A photo journal comprised of my thoughts on motherhood and other life happenings, as well as some of professional work as a photographer. Southern California is home.
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”.
A while ago, I shared my thoughts and a link to the Nu Project over on the Ma Books. It prompted many further discussions between my sister and I in regards to woman, our bodies, and my post partum body. Then my sister turned me on to something NPR put out about Brazilian woman and plastic surgery and we couldn’t stop talking about; so-much-so that I asked if she’d share her thoughts on it here because I think it’s an interesting topic and I’d love to hear the thoughts of others as well.
This is Erileide Barbosa Da Rocha. She’s 29, Brazilian. After giving birth, she was bothered by her “flaccid stomach” and got a tummy tuck. In her words:
“I put on an item of clothing, looked in the mirror and it was horrible… I cried because I couldn’t get what I wanted. So for me, I think my surgery was necessary. For my own good, for my self-esteem. Beauty, for me, is fundamental. It’s the door. It’s the entry to many things…I intend to do more surgery. Because women are never satisfied. Women always want perfection.”
And then there’s Maria Da Gloria De Sousa, age 46, who got breast implants, butt implants, a tummy tuck, and liposuction (multiple procedures). In her words:
“Plastic surgery starts to become an addiction. You’re born perfect, but then you have children, and you know what having children does. And then suddenly comes the rebirth: plastic surgery. You can be beautiful, even more beautiful than you were before.”
And Mariza Chaves—age 33. Displeased with the extra skin left behind after pregnancy weight gain, she got a tummy tuck, thigh liposuction, breast implants, and a torso lift (yes, apparently there is such a thing). In her words:
“Beauty is feeling good about yourself. I wasn’t satisfied with my abdomen. When I saw it [after surgery], I felt like the most beautiful woman in the world. I feel privileged.
NPR talked to seven Brazilian women about cosmetic surgery and what beauty means to them. Their words shocked me. And it makes me sad to know that these views aren’t just confined to Brazil.
Most of the women’s body complaints were directly tied to having children. As Janet Da Silva Timal De Araujo, age 47, says, “Us women, we’re born with the desire to be a mother. But we’re also born with the desire to be beautiful.”
If you believe these words, you think the two can’t co-exist—motherhood, beauty.
If you believe these words, you think it’s not enough that your body created a human; it must also look “perfect” (whatever the f—k that means).
I, for one, do not believe these words.
I guess it’s easy for me to say. I don’t have kids. I haven’t been through the body changes that come with having kids. I’ve seen my sister go through them though and I think she’s more beautiful than ever.
I would be angry—yes, angry—if my sister got any kind of plastic surgery. Why? Well, for one, I think it sends a strange message to her kids. Yes, they’re boys, so you might think it doesn’t matter as much, but it does. In my opinion (which you asked for because you’ve read this far), plastic surgery communicates, “I don’t like ____ about myself and that’s okay because I can change it completely!” If one of her boys gets made fun of at school for one reason or another and she says, “Oh honey, you’re fine just the way you are,” she’s a hypocrite. Her words carry more weight if she lives by them herself.
Now, if she has a girl in the future, I would be bothered even more. Because, let’s face it, society is brutal to little girls. Most of them are already aware of the “benefits” of being thin and attractive. Most of them already tie their self-esteem to how they look. They might not know what fake boobs are when they’re young, but when they’re teenagers, they’ll know. They’ll see their mom as someone who once didn’t like the size of her chest. They’ll see their own bodies as malleable.
If I had my way, the body wouldn’t be malleable. Not with surgery, at least. I mean, SURGERY? That’s serious business. That’s not a new pair of shoes or a fresh haircut. All of us fall victim to the little boost those things give us. We’re talking about SURGERY. Anesthesia. Incisions. Recovery time. Permanent alteration.
The women interviewed by NPR expressed a sense of empowerment with their choices. That doesn’t really make me feel any better. That makes me think that our society is messed up. Women should be empowered by a promotion at work, not by a tummy tuck. Maybe it’s good if women walk around with more confidence—whatever the reason. But I’d be more hopeful for the future of female progress if the reason was related to their brain instead of their newly achieved thigh gap.
