Tag Archives: Children

The Perfect Example of Love

16 Monday Feb 2015

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images46 years ago this Valentine’s Day, a bright-eyed 22-year old man proposed to his 19-year old girlfriend. It had only been five months, but they were young and in love, and she happily said yes. Eight weeks later, they were married on a Tuesday at the local Methodist church. It was the beginning of a beautiful love affair, what would soon become the greatest love story I’ve ever known.

1521249_10152154321334602_1444298455_nI’ve witnessed this marriage between my parents for over 36 years, and to this day I’ve never seen them argue. It’s the perfect balance between two people; so similar in their approach to life, yet different in personality and demeanor. My father, a creature of habit and routine, enjoys his scheduled lifestyle of leisure, while my mother’s unpredictable and lively nature keeps you guessing. They were ideally suited for parenthood as the harmony between them infused their children’s lives.

FullSizeRenderA stream of confidence that never wavered, they provided a solid foundation of support during the emotional roller-coaster ride of my childhood. They were the calm beneath my teenage storm, a warm shelter and soft place to land. They always put their children’s needs before their own.

Now as a mother and parent of three strong-willed children, I think of their example as I react to the ups and downs of daily life. I feel their strength when I’m at my best and their forgiveness in my downfalls.  I remember their kindness before responding to a tantrum, and I still ask them for advice on a regular basis.

FullSizeRenderHere in the throes of motherhood, I have many opportunities to practice patience. Like most moms, I am constantly being challenged by my kid’s outbursts and behavior. I get easily frustrated with Evelyn’s shouts of defiance in her attempt to gain independence, and while I’m open and receiving of Mason’s wisdom and energy, I’m fearful, even angry, when he blindly follows his friends. Already a mother, yet still the student, I try to respond with kindness, but fall victim to my fear instead.

It has been widely quoted that “making the decision to have a child is to forever decide to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” I find it both exciting and terrifying to have such little control over these beings that carry my heart in their hand. For one day soon they’ll be making their own decisions and charter a new path. They’ll sail off into the world, taking my heart with them, but I’ll do my best to support their decisions, as my parents did for me.

IMG_5914A few weeks ago, Tilley and Mason brought home a heritage assignment, the most dreaded, yet cherished, school project for an adoptive mom. Although we talk about Mason’s heritage on a regular basis, this assignment facilitates a deeper discussion, providing a great opportunity to explore his feelings and any questions he may have. On the morning of his presentation, my heart leapt from my chest as he courageously presented to his classroom. He spoke proudly of his country, his heritage, and the details of his adoption.

As part of the assignment, we were asked to choose eight significant life events to outline the story of his life. Of course, I wanted to use his birth as the event that began his timeline, but we were asked to provide more specific details on what happened that day. Nervously, I dove into the discussion, wondering how he would respond.

On October 4th, 2007, in the capital city of Hanoi, Vietnam, Mason’s birth mother, doctor and nurses welcomed him into the world; a beautiful day when he and his mother spent precious hours together. This woman, who I may never have the privilege to meet, made my son’s life possible and for that I owe her a great debt. As he wrote down the details, he looked at me with his wise, insightful eyes and said, “I bet she misses me.” Those five words split my heart into a million pieces, evoking feelings of love and deep sorrow. I responded, “of course she does.”

On that day she made the decision to have her heart walk outside her body in the most selfless way; she offered her son another path, a different life than the one she could provide. The love she has for her son is the most unconditional love I know of; a divine, selfless love that pours everything out, yet expects nothing in return. Even if there is sorrow, only the purest love remains. Like finding the most beautiful flower, but not picking it because you want it to live.

Mason’s birth mom may never get to experience the joy that I feel when his smile lights up a room and she may never bear witness to his compassionate heart. Although their lives took separate paths, the connection between their souls will never be lost. Instead, they are on a journey to find each other within, to achieve inner peace and solitude, even amidst the physical loss.

I’ve been told that a broken heart physically hurts because light is breaking in allowing the heart to expand. In these broken moments we can either repress the pain by closing off our heart in fear, or we can give ourselves some time to grieve, the catalyst to healing and growth.

IMG_2220Behind every one of my children’s tantrums is an opportunity for my heart to expand or contract. When I was a child I acted out, but my parents showed me compassion. That love is part of me; the living and breathing example that shows me which way to go. But when my defiant children stand before me and anger is all I can taste, I can think of a woman in Vietnam, whose heart is standing before me. I can sit with my fear, feel my heart-break, and experience a level of love like I have never known before; pure, unconditional love with no expectation or attachment to the outcome. I can just let go, and when I do, I will find her there.

One Commitment to Make this New Year

01 Thursday Jan 2015

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Just like that, the year is over and a new one begins. In the last three months we celebrated five birthdays, three major holidays, many celebrations, performances and parties. A hectic, but memorable time of year when my mind flips between calendars and “to do” lists on a regular basis. With so many things on my mind, is it any wonder that I haven’t been able to write a blog?

In actuality, I wake up early almost every morning to write, but hundreds of pages later, I’m unable to share a single thing. Often times the story doesn’t meet my expectations. It’s too preachy and depressing, not engaging or thoughtful.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a story teller. As a child, I would write stories and poetry on my mom’s typewriter, sharing my best work with family and friends. I credit my father, the attorney, with his story telling skills and poignant choice of words. I try to convey my thoughts in a way that is meaningful and inspiring; threading together real life stories that illustrate a deeper meaning in a light-hearted way. You’ll find that I frequently use analogies or life experiences to get my point across.

