Children say the best things. I try not to become immune to the cuteness because I want to appreciate it while it lasts.

Out of the blue, Gigi says things such as “I want wings” or “I am going to be a big cousin.” (My sister’s baby is coming soon!) She picks a [...]]]>

Children say the best things. I try not to become immune to the cuteness because I want to appreciate it while it lasts.

Out of the blue, Gigi says things such as “I want wings” or “I am going to be a big cousin.” (My sister’s baby is coming soon!) She picks a bouquet of flowers and says “these are for getting married. I’m getting married, Mommy. Tomorrow.” She voiced her opinion that she should get a present on Mother’s Day, too.

Recently we were walking under the sunny afternoon sun, picking pretty spring flowers and these words slipped out of my mouth without prior thought: “tell me everything you know.”

I expected a fairy tale about castles and princesses and princes, as per usual.

But Gigi said, “I love Daddy. And Mimi. And Mama.”

May God bless the children who know that love is all we absolutely know for sure.

Dear loyal blog readers and friends,

Do you like herbal tea? Would you like to support a business founded and run by a work-at-home mom? Would you like to support me?

My homegrown organic tea company, for which I hand-mix artisanal healing blends, is now featured on Gilt City. You can [...]]]>

Dear loyal blog readers and friends,

Do you like herbal tea? Would you like to support a business founded and run by a work-at-home mom? Would you like to support me?

My homegrown organic tea company, for which I hand-mix artisanal healing blends, is now featured on Gilt City. You can purchase Herbal Philosophy Teas for 50-56% off.

If you’re curious about herbal medicine, and how the right tea can enhance the human experience, please take advantage of this extraordinary offer. Email me with questions: lucy {at} herbalphilosophy {dot} com or leave a question in the comments.

If you’re an existing customer and looking for something new, I am also offering beta blends for sale, including teas for exercise recovery, memory and focus, PMS, men’s health and more. Again, email or comment with questions.

Thank you and be well,

Lucy

via pinterest

Thank you Mandy Chiappini Photography for the beautiful images. 

Motherhood never threatens to pull out my strongest emotions: overwhelming love, joy, gratitude as well as irrational fear, angst and anger.

Occasionally, when my three year-old is tired but refuses a nap, I want to lock her in her bedroom. Five minute is all I need. (Unfortunately and fortunately, our bedroom [...]]]>

Motherhood never threatens to pull out my strongest emotions: overwhelming love, joy, gratitude as well as irrational fear, angst and anger.

Occasionally, when my three year-old is tired but refuses a nap, I want to lock her in her bedroom. Five minute is all I need. (Unfortunately and fortunately, our bedroom doors do not lock from the inside nor the outside. But we do have baby gates, which she climbs.) Then she asks me a question and she calls me mama and she pronounces a word through her lispy accent and her soft curls spring from her head like a halo and how can I possibly be irritated with such a precious creature?

So I kiss the back of her neck before she runs off in excitement (because she runs off either in excitement or in frustration, there are few gray areas), savoring the scent of her natural sweetness and proclaiming again: I love you so much. So much it hurts. Though I rarely bust out the baby gates, and I (barely) manage to keep many of my frustrations to myself, they’re still there. Pecking away at my patience with sharp edges. In the happier moments, I wonder why this anger keeps returning. I like to think it will ebb as I get better at this journey called life. (Does it get better? Maybe we get better at accepting our flaws? Or is this my fantastical way of coping?)

As for my boy, well, I find myself lecturing him more than I’d like. I get less time with him, and I have just as much to teach him, perhaps more since I feel I have to “counter” some of the things he learns at school and in the community center where he goes every weekday. (It really threw me through a loop when my purple-unicorn-loving, clip-on-earring-wearing little boy began shunning certain toys with absolute disgust, assigning a certain ambiguous title: girl toys.)

So I get really close to him, green eye to brown eye, round pale nose to small brown button nose, and the truth is that I love looking deeply into those wide puppy-dog eyes. Those eyes make the lecture worthwhile, even though I detest the sound of my nagging voice. When I see his eyes grow in response to my calm yet firm decree, I know he’s listening. He knows I’m serious. He know what I’m saying is true and important. I think. (I hope.) Alas, he doesn’t end up hating me for it. (Yet.) And seeing that I am not his “real” mom, he could very well wake up one day and decide he does hate me. But I don’t believe he will, because he knows how much I love him.

