keeping it real

© amy pang

Right now, my daughter is enjoying some solo time with the Disney Infinity video game. I'm upstairs, writing and winding down from work. I am trying not to feel guilty about not spending time with her. Because we had a quiet dinner together and did an errand earlier. That counts. And now we're being introverted and recharging.

One of the challenges about parenting is dealing with the mindset that you're supposed to be all-nurturing and all-knowing. You are expected to spend quality time, aka your free waking hours, with your spawn. How many articles have we read about the fallout when we don't read with them every day, when we don't have a family dinner every day, when we are not micromanaging everything from homework checklists to whether they're wearing the right socks for soccer?

Being a mindful parent can drive even the most zen-like of souls to fretful self-doubt. It is far, far easier to slack off. How many times can we tell kids to feed the cat, or throw away the snack wrapper, or remember what can be composted and what can be recycled, and not feel like a broken record? It's tedious. Exasperating. I don't like being a nag. I don't like being nagged. Does anyone?

And then when you need to mentally check out just to regroup, there's that sensation that you're neglecting them. You can't win.

I've been working on getting over my guilt. I'm a single parent; by necessity, I need to chill out regularly, or everything goes sideways. Both of these guys are old enough to be functional and independent without me hovering 24/7, and they are learning to make good decisions.

So, here's what we're doing. I keep an open door at all times, literally and figuratively. I may be upstairs and the kids are downstairs, but they know that they can come talk with me about anything and at any time. No question is too trivial, and certainly all questions get answers, even if it's a "seriously???" There are agreed-upon household guidelines that everyone follows, and there is freedom within that framework. Everyone in the household has a valid opinion; I don't believe in an authoritative structure that prevents children from sharing their thoughts honestly. I still am the final arbiter, of course - otherwise we'd be awash with too many video games and endless craft supplies - but decisions are made by consensus and compromise.

I'm hoping that my openness and acceptance will continue through their teenaged years, when the communication lines and our connection will be severely tested. I'll know very soon if my philosophy sticks.

In honor of my father on this day.

on FB but I'd like to repost here for journaling's sake.

My impossibly chic, mod parents in Hong Kong, 1967. My dad is no longer with us, and I wish I had photos of him and me, but suffice to say that he was a compassionate, wise, and hardworking man who got me and accepted without question how much of a pain in the ass I was (and in some ways still am). He watched out for me and tried to guide me as best he knew how.

He had great insight into people and situations but wasn't bombastic or didactic about sharing his opinion.

He had a much harder life than he deserved.

I miss him. I regret that he isn't physically here to see all of his grandchildren grow up. But, a bit of him lives in me, in my daughter, and in my son. And, I still ask for his advice every so often.

Happy Father's Day, daddy. I hope you're still checking up on us when you can, in between rooting for the Giants and listening to 33s on your record player.

father's day without the father

Father's Day is inevitably bittersweet because my dad is no longer with us. My kids have no memory of him. He would've really enjoyed them. Gently teasing Z and irritating her on purpose. Joking with O. Showing them his birds. Telling them stories. Watching Giants' games on tv with them. And World Cup.

As much as I'm a logical, thoughtful person, this continues to haunt me.

When O was born in early October 2005, my dad went into his final coma, never really waking up again save for a few feeble gestures. I found out the second day I was in the hospital, recuperating after the birth. My sister called; my mother did not want to tell me. I was such a morass of emotions and hormones at that point that it didn't register. I don't remember feeling anything save for a hollowness that was soon filled with brain-obliterating exhaustion.

He died over Thanksgiving weekend that same year. He knew of O, I was told, and the few photos I had brought to him of O were taped on his last bed in the hospital.

As O is growing up - and turns five this year - I can see my dad in him. The love of life and small pleasures. The genuine care he shows to people in distress. The flashes of temper. Without sounding too new age-y, I'd like to think that the best parts of my dad's spirit have come to reside in O during the birth and death cycle. And maybe that's how we perpetuate our legacies.

the catch-up and current events

It's been a while since my mind has been clear enough to post. Work was a priority - one massive project after another. One more deadline this Friday and no - I repeat, no - deadlines next week. I'm trying to line up some interviews for potential new staff. I need to trek to a few art stores to source portfolios to hold our collateral (oh, twist my arm). So, fun projects lay in the horizon to break up the routine.

During this time, I read a lot in between deadlines. I had no other way to destress. I picked up Hand Wash Cold by Karen Maezen Miller, a Zen Buddhist priest. Reading this book centered me, calmed me, readjusted some debilitating negative emotions within me. I'm still referring to various chapters when times get rough.

A bright spot to spring was our family camp excursion to Camp Jones Gulch. A big success all around, except for the bunk beds. I must be getting on because bed comfort was never a strong suit with me, but waking up completely sore was not the most amazing experience ever.

We hiked, explored the woods, poked around streams, kissed banana slugs (well, Mr. O did), played games, swam in the crazy cold pool (all but me, I knew better), gorged on classic camp food, watched part of 'The Princess Bride' on movie night, climbed a terrifying 42-foot tall rock wall (none of us made it to the top), rode horses, observed chickens, admired the garden and compost heap, and other things too numerous to list here.