Through this blog, I’ve tried to share the ups and downs of my daily life. Although difficult at times, I’ve worked hard to expose my vulnerabilities and shed the layers I wear in the world. But let’s be honest, no one would read a single thing if I were to just say what I think. Instead I share stories of the kids and pictures of my life because it’s softer, while barely scratching at the surface. I flip back and forth between fiction (the nice version) and reality (my truth) to say what I need to say. I struggle between these two worlds to find a middle way and summarize it with a heartfelt story.

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“They ran down the stairs and squealed with joy, while their starry eyes twinkled in the light. Bright, cheerful presents greeted them under the tree and sparkled in sheer Christmas magic. Bursting with pleasure and wonderment, they carefully shook each gift before ripping away the paper to uncover their treasure.

But riding a roller coaster of emotion, how quickly they crash into a puddle of tears. My three-year old, Evelyn, stepped onto her new scooter, devastated to find that it wouldn’t move on its own. The very gift that had given her so much joy, only moments before, was now the source of her rage.”

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This small, but perfect example illustrates the fact that material things can never bring us the happiness we seek. No matter how magical the experience, each gift will eventually bring disappointment, as it cannot satisfy our ultimate desire. One day, every gift we opened on Christmas morning will sit in a dusty pile in my garage, waiting to be donated or thrown away.  There is nothing magical about them, as they will wear out or we will grow tired of them, just like every other gift that came before them.

But year after year, I get into the “holiday spirit” and spend ridiculous amounts of money to buy my kids the perfect gift. I perpetuate a lie and portray to my children a false meaning of Christmas; teaching them unrealistic and painful lessons of materialism that will eventually need to be unlearned. Evelyn was so upset that her expectation of the scooter didn’t live up to the reality. She thought this thing would make her happy, but material things don’t do that and they never will.

Ying_yang_signNo, unfortunately, this is not a story about how magical our Christmas was, nor will it be wrapped in ribbons and bows. But behind my words you will always find the truth and reality of the struggles I’m facing. Writing provides me with an outlet to communicate life lessons in a way that balance the yin and yang of life; even in the best of times, a touch of sadness, and in the worst of times, a silver lining.

Because you probably don’t want to read about the death of my 17-year old cat and how painful it was for me to watch her die. Or the tears I shed at work, when a co-worker shared her pain in going home for the holidays with fresh memories of her late mother. If I try to approach the subject of death and the dozens of lives we lost in our network of friends this year and during the holiday season, it would be far too depressing. But this is the unfortunate reality of life, no fiction or silver linings, and sometimes it’s just too hard to take.

Behind the holiday cards, pictures and stories are the challenges and tragedies of everyday life. It’s unrealistic to think that I can go on writing and not touch the surface of suffering. No matter what time of year, I would be doing myself a disservice if I continued to avoid the tough stuff. Our hurdles are the same, but we experience them in our own way and in our own time. We are all connected and can support each other as we go through it; sometimes as the teacher, other times as the student.

Sure, we can continue to figure it out as we go and get punched in the gut along the way. Or mistakenly look to things outside of ourselves to bring us momentary happiness. But if we’re lucky, we’ll have someone to talk to, a pastor, spiritual friend or mentor. Someone who can look us in the eye and say, “I’ve been there. I know what you’re going through.”  We can learn through the unfortunate mistakes of others.

Life’s hard lessons aren’t packaged with a soft message, and you can’t just break down and throw a temper tantrum when you don’t get what you want. But, unlike Evelyn, we shouldn’t mistake the fancy package under the tree, for what’s inside, because the gift is your reality. If you’re fortunate enough to find something you cherish and people you love, then hold on to them dearly, and appreciate them while you can, because nothing will last forever.

My commitment this New Year is to continue walking towards my truth. I hope that all of us continue to narrow the divide between our fiction and reality and lead the most authentic life possible. It’s simple really, no bells and whistles. I just don’t want to look back at my life many years from now and regret anything. I don’t want to wish my life away by dreaming that I was somewhere else. Instead, I want to be firmly planted in reality and witness the miracle of my life.

Anything else is just a fairy tale, the window dressing that someone is trying to sell you.

I should know. I’m a story teller. It’s what I do.

The Art of Friendship

05 Sunday Oct 2014

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On Monday, I took Evie out of bed, got her dressed, brushed her teeth and we went out for breakfast.  The week officially marked her transition to pre-school. For the past three years, she’s had the luxury of staying at home with Veronica, our very helpful live-in nanny. Last week, however, Veronica transitioned to a new family, and our baby set off into the real world. Aside from being busy and emotional, the week was a great success. She didn’t cry at Friday’s drop off and, at pick-up, she always came running with a smile. The teachers reassure me that she’s having a great time.

photo 2 (2)During the week, we spent time exploring the magical grounds of the school. You see, this isn’t your run-of-the-mill place. On the contrary, this private elementary school (up to 6th grade) is situated on a huge property in Laguna Beach. You step into a fairy-tale; the land is complete with multiple gardens, a huge teepee, a small tea house and European style one-room homes; each home accommodating a different classroom. A large portion of the property is dedicated to animals. There is an aviary with multiple peacocks, swans, chickens, doves, even rabbits, and a separate residence for horses, llamas and pigs. With language immersion options in German, Japanese, French and Spanish, we are happy Evie can continue learning Spanish, as she has the past three years.