I wait all evening (sometimes all day) to put these sprite-like trouble makers to bed so I can put my feet up and actually read something (or blog something).  But after the silence has fallen, I often end up thinking about them. Writing long notes to James about Emile’s summer schedule and plans. Daydreaming about all of the bonding we’ll do when Gigi and I get to keep him at home with us for a whole week, uninterrupted. I find myself scrolling through my phone at the pictures I took of Gigi on our adventure that day, or writing about them. Like right now.

Recently, when Gigi toddled (half-asleep) to my bedside to slumber between Mama and Daddy for the second half of the night, she had a baby doll stuffed into her too-small nightgown, pinned face-forward onto her bare chest. She’d fallen asleep taking care of the baby, likely nursing, possibly gestating. It’s hard for me to convey how this felt at the time; I was half-asleep, too. My heart has never been fuller than in that sleepy moment. There’s something profound about seeing your child nurture a baby doll. Sure, it’s pretend to us, but it’s real to them. Perhaps because this act represents the proliferation of our species: children grow up to have children. The circle of life continues, joyous and devastating at once.

For Mother’s Day, Emile’s first grade class made a paper bouquet of coupon flowers, each flower removable and inscribed with a favor. (Back rub, big kiss, movie night, etc.) Emile made this for his mother, along with the other children, and then he went on to make a card for me with a magnificent rainbow and a hand-written love note. My heart exploded and then melted and ultimately coalesced into something stronger than before.

This is how Motherhood transforms, like ripping up the muscle fibers so they will become stronger, a mother may lose her heart to her children’s infinite needs, but each time she surfaces for air (gasping for it, really), she notices that she is stronger and fuller than the time before.

Happy Mother’s Day, mamas. Especially to my own mom. I love you! 

We were lying in the hammock, my two littles and myself, trying not to fall off. I said, “look at that big tree. It’s so tall and proud. It loves being a tree. It doesn’t need to be anything but a tree.”

Emile said, “but it can be someone’s home! Or something to play [...]]]>

We were lying in the hammock, my two littles and myself, trying not to fall off. I said, “look at that big tree. It’s so tall and proud. It loves being a tree. It doesn’t need to be anything but a tree.”

Emile said, “but it can be someone’s home! Or something to play on!” Tis the human condition to create and transform, and we have come a long way because of it.

I said, “you’re right! A tree can provide shelter and make paper and houses, but it’s just as happy being a tree.” If we can balance this urge to have more, be more and do more with stillness, awe and appreciation for being alive, perhaps we will know greater contentment.

I know it’s simple; but on this particularly sunny Sunday morning with two sweet babes snuggled under each arm, a run under my belt, a forsythia bush exploding yellow in the foreground, a lake sparkling in the background, and tall, happy trees surrounding us; the understanding was complete and profound.

The tree is just a tree, and I am just a human. I don’t need to be anything else, except for who I am right now.

I don’t need to be a flawless mother, but I do need to be a loving mother.

I don’t need to be a famous writer, but I do need to write.

I don’t need my tea business to take over the herbal tea world like Starbucks has taken over the coffee world, but I do need to create and sell tea.

I don’t need to have a popular blog, but I do need to blog.

I don’t need to have a “perfect” body, but I do need to exercise.

I don’t need to have a spotless house, but I do need to have a home.

I don’t need a vast circle of friends, but I do need a few really great ones.

I don’t need to meet anyone’s expectations, but I do need to listen to my heart.

Edit: This doesn’t mean I won’t continue to dream big, only that I am happy where I am today.

The internet grabs our attention with a smorgasbord of options. I have my favorite blogs, my favorite news sites, my favorite social media sites. I have a personal blog, a site for my business, a blog for my business, a blog for writing poetry and short fiction, and a tumblr (just for the hell of [...]]]>

The view from my desk, where I do most of my creating, where the trees speak to me.

The internet grabs our attention with a smorgasbord of options. I have my favorite blogs, my favorite news sites, my favorite social media sites. I have a personal blog, a site for my business, a blog for my business, a blog for writing poetry and short fiction, and a tumblr (just for the hell of it).

Not only am I overwhelmed by all of the articles I want to read and the pictures I want to pin and the things I want to learn; I am always thinking about what I can post next. Okay, not always, but often. The truth is that I love the internet. I might be addicted to it.

Addictions are part of being human. They just happen. We find immense comfort in our addictions: energy and good feelings and no feelings and such. Most people don’t realize what a powerful drug sugar is (or that they’re addicted to it), whereas many are completely aware that they need coffee to function. And they’re okay with that. That’s all that matters, I think: being okay.

Maybe you’re addicted to coffee, but you’re still sleeping okay at night. This is a controlled addiction. You might eat processed sugar every day, but you don’t eat it multiple times per day. You exercise and you eat healthy the majority of the time, and although you need sugar every day, you’re not on the road to type II diabetes, you’re okay. You need two glasses of wine with dinner, but you don’t black out or brown out or get hungover (usually). You’re okay.

