confessions of a first time mom

Little Girl Faye

2010-02-24T07:04:00.000-08:00

I just love this little girl... I like her parents a whole bunch, too. :)

On the phone with Bella

2010-02-08T18:13:00.000-08:00

I happened upon this adorable moment of Penélope on the phone with her beloved cousin, Bella. They were talking so loud that I could hear both ends of the conversation. So stinkin' cute.

Penélope: "Do you wanna come to my house, Bella?"

Bella: "Yeah! When can I come over?"

Penélope: "You can come after lunch, if you want."

Bella: "Sorry, that's not a good time for me. I need to be here when my Daddy gets home from work. I can come at night."

Penélope: "Um, no, só (only) in the dia (day). Not noite (night).

Bella: "But I can't. I have to be here when my daddy gets home!"

Penélope: "You can come now."

They talked for 30min.

A Conversation with a Little Happy

2010-01-27T07:45:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago...

"Mom, you wanna de-cansar (rest) wis (with) me?" Her hands were eagerly clasped together trying to contain the excitement of a great idea.

"Sure, meu amor."

"We could snuggle in your bed on the fluffy pillows if you want."

"Lets!"

We climbed into my unmade messy bed and Penélope eagerly adjusted all things fluffy and comfy around us. She laid down on her side, head up and chin resting on her hand. Then she said,

"Let's conversar (talk). Um, what you like?" (I just love how her questions are asked just like in Portuguese, an affirmative with a question mark.)

"I like the sky, I like yellow..." I answered.

I asked her the same. We talked for a little while then she asked,

"Why you love me, Mom?"

My heart felt a little squeeze. I wondered if I had not been affirming something in her that she felt the need to ask me why I loved her. All the million of reasons came swirling around me, but I wondered what she needed to hear.

"I love you because you're my favorite present that God ever gave me. I love that you are kind and thoughtful. I love that you get silly and that you dance. I love you more than anything else. I love you just the way you are..."

As I talked about why I loved her I could tell that her whole being was soaking it in. I hoped I had expressed what her little 3 1/2 year old needed to hear.

There is something powerful about verbalizing an emotion, a specific thought. I'd like to think my actions show Penélope that I love her and that all the kisses and hugs I give her tell her that I really like her a lot. But speaking it out is the other important piece of feeling completely loved by someone, I think. All of our senses need it. Even though I tell Penélope that I love her several times a day, I think she needed some specifics. Not just, "do you love me?" I think she knew that. But rather, "why do you love me?"

It's true that mere kind loving words mean nothing if it's never put into action. But I wonder sometimes if those that we love the most need more specifics at times. Maybe that helps validate their specific individuality. When Penelope is older and when she inevitably goes through those moments of self doubt I want her to be able to fall back on some specifics. The unique things that her mom saw in her that are priceless. It's something I'm definitely need to work on.

This morning...

Penélope wanted to "snuggle," she said, in my lap while I ate breakfast. She asked me, "why you love me, Mom?" Before I could answer, she said with a huge smile plastered on her face, "Porque Deus fez me assim!" (Because this is how God made me!)

The Quandary of Laundry

2009-08-17T17:31:00.001-07:00

Here's the deal. I don't enjoy folding laundry. In my home there is an everlasting load of laundry that sits next to my side of the bed. It just sits there bored out of its mind.

I am a nanny part time. Everyday I go to work I fold and put away laundry. I do with task without complaint. I do it efficiently. I am focused.

At home it's different. I stare at it a lot. Even as I type, it's looking back at me. Glaring at me, really. Yet, I would rather blog about not folding the laundry during which time I could be mundanely folding the stinkin' clothes. But who wants to do that? Let's face it, I am no Martha Stewart. I'll cook and do what I call mild cleaning. For example, I don't enjoy getting too involved with dusting.

On the dusting note. I remember when Penélope was born my mother came to stay with us for a few weeks. One day, my mom started cleaning which in her routine inevitably leads to dusting. This is not the most obvious line of thinking for me. Dusting will get done when I can no longer remember the color of any given surface. Well, Christopher was AMAZED at what my mom was doing, like it was a rare forgotten art form or something.

So back to laundry. I think I have figured out why I'm such a better homemaker at work.

1. At work there is a tangible incentive: a paycheck. Doing just about anything with a monetary reward in mind makes me a much nicer person. Well, maybe not anything but certainly laundry.

2. Although at work there is a reward, there is, also, a threat to losing the reward: getting fired. I'm not dumb enough to let the laundry pile up day after day because I realize my job would at risk.

Let's face it, at home there is no such thing. I don't get paid. And if I don't fold the clothes is Christopher or Penélope going to fire me? I don't think so.

I guess until they invent a closet that sanitizes clothes or something, I'll keep my little method going. Laundry and I will continue our staring matches, I'll keep watching Chris retrieve coveted pieces of clothing from the basket from time to time and every night, I'll cozy up to the laundry basket. Dear Laundry, I'm sure, will always have hope for tomorrow.

The Bed Is Made

2009-08-14T09:48:00.000-07:00

This was Penélope's first time making the bed by herself. Even though not everyday does it turn out this well, I never remake it. I only point that out, because I want to remake it half the time! But given the fact that she seems to have the same perfectionist tendencies as her mom, I never do. I want her to know that her best effort is never a disappointment.

It's so cute to watch her do it. She picks up the big pillows and says, "I'm forte, Mom. I'm really forte." ("forte" means "strong" in Portuguese)

She felt very proud of her accomplishment. So did I. :)

Big Brown Eyes

2009-08-03T08:52:00.000-07:00

They say the eyes are the windows into the soul.

I yelled at Penelope. It pains me to say it, but I did. I was working on a project and she wanted my attention. She immediately launched into a mega sized meltdown (which is very unusual for her, I might add) when I didn't respond to her. I stupidly insisted on one final step in my project before dealing with her. Not a good idea. Not good at all. What I thought was mega sized was the toned down version of the melt down to be. So I yelled. I raised my voice and said, "Stop! I can't take this!" I said that several times before I got up to attend to her.

This was not my proudest moment as a parent.

Other meltdowns are the result of not getting her way, but this was different. Her sad eyes said it all. I got up and took her into my arms and held her until her crying was down to a whimper. Every once in a while her big brown eyes would look into mine and she would say, "I need to cry, Mom. I need to cry." I heard my own heart crack.

I realized that she had asked me several times before the meltdown for attention, and I kept saying, "In a little bit." When I yelled at her the message I was sending her was, "Penelope, when you're acting like this, you are unlovable." In effect, I was placing conditions on her in order for her to be loved. I screwed up. (I have always said that I never wanted my kid to think I had it all together. I hate to think how well Penelope knows that already.)

I looked back into her sad eyes and I talked about how Mommy had screwed up. I asked if she would forgive me. Before I finished the question she said, "I fo-give you, Mom." And it was at that moment that I realized I had to tell her something.

I asked her to look right into my eyes. She did. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying so much, but still brown and sad. Then I said, "Penelope, I love you when you're happy. I love you when you're sad. I love you when you don't obey. I love you when you get mad. I love you always... Her eyes watered up again. I wanted to keep going, but she wrapped her little arms around me and pulled me in tight. She kissed my cheek that was damp from my own tears.

My hope was that my words, my love reached all the way to her gentle young soul and hugged away the hurt. From my eyes, I think she could see that I really meant it. From her eyes, I could tell that she got it.

Penelope and Her Hunt Boys

2009-07-31T06:50:00.000-07:00

When I told Penelope that she was going to hang out with her cousins, the first thing she said was, "I gonna see my prince, Mom? My prince needs me? Does he, Mom?"

Nathan is her prince. Maybe she's right. Just look at him helping her ride the bike.

Then it was time for a picnic. Penelope's favorite thing. We went to Lake Harriet and goofed off and kicked the ball around.

I had to post this picture. This is a classic "Penelope expression." When she gets excited her whole being expresses it. Look at her hands and foot. She was elated with the thought that perhaps some squirrels lived in the hollow of the tree. She and Natie put a Cheeto in the hollow for the thought-of residents.

Many other moments, Penelope simply enjoyed observing her fun cousins.
Monkeys on bars.Again, Penelope enjoying the entertaining view of three cute monkeys.

OK, so could there be any cuter Hunt boys around? I don't think so. They are delightful.

Nathan, perfectly lovable. I can't even stand it.

Never will you find more affectionate brothers. Did I mention how I totally can't even stand it?

A fun day indeed.

(Sad to report that after this sweet moment on the bike Penelope aquired her biggest boo boo to date. There was much sorrow, but nothing that her doting Prince couldn't handle. He brought her a toy for comfort, almost in tears himself, and even sang softly to her.)

2009-07-27T06:57:00.000-07:00

A couple of days ago, I opened my messy closet to get my shoes. That's when I noticed "Suzie's" shoes carefully and neatly put away with all the other shoes. Knowing the rule about no shoes in the house, Penélope must have removed her dolly's shoes after arriving home from our outing earlier that day and put them neatly away.

I wish I could take credit for her obedience and organized ways. I'm sorry I cannot. I always thought I would be a very consistent parent. I'm not. I used to view myself as organized. I'm not.

Penélope is that way just because God made her like that. And I'm not about to complain.

Vacation

2009-07-14T19:56:00.000-07:00

We just got back from vacation. I know, are we spoiled or what? First New England, now the lake in northern MN. We relaxed and relaxed then relaxed a little more. A friend/co worker of Chris' let us stay in their RV, which as you can see in the picture, doesn't really look like an RV. It's pretty fancy. The best part: windows, windows, windows, which meant a CROSS BREEZE. Can you tell I live in a condo?

This was the view from almost every place in the house.

This was the little guest cabin (also with a view). Notice Penelope climbing the ladder to the loft.
It was fun to have Marilyn ("Bubbe" as Penelope calls her) to stay with us for a couple of days.

Penelope loved the cabin.