Just like me, Evie loves peacocks. On Friday, we watched intently while one of them strutted around the aviary; acting like he owned the place. So many mornings I remember dropping off my big kids, who attended there years ago, and the peacock would stand there in full feathery display, shaking his vibrant, colorful body, and begging for attention. I would stand and watch, in awe of his majestic beauty, and enjoy his lively performance. I reflect on every beautiful creature, are how perfectly suited they are for this children’s community; teaching life lessons of individuality and diversity.

photo (7)The teachers tell me that Evie has made new friends, but at three years-old, she doesn’t share much about her day. I’m sure they all play together, side-by-side, and get along just fine. It’s hard to watch as your children navigate the open sea that is the art of making friends. This year, my heart broke a little when Tilley received her 2nd grade classroom assignment and found out that her two closest friends were in another class. Of course, after many tears, she found other girls to play with, and now, a month later, is enjoying those new friendships. As parents, I think the experiences are harder on us, as we share in their pain, and remember similar situations from our past. Forced to re-live our own painful memories all over again, in a real life scenario, like a gift, ready for us to dig up and rekindle. We carry it with us and it shadows over our reality like a dark grey haze.

photo 1This month, I traveled back to my hometown of Jamestown, New York and surprised my grandmother on her 90th birthday. I had the opportunity to see my family and many old friends from high school. I was amazed to find that, from a friendship perspective, time had stood still. Twenty years later and our relationships are the same. The connection we shared as children continues on and allows us to easily share our greatest joys and deepest fears. Like nothing changed, we laughed simply, effortlessly. There is something special about old friends, a deep bond and connection that takes away any aspect of “trying”, a shared history and common values, an understanding that transcends normal relationships.

I have been blessed in my life with great friends; deep meaningful relationships that will last lifetimes. As I approach my 36th birthday, I can’t help but think about how my closest friends, the most important in my life, were made before I turned 25. When I reflect on my adult life and the relationships I have (or haven’t) made, I find it ironic. It’s harder to find friends now, even though I am more in touch with myself than ever before. From that perspective, knowing what I want makes it harder to find genuine friendships.

photo (8)Connecting with my friends from home, no matter how many years it has been, is so simple. My husband doesn’t understand and it’s hard to explain, but there is an understanding between us; like they know the real me, no judgment, no fear of rejection. There is a comfort and security from our past, and because of that connection, I’m free to be myself. I can open up and wear my heart on my sleeve. I dig into the treasure chest of my past and extend a long rope of trust. I reconnect to that powerful place and it refreshes me and it gives me a renewed sense of purpose and community.

One similarity all of my friends share is transparency and honesty. You always know where you stand and there is no bullshit between us. It might sting at times when they bluntly tell you what they think, but I’ll take that any day over them concealing their truth. We are honest with each other and that’s what true friends should do. We can pick up right where we left off, with no insecurity about not having seen or spoken to each other for weeks, months, or years!

I really suck at making new friends. Lacking substance and common experiences, I try to find connections through superficial things, like where they live, where they work, or where their kids go to school. My favorite thing to do is play “six degrees of separation” to find out if we share friends in common; as if that’s going to improve our odds of becoming good friends?! Furthermore, finding new friends, after marriage, or “couple friends”, is difficult, at best. But now, as a mother, making new friends is nearly impossible. Simply put, due to our schedules, we have very little time in our life to spend with our current friends, much less to cultivate new ones.

While I was home, I visited with my grandmother at her assisted living facility. I walked into the building and greeted the dozens of women in rocking chairs, chatting away with their similar hairstyles and smiling faces. I thought about how their husbands, probably long gone now, were nowhere to be found, and how I’ll be so fortunate if I reach that time of grey hair and wrinkled, sagging skin. All of us are just trying to find happiness amidst the suffering and change that comes with being human.

Maybe my expectations are high, but I want meaningful relationships, not superficial ones. I want to spend my precious time with friends who stand by in good times and bad, and who won’t go blabbing my darkest fears to everyone they know. I want to have fun going out at night, but I also want to wake up in the morning, so I can take care of myself and my family. I am comfortable in my own skin; those wrinkles are there because I’m expressive and I like to laugh. I don’t need fancy clothes, vacations or things. I lead a healthy lifestyle, eat well and exercise often, but I just walk out my front door. I don’t need fancy gym memberships or care for extreme sports. I want friends who accept me for who I am and I just want to be myself.

Unfortunately, the relationships I’m seeking are few and far between. So when you’re fortunate enough to find even one true friend, who shares your values and priorities, invest in them heavily. Some of Derek’s and my closest friends live 20+ miles away and, in the past, we just haven’t made the time to get together. Instead, we’ve prioritized geographical convenience and ease of scheduling over true friendships. I have wasted time trying to cultivate new (convenient) relationships that simply aren’t there. I’ve cared too much about what other people think of me, not being true to myself in the process.

photo (6)We come into the world as little children, playing side by side, and, hopefully, we go out like those little old ladies sitting in their rocking chairs. In between birth and death we get so caught up with defining and labeling ourselves and the image that we want to portray. We hide behind our labels, our titles, our branding. We are so afraid of what others will think of the “real” person, we put up a façade. I’m the first to admit fault here, as I parade my life in pictures on the internet. But we’re just your typical, every day family with ordinary problems, trying to make it through another day. Through my blog, I’ve tried to be as transparent and honest about my everyday struggles. I probably share too much, making myself vulnerable, as my husband often tells me. But that’s just my way of being “real” and taking off those layers and labels in the world.

On a bike for the first time in 10 years!

On a bike for the first time in 10 years!

