Acupuncture

by Ashley filed under Motherhood, Pregnancy

03.08.201603.07.2016

The office walls were practically covered in pictures sent in by previous patients; women and their baby bumps posing with him as well as images of newborns accompanied by the sweetest of thank you cards. Cards that read things like, “Thank you for helping us bring baby X into the world” or “You worked magic on my fertility issues so-much-so that I’m now pregnant again, thank you” and so on and so forth.

Little sentiments of gratitude from women that at one time lacked hope and then, BAM, got pregnant and seemingly owed all the good cheer to this unassuming, gentle doctor.

It’s not the first time I’ve done acupuncture. I gave it a try when I was pregnant with Hooper as well. It wasn’t a great experience for a lot of reasons. There was the one session that very nearly made me pass out. I seem to be prone to passing out, especially while pregnant. But the more annoying thing was when the girl who ran the place started texting me on a regular basis to see if I was in labor. She just became one more person to answer to and one more person to have to give the defeated “nope, not in labor yet” news to.

When he – the man in all the pictures that covered the walls like wallpaper – walked in the room I said, “I see you have good results with getting the babies in, do you also have good results with getting them out?”. “Oh yes, we do that too”, he said. I couldn’t seem to find one thank you note that spoke to the exit of said babies… but I wanted to believe him.

I was given the option to sit or lay down and I opted to sit. As he punctured my skin ever-so-slightly with the needles, I could feel my nerves twinge. My index finger started jerking. He told me this was normal. I sat there, the lights off, my fingers twitching, and my palms beginning to get clammy. I know what this means. Next thing I know everything is getting a bit fuzzy. I know I need to lay down but I’m not sure how to maneuver the contraption that is hooked up to the needles that are making my fingers do the jerky dance. I call out for someone to come help.

They unhook me and set me up once again, this time lying down. My vision clears, my hands dry, and my fingers continue with their herky jerky dance. A few minutes later, I’m unhooked, told to call “if” I need another appointment (which truthfully made me giggle internally — I felt like setting up at least five more appointments right then and there), paid $85 (insert big eyes here) and went home to sit on the toilet because beyond a few stomach cramps, I felt nothing.

The desperate part of me wanted to call first thing the next morning and schedule another appointment. But truthfully, I didn’t enjoy it, it wasn’t cheap, and I’m not having any issues with constipation.

And so, as I’m checking things off the ol’ natural induction list, I’m getting more and more comfortable with just waiting and trusting that sometime soon this baby will come. Because, well, it will.

Herky jerky fingers or not.

And so, I figure my days are better spent with my boys, savoring the last of the days where I have a one to one ratio in terms of hands to kids. Hoping that having a third grants me some monkey status, where my feet become equally useful as my hands. That’s a thing, right? Monkey status?

The reality of announcing a third…

by Ashley filed under Motherhood, Pregnancy

01.29.201601.27.2016

There’s a definite let down that comes with telling those closest to you that you’re having another child, a third child.

While the presumably hormonally me wants to hide in a corner and cry, the logical me gets it; I mean everyone jumps for joy when you tell them you’re pregnant with your first. And then when the second comes around, nobody is really too shocked because most people do go on to have more than one child. And I think people place a weird hope that you’ll have one of the opposite sex than what you already have because for whatever reason people think one of each is best. But by the time number three comes along, and presumably any after three, it feels like everyone thinks you’re a bit crazy, a bit over-your-head, or careless in the preventing pregnancy department. People get so excited when you’re pregnant for the first time. No one seems to care when you’re pregnant for the third time.

I think my parents immediately felt the sense that there’d be implications for them. Like when we got Jimmie and their first response was not “what are going to name him” but instead “we’re not going to watch him”. They watch the boys once a week for part of the day and I’m sure they’re trying to wrap their heads around how the scene is going to look (or work, for that matter) with an infant thrown into the mix.

If I could document the faces of both Willy and I’s parent’s faces from finding out about each of our pregnancies, they’d look something like this:

-Hooper: Big eyes, big smiles, lots of confetti
-Van: Big eyes, hands over the mouth as if to say “so soon?!”
-This baby: Straight line to symbolize the mouth, as if to say “I’m too nervous to smile”

For those that have more than two children, was your experience similar? I think as we get closer to the end of this pregnancy and everyone has been given several months of anticipation that excitement, too, has build… but I definitely felt more judgement and less excitement in the beginning. I suppose you can never rule out hormones either… Anyway, curious what other have experienced in this department.

*Images taken back in November by the lovely Tish Carlson

38 Years…

by Ashley filed under Motherhood

01.15.201601.14.2016

It’s always so interesting to look at old photos of my parents… as I’m sure it is for anyone. The idea of them existing in a similar point in time as I am now… parents to my sister and I… struggling in perhaps the same ways Willy and I struggle with parenthood. In any event, my parents just celebrated their 38th wedding anniversary and when I asked my mom what it’s like to be married for nearly four decades, she simply said, “makes me wonder where the time has gone and who those old people in the mirror are”. Hoping Willy and I can make 38 years look as good as they do.

Happy Anniversary Mom & Dad, love you guys.

Slow down

by Ashley filed under Hooper, Motherhood

04.13.2015

I caught myself as the words “you’ll understand when you’re older” rolled off my tongue. It was like I was sitting in the backseat and my mom was driving, only I was driving and Hooper was sitting in the backseat. What I’m trying to say is that the damn tables have turned.

We were on the way to preschool when Hooper asked me why Van doesn’t go to preschool yet. I explained that Van is still too young, to which he responded by puffing his proverbial feathers and declaring, “ya, I’m a big kid, Mama”. Only it was followed by, “but why you not want me to grow too fast, Mama?”.

I guess he’s caught on to my nagging insistence that he slow down. I’ve pleaded with him, a couple of times, during our many cuddle sessions – praise the Lord he still loves to cuddle – to not grow up so fast.

I couldn’t explain it to him, so the words “you’ll understand when you’re older” simply had to suffice. But really, Hooper, slow down.

