don’t yike thith!”, hence fewer tantrums, Thumper pretty much gets shafted everywhere else.

As a second child, Thumper never got her grapes cut past 12 months. I think I was still carefully preparing Little Miss’ food at age 2, double-checking for choking hazards. When I was making baby food for Little Miss, I followed the solid food charts religiously, steaming, pureeing, and feeding her zucchini at 6 months, spices at 8, eggs at 12. I rarely strayed.

With Thumper, she had her first taste of table food - Italian wedding soup, to be precise - at 8 months, when at that age, Little Miss was mashing her gums and four front teeth on sweet potatoes.

With Number Two, I’m careful, just not vigilant.

Needless to say, 95% of Thumper’s wardrobe used to be her sister’s. Case in point: See the outfit above on Thumper? This is Little Miss with the same dress. Someday, I probably won’t remember who’s who.

When we went shopping two weeks ago, we came home with an entire bag of spring clothes for my four-year-old and one measly dress for her little sister, and it’s only because we wanted them to match on Easter. Investing in clothes for Little Miss now means less expenses with Thumper later. Good news for us, not so much for the little one.

Egg hunt in action. So much for matching - we didn’t even make them pose together for pictures.

I also ordered Easter gifts from Amazon for Little Miss and realized that I should probably have included something for Thumper’s basket the night before the bunny was scheduled to arrive. Yes, a little late. And that’s how she ended up with plates and bunny lollipops from a grocery-store shelf that has been picked clean, whereas her sister got a dress and two CD’s she loved.

On the plus side, Thumper got an earlier start on Easter candy binges. I think it worked out in the end. At least for her.

Now that I’m writing this, I do feel bad for shafting my little one. It’s certainly not indicative of how I feel, because I don’t – can’t – love her any less than her sister. In fact, on most days, I’m walking on clouds when it’s just the two of us at home. I do absolutely, unequivocally adore my little imp.

My little Baby Pickle, as I like to call her, although she doesn’t even like pickles. And at 22 months, she’s no longer a baby either. *sigh*

However there is one thing that Thumper has that Little Miss never did at this age: Me, at every hour and every minute of the day. With my first child, I was a working parent, and Little Miss spent most of her infancy and toddlerhood at a daycare, something I feel guilty about to this day.

And now that I’m a stay-at-home mom with part-time freelance work from home, I feel I get a do-over of sorts with Thumper. I spend my hours with her cuddling and playing while her sister’s in preschool, and I get to witness new milestones and not just hear about it from a caregiver. Whether or not I record it, well, that’s another story. (See Second Child Syndrome.)

When it’s just us, it’s sometimes my favorite part of the day, and as Thumper nuzzles her head on my shoulder and randomly plants a kiss on the nape of my neck, my guilt over her second-child syndrome dissipates a little.

I may not cut her grapes or buy her new clothes, but I’m here to wipe her snot and kiss her boo-boos. Every time she needs it. I think it’s a pretty good tradeoff.

And I’m quite sure she thinks so too.

Raw fish and roses

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Thu, 28 Mar 2013 21:46:00 +0000

I’m typing here with flowers beside my computer, sent by My Guy who’s in D.C. for work this week. With it came a card that read, “I’ll be home soon.”

Comforting words. Gorgeous flowers.

All because of an ailing toddler. Who woke at 4 a.m. and wouldn’t let me leave her side. Who woke her sister up so I had no choice but to move Little Miss to my bed instead. Who then proceeded to inconsolably cry. And cry. And cry.

She had a hoarse voice, a snotty nose, and a heavy cough. But she didn’t have a temperature. She was out of sorts, and she couldn’t fathom not being attached to me. “Cah-yee me” she implored, over and over.

After half an hour of just walking aimlessly with her in my arms, the extra thirty pounds started to tax my back and shoulders. I had to put her down. But when I did, there was that screaming again.

She was so angry. So, so angry.

And this was not like my sweet girl at all.

She wouldn’t let me prepare her sister breakfast, or help her get ready for school. She didn’t want anything to do with food either. She just wanted to be “cah-yeed”.

After Little Miss left for school with our neighbor, Thumper continued to demand, scream, and cry. I was exhausted. She was exhausted. And yet she didn’t want to lay with me, but if I wasn’t next to her, she would have a fit. She wanted the blanket; she didn’t want the blanket. She wanted tissues; she didn’t want tissues. She wanted to be on my chest; she didn’t want to be on me. Nothing felt right to her.

My Guy was away on business, and I hated texting him about this situation at home, but I was running out of steam and just needed to vent. He then called me, and during our call, Thumper was finally quiet, knowing it was daddy.

Without prompt, our 21-month-old took the phone, and with such sadness in her voice said, “I miss you daddy, I miss you.”

And just like that, my floodgates opened, and I cried. Maybe she just misses her daddy.

She’s not sick-sick. She’s just out of sorts. What if what’s troubling her is that her daddy, who’s almost always home to tuck her in and comfort her when she cries in the middle of the as night, isn’t there as expected. Too young to understand business travel, maybe she is just especially clingy with me because she is missing one parent and is afraid of letting go of the other?

I don’t know. I only have conjectures. As my tears fell, she wiped them away with the tissue in her hand. There’s that sweet girl of mine.

She’s at hour four of her much-needed nap. I’m battling a headache, but glad to finally able to work on my tasks for my freelance project. While awaiting feedback, I’m vomiting my days’ exhaustion onto this post, hoping that perhaps talking about it would help me out of being utterly confounded by this day.

Or this week, really.

Thumper has been unwell with a heavy-duty cold since the weekend, and while both parents were home, she was happy to just lay on us. Little Miss was invited by one of our lovely neighbors and her boys to visit a nearby Maple Festival on Saturday. While she sawed tree trunks and made a necklace from it, and learned about tapping maple trees and how the syrup is made, Thumper just leaned her head on her daddy’s shoulder, when I was at yoga, and mine, when I was home.

She showed signs of recovery the next day, but when we introduced a new sitter on Tuesday - the same time My Guy left for D.C. - she didn’t want any of it. This, from a girl who’s not often shy with a caregiver, was indeed strange behavior. So upset was she that I couldn’t even stay home to work; I had to leave and sit at a local coffee shop while I hoped she would quiet down for the sitter.

She eventually did, but the tearful parting pained me. She’s normally so eager to say, “Bye Mommy!” in the company of friends or sitters who promised her hours of playtime.

On the other hand, in the midst of a cranky, angry toddler was a four-year-old who saw and understood my struggle. She, who’s normally so contentious herself, has been such a joy this week, doing as she was asked, and cheerfully helping where she could. I was surprised, yet grateful, that she came through for me like that.

And because of that, I wanted to make sure she wasn’t short-changed from the attention she deserved. I set aside time so we could make Easter cards that she wanted to give to her teachers. Then I spent some time in the evening, when the girls were in bed, to put Easter treats together for Little Miss’ preschool party the next day.

I also got her running shoes because it’s supposed to be 50 degrees and sunny this weekend. And because she’s shown a lot of interest in running with me. As someone who just recently discovered this new passion, I would be crazy not to jump at the chance to share this with my little girl. For someone who didn’t think I could run, or ever inspire my girls to be active, this is a good thing. A great thing.

She loved her new shoes, and I heaved a sigh of relief. I was afraid they weren’t pink enough for her, but apparently, they were. Surprises make her happy.