It’s okay though. That’s just me. I’m at peace and I have no fear of putting myself on display. I’m not afraid to bare my insecurities and imperfections. Just like the peacock who stands in full bloom, I want to be uninhibited and show the world who I am with all my expressive colors. I want to be me, with all my strangeness, eccentricities and quirks. I wish everyone could feel that way and stop tip toeing through life, worrying about what others will think of them. Instead, I will live out loud, with my heart on my sleeve, and go boldly and courageously into the world. I don’t care if my words fall flat or my ideas are rejected. Not afraid of failure or making mistakes, I will be remembered as someone who lived fully, who tried really hard to be better for others, and who tried to stay in the present moment. Here I am. This is me, with all of my colorful feathers on display.

Home Sweet Home

22 Sunday Jun 2014

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Home, the sanctuary of the heart and physical location of our comfort zone, where stress just melts away, and we can bare all, both literally and figuratively. Over the past 18 years, I have lived in 10 cities located in 4 different states; from the snowy back roads of Western New York, to the city streets of Philadelphia, the frozen lakes of Minnesota, and the sandy beaches of California. Each location, vastly different from the next, yet they share one similarity; I’ve called them all home.

babyI grew up in a small town on the east coast. Jamestown, New York is like none other, standing out in my heart among the rest. With the city’s roots in the arts and theater, I benefited greatly, being pushed out on stage at a very young age. Our home was located on the outskirts of town, and for 17 years, I shared that home with my sister and 2 loving parents. My childhood was nothing short of idyllic and, looking back, I wouldn’t change a single thing about my upbringing. We were, and still are, blessed beyond belief. From our annual traditions, to amazing family and friends, Jamestown will always be the ideal version of what I think of when I say “home”.

Outside of Jamestown, the longest stretch of time I’ve spent in one location is right here in my current home. And although we’ve lived here for 5 years, no matter how much I have tried, or would like to, I have yet to recreate that feeling of “home” I once had in Jamestown, New York. Maybe it’s because my immediate family lives hundreds of miles away or because that “small town” feel is difficult to find amidst the sixth-most populous county in the country. Whatever the reason, it just isn’t the same. I’ve thought about this for the past few weeks, even chatting with my sister, who agrees there is something “cozy” about Jamestown that we have yet to find here in California.

Mason The first few weeks after Mason’s adoption, I remember how painfully unsettled he was. So scared and uncomfortable, he would scream at the site of our cat and dogs. Too young to articulate what was going on, everything and everyone was unfamiliar to him. From sites, to sounds and scents, at 12-months old, he had to completely re-acclimate himself to his new environment. I’m sure it was terrifying. The only experience I’ve had that would remotely compare was a trip to China, where I struggled to find normalcy and community. And although I tried really hard to feel comfortable, when the language barrier is so extreme, you don’t have the luxury of simply getting by as I had in other countries. Simple things, like buying a cup of coffee and getting directions were a challenge. I was in the financial district of Shanghai, and naïve to how few people spoke English. I resorted to showing the taxi driver a few Chinese characters on a map to get from place to place.

China

During Mason’s transition and (to a lesser extent) my experience in China, we were missing that essence of “home”; our familiar surroundings, a warm embrace of comfort, and pure confidence that our basic needs would be met. The truth is the sweet spot of “home” is found in that security. I think of Jamestown and the one big difference between that home and all others to follow. I didn’t need to lift a finger, as my every need was met. From my laundry to my mother’s love-note napkin packed lunches (yes, I was that kid), to every necessity and luxury, my parents carved out a space of lavish security that I never fully appreciated until I left home.

Now, as Derek and I work to create that same space for our children, I finally understand the secret burden my parents faced with bills/expenses, the balance between work and home, and the uneasiness of trying to get everything done. We are all just trying to raise happy and healthy kids, and sometimes it feels like a sprint to the finish line just to get through the week.

It has been 18-years since I left Jamestown and, since then, I have lived hundreds, if not thousands, of miles away from my sister and parents. But in less than a week, my sister and her family will be relocating to Irvine, only 15 minutes away. You can imagine my joy and anticipation, knowing that any occasion, including breakfast, lunch and dinner will be reason enough to get together on a moment’s notice. I will never again have to miss a birthday party, dance recital or special event.

gpaThat blissful ignorance of childhood has a special, and powerful, place in my mind.  And while there is nothing wrong with feeling great about your past, unfortunately, I have created an unhealthy attachment to it, where I perceive those memories to be “better than” my present moment, no matter where I roam. It has been almost 20-years since those days in Western New York, only to return a handful of times, the most recent being over five years ago. I realize that when I finally go home again, so much will have changed. I’m sure it will feel very different to me, and I’ll probably get lost driving from one end of town to the next. No, the city isn’t the same, as old homes have now been sold, and so many close friends and family have since died or moved away. No, I am not the same, as my definition of comfort and security is different than it was back then. So where do I find this “home” that I love?

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Jamestown represents my ideal, a version that is nowhere to be found, but living on if only in my mind. That version of “home” is like pieces of fabric, woven together by single moments, and when I look back, it resembles a quilt. Even still, I continue to compare it to my present.  18 years later, I have finally realized that my fear of loss and this very attachment I have to recreating my past makes it impossible for me to live fully in the present. Trying to re-create that version of home is the problem and it’s just giving me a reason to be discontent with my life, rather than cultivating gratitude for what I have. During childhood, I didn’t have another basis of comparison; I lived spontaneously, and in the moment. I didn’t fear anything, and maybe that carefree, limitless state of mind is what is now tugging on my heart.

“Home” then, and now, is actively created in my mind through the actions of my parents and family, similar to the ones I now create for my children. On a daily basis, my actions of parenting, participating in the community and sharing that community with my sister and her family, is creating my new version of home. Even if I never again experience that same feeling from childhood, I am part of the living, breathing “home” which offers a new warm embrace.