Anyone who knows Little Miss Cautious, knows that she is extremely hesitant about trying new things. She has never liked slides, for one. But on this trip she carefully, under much consideration went for it. And then she couldn't get enough of it. She kept saying, "This is so great, Mom. I can do myself!"

We had a ton of fun on the boat.

This lake was unlike any other. No slimy green stuff to swim through. Just sand.

Can you tell I love being this little girl's mom?

During the stay we gave up our vegetarian ways and stuffed our faces with meat--everyday. (However, I will add that once we were coming home we were happy to think meatless thoughts--even meat lover, Chris!)

This was also Penelope first time swinging on her own. She was so proud.

Every time we would sit down to eat or play outside or ride on the boat, Penelope's most used phrase was. "This is so fun, guys!"

Favorite Vacation Moment: One night Chris and I laid down on either side of Penelope for the nighttime routine. She tucked her little arms around our necks and pulled us in tight, cheek to cheek and kept saying over and over again, "I love you guys, you're the best mom and best papai. We're together! You guys are best. I love you!", and kissing our cheeks.

Happy's Birthday

2009-07-03T06:19:00.000-07:00

Little Miss Happy had a happy birthday. She had a lovely little tea party: a teapot for a cake, little friends, Gigi and Lulu and three dashing cousins, Ethan, Dylan and Nathan. Her tias and tios and Bubbe were there to help celebrate, also. Kristi Fonseca took the pics. Her pictures tell the story...

The Little Miss with her new hat, new baby, and a suitcase of waiting crafts, she was eager to go home.

New England: The End

2009-05-27T10:28:00.000-07:00

We spent some time hanging out back at the Alton homestead. The bride-to-be took some time out of the wedding planning craziness to sit back and chat a more with all of us around good food and good laughs. We all enjoyed getting to know Melissa more...

And some of her close friends...

And even Natie and Happy got to goof off and enjoy playing together. Can you tell they're friends?

And Ethan even got some alone time for perfect his fishing techniques...

The next day proved to be yet another classic New England day which always must involve either the ocean or Portsmouth in our opinion. It was fun to take our little Happy to this quintessential NE town where her parents' young love flourished. We spent many a day walking the cobblestone windy narrow streets holding hands, wondering at our hopeful future together.

Our favorite coffee shop in the center of town.

We grabbed a couple Moe's subs and meandered down to Prescott park. Another favorite spot in Portsmouth.

At Prescott we ran into some familiar faces...

And even got a little squeeze from Grandpa...

The next day was the rehearsal.

The handsome Hunt Boys.

The wedding went just as smooth and with even bigger smiles.

Nathan loves his Grandpa...

Unsolicited hugs are always the best. Looks like Grandpa scored on this one.

The BIG DAY. Wedding bells chimed, a beautiful bride was whisked away by the handsome groom and it was sealed with a kiss.

Next was party time. (Penelope stills refers to Melissa as the "princess.")

Penelope's wish finally came true: Dancing with her daddy. For weeks she had been talking about dancing with him. In fact, any time she would put a dress on the first thing out of her little mouth would be, "I'm gonna dance with daddy, Mom." And here she did......for a looong time. When daddy needed a break I found her...

...with this boy. Who is he? I still don't know. She danced with him for an entire song. Then she danced with Natie, Dylan, Ethan, me and even Donny. She literally danced the entire evening! She barely even ate a thing.

Penelope scored big time on this trip. Besides having Melissa in the family, she got another, Grandma, Grammy Smith.
One last squeeze from The Beloved and Most Excellent Cook...

Our last day at the ocean. We bought some shrimp at the Jack's seafood joint down the road and ate it by the sea.

Penelope's last moments on Moody Beach.

Good bye, Beloved New England.

Boy Meets Girl

2009-05-22T12:44:00.000-07:00

Valentine Day 1996: Boy meets girl. Girl meets boy. Boy likes girl. Girl likes boy. Boy writes girl a hopelessly romantic letter. Girl likes it. Boy and girl talk for hours. They fall in love.

May 22, 1999. Boy and girl get married.

May 22, 2009. Boy and girl are still married, still stay up talking for hours and still in love...

Thank you, Love, for gathering up the courage to give me that letter 13 years ago...and making me read it in front of you. (!) Even though I still think you take too long to tie your shoes and even though you still don't like the way I eat ice cream, I'm glad for your love that's constant, forgiving and deep.

I love you more than yesterday but less than tomorrow...

New England Vacation: Part 3

2009-05-09T12:41:00.000-07:00

Now it was time to play with Grandpa Hunt! The hiker extraordinaire that he is, including an Appalachian Mountain Club guide, boasting the title of "the Nicest Man in the White Mountains" it seemed appropriate that he should take us on a hike. Since none of us share any of those titles and/or descriptions he took us on a little hike at Mount Major near his house.

Since her Tia Cathleen and her Daddy had jackets tied around the waist, the Little Miss insisted on the same.

Nathan got VIP treatment between his Grandpa and his older brother's shoulders.

Can you tell Cathleen is a city girl? Who ever heard of hiking in heels? The crazy thing is, at one point she was carrying Miss Penelope UP the mountain.

This was a HUGE boulder along the path that Grandpa knew the kids would like. He was right! Boys needs rocks to climb and to throw.

Ethan enjoying the moment.

Jer and Cat also enjoying a moment.

I wish I could say that Grandpa Hunt and the boys needed a break. They didn't. They were waiting for the slow pokes like me.

It was all worth it for this. This is Lake Winnepesaukee. That's right, folks, land of What About Bob?

It was at this outlook point that Michelle called it a hike. Grandpa Hunt and Ethan and Dylan went all the way to summit!

After the hike we drove to Wolfboro, on the shores of Lake Winnepesaukee, for some down time.
Talk about down time!

Little Miss Happy enjoying a little "Grandpa" time.

New England Vacation: Part 2

2009-05-01T20:39:00.001-07:00

Our second day in New England was spent with Don, The Beloved, and his wife, Cindy, The Most Excellent Cook. We began the day at their lovely abode. By the time we arrived, Cindy had already casually made homemade whoopie pies, a must with any Hunt arrival. To properly accompany these evil sweet things, she made state-of-the-art lattes. I was so grateful she understood this important pairing.

Penelope having her first taste of Cindy's whoopies.

Naturally, we felt another beach day was most necessary, so off we went with a picnic in hand, made of course, by Cindy.

Perfect contentment.

Ethan and his freshly picked snails (in the bottle). Who knew the joy that snails could bring a nine year old boy.

Ethan chasing his little bro, Nathan, with a new found snail friend.

Christopher and Penelope enjoying string licorice.

Jeremy and his Eskimo. Not the attire that most often springs to mind when you say, "beach." What can we say? Cold should not be a factor for enjoying the ocean.

I post this picture for DIMPLE reasons alone. Just look at them! I also get a kick out of the fact that it looks like he only possesses one arm. Wait a minute, that didn't sound right. You know what I mean.
Jer and Cat. Totally a Jetta kind of couple.

I had asked Dylan whether or not he had tasted the salty sea. Later, I found him with his tongue hanging out. He said, "it's so salty, I can hardly taste the water." Dylan always knows just how to put things.
Smooching time. OK. Don't look too closely because you'll see that Christopher has his eyes open which makes this picture really funny. Oh well, this is the land where we fell in love, so many years ago...

...and now look what we have.

A very pretty Eskimo.

Ethan knows what it means to live in the moment.

After our lovely day at the beach we went back to The Beloved and The Most Excellent Cook's home to feast on more food. Cindy casually made, from scratch mac and cheese (which makes me never want to buy a box of that stuff again), marinated chicken on the grill, stuffed bell peppers with fontina cheese and home made croutons, broccoli with lemon and from scratch risotto. Do you begin to see why I gave her that name?

A very good day indeed.

New Enlgand Vacation: Part 1

2009-04-27T07:03:00.000-07:00

It had been almost 5 years since I had been to New England and consequently almost 5 years since we had taken a vacation of more than 3 days off of work! AND almost 5 years since I had seen the ocean...too, too long. The crazy thing is, we drove. Yeah, I know, what we were thinking? We spent two days in the car with a two year old following the other crazy Hunt car with a set of parents, Jeremy and Cathleen and three little men, Ethan, Dylan and Nathan.

We stared at Jeremy's van for many hours. This is what Christopher did much of the time.

This is what I did most of the time, sat in the back with my Happy. The only deceiving part of this picture is that I'm smiling. I didn't smile the whole way. Just ask Chris.

This is what Penelope did much of the time: watch movies.

First stop in Vermont: Dunkin' Doughnuts. Penelope's first taste shared with her little cousin, Natie. After spending time in NE again we are convinced that New Englanders have a severe and deeply embedded addiction to Dunkin.'

We arrived at Grandpa Hunt's house in New Hampshire the following evening and the power was out. He and Melissa had prepared quite a turkey feast which we enjoyed by candle light. (And I had my first taste of meat since Jan. The first of many non-vegetarian experiences on the trip!)

The next day, while Grandpa was at work, we ran to Maine's ocean. (OK. We drove, but it sounds so much more poetic the other way.) We got to hang out with Don, The Beloved. That's what I now call him since his long time friends Chris and Jer like him so much.

Don, Jeremy and Christopher apparently running away from the ocean.

Penelope seeing the ocean for the first time. At first Little Miss Cautious said she didn't like the sand because it was "sticky." But soon fell in love with it.

Here she is a bit uncertain still.

The Hunt Boys were a delight to watch. Their enthusiasm was both palpable and contagious.

Ethan, 9yrs old

Nathan, 3yrs old

Dylan: 7yrs old

This is York Beach where Christopher and Jer Boy played a lot when they were kids. Their Grandfather's house was just up the road.

Nubble Light.

It is one the most photographed lighthouses in the US. It sits on it's own little island. While we were there a seal swam near to say hello. He just kept looking and looking at all of us. So cute!