Van’s birth story, from a different perspective

by Ashley filed under Guest Posts & Interviews, Home Birth, Motherhood, Parenting

03.03.2015

A few months ago my sister and I had a conversation about having babies and Van’s (pseudo) home birth story came up. It’s come up before, but as time has passed, I’ve been more open to seeing it through someone else’s eyes. I still have my own opinions on the day, but I do think that should a third be in our future it would not be born at home. That’s partly because Willy has already downright insisted that it cannot be born at home; but it’s also because I partly agree. Been there, tried that. Twice.

Anyway, here’s Van’s big day, as told from the perspective of my sister, who was there to witness it.

My beef with home birth

Before my sister (the writer of this lovely blog, the stork herself) got pregnant with her first, Hooper, I didn’t really think much about home birth. I kind of associated it with yesteryear—women in log cabins on prairies and shit. I mean, why would sane people have babies at home when they can take a car ride to a hospital?

But, my sister explained it to me and, with her nurse background, she was rather convincing. I get it. Women want to be in the comfort of their own home. They want it to be peaceful. They don’t want machines and drugs and interventions pushed on them by a medical team that is concerned only with not getting sued, insurance coverage, and turning beds as fast as possible. Home birth sounds very romantic. That’s all fine and dandy, but keep in mind that I once thought it was romantic to be 23, eating beans out of a can for dinner with my broke-ass boyfriend.

With Hooper, my sister ended up in the hospital, against her wishes. She was overdue and they had to induce her. Then she couldn’t get the baby out, so they wheeled her to the OR. Using every stubborn ounce of strength in her body, she had the baby naturally in the OR room. The whole thing was rather touch-and-go, as they say. Willy couldn’t talk about it for weeks.

The second time, I was there. I didn’t think I would be. Her due date passed and my husband and I left on a 7-day backpacking trip in the Sierras, planned months in advance. We didn’t have cell coverage. I thought for sure we’d come back to hear she’d had the baby, but no. She was overdue again. The morning after we got back—I like to think Van was waiting for us—we got a very calm call saying she was in labor. They were deploying the big tub at home, the midwife was on her way. I was in tears driving up through Los Angeles traffic. I was convinced I’d miss the delivery because of all those a-holes on their way to work. Little did I know that births aren’t as fast and simple as they look on TV.

When I got there, she was just starting to push. She was in and out of the tub. She was on the floor. She was moaning, screaming.

My dad and I tried our best to distract Hooper, who was obviously worried. He insisted on wearing his toy stethoscope.

After what seemed like hours, the midwife started whispering to her assistant and we all started to wonder what was happening. Once again, my sister was having trouble getting the baby out. In hindsight, the difficulty probably had something to do with the crazy curve in her spine, which shifted all of her insides. She’d mentioned the scoliosis to her midwife, but didn’t really stress the severity of it (after all, she’d lived with it for years—was it that big of a deal? Um, yes, probably). I was terrified that she would get the head out and the body would be stuck. I’d heard horror stories. Willy was terrified that his wife was going to die. Sure, he thinks in extremes, but I understood his fear.

The midwife made the decision to call the ambulance. A couple guys showed up, put her on a stretcher, and she was gone. We followed behind in a car—my mom, Willy, and me (my dad stayed back at the house with Hooper). The three of us were shaking, terrified.

When we got to the hospital, we rushed to her room. The screaming was intense. I had a moment of feeling bad for any other moms delivering. It sounded like a horror movie in there. Willy was by her side, my mom and I in the hallway. We were crying at that point—scared for my sister and scared for the baby. I told my mom to try to smile, for Ashley. It was my job to document the day.

We heard a big POP—the doctor pushing on my sister’s belly—and then the baby wailing. We started crying more tears, of the relieved variety. We rushed in and saw the baby—he was a big 9-pounder—and quickly understood that things were okay. Willy asked the nurse how scary it was, on a scale from 1 to 10. She looked at us, with almost as much shock in her face as was in ours, and said, “That was a 9.”

My sister hates when people pose for the camera. She likes real emotion. But I think we were all afraid to show the real emotion in our faces that day. We wanted to be strong for her. So we smiled. After all, things turned out okay (even though I thought Van looked like Golem from Lord of the Rings).

My sister wants a third. I’ve told her that if they decide to have that baby, it better be in a hospital. I don’t care if her spine is fixed now. I don’t care that she would love to have the home birth she always wanted. She can go drug-free in a hospital, around professionals who can help her if anything goes awry. My good friend is married to an OBGYN and he says, “Look, most births go totally great. But when something goes wrong, it goes really wrong.” I’m sure lots of mothers have beautiful stories of their births, but for me, as a loved one, my sister’s births were scary. When I got home the day Van was born, I climbed in bed with my husband and I sobbed. I didn’t feel back to normal for days.

I wouldn’t say I’d discourage anyone from doing a home birth. I think it depends on your medical history and all that. I would say to know the risks, and consider the emotional impact on the people around you on that special day. And, make sure to educate those people about what to expect. My sister didn’t seem disturbed by what was going on and that was probably because she had watched lots of gory videos and had talks with her midwife and knew what the hell was happening. I wasn’t prepared, period. I was very fooled by the easy births you see in movies. Even in real life, most women have epidurals and drugs so there is no screaming (seriously, the screaming was the worst part). I watch Keeping Up with the Kardashians occasionally (#sorrynotsorry) and there was an episode when Kourtney Kardashian gives birth. The room was, like, silent. Her family was in there chatting with her. Chatting. She may as well have been getting a pedicure. So, yeah, maybe don’t go into a birth scenario with the Kardashians as your reference point. And if you have romantic notions about home birth, just think it through. Consider all the things you previously thought were romantic that really aren’t—like eating beans out of cans with your broke-ass boyfriend.

Life, interrupted.

by Ashley filed under Motherhood

02.24.2015

I’ve gotten more comfortable calling myself a photographer. In fact, I’m kinda beating myself up for not having the confidence to own the title sooner; but that’s neither here nor there. What I’m less likely to refer to myself as these days is a writer because, well, I’m not a writer.

But these feelings come over me and practically nag me to be put on paper. My fingers beg to be connected to the keyboard. And thoughts torment me until they get written in post format. I’ve been asked how I manage to blog on such a regular basis and the truth is, I need to.