FamilyEverything I have needed to find “home“, all this time, was right here at my fingertips. Simply finding the courage to embrace it in the present moment, and having enough faith in my future to allow that fearlessness the space to spill over and grow bigger than my fear of losing the past. My wildest dreams and fantasies of the future are possible, if only I can embrace it and abandon my need to control the outcome. Breathe in the security of the future to feel its warm embrace, surrender all thoughts and expectations, and finally just let go. Maybe then it is possible to recreate “home” right here in California, where she’ll finally have a fighting chance to compete in my heart; the only place I can ever really find.

What is Mother?

27 Sunday Apr 2014

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Springtime has arrived in California. The birds are busy building their nests, the cherry blossoms are blooming, and we are planting flowers and veggies in our little garden.

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I took the kids to Lowe’s last weekend, and we walked through the store and came across the plant “clearance” section. Tilley and Mason asked me why the plants looked so sad. As I picked up a bag of birdseed, I told them that those were the plants that no one wanted anymore and they were probably dying. Before I knew it, Mason had filled the cart with as many plants as his little arms could carry and told me that we were going to save them. My son’s great big heart of compassion couldn’t bear to have even one plant left behind.

We spent a good portion of our day in the backyard. We planted our new, sad flowers in their pots, soaked our flower seeds in jars and re-filled the bird and hummingbird feeders with fresh food.

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As a child, I remember feeling very connected to nature and animals. My parents would constantly ask me to clean my bedroom, as the aroma of my hamster, mice, frogs and turtle was enough to keep anyone away. I grew up in the outskirts of a small town, and I have fond memories of hiking through the wooded areas that lined my street; writing poetry, sitting by the stream and just relaxing in nature. I could spend hours in my backyard looking for grasshoppers and other creatures, keeping them as pets for a few days before releasing them.

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Aliso Niguel Canyon (2014)

As a mother, I’m trying to help cultivate that same connection to nature for my children. Although we live in a sprawling city, there are many places to explore and enjoy. From the ocean, to the canyons and desert, to the lake right down the street, my kids have more than enough to be wondrous about in nature. Tilley loves bugs and will happily pick up any creature she finds. Rolly pollies, worms, and snails… Tilley carries them around like her little pets. I try not to make a squeamish face when she picks up the slimy ones, as I really don’t want to discourage her fearlessness.

Last weekend we went to the park and walked the trails to find nature’s treasures; empty snail shells, acorns, pieces of bark, flowers and rocks. The kids were busy climbing trees and didn’t get excited when I found a miniature snail shell. I laughed and wondered who was acting more like a kid. Then I remembered… I’m usually the one that anxiously sits by and waits for the caterpillars to transform into butterflies. And it’s me who marks the transformation from larvae to pupa to lady bug.

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Even if I am the one benefiting from these childhood activities, I know my passion will one day transfer to my children. Even now, they help me remove the snails and worms from sidewalks before the sun gets too hot. They use their shovels to dig holes in the earth, as I re-pot our vegetables and flowers for the summer. They mirror my excitement as the baby birds chirp and joyfully follow me to the nest to catch a peek.

Connecting our children to the earth and the ultimate “Mother” is one of the most beautiful things we can do. Mother Earth whispers her secrets in every flower, every tree and in every living creature.

MotherNotice the difference between the noun and verb definitions that come from the word Mother. Of course there is the traditional “noun” definition which describes a woman that has “given birth”. But there is a separate, distinctly different “verb” definition that speaks to the day in, day out actions of providing “care and affection”. As we know, it is not always the birth mother that raises a child and “the art of mothering” goes well beyond the act of giving birth.

Through my actions, I am the same mother to Mason, Elisabeth and Evelyn. There is no difference in my actions of reading a book, cooking and feeding them dinner or taking them to the park. Although I didn’t give birth to Mason, he is my son through and through. He has adopted my mannerisms, my many food preferences, and he takes joy in similar pleasures. I can see myself reflected through him and his approach to life. His wide open heart, his joyful nature and his willingness to experience life are things I see in myself, now coming alive through him.

Mason3

It is through the art of mothering that this transference has occurred. In my daily actions of love, care and affection, I have helped to shape the life of my son. I understand his needs and what makes him happy and scared. I know what to say to inspire him to take action. I know his favorite foods and what books will encourage him to read more. I know which parks have his favorite slides and the stuffed animals he asks to snuggle with at night. I know all of these things because he is my son, and I am his mother.

Nature and mothering go hand in hand. There are metaphors around every corner; in the new sprout, the bird’s nest, even in the strong climbing branches of the mature tree. I feel it in the energy of the buzzing bees, butterflies, and birds that pollinate my garden to grow. And although none of these beings have come from me, through our actions we participate in their creation and we help them grow. If I hadn’t soaked and planted a seed one week ago, then the sprout of this Morning Glory wouldn’t be here today. We are the ones that help the seed to sprout, by cultivating the soil, and by watering them until they bloom. Through our actions, we are all “The Mother”.

photo (4)Just like a mother, we are… …the planter that transforms the seed into the sprout of the Morning Glory. …the provider of food that nourishes the plants and birds so they can grow. …the fertilizer that helps the vegetables achieve their fullest potential. …the watcher that lives through their eyes to make sure every need is met. FlowerFields

Not yet. Not yet. Eat me now. Too late.

09 Sunday Mar 2014

Posted by in Me, Mom, Wife

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avocadoMy friend posted this picture on Facebook the other day. Isn’t this the truth… you’re either waiting for an avocado to ripen or cursing it for going bad. There are many things in life that have a similar shelf life and quickly “go bad”.