They make me happy too. On an extremely trying day like today, it was My Guy who, in spite of a busy day with clients, reached into his bag of tricks. At first, he sent me a lunch delivery after I told him over the phone that neither Thumper nor I had eaten all morning because she wouldn’t allow me a second away from her.

Sushi - my favorite - and Thai, which I assumed was for the ailing tot, except she refused it. When she doesn’t eat is when you know for sure that something is wrong. So I almost had all of it. That’s what happens when I’m stressed – I eat. And maybe he knew that and ordered all of that for me.

Then came the second surprise: the flowers. Gorgeous, colorful, and full of life.

How could I not cheer up? And how did I deserve this man?

I don’t know.

This week was desperately forcing me to fail. And I think I almost did. Without My Guy by my side, I sometimes feel like I could easily be lost. But then I hear his voice or get a text, and I’m fortified.

Throw in some raw fish and a spring bouquet, and my day is starting to look up. It didn’t begin well, but now, thanks to this one amazing guy, it’s looking like lilies and roses. By the end of the day, it’s going to be perfect.

Because he will be home.

Broken rhythm

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Thu, 21 Mar 2013 19:02:00 +0000

Some weeks, everything falls into place. Like last week.

Even though My Guy was gone for four days on a business trip, with the act of precarious balancing and, more importantly, asking for help, I managed. Despite missing his flight home, which contributed to a lot of sadness all around, there was still a happy ending.

He came home at nearly 9:30pm last Friday to two wired little girls excited about being the surprise for their daddy. At two hours past their bedtime, he hadn’t expected to see them, even though he was crushed that he couldn’t.

sweet homecoming

The stars amazingly aligned for us that day when I surreptitiously moved their naptime after a deliberately long morning at the Children’s Museum, where face(and-body)-painting themselves (and me) was the highlight, so they were able to stay up to welcome their daddy home.

Not only that, they slept in till 8:30 the next morning - another present for the travel-weary parent and the plain exhausted one (that would be me). It was the cherry on top to an already good week despite the solo-parenting and the absence of our favorite guy.

As my friend Julie says, saying yes to help is a good thing. If there’s one thing I learned about parenting, it’s that it truly does take a village, and boy do I love mine. I also get that, since many of us don’t actually live in real villages, this help is a luxury sometimes, and I am certainly grateful for all the extra hands during the week where my two seemed so woefully inadequate.

It also made me even more appreciative of My Guy who I already knew does so much around the house, but only truly felt it when he was away. Every morning, when I’m most bleary-eyed and utterly useless, he gets the girls up and fed, and he usually drops Little Miss off at preschool (or picks her up that day). He also makes me coffee before my feet even touch the ground (bless his heart).

In the evening, when every ounce of my energy has been zapped by the toddler who stays home with me, the chores around the house, and sometimes a freelance project or two, he does bath time and puts the girls down to bed by himself. And that is after his own full day at work.

We’re a good team. Partners in every way.

When he left the first time, three weeks ago, it was interesting for me to challenge myself - and I do thrive on challenge, in case you didn’t know - by filling the void he left behind. I ~~barely~~ handled the early mornings and the late evenings, and, for extra credit, because I’m such a nerd, I even changed the sheets on all the beds and took the trash out - tasks I never touched when he was around.

I felt pretty good about myself. This solo-parenting thing wasn’t a bad gig after all.

When he came back from his first trip, we both had exciting news to share.

The girls are alive! We all survived, was mine.

The meeting with the CEO went well! And because it went so well, we’ll be traveling to different cities every other week for the next two months, was his.

I didn’t like his news.

But it paid our bills, and it meant he’s kicking ass. His fledgling business is taking off. It’s all good.

On the other hand, the freelance project I took on to give myself a little more financial autonomy, something I miss desperately from my days as a working parent, is also adding more to my plate on top of everything else. That’s the price I pay for not wanting to ask My Guy for money to buy myself new running gear or to get a haircut.

However, with kind neighbors, understanding friends, and paid sitters, I am able to manage most of it. I don’t look forward to challenging myself at this solo-parenting gig anymore though. I just get on survival mode and look forward to the moment My Guy gets home.

Our routine is not quite the usual; our rhythm is disrupted. Out of whack. Broken. While I’m a proponent of finding balance and making sure I meet my own needs as well as that of others at home, this week, maintaining that balance is proving to be a Herculean task.

A new project in the beginning of the week threw me off my writing schedule (for work and for this blog), and I’ve been trying to keep up since. And just when I think I finally have the time to catch up, I am unexpectedly derailed by my toddler’s fever, a sick babysitter or my own lack of focus.

I learned that just because you sit down to write, doesn’t mean the right words will come. But when you’re dying to say so much and are afforded so little time, you do what you can.

You type in a stream of consciousness, you ramble, and you even make mistakes. But you still do it because you can’t not write anymore.

I can’t not write anymore.

I can no longer push these words, bubbling and boiling to the surface, aside to make room for deadlines and babies and babysitters who cancel. That’s the thing about writing or not writing, rather - when the words need a place to go but have no outlet, it begins to crowd my insides and the silence I crave to unwind and recharge will no longer do.

Yet, sometimes when you have to balance that which feeds the body and that which nourishes the soul, something has to give. Often times, it’s that which is unseen. The insides must wait. Boiling. Bubbling.

And when you finally get the chance, in between putting a sick child down to nap and sending a progress update to your client, you seize the moment, sharply inhaling as your body breaks the surface of the waves that consumed you.

So here I am. Purging. Unleashing. Unburdening.

Writing.

And profusely apologizing for this raw post. I can barely manage the time to put my thoughts down, let alone try for eloquence.

Now that this is finally done, I can return to keeping up with the living. But barely.

Yes, there are weeks like this too.

A perk of working from home

A meditation on silence

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Thu, 14 Mar 2013 19:54:00 +0000

My favorite sounds are ones born from silence. The crunching of snow under my feet, heard only in the absence of a bustling city. The distant sound of the train going by in the wee hours of the night, when it seems like the only person awake is me.

I am an only child. Silence speaks to me. It centers me.

Yesterday started in a frenzy, juggling between showing the new sitter the ropes, getting my big girl ready for preschool, and a conference call that started at about the same time. But it didn’t let up. It continued in that same pace after my toddler fell asleep on my sitter, which I suppose is a good thing as it’s a testament to their budding relationship, but it wasn’t exactly naptime either.

Half an hour on the sitter completely ruined Thumper’s usual, longer, two-hour afternoon naps, which made things more challenging. The thing is, her naptime is when I am afforded the silence I so crave. It’s when I recalibrate my energy so I may keep up with my girls. Without it, by the day’s end, I’m mush.

And I couldn’t afford to be mush that day. I had plans to attend a book reading with a friend in the evening. But you know how it is with kids. The best laid plans are just that - plans. The reality often resides in the opposite spectrum.

However, it did all magically end well. I was still able to take my toddler to her first dance class, where she didn’t behave like the monster I expected her nap-deprived self to be, and I left the girls at home with a dear friend who was their sitter for the night.

Because I knew they were in good hands, I didn’t even look back as I walked outside into the twilight at 7 o’clock, happy to see the remains of the sun at that time of the evening. Spring is near.