But it’s hard to write you have children. We might as well make the word “write” in the previous sentence a fill-in-the-blank, because whatever it is you like to do, chances are that it’s harder when you have children. Life is constantly interrupted. My train of thought, always broken. I have draft after draft of half-written posts I’m no longer inspired to finish. The moment passes and, with it, so does the urge.

Sometimes I feel guilty turning on a cartoon so I can have a moment to write. Sometimes I feel like my children are the biggest distraction and then I give myself a hard time for referring to my children as a distraction. Living in the moment is a difficult thing when you so badly want to be reflecting on a moment that has already passed.

I’ve learned to adapt. I’ve learned that sometimes you need to live in the moment. I’ve learned that if the spark doesn’t stay lit, it wasn’t that important anyway. And thus, I’ve learned to let go; to embrace motherhood. To get up and make Hooper a snack or go outside and chase Van around when he comes up to me while I’m typing. And if I can come back to my half-written sentence and finish it off, then it was meant to be. If not, I click on that little trash can and call it a day.

Life, with children, is always going to be interrupted. But, like everything, perspective is key. Maybe it’s my thoughts that are interrupting my time with my children. There’s always two tales to every story, isn’t there?

What sacrifices do you make on a daily basis? Sometimes I need a moment to myself to just write and reflect. What do you use your alone time to do?

Bolga Baskets

by Ashley filed under Motherhood

02.18.2015

The other day, as I was cleaning up the house, I thought about just how useful the two bolga baskets we have are. I use them constantly for numerous things; so-much-so that I the thought occurred to me the other day that I ought to write a post about it. Because perhaps what’s useful to me may be useful for you, too.

Bolga baskets are like vinegar – there has to be a least 101 uses. Here’s what I use mine for, on a daily basis:

-Cleaning. Because we live in a multi-level home, I dedicate one basket to the boys room and one basket to our room when I’m cleaning downstairs. They get filled quickly with things like shoes and books and lotions. When each basket is full, I carry them upstairs and unload them. I then put things in the basket from upstairs that belong downstairs. It’s like my very own levy system. I also use them to clean out the car.

-Beach. I throw everything we need for the beach into one of the baskets; a blanket, snacks, sunscreen, etc. Best part is that when we return, the sand shakes out with a few simple slaps to the bottom of the basket.

-School. Every time Hooper has a school event and I need to bring something (i.e., holiday cookies, marshmallows for gingerbread houses, apples for a Thanksgiving feast) I use one of the baskets. It worked out awesome over Christmas when I brought it full of cookies to hand out and left with it filled with all of Hooper’s Christmas artwork and other goodies.

-Grandma’s house. Whenever my parents watch the boys, I load the basket with their blankets (in hopes they will nap), a change of clothes, shoes, and a jacket.

-Traveling. It’s true; If we’re going somewhere just for a couple days, I just throw a few outfits into the basket.

-Blanket holder. When we’re not shoveling shit between homes or different levels of our home, I use them to hold stuff by the front door; blankets, mostly, but also umbrellas, the dog leash, and that sorta stuff.

-Toys. I also use whichever one is empty to store toys or books in. The toys or books get taken out and strewn about rather quickly, so it’s never a permanent home, but when I’m done cleaning up, I will use one for storage.

As I write this, I’m thinking “Ashley, this is a dumb post” because really a paper bag from the grocery store could theoretically do the same thing. But every time I use the baskets, I’m always having a conversation in my head about how useful they are. I love that they are round and deep; you can see everything you put into it so it’s easy to pull stuff out and know where everything is (not like a bag where you have to go fishing to find what you’re looking for). They’re also so well constructed; I’m fairly certain I could run the thing over with my car and it’d still bounce right back to it’s usual shape. They can withstand water and sand; total pluses when you live by the beach.

We bought ours at the Long Beach Flea Market for something like $25, I think. I did a quick etsy search and found this shop that’s based in Ghana (I love this basket and this u-shaped one as well) . When I read more about the shop, I kinda beat myself over the head for not ordering one from here first. Such a great way to support the local craft workers in Ghana.

Now I should probably get off my butt and start picking up all the crap that’s made it’s way to the floor, right?

Chores

by Ashley filed under Motherhood, Parenting

02.17.2015

Van asks to help a lot. And by “help”, what he normally means is that he wants to make my job a thousand times harder and longer than it would be if I simply did it by myself. I feel like a punk every time I tell him “no”. And so, I’ve started giving him his own chores to do while I do mine in an effort to keep his little hands busy. And, by golly, it’s actually been – dare I say – helpful.

Typically, when I empty the dishwasher, he wants to press all of the buttons and make the spinner under the rack go around in circles. It drives me insane. So now, while I put away the bigger stuff – plates and cups – I give him the silverware. You know that I rock feeling you get when you know you’re doing something right as a mother? Well, every time I watch him put the silverware away, I get that feeling. He learned instantly how to differentiate between the sharp knives and the dull ones, the long forks versus the short ones, and when one utensil falls into the wrong section, he always fixes it. It’s pretty special to watch those little wheels spin and he’s pretty stoked with himself when he’s all finished. And hey, it’s one less thing for me to do. I don’t even care that every time I open the silverware drawer it looks like someone threw each piece in from twenty feet away. The disheveled appearance doesn’t bother me one bit.

He also helps me clean the counters. He loves spraying the spray bottle, so I show him where to spray and then I wipe it clean. Teamwork for the win.

The other day, he helped me pot some plants. It was something I was going to wait to do until both of them were sleeping, but I had lots of other things to do with that precious nap time so I decided to involve him instead. Hooper was at preschool. His job was to fill his plastic cup with potting soil and bring it over to where I was and fill the empty pots. My back, and knees, thanked him for not having to get up and down a thousand times myself. And, again, he enjoyed it.

Both of my boys fight over the vacuum. Now there’s a fight I don’t break up.

What kinds of chores do you give your kids to do around the house? It’s one of my New Years resolutions to continue doing this sort of thing. Too often it becomes easier to just do it myself, but I know the lessons embedded in the tasks are more important.

Music & Motherhood

by Ashley filed under Motherhood, Parenting

02.16.2015

You know those moments in motherhood where you feel like time is wasted? Where simply sitting and watching your kid play feels more like laziness than being present? Me too. But, then Pink Floyd’s “Us & Them” came on the radio (yes, we own a radio — I know, I know) and time slowed and I realized that all motherhood needs is a soundtrack.