As for my internet addiction, I need to create as I consume, or else the internet drops me into an unnatural state of passivity. I want to be part of the conversation. I want to share as I learn and speak as I listen. This is how I stay balanced.

It makes sense according to this article, which says the more you create, the more you “deserve to consume.” Your happiest days are directly correlated to the amount of things you create compared to the things consumed. Of course, this ratio is different for everyone, and the author guides you, step-by-step, how to find yours.

Creating something does not always have a tangible result such as a blog entry or cash or a degree. It can mean making a loved one smile, teaching a child the importance of saying thank you, or introducing yourself to a stranger. I attended the Pacific Northwest Bloggers meet-up this past Saturday night, and I can see the creation from that night (new relationships and brand awareness surrounding Herbal Philosophy) has spilt over into this week. And yes, I feel happier.

When I make dinner as I prefer to do, I tend to feel better about what I am eating. Not because it is necessarily healthier, but because somewhere in my subconscious mind, I feel this food will deeply nourish my body as it has been tailored to my tastes and customized by my whims. In some ways, one’s mentality about food is more important than the food itself.

For weeks this past winter, as freezing temperatures prevented us from going outside, my dining room table remained permanently covered with magazines and their clippings (we eat in the kitchen). My littles and I had an ongoing project: cut out pictures from magazines. I had an ultimate vision for mine, an inspirational collage, a vision board of sorts, while the kids just love pretty pictures and using children’s scissors. This activity proved to be easy and fun, and best of all, it felt good. Simple creations can be profound, rudimentary art projects can reveal God. (Like when Giovanna asked me to cut out a tiny picture of a tiny doll amongst zillions in a Pottery Barn Kids Christmas catalog, and the doll happened to be named Giovanna.)

But I am not always a merry little creator. I get writer’s block. I hit dry spells with the tea promotions and orders. I’d rather eat out. When I go shopping, even for necessities, I almost always feel that familiar tinge of guilt. Though I am not addicted to shopping, I once was. In some ways, I am still in recovery, and I prefer to avoid malls. But after reading the article about creating vs. consuming, I wonder if there’s a way to balance the equation. Perhaps by donating clothes to the Goodwill every time I go shopping? Or by holding a garage sale and selling that which I no longer use? Or by digging up my old sewing machine and making something new out of something old?

Though I’ve known for some time that creating is my life-blood, I’ve never correlated it so directly with happiness. This new awareness is a breath of fresh air, an expansion and an answer I’ve been seeking. I don’t know exactly how it will change my life, or how to strike the elusive balance between consuming and creating, I only know that I can and I will.

In the meantime, please do join me as I create on my new Tumblr site, my creative writing blog, and of course, over at Herbal Philosophy Teas. I am also on instagram, twitter, and pinterest.

“The opposite of happiness isn’t sadness–it’s boredom.”

- Timothy Ferris

I will not put on my rose-colored glasses and pretend that none of this is happening: Mommy Wars, hate crimes, internet stalkers. We say things like “be kind for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle” and then we turn around to slap each other in the virtual face. The Mommy Wars [...]]]>

I will not put on my rose-colored glasses and pretend that none of this is happening: Mommy Wars, hate crimes, internet stalkers. We say things like “be kind for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle” and then we turn around to slap each other in the virtual face. The Mommy Wars wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for the veil of the internet that so many hide behind. But the internet can’t protect you from anything, not even yourself. In judging others, we only judge ourselves.

Over at HuffPost Parents, Kim Bongiorno recently shared her five year-old’s diary with the world here. Kim wrote:

Was it a place she wrote what worries her? Is she describing her scary dreams at night? Is she sad I made her and her brother clean the basement for hours this weekend? Does she not understand why sometimes Daddy works late at night or travels for days at a time?

Curiosity got the best of me, and with a heavy, worried heart, I unlocked her diary to see what was inside.

What did I find?

Love.

She has been practicing sounding out words and spelling them phonetically by making a long list of all the things she loves, all the things that make her happy.

I found this to be a heart-warming story. A mother watching out for her young daughter, a mother wanting to know what’s going on in her daughter’s brain, a mother who truly cares. A girl with a happy life, who knows what she loves (cold water, gold, friends) and what she wants (flowers, a slime bath) and who she is (weird–aren’t we all?). But Kim received harsh criticism for invading her daughter’s privacy and posting it on the internet. And so I commented:

This fills my heart with happiness. You’re doing a great job, mama. (And hell, if I was suspicious or worried about my daughter at any age, from 5 to 25, I’d dive into the diary if I could get my hands on it. It’s your duty as a parent to protect your child, above all else.)