There’s a bigger picture here, too, involving all women. Unfortunately, women are notorious for being catty, in competition with each other. Off the field (or the court or whatever), men don’t really have that mean spiritedness with each other. Men have more of a “let’s have a beer and chill” camaraderie. It would be nice if women had that, if we could support each other, if we could promote things like self-love, if we could stop obsessing about our faces and bodies and turn our attention to more pressing matters. From my perspective, that fight-the-power sisterhood effort is threatened each time a woman signs the elective surgery waiver for whatever “enhancement” she’s getting. Whenever I see a woman who has done something to her face or her body (because you can always tell), I sigh and think, “Ugh, we lost another one.”
Sheryl Crow sang, “If it makes you happy, it can’t be that bad.” And in that vein, pro-plastic-surgery people will say, “You can’t argue with what makes someone happy.” Well, actually, I can. There are people who abuse drugs or starve themselves or otherwise harm themselves, saying it makes them “happy.” I can argue with that—and you probably would too. At the crux of it, I think women who get plastic surgery are misusing the word “happy.” Going under the knife to address a source of insecurity may bring a relief that resembles happiness, but I can’t believe that would last. If anything, plastic surgery just perpetuates the idea that you “need fixing.” As Erileide said, “Women are never satisfied. Women always want perfection.” Whatever the f—k that means.
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.
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.
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.
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.
‘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
My days with you two are rarely easy. You both have a ton of energy and when you’re going, you go non-stop. And yet, I don’t want these days to ever end. I want to remember everything about them. Here’s a small attempt at doing so. I hope one day you will enjoy these videos.
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.
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.
-We showed up to the first day of school, as a family, for the first day meet-and-greet. As we were getting out of the car, I noticed the chaos; kids and parents everywhere. I suddenly had that feeling of what it felt like to be a student, on the first day of school; the excitement of pulling out brand new folders that I picked out in the back-to-school section at Office Depot, the outfit I so carefully coordinated to go with with my new shoes, and that nervous – almost panic – of wondering who would be in my class, who I would have lunch with, and if all my friends from the previous year (::cough cough:: that ended just 3 months ago) would still be there. And now as I walked into the school gates as a parent, I saw one mom decked out in high heels and so much make-up you would need a garden rake to remove it and realized that the first day of school is a “thing” for parents too. It made me giggle with a confidence I only pretended to have as a kid.
-Once in the classroom, I noticed that several of the parents were already familiar with one another because of older kids they have that attend the elementary portion of the preschool. When one said, “I’ll see you at pick-up”, I realized that “pick-up” is also a thing; I mean these parents see each other twice a day, nearly everyday. I was reminded, again, why my mom always told me my friends would change throughout my life depending on what I was doing in life. So I introduced myself to a few other moms.
-My firstborn, my more timid and cuddly and dependent son left my side immediately. Toy trucks take precedence these days. He didn’t even take his backpack off. I had to ask for a hug and kiss. I called my sister on the way home. She asked if his independence made me sad. I felt nothing other than pride.
-Entertaining a second born while the firstborn is away is hard work. It’s like my little babysitter disappeared and suddenly it was just he and I. Made me realize just how strong their relationship is.
-As soon as Van and I pick Hooper up, Hooper attacks. It’s like he has all this pent up maliciousness that he’s (hopefully) held in all day (I mean all three and a half hours ::cough cough::) and so he just unravels as soon as he sees Van. We’re working on it.
-Papers. Oh dear Lord, the papers. Everyday there are new papers. It’s like the junk mail followed me from the mailbox. Information on this and information on that, I can’t even say what all the papers are about because I haven’t even begun to look at them. After only a week I felt as though I was drowning in them. And, of course, there’s the lovely* artwork that I can tell Hooper spent so* much time working on ::wink wink::. Am I a bad parent if I throw that stuff away? Rhetorical question because, well, I’m gonna throw it away anyway.
-For the first three school days I noticed, in hindsight, that I never put the right time on the sign on sheet. I was off by an hour one day and thirty minutes another day. I was worried about having to wake Hooper up so early to go to preschool but I think it’s me that could use the extra rest. Ha.
-He’s made a friend. I caught them as they locked eyes after school and they gave each other that look of oh-my-gosh-I-know-you-and-I-like-you-but-what-are-you-doing-here-look (as soon as they’re outside of the classroom it’s like a whole other world). The exchanged the cutest wave and both went on their way with an occasional glance back to see if the other was still looking.