I went in to Tilley’s bedroom the other day to pick out an outfit for her class project; I was frustrated to find shirts in her dresser that had never been worn. My kids wear the same worn out clothing on a regular basis, so when I find any clothes with tags and they’re too small, my blood starts to boil. I remember my pregnancy; staring at many pink and blue outfits, dreaming of the day I would meet my children. I thought about them and how they would look dressed in these little clothes. But life happens, and it’s filled with onesies and swaddles, not dresses and bows; and the inevitable sadness sets in when you realize those sweet little things no longer fit. Now in the midst of their childhood, I feel a sense of desperation for all things clothing related. These outfits, and their small window of opportunity, will be outgrown soon.

On Monday mornings, you will find me somewhere in Southern California, standing in a grocery store, choosing my favorite bouquet from an array of beautiful flowers. It’s a tough choice, but without fail, every week, one arrangement stands out among the rest. When I get to work, I clean out my vase from the week before and fill it with new, fresh water.  It’s such an enjoyable ritual. I love having flowers in my office and I look at them often; sometimes even taking pictures to text to friends and brighten their day. I frequently get comments from co-workers who pass by and admire their beauty. It brings me a lot of happiness and I think it makes other people happy too; when I forget to bring them in I get lots of comments. On Fridays, I make a quick decision on whether to take or toss them before the weekend. If the flowers are healthy and strong, they come home. If not, they go in the trash.

Of course, I have also tried to keep potted flowers in my office. I absolutely love gardening, but I’m not good at it. Derek laughs every time I bring a plant home. “Dead already, but it doesn’t know it yet,” he’ll chuckle. I have to remind Derek that just because I’m not good at something, that doesn’t mean I’m going to quit! I will try and try (and fail) and try again, because one day I will succeed! In the end, so many plants will have suffered as a result of my learning, but one day I will become a great gardener! Their sacrifices will not have been made in vain!

My latest obsession is the orchid because it’s one of the hardest plants to care for. It’s a challenge for me; so I study it, nurture it and (want to) understand it so that (eventually) it will thrive in my care. But, if you’ve ever befriended a potted orchid before, you know how frustrating it can be. I can just look at it the wrong way and it drops its flowers. Only days before, it was a healthy, luscious, beautiful plant in Whole Foods; and now I’m left with an ugly stem and some leaves. It’s truly heartbreaking. Today, I have two “leaf plants” that will hopefully flower again, but no progress just yet.

IMG_1448Last weekend, I was looking at my Gerbera daisies, remembering how beautiful they were just days before. I reflected on how quickly a flower goes from “beautiful” to “wilted” in my eyes. Thinking; the aging of my flowers makes them less beautiful than before. Once the flowers beauty is lost, I throw them in the trash. Of course, I wouldn’t keep a bunch of dead flowers around, but do you see the problem here?

If I listen closely, all of these things quietly whisper their wisdom in my ear. The irritation I experience upon finding rotten avocados and outgrown kids clothes, the sadness over the inevitable decline of my waning wilted flowers; their short life cycles serve as every day reminders of life’s most difficult lessons. There is more to my frustration than some silly, outgrown clothing. I’m being quietly reminded how quickly life is passing by, and before I know it my kids will be grown and gone.  As parents, it feels like we do a lot of waiting, but if we forget, or we are careless, we won’t get another chance. If I’m not paying enough attention, these windows of opportunity will be lost, as when I reach for that rotten avocado. The sole purpose of that avocado was to be utilized and enjoyed. I purchased it; it was my responsibility to help it achieve its purpose and I failed. Its potential is wasted, so I throw it in the trash. And my Friday flowers; they served their purpose and are no longer useful to me, so I throw them in the trash too.

Although it sounds overly exaggerated to mourn kids’ clothing, avocados and flowers, you don’t have to venture too far off to find more realistic examples of where this happens in life. Even now, in my thirties, I can look at pictures from the past and think about what I once had that is now gone; mourning my youthfulness, resilience, innocence, even my physical strength. I can’t even imagine how I’ll feel later in life. But those pictures and memories I have are deceiving. Said differently, it is confusing the pictures I take of the Monday morning flowers with the real flower. I know that the flower will wilt and die within a week, but I don’t celebrate the wilted flowers come Friday. I don’t take any pictures of them. I simply remember them as they once were and that is all.

Rather than trying to find acceptance for the flowers in every stage of life, we attach to the immortal version of the flower that we can find in pictures only. We don’t want to accept the wilted flowers any more than we are willing to accept some less than perfect version of ourselves. I think, if left unchecked, I am always striving to get back to the “Monday morning” version of myself. I don’t want to accept the lesser version when I know that an “idealistic” version has existed in the past. I incorrectly think life should be a deliberate and constant improvement from status quo and things can only get better from here. This is deceiving. We know that, physically, we are no different than the waning wilted flower. We know that we will age, get old and eventually die, yet we don’t want to accept this. Instead, we distract ourselves with superficial treatments to make us look youthful again. If you can’t relate to this, just give it a few years, I promise it’s coming.

No one wants to feel like they have wasted their potential. We are all striving to avoid the rotten avocado phenomenon. If there is purpose and potential, then it must be utilized. We cannot afford to be careless and risk being tossed out in the trash. Life is too short. Instead, be primed and ready to use those kids’ clothes as soon as they fit, cut open that avocado as soon as it’s ripe, and accept the flowers in all their forms.