What tunes would you put on your motherhood soundtrack?

I’m moderating the Childhood Unplugged feed this week on instagram and will be featuring some images of littles playing music. If you have any shots and would like the chance to be featured, use hashtag #childhoodunplugged_music.

Space to run

by Ashley filed under Bits + Pieces, Motherhood, Parenting

02.12.2015

The times that Willy is gone on business trips is always hard. I get thrown back into the survival mode of forcing myself to nap when they nap and go to bed when they go to bed (they wear me the f* out), even though I have a thousand things that I intend to finish… or start, for that matter. And as if they’re little mind readers, these boys pick right up on it; suddenly, they become more rambunctious and more volatile. I’ve learned that I need to stay calm for them to stay calm because in true motherhood fashion, I assume that any bad behavior on their part is somehow reflective of my own anxieties that seem to suddenly rise when solo parenting. And so, I try my best to get out of the house as much as possible. Little trips to the beach to catch sunset give each of us the room we need to breath. I don’t know how single moms or dads do it, I really don’t.

The day shit went right

by Ashley filed under Bits + Pieces, Motherhood, Parenting

02.09.2015

I’ll never be one to deny the inherent difficulties that come with being a mother. By the same token, I’ll never be one to deny the love I have for my children. And it’s because of the latter that the aforementioned difficulties matter less. But sometimes, the Gods throw you a bone. Sometimes, shit goes right.

The other day was one of those days. Only it didn’t start out that way.

Willy left for a business trip, which always causes anxiety to both of us; him because he has to leave us and me because I’m about to have to handle it on my own. And by “it”, I mean the household; the boys, the dishes, the meals, the dog, the potty training routine, the bed time routine… you know the deal. It was 10:35am and I was taking Jimmy out to pee when I realized that it was Tuesday and that I should have dropped Hooper off at preschool two and a half hours ago. I shrugged it off, got the boys dressed, made them a lunch to go, and headed to a nearby wilderness park that we have gone many times before but never this time of year.

We parked at the end of the park and hiked around. The boys climbed up fallen trees, collected sticks, chased one another, played with the water spicket, listened to the birds, and enjoyed the overcast sky that left dew on the long strands of grass. And when I sensed they had had enough, we made the short drive down the road to the park where they built a bird’s nest out of sticks they found on the ground, dug for dinosaur bones in the sand, went down the biggest slide I’ve seen them go down, jumped off rocks that were a little too high for my liking but I tend to take a blind eye to that kinda thing anyway, swung on swings, had sword fights (not of the urinating variety) and learned to use the teeter tauter and tire swing together.

They ate their lunches in separate places but waved as if to say to one another, “you cool?”.

Knowing that he not always understands what I say, I told Hooper, “please remember days like today when you look back on your childhood” and as if he actually understood what I meant, he glanced back in my direction and sincerely said, “I love you”. I can’t make this stuff up. Shortly thereafter, Van came running toward me crying and holding his hand to his head. Midway over, he stopped in his tracks, looked at me, took his hand off his head, changed his look completely, and said, “Mama, I’m okay” and turned around and went back to playing. Miracles, I tell you, miracles.

Something heavenly possessed my children on this day.

Perhaps more important than what there was, was what there was not; not an excessive amount of tears, no fights, slim to none whining (you can sound your party horns now), no injuries, and zero stress. And for that alone, a good day — one of the best I can remember in sometime. Now that’s something for the books. But a post will do.

An Instameet

by Ashley filed under Bits + Pieces, Motherhood, Photography

01.27.2015

Ten years ago, I never would have thought that I’d have a blog and be active in social media or put something ridiculously called an “instameet” together. I would have poked some fun at my future self in the same way I currently make fun of people who “vape”. Now watch, I’ll probably be vaping in a few years. Ha. I guess that’s part of the reason people tell you not to talk shit, because you never know what path life is going to take you.

Lo and behold, I really enjoy meeting new people. Several I have met through my blog and instagram have become real life friends; friends that I would have never met otherwise. I try to remind myself of this when I get all nervous and shy and awkward about the idea of arranging one of these meet-ups. Lucky for me, my girl Cindy is always down and hanging with her is always natural, easy, and a damn good time.

And this meet-up was nothing short of a good time. There was rain in the forecast and as I got in my car at the end, a single drop landed on my head; a reminder that sometimes mother nature is on our side. The kids all got on great. Everyone meshed well. There was even a dad that joined along. Some of us spotted a coyote. We shared snacks. We stopped for occasional photos. It all felt easy, carefree, and natural. It’s a group I would love to hang out with again.

It just dawned on me that I didn’t mention the meet-up here. If we have another and you’d like to come, pop over to my instagram every now and again to see if there’s another in the works. I’m sure we’ll do one again. This one was at the El Dorado Nature Center in Long Beach, which I highly recommend if you have never been before. Absolutely beautiful.

Do things like this make you nervous? I get the feeling a lot of people skip out because meeting new people is intimidating. I can totally relate to that…

Van @ 2 years, 6 months

by Ashley filed under Motherhood, Van

01.26.2015

Growth & Appearance: You’re getting so big so fast. You’re really not far off from Hooper’s height and weight. Someone the other day asked if you guys are twins. You’re able to share a lot of clothes; t-shirts and shorts, for sure, and pants depending on the length. If you can’t share pants, the day Hooper grows out of them, they go into your drawer and fit you perfectly.

You’re fiercely strong. Even your “big squeezes” kinda suffocate the air out of me.

You’ve had a bracelet tied around your little wrist since July. You’re great with wearing hats. If there’s a pair of reading glasses lying around, you will find them and wear them. Always.

Eating: The terrible twos are in full force and it shows at the table. You have no time to eat. You either eat what’s in front of you in record time or push it away and want down. It’s so hit or miss. Breakfast is usually good, but by dinner, you’re over it.

Your favorite foods are bananas, chicken nuggets, yogurt, though it all really changes day to day. The other day you scarfed down green beans and I didn’t even know you liked them.

You sit in a regular chair at the table, but we have yet to transfer the highchair into the garage. So far, so good though.