One lovely memory from our long weekend was Z waking up at the crack of dawn and pulling opening the gingham curtains of our ramshackle cabin to see what was outside. She lay there for a good half hour, peacefully observing.

School is winding down for the year. Summer day camp starts next week for the minis. I feel that this is really going to be a kick-ass summer, even though it is foggy and damp in my part of town.

earth hour = lovely blip in time

We had the lights off and a single Method lavender lemongrass candle burning while watching "Mulan" on tv. Which, yes, sort of defeats the purpose, but laying in the big bed with the kids snuggled in on either side in the semi-darkness made for a cozy, lazy, winding down moment. We don't get enough of those.

I have been thinking about memory and what we retain from our childhoods. What would my two remember? Would they specifically remember that moment of warmth and love, or perhaps an impression of that coziness? Am I doing enough to create those positive memories? I am astounded by how much Z remembers from being three and heartened that they are primarily good memories - having ice cream, going to the playground, playing in the backyard of the Chicago house, her bedroom there, making snow angels. I can't shield her or O from the necessary components of growing up, though. Eventually, they will encounter grave disappointment, heartbreak, and loss. But from their positive memories, I hope they develop a foundation of trust in me, that they know that I would not turn them away or judge when unhappiness occurs.

Today was filled with loving moments as well as impatience and anger - all in a day's work when you're alone with two highly energetic children. At the end of the day, we came back to love in the form of snuggling on the bed, O kicking me sporadically. 

happy birthday, little man.

happy birthday, little man.,
originally uploaded by urban mama.

I’m gonna tell my son to grow up pretty as the grass is green
And whip-smart as the English Channel’s wide...
Liz Phair, “Whip-Smart”

Mr. Guy,

I cried when the nurses put you on my chest for the first time. Maybe it was because I wasn’t expecting you for another two weeks. Maybe it was because your sister - all 21 months of her - was present for your birth since the sitter came down with strep and was sitting in an emergency room waiting for treatment. And maybe it was because it was the start of an incredibly complex relationship between me and you, mother and son. You were born when a show called “The Sopranos” was big and that deals with the ramifications of a twisted mother/son relationship, among other things. You’re not allowed to watch it until you’re at least 18, by the way. I don't need you going all AJ on me.

I promise you that I will never hold you back from what you want to do, unless I sense that what you’re about to do has nothing to do with what you feel in your heart but more about what other people are telling you to do. I had a friend once whose mother was slowly dying of cancer. He wanted to move across the country to live out a dream but didn’t want to leave her. She made him go, saying that it would be selfish of her to keep him tethered when he had an entire life to life. That’s how I feel about you and your sister. You have grand opportunities waiting to be seized. Don’t hold back.

For now, as you turn the Important Age of Two, I will delight in your open mouthed kisses, your tackle hugs, your fake whiny cry which sounds a little like a broken ambulance siren, your anger at being thwarted from causing yourself real bodily harm, your willingness to try anything on my plate - even the garnish, your persistence and patient determination in opening doors you’re not supposed to open, and your mischevious, grabbing life by the balls, joyful disposition. In the words of Marge Simpson, you’re my special little guy. And yes, you can watch “The Simpsons” before you’re 18. It’ll probably still be running.

cooking = love

I read an article on nytimes.com today, where the writer, Leslie Kaufman, discusses how to cook meals for entire family consumption with the understanding that certain younger members of the family will eat one thing out of the seven you bring to the table.

The one line that resonated with me was:

"I committed to cooking a family meal when my first son was born...not because of any psychology study about the well-being of children, but because it gave me comfort."

Cooking for la familia is a means by which I express my love. Even if we're having hot dogs, there will be fresh fruit and maybe a vegetable or legume snuck in there. I put a lot of thought into balancing flavors and food groups. By cooking, I feel as though I'm extending a part of myself to those who consume the meal. Through the meal, I'm saying, "I want you to enjoy this meal in the present, and it's okay if you don't remember it in the future. When you eat what I prepare, I want you to feel comforted, loved, relaxed."

I work full-time, so my time spent at work is vague and incomprehensible to the minis. It doesn't make an impact, yet, to discuss things like wages, inflation and the cost of living. But if I can manage to assemble dinner daily - okay, we get takeout every so often - I'm hoping that I'm establishing a ritual of sorts. Long after they've left for college or other pastures, they will retain some internal memory of mama providing something to eat almost every day. It'll be part of my legacy.

why I love the peeps at America's Test Kitchen

Today's e-mail newsletter had this wonderful, genius tidbit of advice:

KITCHEN ADVICE: Leak-Free Ice Cream Cones
The real tragedy of a dripping ice cream cone isn't the mess, but the loss of the last little bit of ice cream. One solution to a leak-free cone is to create a barrier between the melting ice cream and the cone tip. Two kid-friendly obstructions are an upside-down Hershey's Kiss and a mini marshmallow.

Brilliance, I tell you. Sheer brilliance!

to the left, to the left

I'm listening to Beyonce singing "Irreplaceable"*. It is a sterling example of a pop song done right. Catchy melody, girl power theme, kicking bad boyfriend to the curb - what else does one need?