-I knew seeing him go to preschool would make him appear all the sudden more wise, more grown. What I didn’t expect is that I’d have a mini teenager. He’s how our post-pre-school conversations have gone:
Me: “What’d you do at preschool today?”
Hooper: “Nuffing!”
Me, trying to take a different, more open ended approach: “Tell me about your friends at preschool”
Hooper: “Nuffing!”
Me, thinking okay then, he must be hungry, “What would you like for lunch when we get home?”
Hooper: “I don’t wanna talk right now”
… two minutes later he transforms from pumpkin to fancy horse carriage, asking about the tractors and road construction and telling me how much he loves me. So, ya, he’s like a teenager. A split-personality teenager.
It’s only normal for mothers to worry. Given the fact Willy suffers from such horrible health anxiety, I find myself often in the it-will-be-okay or it’s-no-big-deal role. So the other night, when Van could hardly talk and was breathing heavily, I assured him it was the same cold Hooper had and not to worry. I went to bed that night, unable to sleep, questioning if I even believed myself. I do this play-it-off-like-it’s-no-big-deal-in-front-of-Willy routine often, especially when it comes to the kids. But when Van woke up crying at 2am with audible wheezing, I agreed that we should probably take him in. Nursing 101 – Don’t mess with the airway. Van and I spent four hours in the ER getting numerous breathing treatments and a steroid injection. We left around 5:30am with a probable diagnosis of croup and instructions to keep an eye on him, especially overnight (when croup worsens).
So for the next three nights, Van slept in our room; a welcomed change. My not-so-little boy surrendering into my arms, accepting all my cuddles and comfort.
Happy to say it is now behind us.
Do you worry excessively about your kids? How about your significant others — same same, or different?
I’ve been a mom now for nearly four years and have yet to be on the ball of Halloween (and other things, like birthday parties but let’s just take things one step at a time, k?). It seems to sneak up on me every year. I have major delusions of all of us dressing up or of turning the entryway into a mini haunted house for the neighborhood kids, which, in hindsight would have been a bad idea anyway given the fact we only got two sets of trick-or-treaters. What happened to neighborhood trick-or-treating anyway? Guess it depends where you live. If it was hoppin’ where you are, invite us next year, ok?
Hooper requested to be a cowboy, which was the same thing he was last year. Last year, however, he didn’t care and dressing him as a cowboy was our choice. This year it was his, so ya know, it didn’t really feel like a repeat. Plus his cowboy costume was something my in-laws splurged on and given the cost, I was happy to use it again. If it still fits, Van will be a cowboy next year. Ha.
I put Van in a Fred Flinestone costume I had made for Hoop a few years back. He got it so dirty at lunch that I opted to turn him into a firemen for neighborhood trick-or-treating. It was cute and simple and he was pretty stoked about it.
What did you guys do for Halloween? What’d your kids dress up as?
Janet signed up for Designer Vaca back in the beginning of the year and I assured her I would go – for moral support, ya know – when the time came. The time came and it also happened to be her birthday, so it was nice to celebrate together. The boys tagged along and we joked about how no matter when we get together, there’s some conglomerate of kids around – be it hers or mine or some mix of the both (all of hers stayed back in Utah this time around). The event was held at the Ace, so the boys and I hung out by the pool while Janet attended conferences n’ whatnot. And I’ll tell ya what, Palm Springs with two boys is a lot easier than Palm Springs with two boys and a dog. Just sayin’. And the weather has finally cooled just a bit, the high 90’s being a welcomed retreat from the triple digits. Looking forward to more trips to the desert now that the weather has cooled. Who wants to watch Jimmie? Ha.
And as a side note, what do you do with kids once they’re too big for the pack-n-plays? Hoop is far too big to be sleeping in one of those and despite his insistence on doing so when we travel, it just ain’t gonna work much longer. Even as is he looks like a drunken man who fell asleep while leaning on a wall and kinda haphazardly slid down the wall into a hunched over sitting position. It’s horrible. I’m considering a blow up mattress or just getting a room with two beds. What do y’all do?
Trying my damndest to shoot more video, because even with all the pics I snap of the boys and our family, it’s those shitty little iPhone videos from days past that remind me how they used to move, talk, laugh, and – well- I don’t want to forget any of it. Still looking for a videographer to sit down and show me the ropes. Ha. I need some schooling.