You’re obsessed with “shoda” (soda). I’m trying to convince your Papa that he should drink something better, like say water, so we can teach you better habits. Until then, you’re a magnet to the stuff.

Sleeping: You’re woken up by Hooper every morning. On the days he has preschool, you’ll typically go back to sleep. I think if you had it your way you’d get up around 8 or 8:30. Hooper has you up closer to 7. You still nap in a pack-n-play that’s squished haphazardly into the spare bathroom. You’re in bed around 8:30.

You most always fall asleep with at least two toys and one book snuggled in next to you. And, of course, you’re still attached to your blanket.

Talking: You had the best stutter that literally lasted for about a week and then completely disappeared. You speak in full sentences and understand concepts.

When you want to know what something does, you ask, “What’s it due’s (does), mama?”, to-which-I-answer, “It due’s ____”.

The other day I said to you, “Van, it sounds like you have a runny nose”, to-which-you responded, “No, Mama, it’s walking’ “.

You pronounce waffle as “raffle”, like you’re from the mid-west or something, mouth as “noufth”, and nothing as “nuffing”.

You also say things a little out of order, like when you dropped something and wanted me to pick it up and said, “Why you not pick up it?”.

Development: You are stubbornly independent and want to do everything by yourself.

You took a toy truck away from a boy smaller than you at the park the other day. When he started chasing you to get it back, you threw his truck in the trash can. It was not a trash can you could stick your hand down. Way to make me look like number one mom.

You throw a mean tantrum. We haven’t had to suffer through too many in public, so I guess there’s that.

You have a big personality, are easy going, and a lot of fun. Your Papa and I have already coined you as “life of the party”.

You hit me and it hurts. I’m kind of scared of you becoming a teenager if I’m already dodging your punches now.

You have taken to potty training well and are learning fast. It hasn’t been without it’s trials and frustrations, but I gather in the whole scheme of things it’s been okay. You wear choines at all times, minus napping and sleeping. You ask, at times, to go to the bathroom; other times you simply drizzle just a little in your undies and then tell me, at-which-point I take you to the potty.

You still copy everything Hooper does or says.

You can hop on one foot.

You make the best mean face and the best happy face, on command.

You have no fear and love to jump off of surfaces that are taller than you are.

Favorites: You love cars and planes and anything, really, with wheels. You also still love balls and ask often to play catch. You like making pretend food in your pretend kitchen. We allow you to have your scooter indoors and you ride it all around the kitchen and family room. You play great with Hooper and love to go along with whatever game he is playing. Stewart Little is a movie you ask to watch often. Also a cartoon on Netflix called “Puss & Boots”.

Hooper @ 4 years, 2 months

by Ashley filed under Hooper, Motherhood, Parenting

01.21.2015

Growth & Appearance: We took you to a barber to have your hair cut. We love it and yet we’re still eager for it to be long, again. You’ve grown a lot it seems and while you fit into many 4T or even 5T pants length wise, the waist is too big, so many times you have to wear a belt. You wear your g’paw Jeffer’s old cub scout belt. The vintage pants fit you just fine in the waist, so I do my best to buy you those instead.

You like to take you footie pajamas off by yourself, which leaves them in an inside-out mess and added hassle for when we put them back on at bedtime (but whatever, right?). You refused to wear hats for a long time but now agree to wearing beanies when it’s cold out. You have one of Papa’s old watches and insist on wearing it at all times of the day. It’s much to big for your little wrist. You don’t really care what I put you in; you have no preferences when it comes to picking out clothes. I’m gonna ride that wave as long as I can. Dressing boys has proven to be more fun than I ever thought.

You had your 4 year check-up and you are 36lbs (51%) and I think just under 40 inches tall (71%). You’re in size 4 shirts and size 9 shoes.

Eating: You’re such a better eater these days. Like night and day. You still need some coaxing here and there, but more times than not you feed yourself and enjoy eating. Did I just say that?

You love pizza. You eyes light up when we tell you we’re lazy and ordering pizza. You also love bacon. And french fries. You’re so obviously my kid. Despite these unhealthy-ish preferences, you do eat a considerable amount of healthy foods; you love nuts, apples, oranges, carrots, and avocado sandwiches (begrudgingly, at times).

You pick your nose and eat your boogers. The other day I caught you eating one of your scabs.

Sleeping: You sleep pattern stays fairly consistent, though daylight savings has made you get up a little earlier than normal. You’re also having a hard time holding your pee and ask often for us to “let you out” to go to the bathroom. Typically you get up between 7 and 8, closer to 7 the majority of the time. Then you nap from about 1:30-3:30, sometimes 4, and rarely not at all. We have hopes of getting you to bed before 8 but you have yet to be in bed before 8:30.

You wake up most mornings in Van’s bed. I think there are times you fall asleep with him in there, but without a video monitor I can’t say for sure. You request to nap in Van’s bed since Van still naps in the pack-n-play.

Twice you’ve taken off all of your clothes and I’ve found you in your birthday suit. That’s new. Insert big eyes with raised eyebrows here. Talking: You call park rangers “grangers” and I don’t correct you; “Mama, waz dat granger say to you?”

You pronounce ambulance with a ton of extra syllables. It sounds something like, “am-ba-tu-la-ence”.

“Spicy” is pronounced “ficey” and I also don’t correct you.

When you see a cat or a small dog, you say, “I want to pick up her”. I don’t correct you because according to the grammar police, you’re actually grammatically correct.

Development: You got scolded at the dog beach by a stranger for hitting her dog. You were upset because the dog took your stick. It was really embarrassing, for me. It had a big impact on you, too, because you wouldn’t stop talking about how you no longer like dogs. Jimmie, you say, is an exception.

You love the letter H. You draw it often and point it out all around town. You don’t seem the least bit interested in any other letters, but you really hold that letter H in high regard.

Each morning at preschool you are supposed to trace the letters of your name. I stick around to watch you every now and again and have yet to see you actually trace the letters. Instead, you like to color in the inside of the letters… you scribble the inside of the “o”s and the inside of the “e” and “p” and call it a day. I have no intentions of correcting you, I like that you do it differently than everyone else.