Jarred from the day’s excitement that included meeting project deadlines while wrangling kids, I sat among the small audience at a local independent bookstore to listen to Terry Tempest Williams, an author I had recently grown to love and admire. As she started to speak, I slowly found my center again. She read excerpts from her latest book, “When Women Were Birds”, about women and our voices. About being heard. And not heard. About the power of silence. And not being silent.

It made me think about this blog, where I speak my heart and my mind about subjects that are both frivolous and considered taboo by some. Even though these words are meant for my girls, I know I also speak to countless, nameless others out there who choose to remain silent. Maybe because they want to be. Maybe because they’re expected to be. Or perhaps they have to be.

I also hope that I’m not just speaking to, but speaking for them as well. Because of my own upbringing in a culture that reveres and thus perpetuates silence, secrecy, and taboo, I know what it’s like to have a voice and not be able or allowed to use it.

I was bound to that silence long after I left Malaysia. Then one day, I gave birth, and along with that beautiful baby girl, came my voice.

I am silent no more.

For her sake. For mine.

As a mother of daughters, I want their voices heard. I want these someday women to live the life of their choosing. And the ability to voice against that which threatens to derail them. I saw what it did to my own mother, who suffered a bad marriage because to leave it was taboo, and I vowed to neither follow that path nor lead my own girls there.

At the end of the reading, during the book signing, I mentioned to Ms. Tempest Williams about my blog, about writing for and about my girls, and this is what she wrote inside my book.

“Your voice, your courage, your stories.”

It took my breath away.

Here, in this space, I give myself permission to live openly. To celebrate love and life, but also to be imperfect. To be human. Divorce, eating disorders, parenting fails, relationship woes –they are not taboo. They are my stories. They are the course I took to get here.

Which is pretty much exactly where I want to be.

As a mother of daughters, I want the same for them. But better, of course.

I am a mother after all.

* * *

Today is a different day. Today begins from the center.

I take a long, slow stroll in the park by the beach with my little one after we drop her sister off at preschool. She gets on all fours on the sand, saying to me, “I’m cleaning” while she clumsily moves the stick in her hand from side to side, attempting to remove sand from her path. Futile, but amusing.

With a toddler busy at play, I sit on the bench and soak in the glorious sunshine and the delicious silence. Free from the noise of traffic and people, I clearly hear the wistful waves of the lake, and the chorus of birds twittering about the coming of spring. It’s almost here, it’s almost here.

They’re harbingers. They’re also reminders.

They take me back to my evening with Terry Tempest Williams, she herself a lover of birds and nature, and I hear the soft lilt of her voice echoing in my head. Beckoning, calling, waiting.

Then I gather my thoughts as well as my toddler to come home.

And in the silence of my baby’s mid-day slumber, I write these words.

A tale of two anniversaries

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Tue, 12 Mar 2013 03:34:00 +0000

A nervous excitement swept over me when I spied My Guy at the airport, who was there to pick me up after my three-week trip to Malaysia, five years ago. At that point, he wasn’t exactly My Guy. Well, he was, up until eight months before when he broke up with me.

The end, the beginning
I knew when he walked away that the only way to heal my wounded, aching heart was to cut him out of my life. Cold turkey. I removed everything that would remind me of him - pictures, cards, and gifts (well, all except for the Le Creuset pot, which I loved and used often; pragmatism certainly trumps idealism).

I also started dating again and challenged myself to meet new and interesting people, which I did. It was a completely different life, and I loved it. Perhaps the breakup wasn’t the end of the world after all. In fact, it was the beginning of an exciting one.

Then one day, a little over five months after the breakup, when I thought I had finally moved on, I responded to his invitation to meet at our favorite place for drinks. Everything in my life was going well; I was single but dating, and I was enjoying every bit of it. I thought I could handle a friendship with him.

I was wrong. (Like you didn’t see that coming.) When I met him that night, it was the first time we saw each other since the night he left. As we sat across from one another, I realized that it wasn’t over. And I think he felt the same way too, because after that evening, we started to see each other again. Casually at first, because this time, we vowed to take it slow.

Even though I continued to date while we saw each other, my interest in others quickly waned. When I left for Malaysia, he was the only one I talked to on the phone. The only one I missed.

When we arrived back at my place that evening, I was energized just by being with him again, despite 30 hours of travel. We celebrated my homecoming with a special steak dinner that we made together. After our meal, I sensed a nervous energy in My Guy when he asked me to sit down across from him on the couch.

When I did, he surprised me with a gift - a photo album of us. It chronicled our relationship, from the time we started dating until shortly before it ended for us. I flipped through each page slowly, overwhelmed by nostalgia as I saw the once-upon-a-time pictures of us. The trips we took, our cats when they were wee kittens, and even embarrassing candid shots of me, for which he had an incredible knack. (Which is also why I won’t be sharing that album with anyone anytime soon.)

He watched me, smiling. When I turned the last page, I found a white ribbon peeking out of a pocket on the inside of the album’s back cover, intriguing and inviting me. I lifted the ribbon and with it came a ring tied to its end.

It was his ring. A plain silver band that he wore when I first met him. One he asked me to wear just before he left for Greece, when we would be apart for four months, at the beginning of our relationship. I wore it until he came home, and continued to wear it until the night he left.

When I saw that ring again, I knew what it meant. And, of course, I said yes.

Decisions, decisions
That was the day we both chose to be together. Again. This time with our eyes wide open. Which was a good thing, considering that four days later, we found out we were pregnant with Little Miss. But that’s a story for another day. We’re just glad that the events turned out in that particular order.

However, even after our first baby, we were tested once more. You know what Shakespeare said about true love - it never does run smooth. But again, we made the choice to stay together.

For years, we couldn’t decide on which anniversary to celebrate - the one that started it all on the day of our first and most amazing kiss of our lives? Or the one where we chose to be together again? Sometimes we’d celebrate one but not the other. And sometimes we’d celebrate both because of our own indecision, unable to justify one over another. It felt odd to be so uncertain over such certainties.

But this year, we figured it out. We will celebrate both because they each represent a significant and different milestone. The kiss sparked the beginning of our relationship, and we used that to mark the passing of time. On August 18 this year, it will be eight years.

The other, the one that brought this ring back to me, worn on my left middle finger every day since that lovely evening with him, will always remind us of how we triumphed in adversity, and how we, when given the choice to stay or to walk away, always chose to be together. On March 10 every year, we celebrate the power, the beauty, and the strength of this choice.

And that, in the biggest, most gigantic nutshell ever, is why we have two anniversaries. Which isn’t unlike married couples who celebrate the day they first started dating and their wedding anniversary. If we do get married someday, I suppose there’ll be a third date to commemorate.

Except, there’s enough complications as it is, who needs another?

* * *

Happy Anniversary Part 1 my love. May we always, always be our best choice.

Sisters

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Mon, 04 Mar 2013 19:06:00 +0000

I am an only child. Which means raising two daughters - siblings - is somewhat of an alien concept to me. I didn’t have to share, my parents didn’t need to be fair or break up fights, and all my toys and clothes were brand new. Since Thumper came along, and especially now that she’s able to communicate better, I’ve been on a steep learning curve.

Most days I feel like Jane Goodall, observing chimpanzees as they carve out their place with each other, pulling hair to get their way, stealing bananas from one another, and shrieking to ward off unwanted behavior. And I don’t mean the monkeys; that’s just a regular day at our house.