I received multiple responses to my comment, including but not limited to:

I hope you aren’t a parent and never become one.

May you never have children.

I feel sorry for your daughter if you have one.

I would be lying if I said these words didn’t sting. Perhaps my comment was misunderstood. I will do anything to protect my child, and if I thought I needed to read her diary to do so, I would. But only if I deeply felt I needed to. Kim Bongiorno had “a heavy, worried heart.” (Any parent should know how this feels, how nature makes it impossible not to worry about our little ones until the worry consumes everything inside of us.) What  if the secrets were grim? What if an adult inappropriately touched her or another child bullied her? There are some things in this world more important than a five year-old’s privacy, and it is a five year-old’s well-being. If your daughter couldn’t properly wipe away her own excrement and she didn’t want you to do it for her, would you respect her so-called privacy, or would you let her get an infection in her vagina?

As for sharing it with the internet, well, bloggers share a million details about their children. Why knock it now? Because the girl guarded the diary with lock and key. Scroll up to see a picture of my own locked diary from age 6 and tell me if you think I locked this up because I thought it was cool, or because I wanted to hide my thoughts from the world. Nothing in this diary shames me. I would share every page of it, if I thought anyone cared about its contents. By the time this girl gets around to reading everything her mom has ever written about her (if she ever does), the private thoughts of her five year-old self will become irrelevant.

Would anyone besides a mother care about reading a five year-old’s diary? No. If the five year-old has something to hide, which she doesn’t, shouldn’t a parent know about it? Or would it be better to let the abuse continue? (You never know.) Maybe it would it be better to occupy the opposite end of the spectrum and be neglectful?

As small children, we need nothing but the devoted love of our parents. Everything else follows: attention, care, education. We do not need toys or Disneyland or locked diaries. This tiny girl is obviously loved. Her innocence is obviously preserved. She will be okay.

Perhaps the critics feel their privacy breached by the internet every day, and so they are lashing out. Perhaps the critics do not have five year-olds who write of love and wishes, and so they are envious. Perhaps the critics wish they had a parent who cared deeply about them, and so they are hurt.

The critics represent the kind of people who see the bad rather than the good, who take themselves too seriously, who think parenting is about more than loving your child the best way you know how.

This mindset fuels the Mommy Wars.

These critical people believe in rules, they believe there is one right way for a billion unique individuals (their way), they believe that one flick of a wrist will fuck up a child for life. Worst of all, they believe that spewing venom and judgment will bring them power, rather than take it away.

via pinterest

It’s been a while since I added to this blog’s virtual bookshelf, though I’ve been keeping up with my Goodreads account. I just finished a novel too good not to share with as many people as possible. I can remember the first time I picked it up at Elliot Bay Books. The year was [...]]]>

It’s been a while since I added to this blog’s virtual bookshelf, though I’ve been keeping up with my Goodreads account. I just finished a novel too good not to share with as many people as possible. I can remember the first time I picked it up at Elliot Bay Books. The year was 2010, I was a new mother and  attracted by the cover art: primary colors, child’s handwriting. I read the first several pages and though I didn’t have the budget for a brand new hardcover, I was captivated enough to make a mental note. Read this. Life happened, my reading list grew and shifted. So many books, so little time.

I don’t remember how I remembered it, but I did. Last week I checked out Room by Emma Donoghue from the Seattle Public Library, and I read it in three busy days. Room is told from the perspective of five year old Jack. An angel of a boy who loves his Ma, Dora the Explorer and Dylan the Digger. He was born in Room, a garden shed converted to a prison cell, where his Ma has been held captive for seven years. He has never left Room. Ma and Jack have no windows, but they have Skylight, TV, Sundaytreat (brought by Ma’s captor, Old Nick) and one another. To Jack, Room contains the world, ten feet by ten feet.

Ma has attempted to escape many times, every day in fact (Jack calls this Scream), without success. The walls are layered with soundproofing materials and a chain link fence. Not until Jack turns five does he learn that he is a prisoner. A whole world, a dizzying world, exists somewhere Outside. Though he’d rather stay in the only home he’s ever known, Jack follows Ma’s directions and makes the Great Escape. I won’t give away any more, except for to say that I never imagined Ma’s ingenious plan would work, until it did, and then I couldn’t imagine any other way out. She solved the ultimate riddle, she made a world out of a garden shed for her son, and she got out of the garden shed to show her son the world.