You teachers say you genuinely like to help. I think this is a very firstborn, people-pleaser, trait of yours. It highlights your sweet and gentle side so well and obviously is a nice thing to hear.

On the flipside, you still come out of preschool each day with ragging aggressiveness toward Van. It’s like groundhog day; you come out the door, sock Van, and then proceed to chase each other all the way back to the car. Same thing. Everyday.

Your feelings get hurt if I tell you you’re not my friend. I realize this lets the I-stoop-to-my-kids-level cat out of the bag, but sometimes no time out or scolding seems to affect you. But, if I tell you that you’re not my friend, you cry. It’s my only leverage.

Felix is your best friend from pre-school. You talk about him at the most random times; like driving through Joshua Tree, “Felix would like this town”. Or the morning when you peed in your bed, “Felix doesn’t pee in his bed”. You guys send each other little videos back and forth confessing your love for one another. It’s sweet. And I dig his mom, so nice pick, Hoop.

You make the ugliest face by scrunching up your nose and showing your teeth and refer to it as your “mad face”. If I’m telling you something you don’t want to hear, you make your “mad face”. Or if you’re in attack mode and going crazy or pretending to be the “bad guy”, you better believe “mad face” comes out in full force. It’s unattractive, to say the least.

You go through phases of spitting. It sucks.

You have a love hate relationship with Jimmie; you love when he’s curled into a ball and you can cuddle him but you hate him when he’s going crazy and chewing up your toys or taking your stuffed animals off your bed.

Your imagination is on fire and you can be quite the storyteller. You’ve been known to tell tales of giraffes in our living room and that super great story you told Nina about Papa hitting you, which had no truth to it.

Favorites: You’re still, after all these years, into your cars. You now like to fill your bed with as many cars as you can and refer to it as a “carnival”. You give me a ticket (usually some sort of scrape piece of paper) and invite me to come. You love watching “How the Grinch Stole Christmas”. It scared you, at first, but you didn’t want me to turn it off and now I think you’re so stoked that you conquered whatever fear you had that you want to watch it over and over and over again. It’s a nice break from Cars and was fun to watch during Christmas. You love to read and you love to flip through books on your own and study the pictures on the pages. You go a book for Christmas that has close up pictures of lots of different insects and animals and you love flipping through and studying each page. You recently found a container of tinker toys and that’s been your favorite thing for the last few days. We went to the Natural History Museum and ever since then you’ve been into dinosaurs. There is an educational program you like to watch on Netflix over and over. The narrator has that really old man monotone museum-esque voice so I haven’t quite figured out how he holds your attention, but he does.

Potty Training

by Ashley filed under Motherhood, Parenting

12.29.2014

I’m convinced of two things:

1. There ought to be a service available to come by and potty train your kid (as suggested by a kind person on instagram, though really I don’t think anyone other than myself or Willy could actually do the deed — so I guess this is kinda a joke, but not really, because really, it sucks and there’s lots of services for lots of things that people have deemed as shitty-to-have-to-do-themselves… like Molly Maids).

2. Because there is no number one (no pun intended), there ought to be an alcohol and massage distributor that comes and makes deliveries for those suffering through the stab-myself-in-the-eye-out-of-boredom and rub-my-back-and-neck-because-I’ve-been-wiping-a-lot-o’-butt-and-floor-and-toilet-and-hands days of potty training. I guess I should be careful what I ask for, because I think there are a lot of people that are actually in the business of dispensing alcohol and massages, if you know what I mean ::nudge nudge::

I don’t really remember potty training Hooper, to be honest. I know I did it because, again, no number one existed. I also know that I followed some sort of methodology because I recall writing posts on it — posts I would probably benefit from going back and reading.

The actual peeing-in-the-potty part has been going well. The accidents all occurred on the first day and have been seldom since. Well they were seldom and then we had a few days where we were lazy, or went to Disneyland, or just said “screw it” for the sake of our sanity. Since then, there have been more accidents. We’ve ventured out without a diaper on, which feels risky in the same way as leaving the house without a tampon when you know your period is coming feels. And, no accidents in the first week or so. Then we went out to eat and left the restaurant with wet pants after Willy and I both ignored his request to go potty because he had just. went. potty. It’s draining, people, let me tell you.

The hard part, this go-around, has been dealing with a fiercely independent and downright stubborn two year old. Things like insisting that he get on and off the potty by himself, flushing the toilet for even the littlest trickle, flushing the toilet multiple times before the water has even refilled, insisting on playing with the gross plunger or the toilet bowl cleaner, sticking his hand in his urine stream, flexing his “weapon” while his peeing so the urine goes up and out of the toilet, asking why he can’t pee when it’s “big”, pulling all the toilet paper off the toilet paper roll, going potty – getting his reward – then immediately going potty again and asking for another reward (manipulative bastard, I tell ya), and throwing a tantrum because farting on the toilet is not the same as pooping on the toilet and he cannot pick a “special prize” until there is an actual log. Oh ya, and we’ve said goodbye to at least 4 toys that he has dropped in — some intentional, some accidents.

I was prepared for the patience it would take to clean up after a butt-booty-naked toddler running around and was pleasantly surprised when he caught on to where to make the mess relatively fast. But my patience has wavered considerably in dealing with everything else. Like the dump he took on the floor the other morning. Though, arguably, he did make up for it when he requested to hug and kiss the “baby” piece of poop and went on to call it “cuuuuuute”. The video of that has gotten me through some of the more challenging spots during the last few weeks.

Deep breaths and a cold one (or two) for the next few days, weeks, and months. Wish me luck.

A Christmas Tree

by Ashley filed under Bits + Pieces, Holiday, Motherhood

12.22.2014

It’s never exactly how I envision it to be. I have delusions of grandeur; of us trekking out into the woods and actually finding and cutting down a tree — much like the Griswold’s. Then I’m reminded, immediately, upon entering the lot that we live in California; where we wear t-shirts in December and deck our trees out in some fake white shit we desperately try to pass off as snow.

Nonetheless, the wood chips under our feet, the complimentary popcorn and hot chocolate, and the smiles from all the kind workers made – more or less – for a festive and successful outing. And with that, I’ve added “vacuuming pine needles” to my daily weekly to-do list.