When the girls get territorial, I force myself to let them work out their differences rather than go between them. Of course, when there’s violence and unkindness, I step in. Otherwise, these sisters will do what sisters do.

I watch them from the corner of my eyes, sometimes taking notes in my head, sometimes so enthralled, I’m incapable of doing anything but to admire the blossoming of their sisterhood, which I hope will someday become impenetrable by anyone, even me.

Between them, there have been countless moments of utter exasperation for someone like me, who is figuring this sibling thing out as I go, which is not unlike parenting in general, really, except there’s twice the surprise and unpredictability. There’s certainly more of this:

“Watch this!”
“Look at me!” (or “Yuck me!”, says the younger.)

And this:

“I will do this!”
“Ay! It’s my tuhn.”
“No, it’s my turn.”
“I wan’ do this!” And the quick, devious little one does it.
“THUMPY!!!!”

And definitely this, the incessant complaining:

“Mommy, Sissy close the gate! I wan’ go downsteahs!”
“No! I don’t want her downstairs with me. She’ll ruin my castle/train/fort/blocks/ [insert toy du jour]!”

However, there are tender moments in between the rough ones that make me wish I had a sister myself, like when Thumper walks up to Little Miss with food that she herself enjoys and asks in a melodious voice, “Wan’ chai (try) it?”

Or this particular moment, when Little Miss freaked out about a toy that Thumper snatched from her. When asked why she was so upset about something she hardly played with, she responded, “Because every time she snatches from me, I get a belly ache!” (Don’t ask; she certainly has her own brand of drama.)

Upon hearing that, Thumper ran over to Little Miss and handed the toy, “Heah doe! (here you go.) Sowwy Sissy. Dis? (Kiss?)” Then she planted a sweet one on her sister’s “aching” belly, and all was forgiven.

There’s also something breathtaking about a one-year-old who walks up to her crying four-year-old sister and asks, “You otay, sissy? You want toochoo? (tissue) Yeah? Otay!”. She then gets her one and sometimes even helps Little Miss wipe the falling tears on her reddened cheeks.

My heart melts every. single. time. But to both girls, it’s a given. They take care of each other like it’s the most natural thing in the world. As it should be.

Another given is that Little Miss is the boss and teacher, sharing her knowledge and expertise with Thumper whenever she can especially when they’re crafting, coloring, and conversing - “Thumpy, say yes, please.” But what’s surprising is that the younger, who is absolutely in awe of the older, is very protective of her big sister.

When My Guy reprimands Little Miss, Thumper will either smack him or scream at him. If it results in tears, the toddler will sometimes shed her own sympathetic ones for her older sister. It’s quite a sight to see the pint-sized defending the older, taller, and more capable of the two.

Since the girls share a bedroom, they get plenty of time before and after sleeping to talk. While Thumper still struggles in pronunciation, she forms rudimentary sentences rather well, like “I’m tired; I want seep (sleep)” or when I make her laugh, she says, “yaw punny (you’re funny), mommy.” Not perfect, but she’s also a 21-month-old. It’s not going to be perfect for awhile.

In fact, sometimes, we have difficulty understanding her mispronunciations, like this instance:

Thumper: “Teetums!”
My Guy: “What’s that?”
Thumper: “Teetums! Teetums!”

She pointed at something on the counter, but amid the mess, we still had no idea what she was referring to, and he turned to me for help. I shrugged and shook my head, and she became even more frantic. “Teetums! Teetums! Teetums!”

Desperate, I turned to Little Miss, who was quietly coloring beside me: “What’s she saying?”
Without a pause and with complete nonchalance, she responded, “She wants the lip balm.”

My reaction: “Lip balm?! Really??”
Thumper: “Yes!”

Both My Guy and I exchanged incredulous glances. Huh. Who’d have thought that “teetums” meant lip balm? Well, apparently, her sister did. All those late-evening and early-morning exchanges in their room certainly helped.

Now, when I don’t understand my little one, I just ask my big girl. Before the secret language between them kicks in, that is. And you know what? I hope it does. I will happily play the outsider if it helps cement their bond together.

Every morning, on the monitor, I hear them waking each other up, both good-natured and giggly, and ready to play whatever game they devise for themselves on the fly. I’ve heard Little Miss teach her little sister a few things, like this instance which brought me out of sleep and immediately into a smile:

Thumper: “Mommy! Mommy!”
Little Miss: “Don’t wake mommy, Thumper, she’s sick. She needs to rest.”
She was referring to my state from the evening before, when I was immobilized by weird stomach cramps.
Thumper: “Otay...Daddy! Daddy!”

Or this other time:

Little Miss: “Daddy’s a....?”
Thumper: “Boy!”
Little Miss: “Yes! Good. And mommy’s a...?”
Thumper: “Guhl!”
Little Miss: That’s right. Good job!

I love waking to their conversations, despite the occasional squabble that comes through. By the time My Guy gets to their bedroom in the mornings, Little Miss is often found inside the crib with Thumper, with blankets and plush animals around them, already busy at play when it’s barely 7 a.m. They play hard; they fight hard. These kids, they don’t mess around.

So many of my friends with siblings warned me about the volatile nature of this relationship. There’s a lot of fighting. We hated each other. We’re always competing for everything. This only child can only imagine, but I have no bag of tricks to reach into, no firsthand knowledge of what it’s like. I can only hope that it’s not as bad as they say.

But I’ve also caught glimpses of the moments in between. The gentle, heart-achingly beautiful ones that tell me that either way, I’m in for quite a ride.

* * *

Whether you’re a parent or a sibling yourself, what’s your experience like with siblings? If you have tips and tricks on how to raise them so they would adore* each other (I’ll also settle for “not kill one another”), please share them with me. I’ll take all the help I can get!

Me time

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Tue, 26 Feb 2013 22:42:00 +0000

The girls are down - one in her room, the other in mine - for their nap. After a hectic morning that involved breakfast with a guest at our place and a birthday party at the Exploritorium, they’re ready to crash. Actually, I am ready to crash. And I try.

With every room in the house taken - My Guy is in his office, also our third bedroom, catching up on some work - I am left with the couch in our living room. I tuck myself under a pile of throw blankets and prepare to rest.

But Kayli, my ginger cat, immediately begins her afternoon ritual of aggressively meowing and purring, clawing for attention while the girls are in their respective spots, safely kept away from her. She’s the scaredy cat that never comes out while they’re up, so this is her chance.

Despite multiple attempts to push her away, she comes back, adamant for some love. Exhausted myself, I am not feeling particularly generous with my affection. I just want a nap. I keep thwarting her attempts, and just when I think I’m finally getting through to her, my other cat, Macavity, jumps on the couch to watch me. He’s a snuggler, and he’s eyeing a spot for himself.

Frickin’ cats.

I don’t nap well with things that move, so I try to shoo him off as well. By this time, my lethargy is giving way to irritation, and I’m starting to get worked up. When I finally have the cats under control, I settle back in and try to breathe evenly, hoping to erase my agitation from the last few minutes. It almost goes back to normal before I hear Little Miss calling for me from my bedroom, “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!”

Exasperated, I attend to her: “What?” I say, with a little more annoyance in my voice than I intended. I find her in my bathroom.

“Can you wipe me please? I pooped.”
“What? You wipe yourself all the time. Why are you calling me now?” At this point, there’s no hiding my displeasure.
“I did, but the toilet paper got stuck to my butt.”
“Are you kidding me?” She isn’t. I start to look for hidden cameras from some stupid prank show because real life can’t be this ridiculous. Seriously.