The premise of the song is interesting. Seems that Beyonce's man has been misbehaving - "Because you was untrue/Rolling her around in the car that I bought you" - and he's a kept man to boot. She's kicking him out of her house, taking back all the gifts, telling him, "I can have another you in a minute/Matter fact, he'll be here any minute."

Snap!

Despite all the tough chick posturing, she allows one moment of vulnerability: "So since I'm not your everything/How about I'll be nothing/Nothing at all to you?" That's why we fall in love; we want to be the center of the universe, the locus of our lover's life. And when we fall out of orbit, it's a disorienting feeling. We feel betrayed, unwanted, insecure. We reach the crossroads: do we continue with this person for whom we fell so deeply, or do we roll the dice and find another?

The trade-off for high passion and the rush of being with someone new is tending a slow burning and oftentimes unexciting flame. Let's be honest - relationships are hard work. Otherwise, you wouldn't see as many people giving up as you do. But there are times when something has run its course, and we need to be intuitive enough to recognize it.

Then we can step off to the left and move on.


* yeah, I know this song was released ages ago. And it's still damn good.

eq

Z is now getting into the habit of saying "I love you" at spontaneous moments. I thoroughly encourage this. When she gets to be of a certain age, the ability to say "I love you" without reservation to the love[s] of her life will be crucial.

I didn't grow up in an emotionally open household; to this day I repress a lot of things that I shouldn't. It's plain unhealthy. This is one thing that I don't want to bequeath to my children. The repression, I think, keeps me from being completely emotionally involved in relationships. True intimacy is very scary. When I've tried to be more open with my feelings, I've been shot down, ridiculed, dismissed. And that makes me even more angry and withdrawn and disinclined to be deeply and truly involved.

But what I can do is not let this manifest in my kids. I've horrified myself by hearing the words "That's not a big deal, stop crying" come out of my mouth. Why not just say, "Whatever you're feeling is unimportant"? Same effect, no? I freely admit it's an ass pain to be endlessly patient, infinitely understanding, but I see in Z now that approaching problems with logic and compassion goes much further than saying "Because I said so." She's a fabulous little girl and goddamnit, I'm not going to hinder her emotional development in any way.

I don't let a day go by without saying "I love you" to each of them. Maybe I overcompensate by kissing and hugging them all too much. But I've never know a kid their ages to turn down a kiss and a hug. Somehow, I'm doing something right.

the happy prince

I've had a couple of days this past week with some heavy-duty mama and son time. I don't spend nearly as much time with O as I should because Z lays first claim to my free time constantly.

On one of the days, he had some 24-hour stomach bug that caused copious vomiting, and we spent the day at home recuperating. He wasn't that sick; he demanded a wagon ride around the block and enjoyed the sprinkler action on various lawns. I put him down for his nap and held his hand until he was nearly out. It's a special move that we have.

We had grandparents in town this weekend, and it was a whirlwind of food and activity. On Sunday, D-Money took Z down to Oak Park, where they were staying, so O and I trekked to the supermarket to get a few things. I broke one of my self-imposed cardinal rules and opened a bag of goldfish crackers so he could munch while we shopped. But he thoroughly enjoyed himself and was fascinated by the piles and stacks of seemingly endless food. Not once did he try to escape the cart - a new milestone.

The one thing I'm working on right now is weaning him from the milk bottle. He's ready. It's a bit of a wrench - though not as much as stopping breastfeeding - but he's been able to fall asleep without needing the bottle for the past several days. It's time.

So now I'm without a baby in the house. After three years, it's an odd feeling. Sad, but liberating. No more dragging of huge tote bags filled with baby paraphenalia - back to normal-sized, cute handbags for mom. No more double stroller - both kids demand to walk or run amok. No more special baby food - O will eat everything from gnocchi to lobster.

Back to my happy prince - he's a good egg. A destructive, highly energetic, mischievous, charming egg, but a good one.

songs that moved me today

Hallelujah / Jeff Buckley

Accidental Babies / Damien Rice

I'm getting good at this camera phone stuff.

mama and daughter ready for close-up,
originally uploaded by urban mama.

Today was a washout of a day in terms of social activities, so Zee and I walked down to the DQ for some icy cold goodness. I started messing around with the camera phone and took this groovy shot. I'm damn proud of myself. I wish I could've gotten more of her face, and less of mine, but still, not bad!

The DQ cone I got her was about as big as her head. It was allegedly a "small". Ha.

random moment no. 912

The minis having a "laughing party" - Zee's words - in the back seat of the station wagon during a supercraptastic commute home. I don't know what inspired the party, but I can report that there was chuckling, chortling, giggling, guffawing and full-on belly laughing.

when did I become such a sap?

Two of the most beautiful people I know - I'm talking full-package, all-around, inside and outside beautiful - just welcomed the birth of their second son and sent a Quicktime movie to all of us. I sat, watching and trying not to weep loudly, as the tiny one kicked, stretched and made newborn mouth movements. He has an older brother who's a couple weeks shy of 16 months old and who's also a beautiful, sweet little man.

This movie nearly sealed the deal for me having a third kid. Almost.