I wish I could say we enjoyed a cup of coffee at this cafe in this little artist village. We didn't. Don was convinced it was open because he said he could see from the car that there was a guy with dreadlocks making coffee by the window. We approached the window and noticed instead there was a table display of pots and tea kettles. Yeah. No dreadlocks. But truthfully, the view did not require any coffee to be thoroughly enjoyed.

The ocean feeds my soul all by itself.

Little Man Grant

2009-04-05T14:43:00.000-07:00

I got to take pictures of my new favorite little man. His name is Grant and he is almost 4 months old. Oh, so cute...

Coffee? Are you serious?

2009-03-29T20:20:00.000-07:00

A couple of days ago I was at Marshalls with Penélope looking at stuff. I noticed she was starting to get antsy and it was time for her nap.

Penélope turned to me, tilted her head to the side and said, "Mom, let's go get coffee. [long sigh] I'm so tired."

Words of Wisdom from Dr. Starbucks

2009-03-27T07:56:00.000-07:00

Every once-in-a-while Christopher or myself will come across a quote on a Starbucks cup that we love. This is one of them. We've saved the cup to remind us, the non-planner-hesitant-commitment-ers to get our rational heads out of the way.

"The irony of commitment is that it's deeply liberating--in work, in play, in love. The act frees you from the tyranny of your internal critic, from the fear that likes to dress itself up and parade around as rational hesitation. To commit is to remove your head as the barrier to your life."

~Anne Morriss
Starbucks customer from New York City.

The Stinkin' Dugans are Gone.

2009-03-25T20:20:00.000-07:00

How dare they?

Penelope and I have had many conversations like this lately:

Penelope: Bella be back, Mom. (as she nods her head confidently as she walks in her bedroom looking for them)

Me: No, lovey. She's living at Grandpa and Grandma house.

Penelope: No, Mommy. She come back. Yeah! She be back real soon. Real soon, mom. My Caebe (Caleb) is coming too!

Me: No, honey. They live in Brasil now.

Later on in the day.

Penelope: Mom! 'member? I go in Brasil, too? Yes. I go in Brasil with Bella and Caebe!

And later.

Penelope: I go to Grandma's house?

Sadly, the answer is always the same.

Parenthood equals being humbled...

2009-03-09T19:52:00.000-07:00

...over and over again. Have you ever heard the expression, "Kids are a gift from God?" Like my brother said recently, it's really true, but not the way one may think.

I used to think of how being a mom was a real privilege...and it is for sure.

I used to think of how wonderful it would be to see the combination of myself and my husband in another human being...and it is wonderful.

I used to think of how love between a mother and her child would be like no other...and truly nothing compares.

I used to think that that was what the gift was all about...it's not.

I have been a mom for two years and nine months. I have felt and experienced all those things that I always thought I would...many many times. What I did not foresee was how overwhelmingly humbling it would be. I was recently reminiscing with Michael and Cari about how I would wax eloquent and outline my parenting philosophy in great detail. The arrogance that my words carried would make you think that I had a doctorate in child development or something. It's so embarrassing. (Maybe what's more embarrassing is that after my humbled attitude I said, "Enough of this crap, it's time to build Michelle up!" Yeah, I think that's more embarrassing)

Actually, the gift of parenthood is a lot more about being humbled.

It's humbling because I learned that I know absolutely NOTHING about parenting.

It's humbling because I see how judgemental I used to be before I was a mom toward other parents.

It's humbling because I'm so often wrong.

It's humbling because I see clearly how weak and totally selfish I am. It's crystal clear.

It's humbling because I need to ask forgiveness to my 2 year old...all the time.

It's humbling because I realize (over and over again) how I just don't have it together.

But you know, I'm OK with that, well, sort of. I'm not going to lie to you, it's not fun to be humbled. But the gift part of the deal is that in this humbling process of being a mom I find myself being more aware (as I should be anyway) of my great need of God and find my heart becoming more squishy and malleable toward his correction. For this reason I wish parenthood on every person (OK, so maybe there's a little bit of that, see-it's-not-as-easy-as-it-looks kind of vindicating attitude which only exposes how ridiculously far I am to being sufficiently humbled.) I guess it's a process of becoming more like Jesus.

So, I suppose the expression, "Kids are a gift from God, " is indeed as true as true gets, just not the way I had thought; it's better.

PS. Penélope, thank you, my lovey.

Who's potty training who?

2009-02-08T19:48:00.000-08:00

Penélope follows me into the bathroom. (Unfortunately, I don't look cute like she does.)

She tilts her head forward and waits with eager anticipation.

She hears me pee and jumps up and down and claps her hands.

"Good job, Mom. Good job! Do you want a snack?"

I felt sad when...

2009-02-04T19:54:00.000-08:00

Penélope: It's my birtay (birthday), Mom!

Me (in Portuguese): No, lovey. Not yet. In June it will be your birthday.

Penélope: It's my party, Mom!

Me: What should your next party theme be? How about a tea party?

Penélope: Yeah! My tea party! Bella coming to my party! Bella going come!

Me: Sorry, lovey. Bella's not going to be here.

Penélope: Why not, Mom? Why not?

Me: Bella is going to Brazil.

Penélope: (Shoulders slumped, very sad face) Why not, Mom? Why not?

I Can Live With That

2009-01-30T14:30:00.000-08:00

If you happened to be at Barnes & Noble at the Galleria a couple of days ago and felt your ears being assaulted by a screaming lunatic, that would be the Little Miss.

I just can't live with that.

I used to think I knew what public humiliation was all about, like, walking confidently in a mall while not knowing that my fly was open. Or wave back enthusiastically to someone only to realize moments later that they were waving to the person behind me. Or perhaps trip over something small that caused me to fall ungracefully in front of many people. I could go on.

However, I submit to you that there is no grander public humiliation than that of your own child profusely misbehaving for all to see and hear. It exposes the secret fear that says I don't think I'm a very good mom. And as the meltdown goes on and on the fear only becomes more and more confirmed.

Once I managed to get back into my car with the Little Miss I came to the conclusion that the best remedy to being nonjudgmental and pulling out the huge log out of my own eye like Jesus talked about, is to walk in another person's shoes for a bit. Before having my little girl I had very strong parenting views that I would most definitely live by no matter what. I probably could have articulated those views with great eloquence. And when I would witness scenarios like the one I experienced I would shake my internal little head in arrogant disapproval. Well, folks, parenting is not as easy as I thought.

The thing is, I still hold to the view that my daughter should not misbehave and that she should obey me and I'm working on that. The difference is, being judgmental assumes that I am better than someone else. The truth is, I am not.

I can live with that.

Beautiful Faye

2009-01-23T09:43:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I got to hang out with my cousins, little Faye, and her mom, Amber. We had a lot of fun! Here are some pix that I took. Faye is so fun to photograph. She's a porcelain doll. Her skin is milky white and her eyes are a pristine clear blue. Simply gorgeous!

Here she is blowing a kiss. Can you even stand it, it's so cute?

Love the toes...

I love how it looks like she's deep in thought.

Look at those eyes...

Meet Nik

2009-01-15T20:19:00.000-08:00

I'm very proud to introduce you to my new love: Nikon D60, affectionately known as "Nik." What can I say, I've fallen head over heels for the guy.

This was the first picture we took outside.

For our first date we went to the Guthrie in Minneapolis with Penelope and her two grandma's. It is an edifice of architectural delights.

Here I am tucked in the left corner with Nik.

I love the blue pattern in this photo with my mom and Penelope.

In this one we are outside, looking at our reflection in the blue glass.

Inside.

After being bathed in blue, we went to a small golden box that literally protrudes from the building on the 8th floor (You can actually see the ground from the part-glass floor). This was my favorite part of the Guthrie, a sunny oasis in the frozen tundra for the artistic soul. (So was the apparent reasoning of its architect.)

I still have so much to learn about Nik, but I like him a lot so far.

(Miss you, Mom.)

New Years Resolutions--2009

2009-01-04T19:26:00.000-08:00

Having New Years resolutions is inevitably crucial. It gives one purpose and focus for the year ahead to be filled with greatness. Let's face it, I, for one, would like to be great. So, after much reflection, these are my New Years resolutions. Brace yourself. You will be inspired.

1. Always be patient with others and with frustrating situations when it seems natural.

2. Under no circumstances let my daughter watch more than 8 hours of TV at a time. Non-negotiable.

3. Be kind and generous even when there is no other way.

4. Be a better friend to those who always let me have my way. Period.

5. Lose 1 pound. (I learned my lesson from last year. 3 pounds was much too ambitious. This time I'm going with the three year plan. 1 pound per year, with one chance midway to reevaluate and adjust goal as seen fit.)

6. Never be crabby if everything is going perfectly.

7. Be consistently vegetarian whenever there is no meat in the house.

8. Always let others have their way if it matches my way.

9. Always be a good wife and mother when I want to be.

I am resolute. I am determined. I shall not falter. This must be done. It shall be done.

Wish me well.

Snow Globes

2008-12-25T20:13:00.000-08:00

I live in a snow globe.

They say the world is getting smaller and smaller. I don't know about that. Yes, I know communication across the oceans is instant--all types: written, spoken and visual. We can watch history being made on every continent before it gets a chance to make it in the history books and see the untamed exotic lands afar and outer spaces. But really we don't see it, really. We only look at it through the screen on TV or hear it on the radio waves or read it online. Our so called, global perspective is more of a couch kind of perspective. Technology in a sense, only reveals how inclosed our life can really be, untouched by the outside world. The world is still big, our lives, however, are getting smaller and smaller in a way. I think it's better to say that we live in a big world comprised of billions of tiny separate little worlds, like a gigantic cluster of snow globes orbiting the sun.

Anyone who has traveled to any country other than their own knows that when you are there, it's hard to rightly remember your country of origin. One's senses become completely overtaken by the world that you are in now; the smells, the sounds, the textures and landscapes consume the cells of your brain and the memory of the previous world becomes foggy at best. It's like your brain can only handle one snow globe world at a time. It knows you came from a different country but it only knows it like a dream knows your awake world or like a long echo in shiny tall cathedral knows its caller.