I can’t say what it’s like or if it’s any different raising girls. What I can say is that it’s pure craziness over here. All the time. Jimmie has only added to the chaos, but in the most beautiful of ways. I obviously still miss Sarah, but I’m grateful to have a dog around again. And Jimmie feels like a good fit. Our only issue is with leaving him alone; he has horrible separation anxiety. Even when only one of us leaves, he starts pacing and panting and whining. The windowsill from the second story has scratches all over it from where Jimmie tries to look out the window for us. And when we do return, we’re always met with piss and shit to clean up. It makes leaving him really difficult.
We took him in the car a little while ago and someone called the cops, saying that there was a dog left in a car that “wanted out”. We went into the store for 10 minutes, tops. We went out to dinner and left him in the crate only to get a phone call from our neighbor saying it sounded like something was “wrong” with Jimmie based on “noises” he was making.
We’ve done our research and are feeling a bit defeated. Sounds like some dogs have it so bad that they’re willing to injure themselves to escape being alone. He looks like he is going to have a heart attack anytime we leave; every bone in his body shakes in fear. We spoke to one trainer who refused the case saying that changing a dog’s personality is “hard”. She wished us good luck.
It’s hard to say that – that this has been the hardest year of my life – because embedded in the difficulties there have been so many blessings. I mean, it’s hard to complain about having most of my spine fused when it was something I signed up to do; meaning I didn’t have an accident and wake up in a post-op bed at the hospital with something fixed that was never broken. Rather, I drove to the hospital with a severely curved spine and walked (::wheeled::) out with a straight spine, and some metal. Meaning, I got something “better” than what I had, even if there was a price to pay.
And boy was there a price to pay.
There was so much I felt in those early days; things I wanted to hold on to and never forget that, as time has passed, I’ve let go of and – begrudgingly – forgotten. Emotions surrounding what it would be like to be handicapped, forever; to watch your family move around you and to be present but not a part of what they’re doing. We take these vows of “in sickness and in health” but we never really know what sickness could entail. To be honest, I don’t know if we could have made it through if what was temporary was actually permanent. I’d like to think so, but you never know. It was hard to watch Willy struggle to do it all: work from home, care for the kids, care for me, and deal with my pain and health in conjunction with his own battles with health anxiety.
And then I gave him the scare of his life when I came down with a stomach virus and completely passed out and collapsed in the middle of the night. If his health anxiety wasn’t bad enough before, I’m sure I put it over the edge. When I came to he was on the phone with 911 and not long after that I was in the hospital, again.
A few weeks before that hospital visit, I had the worst neck pain I’ve ever had in my life. You can take the word “neck” out of that sentence entirely as it’s fair to simply say I had the worst pain I’ve ever had in my life. It just happened to be in my neck. Even to this day, I get a soreness that’s reminiscent and I get anxious just thinking about how bad it could be. I’ve birthed two very large babies under less-than-ideal circumstances with no medication. I’ve also, as you know, had thirteen levels of my spine fused and woke up with blood pressure in the 70’s, which meant I was not allowed to have pain medication for fear it would drop my blood pressure even more. I had a few blood transfusions following that. And even with all of that – the crazy births and the crazy surgery – I can say, with one hundred percent certainty, that nothing has hurt as bad (and for as long) as that pain in my neck.
Then we moved. And I can see now, in hindsight, why my parents – and probably others too – thought we were crazy. Not that it wasn’t the best decision, because it was, but moving is hard. Moving with two small kids is even harder. And moving at a time when you’re not able to lift anything or bend is just damn silly. But, we did it. And, like my spine, we came out on top because of it. We love our new location, we love our new home, and all-in-all, it was worth the trade.
But that’s not to say it went smoothly. Our hearts were shattered the morning we lost Sarah. I still cry about losing her. I’m choked up now just reminiscing about her life and it’s tragic ending. It pains me more to think that people lose children. It all just makes me sad. Sure, we have Jimmie and we love Jimmie, but Sarah holds real-estate on our hearts that is hers and hers alone. Losing her on the last day in our old house made moving all the much harder and more painful. I couldn’t help glancing back in the rear view mirror and thinking that at the very spot her life ended, our new one was just beginning. And doing it without her with us has been hard. Man, the lump in my throat is painful right now. It doesn’t help that today is her birthday…
Recovery from the surgery has had it’s varying degrees of highs and lows; days go by where I feel more-or-less normal only to come crashing down with soreness and pain reminiscent of what once was. What I can say is that through the course of the year, the highs get higher as do the lows, if that makes sense. I’m out of the woods, albeit a few days here and there that require more rest and ice and advil than I’d like.