This is how we improve. This is how life becomes a constant upward spiral. When we understand and cultivate a life that is ever more accepting and understanding and we strive to meet our fullest potential; and we support one another so that all of us can achieve these things. No one should feel that their purpose and potential has been wasted.

photo (2)But no matter what happens, let us not forget that the avocado and flowers will find new life and purpose in tomorrow’s compost piles and those unworn kids’ clothes will go walking on someone else’s beautiful child one day. Although life didn’t go the way we thought it would, it will work out from a different point of view. There is always potential even if we are unable to see it. So don’t ever take those “leaf plants” for granted and forget their invisible potential. They will find their way into the arms of a great gardener and flower again one day.

3 Ways to be a Good Mom (everything is awesome!)

16 Sunday Feb 2014

Posted by in Mom

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Last weekend our family went to see the Lego Movie. And although I was a bit distracted by Evie’s unsettled-ness, and her need to run up and down the aisle, I watched and observed as Emmett set off on his adventure. Unaware that the movie’s lesson was aimed squarely at me, I blissfully watched the Lego characters search for the “missing piece”.

While I exited the movie theater, my awareness of this parenting lesson began to sink in. Wasn’t I the same parent that Will Ferrell so artfully portrayed in the movie? Haven’t I been enforcing the same “rules and instructions” on my kids? Aren’t there two boxes of Legos sitting in the corner of Mason’s bedroom, right now, completely off limits to him?

Freedom!As we walked in the door to my house, I asked Mason to find his Legos. I let him know that there were no longer going to be anymore “rules” on how to put Legos together and he could make whatever he wanted. Joyfully, he ran up the stairs and played, for hours, with his new found freedom.

If you read my blog post last week, it may have felt somewhat vague. But if I can explain with context, you will understand. We all have emotional baggage that we are carrying around; in many forms. Anytime we feel a tinge of anger at a person, or an annoyance at the world around us. Anytime we obsess over something, feel greed, pride, jealousy or the need to defend ourselves. All of these things are pointing to something inside of us that needs to be addressed.

Our intentions and motivations are little windows to the soul. When we observe them, and see them for what they are, we learn about ourselves. You see, Legos are just one of my examples to explain how my insecurities come alive.

Mason, the "Master Builder"

Mason, the “Master Builder”

The last time Mason and I played with Legos we opened the box, pulled out the instructions and organized the pieces. Step by step, we read and followed the directions until we created the Police Mobile Unit. I was in my zone; an 8-year old girl again, constructing this amazing creation out of hundreds of little pieces! Mason sat there, and twiddled his thumbs, as his mother so carefully created his Lego toy. While I experienced a surge of new found energy and looked at my project with pride, Mason’s anxiety grew as his mother cautioned him to be careful with his new toy. I held my breath every time he picked it up and even stored it in my bedroom so it wouldn’t get broken!

I don’t know about other moms, but I will speak for myself and say that when I sit down with my kids to complete an art project, I become an obsessed, competitive perfectionist. The 8-year old little girl inside me comes alive, just as she did back then, competing to win the most creative or perfect award. (Of course there is no such thing as a perfect award, but I would still like to try and achieve it!) So why am I surprised when Tilley and Mason compare and contrast their projects, arguing over whose is better, prettier or more creative?

You see the Legos are just a physical representation of my insecurities. When Mason opens a box of Legos, I get anxiety. He mixes the pieces together, loses some, he separates the instructions from the box and starts putting them together whatever way he wants. Okay, first of all, do you know how annoying it is to look for that one missing Lego piece? Mason’s fearless approach to Lego building represents everything that pushes my buttons. He is out of control, messy, and doesn’t follow instructions. It triggers something in me and is the reason his two boxes of Legos sat there for months, collecting dust, in the corner of his room. Now, although I do so unintentionally, I am (sadly) stuffing my son full of anxieties and transferring my emotional baggage to him.

This whole situation reminds me of when the kids had this project, last year, in Kindergarten. The teachers scheduled a few sessions, in the middle of the day, to inform parents about the project. Since I am a working mom, I decided, instead, to ask for the Cliff notes version as I dropped off the kids that morning. The teacher handed me two pieces of wood, one for Tilley & Mason. I was to “secretly” bring it home and surprise them with it. She showed me some examples of how we could decorate the board with stickers and paint. Her examples were elaborate. We were supposed to decorate them with anything that the kids cared about.

The Sunday night before the project was due; I pulled out the boards for the kids to decorate. Instead of being my usual self and going overboard on art supplies, I decided to dig into my supply bins, and pull out some markers and stickers that we already had. Those teacher examples had been way over the top anyway. We didn’t need fancy stickers to have fun with this project!

I restrained myself from wanting to step in; that tendency of the perfectionist normally takes over anytime the kids have a project. Instead, I just watched and enjoyed as they happily decorated their boards with the stickers and supplies they had been given.

On the day of the presentation, the parents were to be in the classroom midday, and Derek and I took time off of work to be there. I had been looking forward to it all week. The teacher asked the parents to come up one-by-one with their kids to present their boards. Slightly confused, I let other parents volunteer before me, so I could just observe.

The first mother came to the front of the classroom, pulled out her board, and read from a letter she wrote to her child. Shifting uncomfortably in my chair, I realized that I misunderstood the assignment. This project was for the mothers to complete and present to their child. Horrified, I looked for the closest exit! I wasn’t really going to leave, but I really wanted to curl up in my chair and die. Derek was confused, and asked me what was wrong. I explained the situation, but he told me to just relax, it was no big deal.

photo 2As I watched the mothers, one by one, present their boards to their children, my anxiety grew. Each board was better than the next. These parents took time and energy to create their boards for their kids. Some were fully painted, and decorated with expensive scrapbook stickers; some even had been strung with ribbon so the child could hang it on their bedroom wall! Mine looked like they had been put together with duct tape and feathers. I was humiliated!!!