After handling the situation and pleading with my four-year-old to just give me an hour of peace, I go back to my couch only to find a cat in my spot!

Then I hear Thumper fussing on the monitor. She has been doing that at naptime for the past couple of weeks before settling herself back down for the rest of her nap. Even when I know this ends in two minutes, it is still impossible for me to relax and fall asleep with a crying baby blaring from the monitor.

Frickin’ kids.

I give up. This nap is just not in the cards for me. It feels like everyone wants something from me, and I just don’t have it in me, at least not right then, to share. In that state of fatigue, I barely have enough of me for myself!

Then I choose to do something that seems counterintuitive for someone so desperately in need of a break: I dress myself and get out the door. The sun is shining, the temperature’s just above freezing, and the sidewalks are clear from ice or snow. It is the perfect time to run.

The moment the sun hit my face, I know I made the right decision. I feel my frustrations vanish with each step, and by mile two, it feels pretty fantastic.

This is my time. Finally.

I don’t have to share. I don’t have to make room. I am neither needed nor feel the need to be. I am free to follow my feet as I please. I am free to push myself as hard as I can. I listen only to my body, which, at this moment, is telling me to go, go, go. And I do, with pleasure and gratitude.

I feel myself recharging with each breath. This is where I find my strength and my peace. This is where I go to get back to center. The crumbled, unraveled parts of my exhausted self realign and form a whole again. Unlike napping, I can’t close my eyes to rest when I’m running, but I’m rejuvenated all the same. Different means, same end.

I hope to run for an hour and get back to my family, who’ll be waiting for me so we can go to the grocery store for our week’s shopping. When I see that I’m already at the halfway point between my house and the store, without breaking my stride, I call home and ask My Guy to meet me there. He doesn’t question me.

Over six miles later (the store’s only 4.5 miles from my house, but I run around the block a few times to get an hour’s worth), I’m at our destination a few minutes before they arrive. My cart is already filled with produce, meat, and the all-important chocolate milk for my post-run sustenance, as recommended by seasoned runners. I hear Thumper’s excited voice, “Mommy! Mommy!” and see her precariously dodging carts to run to me in her navy ruffled skirt. I scoop my little one into my arms and kiss her.

My Guy and Little Miss smile and wave from their cart. At my request, he purchases the half-gallon chocolate milk and hands it to me while we’re still shopping. I break the seal and chug it from the container, much to my girls’ surprise and absolute delight. (And the other shoppers’ horror, probably.)

“My turn! My turn!” they both yell, reaching for the jug in my hand, and I help them to it.

Once again, I am happy to share.

* * *

How do you find time for yourself in the middle of the day? What do you do to take a break? Where do you go to find your center?

Mommy, am I going to die?

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Thu, 21 Feb 2013 12:42:00 +0000

“Mommy, am I going to die?”

I froze. My quiet one-on-one time with Little Miss that afternoon suddenly became deafeningly loud. I’m not sure what prompted this question, but there it was all the same, and along with it, the shadow of dread. I knew this moment would come, but it was too soon. Way too soon. I wasn’t prepared. Although, I don’t know if I would’ve been at any other time either.

I put away the book on my lap that we were reading, took a deep breath and slowly turned to my four-year-old, wishing that in the two seconds it took me to do all of that, I would have a good answer for her. Except there is no good answer to that question is there?

I held her hopeful gaze, and responded matter-of-factly, “Yes.”

Alarm spread across her face. “But I don’t want to die!”

“I know, babe, but we all do. That’s just what happens. To all of us.” Each word fell out of my mouth with a dull, heavy thud.

She started to cry. Realizing her own mortality is one thing, but that we would all die was too much for her. Way to go, mama.

However, her next reaction surprised me: “If daddy dies and if you die, how’s Thumper going to get her milk?!”

I couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. I didn’t expect her to worry about who would nurse her little sister upon our demise, but I suppose that’s just how the mind of a four-year-old works. They grasp at the things they can comprehend.

“Well, I hope that by the time we die, she will no longer need to be nursed. You know how you’re drinking cow’s milk now? Well, she’ll get there too.”

That answer seemed to satisfy her, but that was only the beginning of a barrage of questions and concerns that came my way in between fearful sobs.

“Who will drive me to places?”
“I don’t want us to not have a mommy or daddy. If you leave us, we’ll be all alone.”
“Will you make sure we have a new mommy and daddy?”

I held her and stroked her hair as I fielded her questions, my voice quivering. With each answer, she’d pull away to look at me, as if searching my face to see if it matched the answers that appeared from my mouth, making it impossible for me to say anything but the truth.

And the truth, this truth, hurts.

Because I have no fairy-tale endings for this girl, who was, at that moment, sitting next to me in her Snow White gown.

“If you kiss me, will I wake up?” she asked, and I didn’t lie.

And because I’m not religious, I couldn’t promise her a heaven - no choir of angels and cute little puppies in the ever after for us. I could only tell her what I knew.

Which wasn’t much.

I tried to quell her fears by deflecting the possibility of death to a time that’s far removed from the present, but words like “eventually” and “someday” mean so little to someone who can barely grasp the concept of next week.

As I fumbled in the dark myself to bring my sad and confused little girl some light, I realized just how ironic this was because I could scarcely escape my own anxiety when I think about losing the people I love too.

But when she finally said, “Mommy, if you die, it will break my heart,” I crumpled.

That’s when we just held each other and sobbed. I felt like so many moms would probably have said something more comforting, more intelligent, more reassuring. Just more. Instead, I only apologized to her, over and over, for not being able to give her the answers she wanted to hear.

I also cursed my luck - Why don’t these questions come up when she’s with her dad? Why do I always get the hard questions when I’m the one who’s emotionally ill-equipped? The one who cries at commercials and tears up at posters of abandoned animals.

As our tears subsided, a petty gold box caught my eye. Chocolates. My Guy gave them to me for Valentine’s day, and I had brought them out to share with Little Miss during our quiet time together while her sister was napping. It was our little secret, and she was absolutely thrilled. Chocolate also happens to be her favorite thing in the world. But super secret chocolates? Even better.

Even though we’ve already indulged earlier, I reached for the box that had been sitting in front of us, opened it, and held it in front of her. At the sight of the little gems, her mood changed almost immediately. She gingerly picked one for herself and one for me, excited to be having another again. In the same afternoon!

Then we sat with our backs on the couch, next to each other, and savored the treat in our mouth wordlessly. When our watery gaze met, she smiled. The clouds lifted, and just like that, she was all sunshine again.

Whew!

We’ve been reading “Aesop’s Fables” to Little Miss at bedtime every day this week, so I feel like I should end with a moral, so here it is, the moral of my story today:

Mommy may not always have the answers, but she will at least have chocolate.

* * *

What’s your most dreaded question? Do you prepare your answers in anticipation of moments like this or do you just wing it?

A night to remember, and other familiar stories

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Tue, 19 Feb 2013 06:02:00 +0000

It’s no secret – I love surprises. I get a thrill when I plan a milestone birthday surprise for My Guy or sweat the details of a simple Valentine dinner for my girls, like the one last week, when my best friend joined us for our cheese and chocolate fondue dinner. I set and adorned the table in all things hearts and pink, and when Little Miss came home from preschool, she was ecstatic to see both the table and her favorite auntie. Success!