It is Christmas today. I saw only half of my family this holiday. The other half lives in a different snow globe. Right now in their little world, the air is warm and smells like sweet trees and woodsmoke. You can almost lick the air it's so sticky. They live in the snow globe where I used to live.

I wonder about my daughter. Will she ever know what it's like to play in the glittery rain with her cousins? Ten years from now, will she point something out in a store that she just knows Emily would like, or happen to know that the guitar part in the song on the radio is Caleb's favorite, or know Julia's two favorite colors, or tell me that she's going over to Grandma's on Friday night to bake Christmas cookies?

Or will we always live snow globes apart?

My hubby tells me I can't think like that too far into the future. I hope he is right. For now, I will tell my Penelope dreamy, echo-y pretty stories of the snow globe mama came from and teach her songs and dances I used to play with my loving sisters and brother.

This Christmas night, I press my face against the thick glass of my snow globe; it feels cold. I close my eyes and I can almost feel the glittery sun on my face.

Today

2008-09-24T17:19:00.000-07:00

Least Favorite Momont: Trying to get stuff done at work with the Little Miss whining in my right ear as she dangled from my hip.

Most Favorite Moment: The Little Miss looking at me and saying, " I wove you, Mom. I wove you much," then squeezing me tight and patting my back as we hugged.

Most Favorite Moment cancels out Least Favorite Moment.

"I'm Gama"

2008-09-20T16:04:00.000-07:00

I was cooking dinner when I heard a little voice say, "I'm Gama (Grandma). Name is Gama" I looked to my left and in hobbles Penélope with her makeshift cane (the handle to my Brazilian flag, actually). She was imitating 93 year-old Nana Dilly that we recently visited in North Dakota.

Is she a riot or what?

Mr. Moose

2008-09-18T13:36:00.000-07:00

Last night the Little Miss didn't sleep very well. I know, that's so shocking. That means that Little Really Tired Mom didn't sleep much either. Oh, well, right? Not so unusual in this household.

However, what's really unusual is to see fire at 2am. I was rocking the Little Miss and naturally at this time of the night when I'm-supposed-to-be-sleeping-but-am-not-and-cannot I had my eyes closed. Minutes later I opened my foggy eyes and much to my horror the bookcase next to her bed was on fire! I FREAKED, in a very sleepy kind of way. Adrenaline scurried to every inch of my body instantly only to realize moments later as my eyes focused that it was only Mr. Moose warming himself by the campfire.

I didn't think Mr. Moose the nightlight was working. Apparently, he was dormant for months and suddenly decided to wake up and warm himself by his little campfire at 2am! Funny thing, it wasn't working for the picture.Hmm, I'm thinking he's got more scare tactics up his sleeve.

P.S. Consider yourself warned, Mr. Moose. You will be cold tonight, no campfire for you!

A Hug, a Dance and Coldplay

2008-09-15T15:37:00.000-07:00

We have a rule at our house: I never let go of a "Penélope" hug first, we hug until she lets go.

Yesterday, she was, shall we say, CRABBY. I don't like crabby. Usually, it means I get crabby. So after listening to the moaning and whining and crying I decided we should dance. Well, Little Miss Crabby did not want to dance; she wanted to "crab." And after the coercing didn't work, I simply picked her up into my arms.

Immediately, she wrapped her little arms, still sticky with bits of snack, tightly around my neck and the moaning stopped. I cued the music to Coldplay's, Strawberry Swing. She rested her snotty-dried cheeks onto mine and we swung to the dreamy sound of the music.

To my surprise, Strawberry Swing was long gone and four tracks later, her clasp was still tight. We twirled and swayed and every once-in-a-while I'd peak at her face. She wasn't laughing or being goofy, just content, every so often closing her eyes and soaking in the hug. Little did she know that it was me who was soaking it all in...

Puffy, Round and Magic Pills

2008-09-11T20:50:00.000-07:00

Three days ago I was handed a bottle of Magic Pills. That's right. My cousin, Tricia McLeod was the one responsible for doing that. She is an Arbonne consultant and she said that these pills are magical. Actually, she didn't say that, but I like to think that she did.

You see, I have a problem, a big fat one. Yep, it's a round puffy kind of problem. My 2008 New Years Resolutions was a bold and noble attempt at making very low key, accessible, impossible NOT to reach kind of goals. I said that I wanted to lose 3 pounds.

OK, I did not realize how hard that actually is. I've been hungry and I've been sore from working out and the roundness and puffiness of my pounds simply will not deflate. I'm thinking I wasn't noble enough. I should have said ONE pound. Yeah, that even sounds nobler.

This round little (OK, not so little) annoying problem does not make Michelle happy. Michelle likes to feel happy. Michelle, however, has been feeling upset, angry, irritable--HUNGRY, for Pete's sake.

In light of this lack of happiness and ever growing bitterness, I have felt the noble urgings of finding and buying Magic Pills. It's all natural, no side effects, herbal, earthy, green kind of product (doesn't that sound magical?) that is supposed to speed up my dead beat metabolism. Apparently, it's forgotten how to function at all. If the pills work, I might just have to call them my Happy Pills. It is a month's supply, so I will give an update when all the magic is gone.

Tricia said that I could lose fifty pounds in one month. Actually, she didn't say that at all, I just like to pretend she did.

7 de setembro

2008-09-08T10:30:00.000-07:00

Well, folks, I'm reentering Blog World. Summer is over and Penélope and I are back to work, and so the blog must go on. We anticipate the fall with great trepidation because of what comes after....no, I will not say that "s" word.

Yesterday was 7 de setembro, Brazil's independence day. In honor of my beloved country I took out my flag and tried to be as Brazilian as I could. We had Brazilian coffee from Minas Gerais, my home state (for those interested, Christopher found it at Caribou. It's a seasonal blend called Poço Fundo) and crusty bread for breakfast. I also hooked my little flag to the window of my jeep and it flew proudly, eventually, humbly, as we drove around town. I say humbly because by the end of the day half of the flag had unraveled in the wind...

We finished it off by going over to Michael and Cari's for pasteis, a fried, Brazilian snack food...oh so good.

I took some pictures of my brasileirinha...they are all out of focus, but she still is so cute out of focus that I couldn't resist posting some of them...

Father's Day

2008-06-17T12:54:00.000-07:00

Can I just brag for a minute? Christopher is an amazing father. He is so loving and gentle with his Penelope. He doesn't always like to admit it, but his heart is a big mush for his little girl. I used to think of myself as patient, but Christopher beats me and every other parent.

Oh, did I mention that he is, also, helplessly good looking? (ok, so maybe that's for my benefit, not hers)

Penélope is a blessed little girl...

A Good Neighbor

2008-06-14T11:47:00.000-07:00

Christopher and I celebrated Dia dos Namorados on Thursday. (the Brazilian equivalent to Valentines Day). This was the first year we decided to do this. Valentines Day will be a day of Family Loves and Dia dos Namorados will be just for the two of us.

Being that it was the first time I didn't remember until the morning of. The plannings, therefore, were rushed and so perhaps it was not quite as romantic as Carol's day but a lovely time nonetheless. We chose to go see Indiana Jones (my second time at the cinema in the last two years!). Since we hadn't eaten dinner, after the movie we went to Culver's Drive through. When we approached the window to pay for our food, the cashier informed us that the person in the car ahead of us had paid for our meal in full!!!! Apparently it was a Good Neighbor effort promoted by the local KTIS station (which I have been known never to listen to, but offer many critical comments about it, OUCH!) Go KTIS!

If you happen to be behind me at a drive through in the next few days, don't be surprised if I turn out to be a Good Neighbor to you!

P.S. Marilyn, thanks for watching Penélope so last minute!

Funky La La Hippie Land

2008-06-13T07:36:00.000-07:00

The other day my dear sister-in-law, Cari, started telling me an unsettling story about a mom who lives in I don't know where, with a bunch of kids, (a whole litter of them, apparently). The unsettling part is that she homeschools, makes organic-homemade-from-scratch kind of food and has time to write about it. This is the type of mom that makes me feel like Little Miss Small.

As Cari was telling me about this person, I did what seemed most natural to me, I promptly brought my hands over my ears in hopes of droning out the sound of the story.

Sometimes it's just easier to live in La La Land. It's prettier there. Heck, I'm prettier there. I do a lot of cool stuff there. I like La La Land (a hippie sort of one).

I go to Funky La La Hippie Land often. Usually, I go there when I'm in my car driving home from work. When the sun is shinning the birds are singing and my baby is quiet in the car I get over inspired. I have visions of myself getting up early the next morning, BEFORE my baby wakes up, making myself a cup of coffee and spending time praying, reflecting and reading. It sounds so glorious to be awake by myself, calm and serene. Once Penelope is up I would then proceed to the making of fresh vitamina (fruit shake) with a calm, serene look on my face to accompany our oatmeal. Our day would be filled with educational activities and long walks and earthy snacks.

I would then energetically and happily prepare a healthy dinner comprised of many fresh organic vegetables, whole grains, hummus and tofu and rice milk. I would be dressed in funky thrift store finds and leather sandals, long hair parted in the middle and smelling like patchouli oil. My house would always be clean and it would smell like lavender and chamomile.

I know, I know, what am I thinking? As soon as the early morning comes I'm thinking I'm the biggest idiot who comes up with stupid plans like waking up BEFORE my baby does. As if. Once she does wake up I'm thinking that sugar filled, BHT invested Life cereal is looking like a great option for breakfast. Fruit? I don't like fruit. I only like having it around because of all the colors. (Christopher always asks me why I buy fruit if I don't eat it. My answer is always the same, "It's so pretty.")

By the time I get out of my pj's I realize I don't own anything funky. Let's face it. I don't live in Uptown and I'm not funky. I live in Suberbiaville and the only thing I've got going in that whole look it the long hair parted in the middle. The only problem with that is without the patchouli oil and without the funky clothes my hair makes a different kind of statement: frumpy.