And so, it’s been a year. According to the PDF my surgeon gave me in the beginning, I’m approved to do yoga now. It also says I can do gymnastics after one year which, as a previous competitive gymnast, I find funny given the fact that my back does not bend (nor will it ever bend) so doing something like a handstand (which I used to do around the house all the time) would actually require some sort of push off my legs to land on my hands since I cannot fathom getting my hands on the floor in front of me at the same time my foot is on the floor. I’ve succumbed to the fact I will never tumble again, which is a little heart breaking because it was something I’d still do here and there at local gyms whenever I had the chance. I’m also allowed to go bowling now. Yes, I’ve had to take the whole year off bowling. Who knew. Other things I’ve been cleared to do: basketball, baseball, roller coasters, roller skating, rowing, and ::cough cough:: pregnancy (you hear that, Willy?). And two things I’ll never be cleared to do: sky diving and motorcycle riding. I guess it’s a good thing I’ve been sky diving twice in the past and have no interest in riding a motorcycle after my gymnastic coach passed away riding one. So that’s that.
My surgery has been more of a physical change, it’s been an identity change. I’ve always been the girl that could swing a bat and throw a ball; hell, I’d kick ass in pull-up contests and could beat many of my guy friends in push-up contests. My body today is not the body I knew before. I’ve had to adapt. I have yet to accept as I’m still working toward what once was. Most weeks you’ll find me at Physical Therapy three days a week, where I keep to an ever-evolving strength program intermixed with some massage so long as the people working there aren’t feeling lazy — that’s the price you pay, I suppose, when you’re a “regular”. I think they have a hard time fathoming why what they’ve been doing hasn’t made me completely better yet. I think I have a better vision of the length of the road than they do. I also think they are cool with me simple being able to do everyday things while – for me – recovery is much more than that (I want to be as close to the person I was before my surgery as possible). And that’s been frustrating, to say the least.
And there are other things – physically – that still bother me. I have absolutely no sensation in my mid to upper back. I have two scars – one from a heating pad that burned me when the cover came off (I couldn’t feel a thing – it took Willy to point out the large blister on my back) and another one from an ice burn (also couldn’t feel a thing). I can feel pressure in the area, but no sensation. The muscles there feel extraordinarily odd, so odd that I don’t even know how to describe it except to say that it doesn’t feel like they fire correctly. My low back gets tired from overuse and I can feel myself walking around hunched over, trying to fight folding over into the fetal position out of fatigue. I get numbness, from time to time, on my left side that creeps around to the front of my rib cage and really just causes me to think about my back more than I’d like. It’s kinda like when your heart skips a beat and then you become super cognisant of every beat your heart is taking. When my back is sore or I have a knot in my neck or my body is fatigued, it consumes my thoughts. And then there are days that I don’t really even think about my back. I like those days.
You know that feeling of returning to work after being off for maternity leave? (And I hope you do. And if you’re in the UK – I’m jealous of your postpartum time off). Anyway, take that reluctance and nervousness and overwhelming feeling of anxiety mixed with fear of change and multiply it. I was not cleared by my surgeon until September to return to work, nearly 11 months after my surgery. His main concern was my ability to perform CPR, which fortunately has yet to happen but is obviously a must have skill in the field of nursing. I was worried about other things: moving equipment, caring for adults when caring for little kids is hard, transferring patients, moving patients, being on my feet for 12 hours, and all that jazz. It’s been an overwhelming process that’s only complicated by my drive to do a thousand other things like getting my photography business to where I want it and a hundred other things I don’t even want to list for fear I’ll start dwelling on the whole process all over again. What it comes down to is this: it will be hard to return to work after so much time off. It will also be hard to get used to a new unit, as I will not be on the same unit I was on before. And I don’t even want to talk about the commute because getting up at 4am and getting home after 9pm is not going to be easy. But sometimes you just gotta suck it up and feel grateful for having a job to return to.
Hoping the hiccups in the months to follow are few and the celebrations many. Cheers, to getting through the hardest year of my life. And special thanks to all my loving friends and family that made so many sacrifices on our behalf and for the handful of you that have been so kind to share your similar stories of recovery with me; the love and support have helped us more than any of you know.