This book captured the absolute devotion and love of not only a mother for her child, but also a child for his mother. It is a story of bravery, perspective and love. Read this book, and prepare to be changed. I am.

If we waited for the rain to slow, we’d miss out on a lot. And if we waited for the sun to shine, we’d miss out on even more. Staying inside only feeds the grudge against the flatness of the gray sky. I’ve found there’s no better [...]]]>

If we waited for the rain to slow, we’d miss out on a lot. And if we waited for the sun to shine, we’d miss out on even more. Staying inside only feeds the grudge against the flatness of the gray sky. I’ve found there’s no better prescription for the rainy day blues than to get out, and get wet.

Now that Giovanna is three, with crazy long legs (95th percentile for height!) and an adventurous spirit, we leave the stroller at home more and more. I let her choose our destination, or sometimes, we walk without one. We come upon hidden staircases (they’re everywhere in Seattle, just check out this blog), unwinding plants and fallen blooms. She fills my pockets with dandelions and we make wishes on dandelion ghosts. She gathers rocks and petals and lusts after tulips, which she calls rainbow flowers.

I have a deep love of taking mindful walks while observing nature, and now I have the privilege of cultivating this same love in my daughter. The simplest pleasures continue to be the most profound.

“And forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.” ~Khalil Gibran

It’s possible that every store in America sells something that Giovanna wants. Slap a Disney Princess across the front and she’s sold. Which means I’m saying no a lot. No to the princess balloons (unless it’s Valentine’s Day!). No to the sugar-loaded treats displayed so prettily in the cafes. No [...]]]>

It’s possible that every store in America sells something that Giovanna wants. Slap a Disney Princess across the front and she’s sold. Which means I’m saying no a lot. No to the princess balloons (unless it’s Valentine’s Day!). No to the sugar-loaded treats displayed so prettily in the cafes. No to the candy-flavored lipsmackers at the checkout stand. I don’t even dare venture into the toy aisle.

It’s not your birthday, I say. Maybe for Christmas. Finish your bedtime chart, and I’ll buy it for you.

But then we celebrate Easter and she gets the Mermaid Barbie. Then, I find a dress on clearance at Old Navy or on the racks at Value Village, and why not? Kids need clothes often–they won’t stop growing and/or wrecking their clothes. I feel like I’m always buying her something.

And then there’s Emile, who could care less about the clothes we buy or don’t buy him, but sees an average of three Christmases (his mom’s house, our house, my parents’ house), three birthdays (his mom’s house, our house, his party with friends) and weekly gifts from his mother when he behaves well in school. It works though, he hasn’t gotten a red mark in a long while. As for Gigi, I’m not sure how I would have potty trained her without the potty chart. Bribery works absolute wonders for both of them.

I worry because I want my children to be intrinsically motivated rather than extrinsically. I want them to do good and be good because it feels good, not because they want a new lego toy or princess dress. I don’t want them to have the “I wants.” I don’t want them obsessed with material possessions and amassing more. 

I want them to understand the value in giving and receiving a gift. I want to foster their imaginations with lego toys and princess dresses. I want them to cherish what they have. I want it be as simple as reminding them over and over again that everything costs money (I had an interesting conversation with Emile about this the other week. I’m still not sure he believes that the only thing truly free in life is nature), that we must spend it discreetly rather than frivolously. But I’m nervous that every time I say yes, every time I bribe, every time I try to buy their love with little gifts, I’m messing them up.

The other day at the grocery store, Gigi flipped out when I said no to a bag of Pirate’s Booty. With my three year old on the ground, tired and hungry, and my own stomach rumbling, I gave in. I said, “get up right now and I’ll buy you Pirate’s Booty.” Less than $3 for a peaceful shopping trip. I felt bad about buying more processed food, but I felt even worse about giving in. I’d been through too many of those public episodes in the previous week, and in the moment, I cared more about preserving my sanity than getting my way, asserting my power, saying no. 

Is it okay to choose our battles and occasionally say yes? Or should I ask our birthday party guests not to bring gifts? Could I even convince Santa Claus to take it easy? Is it okay to spoil our children, here and there? Or will we end up with lazy sons and shoplifting daughters? I don’t think so, but I also think that anything is possible, and how we raise our children matters immensely in the end. We have such limited control over our little ones, and we lose it exponentially with every inch they grow. While I still have the chance, I want to give them the best possible start at life. I’ve never heard an adult say, geez, I really wish my parents had spoiled me a bit more.

Do you worry about spoiling your children? Do they expect you to buy them stuff all the time? Even if you say no often, do they continue to ask? How did you teach them the value of a dollar?