Educational activities? Does Elmo count? I LOVE Elmo time. (It's Elmo time right now, that's how I can be on the computer. Computing, by the way, is an activity in my book.)

When time for dinner comes around, I'm thinking buttered noodles sounds remarkably nutritious. It's whole grain noodles, after all.

So there it is. Whenever I hear of a mom who is actually doing some things that I only imagine myself doing in moments of over inspiration, the thing that feels most natural to do is to plug my ears and wait for another hippie la la moment to come around. I don't know, maybe next time I'll actually buy some patchouli oil.

Note to self: Do something about the hair.

"Where's 'da cake?"

2008-06-05T18:38:00.000-07:00

Penélope is officially two years old as of yesterday! I cannot believe it! We are going to have the birthday party once my parents are in town from Brasil in July. We did try to make her day special.

As she was waking up I started singing "Happy Birthday." I sang as I walked down the hall into the living room. Her sleepy head tilted to the side as she tried to look around the corner at the kitchen table. She then said, "Where's 'da cake? Where's 'da cake?" There was no cake. I did not know two-year-olds were already in tune with that concept. Oops.

She got cards, ecards, emails and phone calls from her Tia Reesha and Tia Patricia and Grandma Dugan in Brasil, from Tio Jeremy, and Grandpa Hunt, the Dahlens, Tia Debora and the Grovers! Thank you, thank you!

Opening a birthday card full of stickers from Grandpa Hunt and Melissa. I LOVED it!

Instead, she got to watch cartoons AND eat breakfast at the same time (always a request; always denied)! Does chocolate cookies count for breakfast?

Then we went to Bethany's play room to meet up with her Hunt cousins and Dugan cousins and two of her tias and one of her grandmas. She got presents which included a dress she wanted to put on immediately and dress up shoes, a purse and a tiara (she added the word, "princess" to her vocab as well). It was hilarious watching her try to play ball with her cousins with all of that on!

We missed Dylan, Eric and Emily and Baby Julia. We wish you could have played with us...

Tia Cathleen and Tia Cari

Tio Fernando and Tia Marci

Penelope and "Bubbe" (Grandma Hunt)

Papa brought balloons and a pizza for dinner. Then she finally got her chocolate cake (the ugliest thing I've ever made, but she didn't care). Another tia and tio came with gifts, another dress that she didn't want to take off! Her day was complete. Best of all, she got lots and lots of love.

She fell asleep in her dress and hugging one of her shoes...

Whining Sometimes Works

2008-06-03T08:24:00.000-07:00

That's right! I'm pleased to announce that BOTH Michelle and Little Miss Insomnia slept through the night. Not even a peep was heard from the Little Miss. So,whoever does the arranging of stars lined them up just right for us. I guess whining sometimes works.

Christopher, however, was awake for a long arbitrary stretch. Maybe we just got our stars mixed up for the night. Sorry, Columbus. (Actually, that was kind of fake. I'm not REALLY sorry, I think you sleep more than I do.)

Written In The Stars

2008-06-02T08:13:00.000-07:00

So my Little Miss Insomnia slept through the night (well, OK, she did wake up once for just a second, literally) Yeah, anyone who knows the Little Miss knows that such a thing should be celebrated across the globe.

It just so happens, however, that Michelle, yeah, that's me, did NOT sleep! For whatever cosmic reason, I was arbitrarily wide awake for almost three hours. Michelle was not happy. Around five am or so, Christopher sort of woke up and I used the opportunity to make my plight known. I said in a very whiny voice, "It isn't written in my stars that I should EVER sleep."

Gush

2008-05-14T10:42:00.000-07:00

I rocked my baby to sleep on Mother's Day. (OK, so maybe I rock her to sleep other days too, but this day was different.)

It was a lovely Mother's Day, my second one to date. Christopher made me breakfast and entertained the little one as I lounged around. Then for lunch he took me to a Brazilian restaurant per my request. I felt so blessed to have a wonderful husband who is my dearest friend and an adorable Penelope as my very own daughter. At the same time I felt pain for the many lovely women who ache with longing for a baby of their own but for some unfair reason cannot have one. It made me feel that I have been graced with the daunting privilege of being a mother.

All the while I thought about my wonderful mom who, most likely, was dotting over her newest grandbaby born the day before to my little sister, Patricia. Julia Joy is her name. I remembered what it felt like when I saw my Penelope for the first time and held her.

Penelope, 1minute old

I can still feel her buttery soft skin on my bare chest... The delight over the faintest sweet little sound she made was almost unbearable to contain. I remember being utterly mesmerized by the slightest movement of her fingers or her tiny red lips. All I wanted to do was stare at her for hours; there was such contentment in that simple thing. My chest actually ached as though my heart had suddenly become too large for my body. There is nothing like meeting your baby for the first time...

Although Mother's Day was special, it was also humbling. I was probably too introspective for good mental health, but nonetheless, I was ultra aware of all my shortcomings. It all culminated at the "tantrum-mania-of-brushing-teeth-before-bedtime show." I was feeling so tense, I'm pretty sure you could see my skin crawling away from me it was so scared. I wanted to throw a tantrum myself and then once I was done, promptly run out the door. Instead, I kept saying to Christopher, "I don't think I'm cut out for this, being a mom and all. I don't think I can do this." I felt so inadequate.

That's when I decided I would rock her to sleep. Yes, yes, I know, that's probably why my baby still doesn't sleep well at night. I know I'm inconsistent and so very far away from whatever is perfect. Usually, if my baby goes to sleep being rocked it is out of desperation after an entire hour of trying to get her to sleep on her own and she is still awake, or just good honest impatience and irritation. This night I wanted to rock her to tell her something. I wanted to gush.

Penelope, 1month old

I have no doubt that as Penelope grows up she, too, will be well aware of my shortcomings. But I want her to be just as aware of all my love for her. Not just the polite and even keeled I-don't-want-to-spoil-you part of love or the part of love that I will hopefully have acted out for her by my choices and not-so-popular choices made for her. Or the part of love that is humble enough to say sorry. But also, the part of love that is not afraid to gush all over you for no good reason, just because.

So I did. I gushed and gushed. I remembered what it was like to meet her for the first time...I curled her up into a little bundle and hugged her as tight as I could. We rocked and rocked as I kissed her soft cheeks, over and over again. As my warm tears fell on her face over and over again, I told her how much I loved her...over and over again, just because of who she was. I reminded her that Jesus loved her even more.

Penelope, 1month old

She fell fast asleep, nestled tightly in my arms. I decided to rock her a bit longer and gush over her some more, just because.

My Little Sweetpea

2008-05-09T06:41:00.001-07:00

I'm happy to announce that Penelope has her own blog now. It was created for her family that live too many miles away, Grandpa and Grandma Dugan, Grandpa Hunt, Tio Leno and Tia Reesha, Emily, Eric, Tio Neval and Tia Patricia, Baby Julia. So if you come upon a little time that you're bored out of your mind and cannot think of a single thing to do, check it out.

www.mysweetpeapenelope.blogspot.com

It's official...

2008-04-20T11:28:00.000-07:00

...I'm ridiculously spoiled and I don't cook.

Monday--My brother, Michael and the kids took me and Penélope out to Olive Garden for lunch. (My dear sister-in-law, Cari, was sick so she didn't get to go and neither did my dear husband since he was at work. We did kind of feel badly about that but not enough to say away from Olive Garden, I guess.)

Wednesday--Cari cooked dinner for all of us, including Grandma, who was in town for a few hours. It was way too good, mashed potatoes and gravy, Greek salad, and a roast!

Thursday--My dear brother-in-law, Jeremy, came up with a great plan for no good reason: he gave Christopher and I a gift certificate to the movies and he and Cathleen watched our baby Penélope. We felt like kids sitting in the movie theater sipping on a drink and munching on candy and popcorn. So fun!

Friday--Valeriana and Jerry, our good friends, had us over for dinner. She made our favorite meal: rice, beans, garlic homemade french fries and bife acebolado (thin brazilian steaks). Yum!

Saturday--We hung out with Michael and Cari all day. Michael bought pizza for all of us for lunch then he cooked dinner, another favorite, taco salad!

Today, Sunday--Christopher is on his way to pick up some coffee and french bread for lunch. I said I didn't feel like cooking. I feel moderately guilty for making such an assertion after what I just wrote. But on the other hand, I'm spoiled. Spoiled people don't have to feel guilty, right?

So thank you to all who make my life a breeze and keep my stove clean. Christopher, Michael, Cari, Cathleen, Jeremy, Valeriana and Jerry, I expect great things for next week.

Pretending to be Mama...

2008-04-11T11:20:00.000-07:00

After I finished my cup of coffee this morning, Penélope took the cup and sat herself down on the chair. She seemed to enjoy the empty mug just as much I as enjoyed it full.

Seriously, is there anyone cuter? I really don't think so.

I Promise...

2008-04-09T06:00:00.000-07:00

...Penélope is not saying what it sounds like she is saying.

Mamae, Papai and Tia Marci were getting ready to go out when we took this video. This word she uses for shoes presents slightly awkward scenarios in public, especially because she loves to talk about shoes to everyone!!!!

The Ordinary Life

2008-04-03T11:43:00.000-07:00

I recently stumbled across a picture of my life. I saw it in a song, an image, and words. I sat there kind of stunned, looking at it. I read about it then stared at it some more; I listened. It wasn't at all about the superficials in the picture that made me pause, it was everything that it didn't say out loud, from the implicit details to the music that sang from it. Then I realized that I wasn't looking at my life at all; that life belonged to someone else.