Then there’s the kind of surprise that appears on an ordinary day, like coming home to a delicious dinner simmering on the stove after my run one evening, a gesture by My Guy that took my breath away even more than the 6.5-mile route did.

Or when I decided on a whim to take just Little Miss with me to the Chinese New Year parade while her sister napped so we could be adventurous without worrying about taxing a toddler. Plus, a one-on-one time with my big girl is always a treat. For both of us. Little Miss got to decide on the mode of transportation - taxi, bus, or train - which made her deliriously happy, and she picked the bus there and the elevated train back.

These little surprises give our routine a jolt, not unlike the plot twists in an otherwise predictable storyline. For someone who spends most of my time indoors these days, I welcome the mini adrenaline boost that comes with planning on the sly and the blip on the radar brought on by spontaneity.

But even though I love the unexpected, I appreciate the familiar too.

When my best friend, who lives eight hours away, was here last week, after reading bedtime stories to my girls in my bed, we stayed to talk while My Guy ushered the girls to their bedroom to get them down for the night. We sat up in my bed and tucked ourselves under the covers while we caught up on each other’s life with a box of my favorite chocolates between us, a Valentine surprise from My Guy. Who knew he could be so sweetly old-fashioned sometimes? Okay, maybe I did a little.

With a glass of wine in one hand and chocolates in the other, the conversation flowed freely as it always does between us. We are both book-and-food-loving home bodies on divergent paths - she, a married career woman who chose not to have kids; me, a stay-at-home mom of two - but there’s nothing we couldn’t say to one another.

After she retired for the night, My Guy took her place in bed and our conversation went into the night. With the box of chocolates still there between us. I love being nestled in his nook, in the soft light of our bedside lamp, sharing the highlights from our day apart or looking into the crystal ball of our future together. The familiar, sometimes, can be really nice.

In fact, despite reveling in the success of a surprise Valentine evening for the girls, it was our annual Valentine date that exhilarated me. On Saturday, two days after the actual day, while our girls were in bed, we went to the Chicago Auto Show. I know, how romantic. But hey, we were holding hands!

Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve been drawn to cars. There’s just something really sexy about machinery that balances form and function so seamlessly, and now that I found someone whose passion dwarves mine, the Auto Show seemed like a perfectly natural setting for a Valentine celebration.

On a night inspired by the familiar, we decided to stick with the formula and picked a place we’ve been to for cocktails and late-night dining. As we walked in, more of the familiar greeted us - they were playing an entire Vampire Weekend record, one of my favorite bands. As we ordered our drinks, My Guy surprised me by requesting another favorite album of mine, “In Rainbows” by Radiohead, to which they eagerly obliged, and when the first song came on, we were almost bouncing out of our seats, we were so giddy, not unlike high school kids who hear their song requests on the radio. (Do kids these days even do that anymore?)

Maybe it was the potent but perfectly executed cocktails. Maybe it was the delectable small plates (no-batter, fried Brussels sprouts, with the outside layers charred to a crisp, on lemon aioli, hello?!). Or maybe it’s the vibe of the place with its mysterious wine library and labyrinthian corridors. But the night felt electric.

The new and the old intertwined, stirring feelings of familiarity and comfort with the novel and exciting. It was an evening that felt simultaneously like I was out on a first date with my crush and a long-standing one with the father of my children.

Not surprisingly, we felt wonderfully energized the next day despite the late night and the early risers in our house. We couldn’t stop talking about our evening together. We still can’t.

Even though I walked wearily out of my bedroom to the usual scene of the girls in their pajamas and bed head at the dining table and their dad making coffee and French toast in the kitchen, a memory of our night together sparked a smile. The familiar can be very nice.

Especially when you get to escape it sometimes.

Sweet nothings

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Thu, 14 Feb 2013 06:39:00 +0000

I am running into some serious writer’s block. This is my fifth, and hopefully last, draft of this post, which I was hoping to dedicate to my family for Valentine’s Day for obvious reasons. I think I should just throw in the towel and accept that sometimes, there are no words.

And maybe, sometimes, we don’t need any.

Like the time when my girls climbed into bed first thing in the morning and my eyes were still closed from sleep when the little one placed soft, sweet little kisses all over my face, and her sister followed suit until I opened my eyes to greet them. That alone said more than any words ever could, and my heart is still brimming with joy from that moment.

Or the time when My Guy came all the way home in between a work day full of meetings just so I could get my regular run in. Without my asking. Maybe he did it because he knows how much running means to me, or maybe he’d rather not face the cranky me when I miss it. Either way, I love that in the middle of a crazy day, he still found the time to put me first.

Or the time when I chose to forgo the pretty red paper for the Valentine hearts on our banner and went with pink and purple instead even though I’m not a fan of either. But my gesture was returned in spades just seeing the girls light up at their favorite color each time they look at the banner.

Along the same lines, tonight, despite my years of anti-Hallmark-Valentine, I have a cheesy Valentine’s Day celebration planned for my family. Literally, as there’ll be cheese and chocolate fondue, hearts, and candy, but please, don’t tell my girls. It’s a surprise.

It’s also the very least I can do, especially when words fail me, for the people who teach me everyday that when it comes to love, it’s not always what you say; it’s what you do.

Happy Valentine’s Day to you and yours.

This is as Chinese as it gets

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Mon, 11 Feb 2013 06:02:00 +0000

Kung Hei Fatt Choy! In case you’re wondering, that means Happy New Year in Cantonese. Growing up half Chinese, it was the biggest celebration for me, starting from an incredible spread made by my aunt on the eve for the Family Reunion Dinner to the raucous event in my own house as relatives and friends gathered to eat, drink, and gamble all day and all night.

This is also the time of year that I’m most nostalgic for my childhood and probably the most homesick as well. It has elements of everything I miss about my life back in Malaysia - my large extended family, loud and joyful celebrations, and sumptuous feasts. As much as I desperately want to share this kind of magic with my own girls, I knew I could never replicate that for my own little family of four here, so I don’t even try. At least not to that extent.

Instead of trying to capture the full essence of the celebration, I aim for the nuances. Today, to usher in the Year of the Snake, we began the morning with chocolate-chip pancakes. No, that’s not what the Chinese do. That’s just what My Guy did, because, well, he’s not exactly Chinese and that’s what we had in our pantry. We were also a little unprepared for the occasion, but that wasn’t our first “infraction”.

I made a pan of spicy Szechwan noodles the night before for the all-important Family Reunion Dinner, when my aunt would’ve made a ten-course meal that included chicken, shrimp, pork, fish, tofu, and vegetables that were braised, steamed, stir-fried, deep-fried, and stewed. But these noodles were My Guy’s favorite, so that counts for something right?

However, I did keep with the tradition by distributing “hung pao”, red packets that contain money, to my girls. It’s usually given by parents to their kids and to any unmarried guests during Chinese New Year. At four, Little Miss was thrilled with the two dollar bills she found inside the packet, but she was more taken by the shiny envelope itself.

I wondered at what age she would start to focus more on the money inside, because I remember the competition I had with my own cousins, “I’ve got more money than you!” No one cared about the prettiest hung pao. Thumper tore her hung pao into pieces and would have done the same with the money had we not wrestled it away from her.