You can read other posts about my surgery here and here.
You know when you get to the point where you declare no more taking our crazy kids out to eat anymore? Well, we’re not there yet; mostly because we’re lazy and we like good food. But I think we’ve reached the point were we can say, with certainty, no more making Willy’s work trips into family trips. Because, dammit, it’s hard.
It always starts out by sounding good in theory; a few days away as a family, promises of exploring the desert, spontaneous trips to the Salton Sea. It’s been fun, it really has. But allow me to speak the truth: it’s fucking hard.
For one, we only have one car. So when Willy takes off for meetings (I mean let’s not forget that this is the primary reason we’re there), it leaves us stranded. In the past we’ve hung out at the pool and it’s been fine. But now… Now we have Jimmie. And, well, only the legally insane can handle two dependent kids in the pool and a high pitched barking pup who hates to be separated (aka tied up) even a few feet away from his people. Walking around downtown – in 112 degree heat – is the other alternative and Jimmie sucks on a leash and the heat eats all of my patience before I can even say hold hands to cross the street, please.
This time around, we got asked to leave the pool by the management who had received “complaints” about the “barking” dog. I wanted to cry. The amount of time it took me to hold my children against their will and slap sunscreen on them and go to the bathroom and put their swim trunks and shoes on far exceeded the 5 to 10 minutes they splashed around in the water.If only I would have had someone to complain to because dammit, I swear it was worse for me than it was for whoever had to hear it.
And that’s not even the half of it. Sometimes I feel like the little lone home wife who gets repeatedly told by her husband to keep their kids (their TWO and THREE) year old kids quiet while he fields important work calls. In a hotel room with an 8 month old energized pup? Willy looks at me with that pleading face and I want to look at him like he’s fucking insane if he thinks I have superpowers. There aren’t enough lollipops in the world to shove in those kids mouths to keep them quiet for the amount of time necessary. And it puts us all on edge.
This was our first trip with Jimmie and I voted him whatever the opposite of MVP is; perhaps there should be a LVP (least valuable player). He refused to pee on the nice balcony area we had and instead peed on the carpet at least three times.
I’m starting to feel like I’m whining so I’ll stop this rant here and end by saying we will no longer be joining Willy on his work trips. Not for a while, anyway. And by “for a while”, I mean until we can forget how hard and horrible it can be.
And yes, I let the kids play with the bidet because I had had it. Playing with dirty toilet water is now my new low. Make note of it.
Growth & Appearance: You’re tall and lanky, with long and skinny limbs. Your waist is small and you can share all your shorts with Van. You’re in a size 9 shoe and size 3T clothing. Your hair is long and it can finally fit behind your ears. You legs are almost always covered in tiny bruises from who-knows-what. Someone said you look more like Papa the other day, but most of the time people say you look like me. You definitely have my body structure.
Eating: You’ve been eating better than ever before. You still need encouragement at times, but there are entire meals that you will eat on your own and in record-for-you-speed. You’ll also try new things; sometimes begrudgingly. You’ve tried mangoes, kiwi, squash, and asparagus within the past month or so and you ate all of them. These are things we may have tried back in the day that you didn’t care for then, but seemed to tolerate now.
You’re also curious in things like ketchup, which you wouldn’t have liked before. You like ketchup with everything. You put it on your pizza the other day.
When given a cupcake, you typically only eat the frosting.
You eat your raspberries by putting them on the tips of your fingers and then eating them off one by one.
You like milk more than watered down juice and drink a lot of it. Sleeping: You still sleep with your blanket every night. Most nights you also have a small pile of toys or books you have deemed valuable next to your pillow. You always like your “stuff” nearby. You wake up around 8am, nap from roughly 1:30-4:30, and go to bed around 8:30pm. It’s been pretty steady and being that it’s the same schedule as your brother, it works out nicely. You guys sleep in the same room at night but we have to separate you for naps during the day. You rarely fight bedtime or nap time, but every now and again you surprise us.Talking: “Because” is you new favorite word. You use it all the time. Me: “Hooper, why did you hit Van?”, You: “Because”. Or better yet, Me: “Look at the cars on the freeway”, You: “Because, Mama” (which doesn’t make any sense).