I love being a mom, but sometimes my identity feels disjointed. Yes, I am a mother and I cherish that part of my life. But before becoming a mom my identity was comprised of other things and other dreams. Many of those things were also good. I guess maybe what I'm trying to say is that I don't always know how to morph the "Michelle before Penelope" and the "Michelle after Penelope." At times it's like I hang on to one and not the other, namely that of being a mom and forget the dreams of before. (Let's face it, it's easy to forget to when all I have to do is peek under my shirt at my belly full of stretchmarks and too much skin.) Then suddenly something will come across my path and remind me of the other Michelle. I confess, it comes with a little bit of sadness. It's not sad in the least to be a mom, rather, the sadness comes from feeling like my twenties never got to finish telling their story.

In high school I read a book called, Addicted to Mediocrity, by Frank Schaeffer. He argued that Christians should be the leaders and innovators in the arts, but instead we succumb to mediocrity and stick a Bible verse on it (creativity) and say that it's for the glory of God. Looking back at it I'm not sure if the book was superbly written but his point took root in my very core. From that point on I determined that my life would be about making music that truly reflected the beauty of God. I was going to do something BIG for God. In essence, my life would be filled with meaning and deeply significant, something out of the ordinary.

Well, my life seems pretty ordinary these days. It resembles nothing of the picture I saw recently. Changing lots of messy diapers can do that to a person. Or walking around the mall without your baby and to find out once and ONLY you got home that you had snot smeared on several different places on the clothes that you only THOUGHT you looked cute in. Or getting ready for a wedding and realizing that you only have one pair of jeans that fits (this word is used very loosely here, it's more like "able to put on") that you wear every single day. Or realizing for the hundredth time that you forgot to brush your hair as your pretty friends talk about their hair routine. Or hearing yourself talk and sounding like a broken record, "eat, poop, sleep." Let me tell you something, that can make any person's life feel very ordinary. Yet I know all the right things people would tell me. "Your life is significant and full of meaning, you are raising a daughter. There's nothing more important than that, etc." I would agree. I would never change the part of being a mom. I guess I want my life as it it right now PLUS doing something significant for others that has eternal value.

I guess, the bottom line is that being a mom doesn't always feel like enough. It seems wrong to say it that way. Yet it also seems wrong to say that all other desires, dreams and giftings should be put on hold indefinitely. I don't know how to weld it all together and make a "cohesive Michelle."

What seems very right to say is that this post is getting very long and I need to stop. More later...

I Danced With a Felt Chicken

2008-03-31T08:26:00.000-07:00

This morning when Penélope and I were having our little worship time (we listen to worship music and sing and dance along). Today Penélope thought I should have a dancing partner. She handed me a tiny felt chicken, that goes with her felt farm. It's less than an inch long. Her partner was a little felt cow.

With the tips of my fingers I clasped the chicken's beak and feet and Penélope held on to the cow's hooves and we danced and danced. A little later she let go of the cow and raised her hand and exclaimed over and over again, "sesse BOM!!, sesses BOM!!!" (Jesus is good!!! Bom is Portuguese for good).

I'll dance with a little chicken any day.

I've been tagged...

2008-03-27T07:22:00.000-07:00

This past Monday I was delighted to discover that I had been tagged by my Aunt Linda! I guess that means that I say 10 things about me that you may not know then tag 10 of my friends. So here it goes:

1. I have two kids, a boy and a girl who I adore.

2. Besides being a mom I am a working actress.

3. I've been skydiving.

Wait a minute....that's someone else.

1. I don't like bananas.

2. In high school I told a new student that my name was actually, Luca, but because I was so embarrassed by it I called myself, Michelle. I made her promise never to tell anyone. I assumed she knew I was joking. Several months later, we were on the beach and I spelled my name in the sand. She asked me why I didn't write my actual name, Luca, since no one else we knew was around. After convincing her that my name was NOT, Luca, she was gracious enough not to be upset with me for my silly joke and was actually relieved since all the while she had been feeling badly for telling her parents my "real'' name! Needless to say I was the one that felt really bad and really stupid.

3. I spent one week trekking in the Himalayas in the country of Nepal.

4. I don't watch scary movies.

5. I dislike amusement parks because I get horribly frightened.

6. Two things that can make me growl: brushing my hair and opening jars. I'm afraid my husband could come up with several other ones. But it's fun to pretend that I only have two. I find that it paints a better picture of me, one that I enjoy looking at.

7. I love U2.

8. As a teenager, I had a short-lived music career in Brasil in my parents band: My first song hit #1 on the Christian music charts in a couple big cities. I was asked to record with another artist which eventually lead to performing on national TV. The biggest audience I ever performed for was 20,000 people. That sounds kind of cool and it was. But most of the "career" involved traveling (often getting very lost) to little towns around Brasil carrying equipments to and fro the bus, playing on top of flatbed trucks on a street corner, singing with a smile on my face while large insects flew up my skirt and then trying to make it look like I was doing some awkward dance moves, having drunks yell at us while we played and on and on I could go....

9. I love listening to National Public Radio.

10. As a teenager I thought about music so much and sometimes I slept under our baby grand piano.

Now I tag, Rosie, Kristi, Janet, Ana Carolina, Vivian, Susie, Luca, Melvin, Burt and Ernie (some I made up).

I Have A ''Flipping Channels'' Issue

2008-03-24T18:14:00.000-07:00

I was flipping the channels like it was my last day with my proverbial remote, when I heard the song of a bird outside. It was around 10:30am this morning and I was still pathetically dressed in my PJ's. Normally, I would have acknowledged that to be a pretty sound and gone back to flipping channels. Today was different. I wanted to experience the beauty for a bit longer. So I opened the heavy sliding glass door to my porch, hugged its frame and rested my head on it. My body became still as I listened. I felt my skin becoming cold from the early spring breeze, but I didn't mind. Within 3 or 4 seconds I realized that there were several beautiful spring songs being sung.

You see, a few days past I discovered that I have a "flipping channels" issue. It hit me when I listened to a conversation between Krista Tippett from "Speaking of Faith" on NPR and Jean Vanier, Canadian philosopher and founder of the L'Arche communities for mentally disabled people. He is now 89 and has spent his life devoted to the outcasts of society. I first heard about him through reading Henri Nowen's In the Name Of Jesus (a must read). The entire conversation they had is worth listening to, but the point that found a home in my heart was when he said, "the big thing for me is to love reality, and not live in the imagination [of] 'what could have been,' 'what should have been,' 'and what can be.' [But] to love reality and then discover that God is present...to be a friend of Jesus."

I often feel like I live in the imagination of "when my daughter will be sleeping better through the night," or "when I lose the pregnancy weight" or "when that project is done" etc, then I will feel fill-in-the-blank or do fill-in-the-blank or be better at fill-in-the-blank. What happens then, is when the wonderful is being lived I don't stop to notice it, it's like I never even experience it. It reminds me of watching TV with someone who just can't stop flipping the channels like they have a nervous twitch or something. It's scientifically impossible to discover if there is anything good or bad on.

The ''flipping'' issue began to dawn on me the other day. Christopher and I were driving home from somewhere at night and the full moon was out. It was hugely round, overwhelmingly so and still low in the sky. It made my chest fill with marvel. Yet, because we were driving I could only get second-long glances at it between the trees and the skyscrapers. Yet here was a gloriously beautiful reality right in front of me that I didn't have to pay to see, it was without pretense or demand, it was just there, naked for me to see. But it did require me to stop. Stop. We didn't, we just flipped right by it.

It's hard for me to stop sometimes, whether it's in midst of beautiful reality or ugly reality. It's rarely convenient. Often times, it's just plain painful. How can I love reality if reality happens to suck, quite frankly, today or over the past couple of years? Maybe, it's only when we stop flipping the channels that we can finally see that Jesus is there, even in the muck and pain. I don't know how to do this exactly. I wish I just knew how and didn't have to learn how. I don't always like to learn, because that implies that I'm going to make mistakes along the way. I don't like that.

Later on, after I heard the songs of the birds, my baby made the very opposite kind of sound: a tantrum. She didn't want to go down for her nap without being rocked. So she decided to throw an ugly fit that lasted about 10 minutes (which any mom out there knows that it's a solid hour's worth of emotional energy spent) until she laid down quietly and fell asleep instantaneously. Usually, I would quickly exit the room like I had some super power of disappearing at will. But today I decided to stay there at least for 10 minutes. I buried my lips into her milky soft cheek. I could smell a little spaghetti sauce that didn't get wiped up after lunch. I put my cheek against her nose to feel her warm breath on my skin. I laid my head on her chest. I felt it move up and down to the rhythm of her breathing. I could hear her heartbeat, steady and strong. That used to be the only sound I could hear her make when she was still in my womb and only at the midwife's office... It still sounded just as beautiful. I realized Jesus was there, too. The 10 minutes flew right by...

Where It Rains in December

2008-03-12T20:02:00.000-07:00

It rains in December where I come from. Not the kind of rain that makes your eyes sad, but the kind that drips warm water on your head. As a kid I remember loving the feeling of warm wet sidewalks on my bare feet, then walking my feet on the grass, thin but wide blades of grass.

I felt that rain last night. My little sister called me from home, Brasil. She played me a beautiful song by a artist named, Vanessa da Mata. As the melody streamed across the oceans and peered out from my laptop, I felt as though it played a whole reel of old movies through my soul. It came into my chest and out my back. In those few moments I could taste the salty sea on my sun kissed lips. My nose could smell the fried snacks of coxinhas and pasteis in the hot air mixed with cigarette smoke. I could hear the music blaring from the cheap speakers along the store fronts and in the background I could hear the sad song played loudly from the gas truck announcing to the neighborhood that if you needed a new propane tank for your stove you better rush to the door. I never understood why the song had to be sad. And Portuguese being spoken all around me, I could hear it, it sounds more like a song. In the background, Vanessa was still singing the beautiful melody, her voice so soft and full of longing... Brazilian music is happy, nostalgic and full of sorrow all at once. I could still feel the December rain falling all around me...