Because we had a nice dinner planned, I decided against an elaborate lunch. (That’s also a nicer way of saying I didn’t put any thought on it. At all.) I was glad to find some leftover brown rice and eggs in the fridge as well as Chinese sausage and peas in the freezer so I was able to whip up some fried rice, although brown rice doesn’t exactly scream authentic. But hey, it’s Chinese sausage.

Still, I did salivate at the pictures of the feasts that my Chinese friends posted on Facebook, making my measly bowl of fried brown rice seem woefully inadequate.

As if my lack of preparation wasn’t evident enough in my too-simple meals, I forgot where I kept the festive paper lanterns from last year, and we didn’t purchase any traditional garb for my girls. To add insult to injury, we skipped the lunar new year aesthetics and jumped right into Valentine’s!

Making a banner for each new season or holiday is becoming a tradition in our family. When Thumper napped, Little Miss and I started on our Valentine’s project. It felt weird, like I was cheating on Chinese New Year, decorating for a Hallmark holiday when the real one, the one I looked forward to and enjoyed as a child, went unmarked in our house.

The project took Little Miss and I about 90 minutes. Then it was time for her to rest, while her sister continued her nap, and I managed to squeeze in a run. It was my first five-miler after my injury, and it. felt. great.

It was a little past 2pm when I hit the pavement, and on my run I thought about what I would’ve been doing at that time 20 years ago and chuckled. I would’ve been comatose from a mid-day feast, gambling or playing in some corner of our bustling house with my cousins. And here I was today, running. On Chinese New Year. Who would’ve thought? Certainly not me.

We then drove 30 miles to a Malaysian restaurant in the suburbs and met some dear friends there who had never experienced “Yee Sang”, a traditional new year dish. Literally, the dish means raw fish, as it is served with chunks of, you guessed it, raw fish, on a bed of colorful ingredients like carrots, daikon, jicama, pomelo, preserved plums and ginger, as well as spices and dressing, all of which are mixed together with chopsticks by the people gathered around at the table yelling, “Low Sang!”

This tradition is best described on this site as it has better pictures and description, but here is an excerpt:

Part of the Low Sang/Yee Sang ritual is actually the noise and merry making that involves large chopsticks and people tossing and mixing the ingredients in the large, flat plate till the colors and raw fish are completely and thoroughly mixed. This is the one time, parents will not scold their children for playing with their food. In fact, the more you play with it and toss it, the better. Also, the louder you scream prosperity wishes the better. “Health Come!” “Money Come!” “Love and Good Fortune COME!”

Well, we weren’t exactly loud, but our dish was undoubtedly messy. I hope that means some health and wealth will eventually slither our way.

After Yee Sang, we indulged in a hodgepodge of Malaysian dishes, except only one out of all of them were traditional new year dishes. Most were street foods I loved and wanted to share with my friends who were kind enough to make that trek with their own two kids to celebrate with us that night. It was the closest approximation to the feeling of family and feasting that I grew up with, and for that, I was truly grateful.

At the end of the evening, we left with fortune cookies in hand and opened them on our long drive home as a way to distract the girls. I read each person’s fortune aloud - Thumper’s is at the very top, followed by mine, Little Miss’ and My Guy’s.

I was intrigued by mine; I’ll just have to see what May 10th brings. I loved the last two the best because family and travel are two really important things in my life. That it was My Guy’s fortune that said family will be highest priority warmed my heart, although it’s really not much of a fortune - it already seems that way.

These fortunes seemed like a perfect way to end our celebration. On a day that was so hit-or-miss in my attempt at injecting authenticity and tradition, it felt good to end on a high note. Then I remembered that fortune cookies never existed in my childhood.

It’s purely an American phenomenon.

* * *

What is your favorite childhood holiday celebration? Why is it your favorite? Do you celebrate it the same way you remember it?

You have to try this!

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Fri, 08 Feb 2013 04:10:00 +0000

I don’t know about you, but 80 percent of my time involves food. It’s no secret that I love to cook, and I love to eat, but that’s not why it monopolizes my day. As a stay-at-home mom, I spend a lot of my time planning, prepping, and cooking meals, followed by the cleaning afterwards. Because my family eats at least five times a day (three meals, two snacks), there’s always food to make, which means there’s always a kitchen to clean. See how that works?

Therefore, with five meals to think of (well, four, really, since My Guy takes care of breakfast every day), being efficient with snack time is important to me. I often cook from scratch (read: make a mess) during lunch and dinner, so I try to keep the chaos to a minimum at snack time with ready-to-serve foods from the pantry or fridge, like fruit, crackers, granola bars, cheese, or yogurt. I do occasionally make my own granola bars, smoothies, muffins or cookies to indulge my family, but for the most part, snack time is mommy-gets-out-of-kitchen-jail time.

However, keeping the pantry and fridge stocked with healthy items can be tricky. Have you seen the junk they have in the grocery stores? Even self-proclaimed “health foods” may have ingredients that I don’t necessarily want my kids to ingest, especially ones we can’t pronounce and sound more like science than nature.

Don’t get me wrong - I’m not a health food nut. I’m a follower of the Golden Mean philosophy, which means I’m okay with all things in moderation, so yes, bacon, sausage, hot dogs, and even (dare I say it?) McDonald’s are never off limits, but they’re definitely limited.

When it comes to feeding my kids, I’m a fan of natural ingredients that also taste good (unlike health food that taste health-food-y, know what I mean?). That’s why, when Chobani (the Greek yogurt people) asked me to sample their new line of yogurt products, I was thrilled because they’re all about natural.

What made me even happier was what arrived in the package. Chobani Champions, yogurt in a tube, for the kids, and Chobani Bite, a 100-calorie snack for adults and kids alike. Well, except for the coffee-flavored ones - that’s all mine. (Woot!).

If your kids are older, like my four-year-old Little Miss, the tube is ideal as on-the-go snack, but for 20-month-old Thumper, it’s a disaster. She likes eating on her own, so there was no wrestling the tube from her when the yogurt oozed onto her dress, the table, the chair, the floor…you get the picture. But we came up with the idea to freeze the tube and voila! Crisis averted. Not only was it relatively mess-free, it also soothed a teething toddler’s gums. High five, clever brains!

I would have pictures of my girls enjoying their Chobani Champions tubes except they finished them all before I even had a plan for this post. I suppose that’s a testament to the product.

As for Chobani Bite, I cannot tell you how happy I am that I don’t have to share my Coffee with Dark Chocolate one because it. is. delicious. For a coffee fanatic who would only allow myself no more than two cups a day, with none past 10am (because I’m also sensitive to caffeine), this was a great alternative for my late-afternoon or evening coffee cravings. Coffee and chocolate? Are you kidding me? And only 100 calories? Holy shit! I can’t wait to stock up once I find these in the stores.

Little Miss and Thumper, both chocoholics like me, eat the Raspberry with Dark Chocolate ones for dessert, and I have seriously thought of hiding the rest from them. Not because it’s bad for them, but because I want them for myself!

The thing is, it’s healthy but it also satisfies our cravings for an indulgence. Instead of a big, fat high-calorie cookie, we have a Bite (ha!) and our sweet tooth doesn’t know any better. The chocolate-hungry lion in our belly is tamed, and my waistline has no complaints either. (Unless I eat five of those in one sitting, which is entirely possible. Ahem.)