“Nothing” is your other favorite word. Me: “Hooper, tell me about what you did at preschool today”, You: “Nuffing”. You’re like a little teenager already. My favorite is when you followed it with “I don’t wanna talk right now”. Ha.
You went through a phase where you’d ask us several times a day when our birthdays are. No joke, some days you’d ask more than 20 times. Needless to say, you know now when everyone’s birthday is.
You’re into telling secrets. More times than not you’ll come up to me, tell me you have a secret, and then say, “I wanna hit Van”.
The other day we were talking about the birds flying. I asked you if you’d like to fly like a bird one day and you told me, “No Mama, because I’d miss you”.
When you’re playing in the garage with Van, you’ll yell to me, “Mama, pweez come keep an eye on us!”.
Sometimes you’ll announce you have a question, “Mama, I have a question”. It’s usually followed by “Can I hit Van?” or “When’s your birthday”.
When you’re playing and I tell you it’s time for a nap, you’ll tell me, “just five minutes, Mama”. Or when I tell you to eat your food and you say, “just one second, Mama”.
You love to talk like a monkey but know we hate it so you’ll ask, “Can I do monkey talks?”. Sometimes we say yes.Development: When you see kids skateboarding or playing baseball, you say you want to do the same when you’re “bigger”.
You go to the bathroom completely on your own. Sometimes I don’t even know you’re going until you come walking out with your pants down. We haven’t mastered the pulling your pants part up quite yet. After that, you’ll be fully independent.
Every now and again, you’ll go to the bathroom in you pants overnight. It doesn’t happen often, but we keep you in pull-ups at night just in case.
One time, when I wasn’t looking, you started to pee right on the beach. A woman started laughing and pointed you out to me and then insisted that I take a picture of it, so I have a photo of you pissing on the beach. Right after that you told me you had to make ca-ca. I asked the same lady if she wanted me to photograph that as well. She declined and we went to the restroom.
In other potty news, you demand complete privacy when you’re pooping. Every now and again you’ll grab Van’s hand and insist that he take you ca-ca. It’s funny.
You went through a phase when you were into blowing into people’s faces. Luckily it passed because it was super annoying; though it was quite humorous when we’d overhear you asking Van if you could blow him. Rules before going anywhere included: say please and thank you, no hitting, wait your turn, and no blowing on people.
You can do a forward roll. You can also hop on one foot (really well on your left, but not so well on your right). You seem to kick a ball with your left foot. You still write with your left hand but you hold utensils in your right hand. You throw, mostly, with your right.
You ask me often about my collar bones and try to grab them as if they are removable.
You request that we drive “fast” and “get” the other cars (which means we speed up and pass the car next to us).
Much to my dismay, you’re more conscious of having your photo taken. The other day I had my camera out and you sat there and gave me a full on cheese ball smile. No idea where it came from but I’m learning that it’s really hard to unteach things society teaches us.
Like a bag lady, you shuffle all your stuff around from room to room. Currently you have your small suitcase full of cars and tractors and a basket full of books. It’s heavy, even for me, and you cart it around with you everywhere. You’re very possessive of your stuff and upset when you misplace it.
You know that “H” is the first letter of your name and you’re able to draw it.
You’re sweet and sensitive. You love animals and hate to see anyone sad. You’re still my number one cuddler. Favorites: You love movies with mice in them, like Stuart Little and Runaway Ralph. You watched the movie “Cars” for the first time and love it. But if there’s one thing you could do all day, everyday, it would be playing in the garage. You have all sorts of “things” out there that you refer to as your “home” and you like sorting it and reorganizing it. The “things” include cardboard boxes, an ice chest, your bike, a broom, beach chairs, small trash cans, and other random things you’d only find in a garage. You also love to sit with a book and flip through the pages. You tell me you’re reading your book and I have no doubt that you are, in your own way.
Growth & Appearance: You were well on your way to a business-in-the-front-party-in-the-back-also-known-as-a-mullet hair style (we cut it just the other day). We were trying to hold out until Halloween, with plans of dressing you up as either Joe Dirt or Rod Stewart. Your hair is blonder than ever, compliments of summer, and remains thick and oddly kinky.
We finally found a new pediatrician and took you for your overdue well baby checkup. You weigh 32 lbs (85th percentile) and are 38 inches tall (off the charts, >100%). You feel like a rock, super dense. You have a barrel shaped chest.