It's a strange thing, really, not only to live far from home but far from family. I just put my Penelope down for the night. I wonder for a moment if she will know what rain in December feels like on her face...I remember that I cradled my little sister many a times in my arms. It's strange to think that you can spend every waking minute with your parents and siblings because you have no choice, then as adults hardly ever see them. My sisters still haven't met my baby. How could this be? All of my formative years were shared with my sisters and brother, yet somehow this part of my life cannot be adequately shared. My baby still has no idea what her aunties' kisses feel like on her cheek and how I just know they would know how to make her giggle...

Vanessa stopped singing and just like that the rain in December stopped. My eyes, though, still had big raindrops on them...

All By Myself

2008-03-05T14:56:00.000-08:00

I got a call out of the blue from my dear sister-in-law, Cari, suggesting that I take my little one over to her house to play with her little ones. But this is the best part: while the little ones were playing she said for me to go out, all by myself!

So like a good little submissive sister-in-law, I obeyed.

I stepped out into the cold with delight, all by myself. First stop, Caribou coffee. I felt this moment begged for a splurge, so I got a Mocha. Everything looks better, smells better, feels better when I have a warm fresh cup of coffee in my hand. Second spot: window shopping. This kind of shopping is the best, no money gets spent but the itch for shopping goes away. I looked at beautiful things for an entire hour while sipping my delectable coffee, all my myself.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, Cari.

He got rid of my lumps of clothes.

2008-03-03T10:45:00.000-08:00

When Christopher and I got married I had a major goal to accomplish: to rid him of his "clothing chair." I had learned that as a single young man he had adopted a horrible tidy technique. He always kept a chair in his room devoted to clothes that had been worn, but were not in need of a good wash. Naturally, before long no chair could be seen, only an ugly pile of clothes.

As a good obsessive little wife, I told him that this was not acceptable once we were married. The first phase in this weaning process was that we would keep no extra chair in the room. And eventually, Little Miss Obsessive got her little way and the little ugly "clothing chair" was never to enter her little husband's life, and more importantly, her little obsessively organized home again.

Well, sort of....

8 1/2 years later...

When I was 9months pregnant I decided to paint my bedroom while my man was gone on a business trip. In the process of doing so, I managed to stuff so many things in the closet in addition to the many things that were already there. Of course the goal was always to reorganize the grand mess which I never did. (In fact, messes in general don't seem to go away.)

Instead, since then I've been developing and perfecting my own very well-thought out tidy technique. I call it, "clothing lumps." After a given set of clothes have outgrown their welcome on the floor near my bed and closet I lump them. What I do is, I make, cute little, OK, sometimes not-so-little lumps of clothes. The lumps can be comprised of one piece of clothing or a nice combination of several pieces. Once the lumps are formed I stuff and push them forcefully into my side of the closet. If I'm grumpy, I throw them in, to the soundtrack of my growling, huffing, puffing and complaining that I have no room, hoping they will land somewhere reachable.

Christopher was home alone for a couple of hours the other day while Penelope and I were out doing something, I don't know what. When I got home I noticed that all my lumps of clothes were gone--nowhere to be found! In fact, for my birthday he gave me a closet organizer, a phrase that I utter often while I'm putting my lumps of clothes away when I'm grumpy.

I ended up using the organizer in Penelope's room...but the plan is still not to have many more lumps of clothes until we get another organizer...I'm pretty sure Christopher has his fingers crossed.

Penelope's idol and friend...

2008-02-28T06:21:00.001-08:00

"I want to be just like you, Bewa (Bella)..."

"I like you, Caleb..."

"I like you, too, Penelope..."

Babies and Hidden Cameras

2008-02-27T09:01:00.000-08:00

My baby only thinks she's outsmarted me! Not the case, sweet, little, sneaky Penelope! It turns out that my baby it quite savvy when it comes to anything to do with technology. I'll explain in a minute.

Penelope has the uncanny ability, until now I thought of it as a magical ability to know the precise moment that I am beginning to enter the realm of sleep.

I've even tested this ability by changing the variables. For example, I've gone to bed at different times, 10pm, 11:30, or 1pm. It doesn't matter. She wakes up crying as soon as my dreams are calling me. Also, I've put her to bed at different times to see if I can mess up her sleep pattern. It doesn't help. Right at that moment when the world around me begins to fade into the past, I'm jolted right back into it by a cry.

Then it hit me. We always talk about kids these days being great with computers, cell phones, video games, etc. Well, we forget that babies, the next generation, are even more advanced. I then realized that Penelope's nightly wakings were no mere coincidences. She doesn't have any special magical ability or intuition. It's calculated, planned and crafty. You see, she installed hidden cameras in my room and special sensors in my bed that measures my breathing and body temperature. It sends her a signal as soon as it detects that I am falling asleep. I haven't figured out where she keeps all the equipment which I'm guessing she has a ton of footage of me, tumbling out of bed, often with a grumpy look on my face, stumbling into her room. I think she's been having a hay day, probably holding in the giggles right before she fake cries.

The interesting thing is that as far as I can tell these sensors are only on my side of the bed and the hidden cameras apparently only point to me.

Well, Penelope, I'm on to you, baby. I know all about your secret little covert operation. We'll see who wins this little contest. I have tricks up my sleeve, too, you know.

Note: Last night I think her equipment malfunctioned or the computer crashed or something. I fell completely asleep for several hours before she woke up.

A Rude House

2008-02-25T10:26:00.000-08:00

My husband asked, "Why are you looking forward to going to the cabin this weekend?" I answered with, "What?" You know, the kind of "what" that is loaded with all kinds of other sentences and grimaces and attitude. OK, so I'm not very proud of that "what." But that's the kind of "what" I said.

His question was sincere. He was making conversation. I was sitting on my overstuffed chair in the living room when he asked me. This offered a great vantage point for my next eloquent discourse. To my left was the little bar cabinet. On top of it was a filing case of magazines, a little pile of fabric, a box of embroidering threads, and a Valentines gift basket. I could swear that I saw that little mess frown at me. My eyes moved a foot over to the right to the kitchen table and there sat a small pile of puzzles that my Penelope had dumped on the floor days previous. They were joined by several other odds and ends. I could tell they were giving me a dirty look.

Unfortunately my eyes kept going to the right where they ungraciously landed on the queen of all messes! This area used to be a surface, but that has been long gone. Instead one can find an item of any given category just laying there, all scrambled up with each other screaming amongst themselves and at me anytime I walk by. A candle holder, a spool of thread, many many coupons that will most definitely never get used, pictures to be hung, a telephone, the hospital bracelet that Penelope wore as a newborn (I know, that's awful, it's meant to be in the adjacent pile for her scrapbook. I know, I know, who am I kidding?), a picture frame, postcards, note cards, things that I don't know how to describe, all of them living together for too long.

I wish I could stop there but my eyes kept making its way around the room while intermittently rolling for venting purposes. The armoire’s piles have a miraculous quality to them. It's like they think they're the modern day version of the five loaves and two fish. I'm always trying to show them why they're not, theologically speaking, but I think they are just delusional. Not to mention that everything in my house yells at me, "Dust us, already!!!" They start chanting this anytime I think I'm going to sit down for American Idol or anything that suggests, sitting. In fact, they even make up little songs about how dusty they are.

I told Christopher all of these things. He graciously listened, per usual. I said that I just want to go somewhere nice, not rude, like my house. Somewhere where I could go to any corner I wished to simply sit in it and not have it yell at me. We did. We had a great time.

The underlying message is this, I like to use this kind of technique, giving inanimate objects a "real" voice. I feel it portrays me as the victim and all the inanimate things as the villain. It works out very nicely, thank you.

Navally

2008-02-17T10:09:00.000-08:00

That's right. I've been feeling very navally lately. I know that's not technically a word, but I like how it sounds. What I mean by that is I've been staring too long at my proverbial naval lately. It's dark, it's stinky, wrinkly and ugly. No light can be shone into the pitiful hole. Nothing can be seen with clarity and certainly nothing that is seen can be called lovely. Unhesitating light, brilliant and arbitrary, is needed to see the beautiful.

Last night, my daughter woke up as soon as I was falling into a coveted sleep. So I got up and tended to her, moderately annoyed, and soon she was asleep again. I went back to my bed and just as sleep was closing my eyes she woke up again. This time I nudged her dad and he went to her. For some reason nothing would console her. I could not sleep to the persistent crying soundtrack of the night, so I, too, got up, this time extremely annoyed. She eventually settled back down, with me at her side in her bed. I was very uncomfortable and could not sleep. One hour and a half later I found myself back in my own bed still trying to fall asleep. Finally, I could feel sleep whispering softly of dreams I was about to sink myself into and my droopy eyes closing for the final time. So I thought. Right then, my baby started crying AGAIN.

Where does a mother go from being extremely annoyed? What's the next level called? My eyes couldn't roll enough times to vent away the frustration.

What could be wrong with her? I thought about our previous day. We had left our house in the morning and only came back at 9pm. That wasn't the plan but that seems to be our way, always on the go in search of something different and fun to do. I realized that she had not had a proper nap. I remembered that while we were at my brother-in-law's place she started crying and crying wanting to take a bath. It was 7pm., the time she usually takes a bath before going to bed. But since my head was stuck in my naval, I only concerned myself with the fact that I was having a good time, even though it was kind of fuzzy and claustrophobic in there.

By this time my baby was asleep again, on her side, facing me with her little hand gently resting on my shoulder, I was laying next to her. And just like that, I popped my head out of my stinky naval. Suddenly, brilliant light cut sharply through my self-ridden heart. It cut to the place in my heart that was not putting her needs before my own. Her room was dark but I could make out the curve of her sweet face and the slight dimple in her chin. I touched her face, her little ear and her silky hair. I did not hesitate to kiss her face. In that moment, in the dark, my heart was finally light enough to recognize it, she was the beauty before me that my heart was begging to see. And I saw it. I finally did.

My Funny Valentine...

2008-02-14T19:50:00.000-08:00

Christopher and I met on Valentines Day twelve years ago. That same night he wrote me a letter that he did not plan on giving me... thankfully, he changed his mind. All these years later we are still in love and we have our very own valentine, Penelope.