Anyway, if you do see Chobani Bite or Chobani Champions at the store, I urge you to give it a try. This may be a product review - my first ever! - but honestly, for something this good, I’m calling this a public service announcement.

* * *

Because I’m always looking for new ideas, what’s your favorite healthy snack?

Full disclosure: Chobani sent me the products to try but the opinion here is all mine.

A letter I never thought I would write

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Tue, 05 Feb 2013 06:24:00 +0000

my view on my way to yoga

Dear Winter,

When I first left tropical Malaysia to complete my studies here in the States, it was in August of 1994. Summer. Which was a good thing since it helped me transition from the heat I knew to the cold I didn’t.

That was the year I first encountered Fall, something I’ve only witnessed through movies. And wow! What a season. I still remember the fiery red tree on the university campus right outside the Parks and Recreation building that took my breath away, and I would go out of my way to see that tree every year in all its audacious magnificence.

Having also attended my first Fall Festival at a State Park that same year, which surrounded me with postcard-perfect colors, it was easy to fall in love with Autumn.

And then came you, dear winter. I experienced snow for the first time at age 19, and goodness gracious was I ill-prepared. On an invitation to my first ski trip, I wore my heavy black suede coat over only a t-shirt. Hey, don’t roll your eyes at me - I’m from Malaysia!

Needless to say, I froze my butt off. I came down with bronchitis that same week and was sent home from the health center by the campus police because I was too weak and feverish to make the trip back on my own. I could only imagine what the neighbors thought when they saw me coming out from the back of the police car. I was not very happy with you then.

But I also knew of your inevitability with each passing year, and that’s when I realized I should master the art of layering. After a few icicles on my head, I’d also learned not to go outside in below freezing temps with wet hair. But that’s all about survival.

Over the years, however, I’ve gone from begrudgingly accepting you to embracing your presence in my life. You see, some time after I discovered the wonder of snow boots, I started seeing you with new eyes. It all started with the sound and feel of snow beneath my soles. There’s nothing like it.

I remember being acutely aware of this new sensation for the first time when I was walking across campus by myself, and all I heard and felt was the muffled crunch of fresh, powdery snow under my boots. That familiar, rhythmic sound soon became a welcome partner in accompanying me in the often-quiet streets of winter. Now, every time I walk in the snow, I am brought back to that night, to that particular moment, over 17 years ago.

And that’s why, while my neighbors celebrated 60-degree weather that gave us thunderstorms in January, I complained, “This precipitation should’ve been snow!”

Spring and summer are easy to love. We come out of a long hibernation in the spring in anticipation of shedding our multiple layers. When we see the first blooms of grape hyacinths, tulips, and daffodils, the harbingers of a winter thaw, we get giddy. Because we know that beach and pool weather is around the corner.

But you. Winter. Well, it took me years to get excited about you. After all, I spent a lot of time commuting in the bitter cold and traveling on brown slush. There’s nothing like a city commute to quickly ruin the chastity and romance of a city blanketed in the purest white snow.

With no commute this year, it was easier to focus on the romantic parts of you: the beauty of snowfall, the joy in children jumping in the snow, the comfort of coming inside to hot cocoa for the kids and chai for the grown-ups, the indulgence of mulled wine by the fireplace on single-digit-temperature nights, especially when snuggled under a blanket with the love of your life.

I make soups and stews a-plenty.

I bake more eagerly, welcoming the wafting scent of baked goods and the added warmth from the oven. My girls frolic in pink footie pajamas all day, and they snuggle under the covers to read.

I also run. The temperature registered a chilly 9 degrees (that’s -21 Celcius for my Malaysian blood) last Friday, but the sun was shining, and that’s all I needed. Feeling the sun on my face while running is one of my new favorite zen moments. So I added an extra layer (see? I learned!) and went outside that afternoon.

Don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t an easy run, but I loved being out there all the same. I’ve run in rain, hail, snow, and single-digit temperatures this year, and I do it because it feels good. Because of the enormous satisfaction I get at the end of the run, knowing I did it.

And I am so glad I did, because when I get home to little girls yelling a welcoming (and sometimes deafening), “Mommy! Mommy!”, a guy who high-five’s my progress, and a long, hot shower, I am literally soaking with gratitude. For the warmth of my home, for the support of my family, for the strength of my body, and for the time I had to myself.

It feels great to finally be able to welcome each season with open arms and look forward to the snow as much as I do the beach. I loathe bundling all of us up to go outside because it takes forever to get all the layers and accessories on, but at the same time, it’s worth it. Just like this past weekend, when we bundled up to go sledding.

It’s a first for 20-month-old Thumper. She was dressed in Little Miss’ old snowsuit, and she slid down a bunny hill all by herself with the biggest smile and a gleeful, “Whee!” that culminated in a “More peas!” (please) at the end. Little Miss didn’t hesitate to go down the hill by herself either, and the girls would take turns riding on one sled with their daddy too.

It was ridiculously cold, but when you have two giddy little kids begging for more, you don’t think about your frozen appendages. You just go go go until they’re ready to stop. Then you come home and nestle into the nooks of your home, of each other, and melt into the moment. That’s the thing about you isn’t it? You know just how to draw people closer together.

And that’s why, when My Guy and I discuss our next possible place to live, I cannot fathom a place without the four seasons. Yes, I know many could do without you, but not me. I need all four.

It’s funny what time does to a person. A girl from the tropics longing for snow - who knew? It took me many years to fall in love with you, Winter, but now that I’m here, I can’t imagine being anywhere else.

Always,
Justine

This post is linked up to Momalom’s Love Fest. Click on the button below and read more.

Spilling the beans, a cautionary tale

noreply@blogger.com (Justine) — Tue, 29 Jan 2013 14:10:00 +0000

For those of you who are planning to have kids, have a little one who isn’t really talking yet, or just need a reminder, here’s why, even though we’re advised as parents to always talk to our kids, we really shouldn’t be telling them everything.

On our walk home from school, we bumped into a neighborhood mom with her toddler in a stroller. It was unseasonably warm and people were coming out of hibernation, lingering to say hello to familiar faces to breathe in more of the un-January air. We were no different.

Thumper was running after Little Miss on the sidewalk, “Wait…me!” but they both stopped when I did to exchange a few words about the incredible weather and remarks about kids being able to play outside again with this mom, who is, in essence, a stranger.

Little Miss, my loquacious preschooler, decided to join in our conversation.

Little Miss: “My name is Little Mis,s and this is Thumper.” (She used their real names, of course)
Neighbor: “Hi Little Miss! Hi Thumper!”
Little Miss: “Thumper calls me Missy, and she calls herself Thump.”
Neighbor: “Oh?”
Little Miss: “I’m four…and Thumper is almost two. Her birthday is on May 28. And mine is on November 13.”
Neighbor: “Wow, you have a good memory.”
Little Miss: “My mommy is 37. And my daddy is 30. She is older than he is.”

I think, Lovely, reminding myself to snack me on my head later. No, wait. Smack her.

Neighbor: “I see. Well, I’m 32 and my husband is 32 as well.”
Me: “Hah. Kids, I tell ya. Good thing she doesn’t know my bank account number.”

And we left it at that.

It’s also a good thing that I’m open about my age. But I’m still an advocate of keeping some things from my kids. Especially my social security number.

Consider yourself warned.

* * *

Has this ever happened to you before? What’s the worst thing your kids have repeated to strangers? Do you have any other advice for first-time or newbie parents?