Like you’re brother, you’re commonly covered in bumps and bruises.
Eating: You went from needing a snack first thing in the morning to hold you over while I made you breakfast to being finicky and not eating much at all. You’re now a pain in the ass at the table. You need to be entertained constantly. Just when I thought we could put the grab bag of tricks away. Typically you end up eating, but it’s not usually on our terms. Given that you’re monstrously big, I tend to let it go and cross my fingers that if you skip one meal you’ll eat well at the next, and you usually do.
You do, however, typically try new foods with ease. You ate squash that I made without even pointing it out as something “new”. Same thing with asparagus.
When we go to a restaurant we have to hide the sugar packets. If you beat us to the punch, you usually end up eating the entire packet (paper included).
You still like bananas, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, quesadillas, beans, and an assortment of snack foods like raisins and grapes and cheese sticks.
When we try to feed you and you already have a bite in your mouth, you’ll open your mouth and point to the food that’s in there and make this face that says, “told ya so”.
Sleeping: You sleep in the same room as your brother, in a twin bed with a toddler rail. You’re attached to your blanket and usually like bringing a couple of books with you to bed. Your schedule is the same as Hooper’s: wake up around 8am, nap from 1:30-4:30, and go to sleep around 8:30pm. You nap in the pack-n-play in the bathroom because napping in the same room as your brother does not work. The other day you climbed out of your pack-n-play after your nap, walked downstairs and found me and said, “me awake”. You still suck your thumb and put use “hand hat” when you’re tired. The best is when you’re riding your bike and have your helmet on; hand hat turns into helmet hat and you put your thumb in your mouth and your other hand on top of your helmet.Talking: You speak in full sentences and mimic a lot of what Hooper says. You’ve taken to his favorite words like “because”. So when I say, “Van, why won’t you listen”, you say, “because”.
Before answering any question, you say “um”. Me: “Hey Van, when’s your birthday”, You: “um, July”. It’s so fast and so subtle that it almost sounds like one word, umjuly.
There was a time when we’d scold you and you’d come crying to whichever one of us didn’t scold you and say, “Papa hit me”, even though the scolding was strictly verbal. It made us happy that you’re not in preschool telling people of authority lies about us. Also makes me question using a child as a witness in the court of law. Clearly, kids are nuts. You included.
You start a lot of sentences with “me”, “me awake”, “me like dat”, “me want that”, and so on and so forth.
“No way!” was your favorite phrase for a period of time. Me: “Van, we’re gonna go to the fair”, You: “No way!”.
You repeat whatever you’re saying until someone validates what you’ve said: “Dat boy wear helmet”. No answer. “Dat boy wear helmet”. No answer. “Dat boy wear helmet on his head”. “Yes, you’re right”. Then it’s quiet.
You understand full concepts and tell me things like, “It smells weird”. You also ask, “Who dat on da phone”, whenever we’re talking to anyone on the phone. It’s hard to know how much is mimicking things you hear Hooper say and how much is just you being you. Whichever the case, you ask appropriate questions and make appropriate statements. Development: You can ride a bike with training wheels. You love riding your bike. You can jump off of high surfaces with two feet. You try to hop on one foot and can just about do it.
You did great in swim class. You’re favorite part was jumping off the ledge into the water. You’re very trusting to the point of carelessness. You’re more of a jump-first-find-someone-to-save-me-after kinda kid.
You’ve gone to the bathroom on the toilet several times but are not near ready to officially start potty training. There was a period where you seemed highly interested, but it has passed. Now I wish you’d find the interest again because you’re in a current state of I-don’t-want-my-diaper-changed and nearly every time there’s a tantrum that ensues. It’s annoying that I have to beg you to wipe your butt. Please remember this.
You make fast friends with kids of all ages; others seem to be drawn to you naturally.You give the sweetest kisses. Your lips and nice and plump. Favorites: You request to watch a spin off of the movie Cars, called “Mater Tales”, nearly everyday. We don’t spend a lot of time watching TV, but when we do, this is what you request. You’re also more into cars and tractors than you’ve ever been. Like Hooper, you like to line them up and take them with you everywhere. For a week straight, you brought a little taxi with you everywhere. You also love playing in the garage and spend most of your free time at home in the garage with Hooper either riding your bike around in circles or building “homes” with Hooper.
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. 