Christmas Cookies

by Ashley filed under Holiday, Motherhood, Parenting

12.17.2014

Two years ago (wow, where does the time go?) I wrote a post about baking Christmas cookies. Well, not actually baking them… because we never ::cough cough:: got around to actually making them. They sat on my counter and taunted me, “hey you piece of shit mom, why don’t you forget about those dirty dishes and bake me already”. I swear they gave me a complex; so-much-so that it’s been two years and I can still remember writing that post and the feeling I felt by never getting around to baking those cookies.

I giggled to myself with the thought of that post in the back of my head as we went into the store, once again, to buy cookie-making ingredients. I tried to move through the aisles as quickly as possible for fear that Van would forget he didn’t have a diaper on. I was imagining the stream of urine falling off the cart like a waterfall. We made it through with only a few items torn from the shelves from happy little grimmy hands that don’t like to keep to themselves. We bought two packages of sugar cookie mix (ya, that’s right — I’m a-good-for-nothing-mom-that-makes-nothing-from-scratch-and-I-don’t-care), some icing, sprinkles, a couple cookie cutters, and some butter.

The boys were a bit disappointed when we got home and they asked for the cookies and I revealed we had to actually make them before we ate them. Next thing you know, the counter that I had just cleaned that morning was filled with flower and small globs of cookie dough and the happy-to-help (oh he’s so happy to “help” these days) hands of a two year old would not stay out of the raw egg batter. There were tears and, obviously, a mess.

I had to ask a neighbor to borrow a rolling pin. Mom fail. Then I couldn’t get the batter not to stick to the rolling pin despite the amount of flour I used. Mom fail times two.

The boys were over it at this point anyway, so I made the executive decision and said screw the cookie cutters and opted instead for little round balls because let’s face it — shit tastes the same. When the cookies were done, there were more tears because they could only have one. Then there were spilled sprinkles.

And the moral of the story is this: Buy Christmas cookies from the bakery for $5 and go home and eat them. Making those damn cookies was the only thing I’ve ever had on a list that didn’t feel so good to scratch off.

Motherhood

by Ashley filed under Motherhood, Parenting

12.10.2014

‘the child must know that she is a miracle, that since the beginning of the world there hasn’t been, and until the end of the world there will not be, another child like her.’ – pablo casals

The Desert

by Ashley filed under Bits + Pieces, Motherhood

12.04.2014

Leave it to open dirt roads, two sleeping toddlers, and a bag full of snacks to bring out life’s big questions. Willy and I love dreaming and scheming and creating together. We spent a couple of days out in the desert and came back feeling inspired and energized. It’s easy, as a mother, to get caught up in mothering the kiddos but every now and again I find myself wanting and needing to take a step back and appreciate the man that’s helped build this little family of ours. He’s really something special and I’m so grateful.

The boys have gotten easier and easier to travel with and any troubles they caused on the trip are already forgotten; memories shaped instead by the photos of a few special moments along the way. Pit stops, mostly. And a few of that spectacular little ranch we stayed at.

Tonight, when I go to sleep, I’ll be dreaming about open roads, sleeping toddlers, and snacks. And maybe cacti too.

A Birthday Recap

by Ashley filed under Bits + Pieces, Hooper, Motherhood

11.20.2014

I tend to lose my mind sometime around this time of the year for the last few years. It starts with Halloween, which always sneaks up on me and makes me feel like a piece-of-shit mom for never having the energy to make some handmade clever costume. It’s quickly followed by Hooper’s birthday; a day that, for the past three years, I’ve haphazardly thrown something together at seemingly the last minute writing off the lag time by reminding myself that he’s too young to really care anyway. But this year, he knows what’s up. I still lagged, but I did manage to get an email invite out to a few friends and family.

No crazy decorations, a last minute pizza order after we decided a BBQ would be too much work, a pinata stuffed to the brim with leftover Halloween candy, some very special out-of-town guests, and enough wood to keep a fire blazing; the most perfect contradiction to the crisp autumn air.

Start typing

March 2026

A Mother's Journal

I caught myself as the words “you’ll understand when you’re older” rolled off my tongue. It was like I was sitting in the backseat and my mom was driving, only I was driving and Hooper was sitting in the backseat. What I’m trying to say is that the damn tables have turned.

I guess he’s caught on to my nagging insistence that he slow down. I’ve pleaded with him, a couple of times, during our many cuddle sessions – praise the Lord he still loves to cuddle – to not grow up so fast.

I couldn’t explain it to him, so the words “you’ll understand when you’re older” simply had to suffice. But really, Hooper, slow down.

Anyway, here’s Van’s big day, as told from the perspective of my sister, who was there to witness it.

My beef with home birth

When I got there, she was just starting to push. She was in and out of the tub. She was on the floor. She was moaning, screaming.

My dad and I tried our best to distract Hooper, who was obviously worried. He insisted on wearing his toy stethoscope.

The midwife made the decision to call the ambulance. A couple guys showed up, put her on a stretcher, and she was gone. We followed behind in a car—my mom, Willy, and me (my dad stayed back at the house with Hooper). The three of us were shaking, terrified.

I’ve gotten more comfortable calling myself a photographer. In fact, I’m kinda beating myself up for not having the confidence to own the title sooner; but that’s neither here nor there. What I’m less likely to refer to myself as these days is a writer because, well, I’m not a writer.

But these feelings come over me and practically nag me to be put on paper. My fingers beg to be connected to the keyboard. And thoughts torment me until they get written in post format. I’ve been asked how I manage to blog on such a regular basis and the truth is, I need to.

Life, with children, is always going to be interrupted. But, like everything, perspective is key. Maybe it’s my thoughts that are interrupting my time with my children. There’s always two tales to every story, isn’t there?

What sacrifices do you make on a daily basis? Sometimes I need a moment to myself to just write and reflect. What do you use your alone time to do?

Bolga baskets are like vinegar – there has to be a least 101 uses. Here’s what I use mine for, on a daily basis:

-Beach. I throw everything we need for the beach into one of the baskets; a blanket, snacks, sunscreen, etc. Best part is that when we return, the sand shakes out with a few simple slaps to the bottom of the basket.