I sat there; furious with myself, and furious about the project. I was so distracted with my life, my work, that I didn’t understand the simplest instructions. I felt regret that, amongst this circle of moms, I didn’t have any close friends (yet) that could have clued me in to the assignment. Right there, all at once, it became overwhelming; my regrets, insecurities, anxieties… looking at me squarely in the face, everyone could see it, my greatest fear coming true that I WAS A TERRIBLE MOM!

Finally, the last parents to volunteer, Derek, the kids and I walked to the front of the room and took our seats in the little chairs. I told a story about how we named the kids, and how during Mason’s adoption, Tilley had (surprise!) graced us with her presence. I said a lot of stuff, most of it forgettable by now, but what I do remember was the way the kid’s smiled as I spoke in their classroom. The way they held their boards up, with pride, and happily displayed it for all of their friends.

You see, my kids won’t remember that we did the assignment wrong. In fact, they didn’t notice anything was wrong that day. What they will remember was how mom let them have fun decorating their boards. And how both mommy & daddy came to support them on this day, and spoke in front of their classroom, to their friends and teachers.

Looking back now, does it matter that I didn’t put my heart and soul into that silly little board? Anyway, if I had understood the directions, that board would have been just another one of my endless pursuits of unachievable perfection. Instead, a blessing in disguise, this project taught me a lot about myself. I have been forced to reflect on my own insecurities of failure and why (WHY?!) I equated not understanding the assignment with being a bad mom.

Of course, I know that these things don’t really make me a “bad mom”. And what does it mean to be a “good mom” anyway? I have given this topic some thought, and although I don’t think that I have everything figured out, I think that really “good moms” do three things well. I am sure there are more, but stay with me for a minute…

  1. We let our children be who they are. We do not try to control or direct who our child will turn out to be. We do not think that our child is an extension of ourselves, but rather that they are their own person. As parents, we of course can provide good soil, sunlight and water, but whether they turn out to be a palm or a pine tree has nothing to do with us. It’s only our job to accept them as they are.
  2. We give them unconditional love, and at all times. (Key word: unconditional) We should not put conditions on our love, understanding, support, encouragement, advice, or just a shoulder to cry on. Although this seems obvious and somewhat simple, if you ever attach a condition to anything, then this by definition is NOT unconditional. (Warning: many blog posts will stem from this one!)
  3. We restrain ourselves from passing down all of our fears, baggage and insecurities. We refrain from making the subtle comments, sharing our all too obvious anxieties, so that these things don’t trickle down for them into their adulthood. This is much easier said than done, but if you are aware of it, then you can do a much better job of controlling your speech and actions.

The common thread of Legos and this Kindergarten project is they both fall into Tiffany’s category #3. However, if I am aware of my triggers, and I don’t allow my fears of not being good enough, to pass on to my children, then I am going to (probably) help them to avoid a similar future of insecurity. Hopefully, with awareness, the opposite of oblivion, we can shine a light on our insecurities and we can work with them. Maybe we can even get to the root of them and overcome them, if we’re lucky.

We are all on a journey of self-discovery and the point is to evolve, become better people, so that we can help other people… and hopefully, so that all of us can just be happy.

Once a perfectionist, always a perfectionist. A week after the class presentation, we flipped the boards over, bought our stickers and completed them the "right" way!

Once a perfectionist, always a perfectionist. A week after the class presentation, we flipped the boards over, bought our stickers and completed them the “right” way!

take joy in serving others

09 Tuesday Feb 2010

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No one said parenthood would be easy. In fact, there were many months where I was beside myself with frustration at my terrible two-year olds who didn’t listen, did the opposite of what I asked and pushed me over my edge. A little over a month ago, things began to change. Sometime around Christmas 2009, my little babies stopped being so baby “ish” and started communicating.

I have watched myself change so much through the different phases of their lives. I began as a very relaxed newborn mother. I had everything figured out. Then they began to walk and talk and do the opposite of what I asked of them. I became so hardened in my style. The majority of the words out of my mouth were directions and scolds. I would push more and enjoy less.

As they have grown up a bit, I find that I have less anxiety about everything we do together. Taking the two of them out for dinner tonight (alone), watching them eat their dinner without the constant scolding about running away from me and jumping all over the tables. They listened and understood what I asked of them. It was like a perfect orchestra in concert. They held hands as I walked them to the car. They held on to mommy while in the parking lot. They walked upstairs without debate to get their bath. They played so well together in the tub.

When we got into Mason’s bedroom, I went through the normal process of dressing, lotioning and getting them ready for bed. Tonight, however, instead of moving on to the next task or chore as it has been for me for so many months, I did something different. I asked the babies to sit in front of me on the floor. Out of nowhere, I started singing to them. They started dancing around the room. We made silly sounds and faces at each other as they ran around the rocking chair. They giggled hysterically and had pure joy written all over their face.

I realized that I was no longer in a survival mode of taking care of 2 children as a single-wife during the week. I was enjoying the moment by moment experience of loving my children. Some mothers may not understand where I’m coming from. However, parenting 2 two-year olds, without a spouse at home, while working full-time can be quite challenging. I have lived in survival mode for so long that I am just now learning what fun I can have with my kids. I don’t need to be so militant in my approach with them. They do listen. In fact, they enjoy listening. I don’t need to run such a tight ship to get through my day. In fact, I have found that when I let go, I find true joy in caring for them, and they respond to me so much more.

Call it a lesson-learned… but it came at a perfect time. (it was a necessary lesson) The look on their faces tonight told me that I was, in fact, doing everything right.

Tilley

Mason