-Grandma’s house. Whenever my parents watch the boys, I load the basket with their blankets (in hopes they will nap), a change of clothes, shoes, and a jacket.

-Traveling. It’s true; If we’re going somewhere just for a couple days, I just throw a few outfits into the basket.

-Blanket holder. When we’re not shoveling shit between homes or different levels of our home, I use them to hold stuff by the front door; blankets, mostly, but also umbrellas, the dog leash, and that sorta stuff.

-Toys. I also use whichever one is empty to store toys or books in. The toys or books get taken out and strewn about rather quickly, so it’s never a permanent home, but when I’m done cleaning up, I will use one for storage.

Now I should probably get off my butt and start picking up all the crap that’s made it’s way to the floor, right?

He also helps me clean the counters. He loves spraying the spray bottle, so I show him where to spray and then I wipe it clean. Teamwork for the win.

Both of my boys fight over the vacuum. Now there’s a fight I don’t break up.

What kinds of chores do you give your kids to do around the house? It’s one of my New Years resolutions to continue doing this sort of thing. Too often it becomes easier to just do it myself, but I know the lessons embedded in the tasks are more important.

What tunes would you put on your motherhood soundtrack?

I’m moderating the Childhood Unplugged feed this week on instagram and will be featuring some images of littles playing music. If you have any shots and would like the chance to be featured, use hashtag #childhoodunplugged_music.

The other day was one of those days. Only it didn’t start out that way.

They ate their lunches in separate places but waved as if to say to one another, “you cool?”.

Something heavenly possessed my children on this day.

Do things like this make you nervous? I get the feeling a lot of people skip out because meeting new people is intimidating. I can totally relate to that…

You’re fiercely strong. Even your “big squeezes” kinda suffocate the air out of me.

You’ve had a bracelet tied around your little wrist since July. You’re great with wearing hats. If there’s a pair of reading glasses lying around, you will find them and wear them. Always.

Eating: The terrible twos are in full force and it shows at the table. You have no time to eat. You either eat what’s in front of you in record time or push it away and want down. It’s so hit or miss. Breakfast is usually good, but by dinner, you’re over it.

Your favorite foods are bananas, chicken nuggets, yogurt, though it all really changes day to day. The other day you scarfed down green beans and I didn’t even know you liked them.

You sit in a regular chair at the table, but we have yet to transfer the highchair into the garage. So far, so good though.

You’re obsessed with “shoda” (soda). I’m trying to convince your Papa that he should drink something better, like say water, so we can teach you better habits. Until then, you’re a magnet to the stuff.

You most always fall asleep with at least two toys and one book snuggled in next to you. And, of course, you’re still attached to your blanket.

Talking: You had the best stutter that literally lasted for about a week and then completely disappeared. You speak in full sentences and understand concepts.

When you want to know what something does, you ask, “What’s it due’s (does), mama?”, to-which-I-answer, “It due’s ____”.

The other day I said to you, “Van, it sounds like you have a runny nose”, to-which-you responded, “No, Mama, it’s walking’ “.

You pronounce waffle as “raffle”, like you’re from the mid-west or something, mouth as “noufth”, and nothing as “nuffing”.

You also say things a little out of order, like when you dropped something and wanted me to pick it up and said, “Why you not pick up it?”.

Development: You are stubbornly independent and want to do everything by yourself.

You took a toy truck away from a boy smaller than you at the park the other day. When he started chasing you to get it back, you threw his truck in the trash can. It was not a trash can you could stick your hand down. Way to make me look like number one mom.

You throw a mean tantrum. We haven’t had to suffer through too many in public, so I guess there’s that.

You have a big personality, are easy going, and a lot of fun. Your Papa and I have already coined you as “life of the party”.

You hit me and it hurts. I’m kind of scared of you becoming a teenager if I’m already dodging your punches now.

You still copy everything Hooper does or says.

You can hop on one foot.

You make the best mean face and the best happy face, on command.

You have no fear and love to jump off of surfaces that are taller than you are.

You had your 4 year check-up and you are 36lbs (51%) and I think just under 40 inches tall (71%). You’re in size 4 shirts and size 9 shoes.

Eating: You’re such a better eater these days. Like night and day. You still need some coaxing here and there, but more times than not you feed yourself and enjoy eating. Did I just say that?

You pick your nose and eat your boogers. The other day I caught you eating one of your scabs.

You wake up most mornings in Van’s bed. I think there are times you fall asleep with him in there, but without a video monitor I can’t say for sure. You request to nap in Van’s bed since Van still naps in the pack-n-play.

Twice you’ve taken off all of your clothes and I’ve found you in your birthday suit. That’s new. Insert big eyes with raised eyebrows here. Talking: You call park rangers “grangers” and I don’t correct you; “Mama, waz dat granger say to you?”

You pronounce ambulance with a ton of extra syllables. It sounds something like, “am-ba-tu-la-ence”.

“Spicy” is pronounced “ficey” and I also don’t correct you.

When you see a cat or a small dog, you say, “I want to pick up her”. I don’t correct you because according to the grammar police, you’re actually grammatically correct.

You love the letter H. You draw it often and point it out all around town. You don’t seem the least bit interested in any other letters, but you really hold that letter H in high regard.

You teachers say you genuinely like to help. I think this is a very firstborn, people-pleaser, trait of yours. It highlights your sweet and gentle side so well and obviously is a nice thing to hear.

On the flipside, you still come out of preschool each day with ragging aggressiveness toward Van. It’s like groundhog day; you come out the door, sock Van, and then proceed to chase each other all the way back to the car. Same thing. Everyday.

Your feelings get hurt if I tell you you’re not my friend. I realize this lets the I-stoop-to-my-kids-level cat out of the bag, but sometimes no time out or scolding seems to affect you. But, if I tell you that you’re not my friend, you cry. It’s my only leverage.

You go through phases of spitting. It sucks.

You have a love hate relationship with Jimmie; you love when he’s curled into a ball and you can cuddle him but you hate him when he’s going crazy and chewing up your toys or taking your stuffed animals off your bed.

Your imagination is on fire and you can be quite the storyteller. You’ve been known to tell tales of giraffes in our living room and that super great story you told Nina about Papa hitting you, which had no truth to it.