Making a valentine card for her "papai"

She's so darn cute, don't you think? And she's mine...

Before You Can Say, Jiminy Cricket!

2008-01-21T08:25:00.000-08:00

I get a kick out of reading stats on risk assessment. For example, "if you eat so many helpings of broccoli per day you will reduce your risk of getting cancer by such and such a percent," or "if you exercise three times a week..." and blah, blah, blah it goes.

When you get pregnant there are a host of other ones like anything from caffeine intake to highlighting your hair. The idea is to minimize any potential risks of harming your baby, a very good thing to do. However, in my opinion that whole idea gets tossed out the window the minute your baby comes out. Before you can say, "Jiminy cricket," you've been launched into a carrier that you cannot change your mind about with absolutely no previous experience.

Imagine: someone wakes up and decides he/she would like to be a doctor. So without going to school for it this person sets up an office to see patients. Sure, this person has been a patient him/herself and has seen a lot of shows on TV about doctors and seems to have a general idea of what a doctor does. But seriously, would anyone ever go see such a "doctor?" Obviously not, it's a no brainer, right? Observation does not equal qualification.

I know people say that nine months of pregnancy is to help prepare a woman for becoming a mom. But let's face it, it really doesn't. It might be uncomfortable to be pregnant or even difficult to sleep well or turn corners, but it offers absolutely no experience at being a mom. I'm surprised there are no universities that offer a BA in Motherhood. What's up with that? For everything else there is a degree. In fact, so many menial jobs require a degree. That makes no sense. We're talking about baby humans whose physical, emotional and spiritual development and well-being are reliant on rookie care.

I remember when my baby was born Christopher and I were worried we were going to break her, she seemed so fragile. Was she starving? Was one eye bigger than the other? Is she still breathing? Was she comfortable? Was she in pain? Would her belly button fall off OK? Why was she rolling her eyes back? Was the soft spot on her head too big?

Many, I think, would say that I was well prepared to have a baby. When I was only six years old I changed my baby brother's diapers and gave him baths. As an adult I was in charge of two age groups at a daycare for several years, babysat all kinds of babies in all kinds of situations. Yet when I had my very own baby I still felt overwhelmed at times and still do.

As I write this my baby is sleeping peacefully surrounded by all her little fluffy friends and two sippy cups. She is wearing a green skirt over her pajamas and her right hand/arm is adorned by a pink striped knee high sock (she seemed very pleased by how she looked). Somehow she has survived her rookie parents' care thus far and she seems to like me and her papai quite a lot and we definitely like her.

I'm happy to report that her eyes are the same size, she's been breathing well ever since she came out, her belly button fell off just fine, the soft spot on her head turned out to be the normal size and she only rolls her eyes if she annoyed (wait a minute, I'm the one who does that).

Maybe that is why there is no degree in Motherhood. You can only learn as you go. There is no other way.

The Unnatural Mom

2008-01-05T15:43:00.000-08:00

People say that being a mother is natural; it's instinctive, intuitive, and like second-nature. Lately, I've been wondering if that is indeed true or not.

For starters, during pregnancy many women, including myself, feel lousy, especially in the beginning, the nausea, the vomiting (thankfully, I never did vomit, but my sister-in-law, vomited like it was the latest fashion trend, all the time, everywhere), not to mention all the exhausting excursions that our emotions take. Later on the belly gets strangely large and the most menial of tasks become quite insurmountable, like picking up a stray sock from the floor, or picking up the car keys that you dropped. Forget about giving yourself a pedicure.

Can a person be intellectually honest and still maintain that having a human being grow inside of you then a few months later come out of you from a small opening is natural? It really doesn't feel natural at all, trust me. Then the baby comes and before you can say, "Jiminy cricket," you're a mom (more on that later). What soon follows are many sleepless nights, diapers and more diapers and being a human feeding trough as my husband would say. A few nights ago I was up with my baby for two and a half hours. Somebody tell me what is so natural about that? Giving up of my own plans and wishes doesn't feel second-nature, let me tell you. Not to mention that when I'm at Target and my baby is screaming, I don't feel any sort of intuition floating around in my being telling me what should be done, instead I usually just second-third-seventeenth-guess myself and feel horribly embarrassed. Being a mom often feels like the exact opposite of my first instinct.

That said, the funny thing is that since becoming a mom I haven't really been too shocked at how much work is involved. I worked in a daycare and watched the lives of those around me with kids enough to get a clue into the amount of work that it takes. My quandary is more of the so-called innate capacity to care for my baby perfectly. I guess, looking back at it, I thought that my profound love for my baby would enable me to always feel like doing the work. It's supposed to be natural, right? Maybe I picked up on such a notion because of my dear mother. She definitely made it look easy. I never remember her raising her voice at me; I never heard her complain about anything, really. Had I been able to articulate this before I before I became a mom, I'm certain anyone who already was a mom would have grabbed me by the neck and thrown ice cubes in my face or something to wake me up from la la land, including my own mom (OK, she would have done something nice, she is always nice). I know I shouldn't be surprised by my own pathetic selfish humanity, that's pathetic in of itself. So there it is, my naiveté collapsing before me as I grapple with this being a mom thing.

It is not unlike the idea and more importantly the reality of grace. In my overconfident and self-righteous youthful teens and early twenties I would talk about how wonderful it was to know with certainty that whatever came my way, the grace of God would see me through it. I would say this to people and preach it to anyone who worried about their future. This might seem like sound theology. However, once I struggled through 7 years of relentless day-long daily headaches, grace seemed like some kind of joke. I would tell God this. I didn't feel any supernatural force carrying me through every day. It just seemed like there was Michelle waking each morning and figuring out a way to get out of bed and facing another day in pain, alone. It simply felt like a tremendous amount of effort and work. Yet now that I look back I can see that grace was indeed there, weaving itself through my pain, quietly. The fact that I did get out of bed (most mornings) and did the tasks at hand is proof that grace was at work.

Perhaps that is what people mean when they say that being a mom is second-nature. It's because we do it--everyday--smelly diapers and screaming babies at Target and all. Then again, I didn't know I could love a person as much as I love my baby. I don't naturally love other people like that. The moment I first looked at her I loved her deeply. Before she even looked at me, or smiled at me or hugged me back, I simply loved her. My heart swelled up so much with love that it pounded against the walls of my chest, begging for more room. It actually ached. It's a strange thing, really. Typically, we love people because they give us something in return like, friendship, admiration, forgiveness, their time; they love us back in some capacity and depth. Yet, with my baby, I love her, even in the moments when I feel frustrated or tired. She doesn't have to give me anything in return, I simply love her. I think all moms feel this way. Maybe that's what makes being a mom so naturally, beautifully unnatural.

The "New" New Years Resolution

2008-01-01T20:27:00.000-08:00

Every New Years Day I get over-inspired and over-motivated. My mind gets creatively lofty with miraculous goals for the year ahead, things that can only be accomplished in one's mind, never in reality. This year will be different. I was inspired by my bottomless laundry basket of clothes begging to get out of there. You see, in the last several weeks I have made a new goal regarding these desperate clothes. Instead of telling myself that I will fold them that day, I will fold them in one week's time. That way, if I fold them in one week's time I can feel great about it, but if I happen to get them done before I can still feel great. (Last week, though, the baskets were overflowing, so I came up with an "emergency only" clause which says that stuffing them back into the dryer if guests are coming over is OK). This has done wonders for my sense of self-accomplishment, I've been patting' myself in the back left and right.

So, I figure I should capitalize on this new kind of principle by applying it to all aspects of my life. It might offer wonderful ego boosts all throughout the year. Keeping true to this principle, my motto for this year's resolution is, "keep it simple, keep it vague, keep it low-key, keep it mediocre." Here it is:

Michelle's Goals for 2008 (in the case of emergency, this list may be edited)

1. I will always clean my house once-in-a-while.

2. I will lose 3 pounds.

3. I will do my best to try to be nicer sometimes.

4. I will hope to exercise four times this year alone.

5. I will do more in every sense of the word.

6. I will think of others first as much as I can.

7. I will always fold laundry.

8. I will always cook food.

9. I will be a good friend, if all goes well.

10. I will always do my very best to a be a good mom and wife.

Wish me well...

A Christmas Wish

2007-12-23T21:32:00.000-08:00

The thing about life is that it isn't fair (cliche of all cliches, I know). What no one ever tells you, though, is that it can be very fair for some people, just not to you and that is what makes it so unfair. In fact, often life is unfairly fair, as it were, to the certain people that shouldn't get any fair treatment. It's really not fair.

I've been thinking about my friend lately. She is musically talented, funny and beautiful. She is a mom and she is single. I wish that it were just hearsay, the fact that there are single moms out there, but it isn't. There are many. I can so easily complain about the work involved at being a mom, the lack of sleep, the constant interruptions, the diapers, the feeding, the relentless repetitive motherly tasks. But then I think of my friend and I feel, quite honestly, like a wimp. Single moms just don't get enough props for all that they do.

In the last couple of weeks my cheeks have become very familiar with the many silent tears my eyes seem to so easily shed. I go about my day when it will occur to me how it would be sad to do this mother thing alone. I've been struck with the little things (which are not little, really) like, no one to pick up milk on the way home, or change the dirty diaper when you don't feel like it, no one to nudge in the middle of the night to get your crying baby, no one to bring the groceries in. When your baby does something ridiculously cute that you're convinced no other baby in the whole world has ever done and your chest fills up with pride, there is no one to look over to and share that moment with. There is no adult to get really mad at and remind you that behind your sleepy eyes you're still alive and full of passion. There is no one take out the trash and balance the checkbook or surprise you with flowers just because. There is no one to say that you look sexy when you're still dressed in pajamas at 5 in the afternoon, or to hug you tight and say that you're a great mom even after you served only buttered noodles for dinner. There is no other adult voice except your own echo down the hall. It's just not fair.

My friend's circumstances are not of her own making and honestly, I wouldn't care if they were. The life of every mom is meant to be shared with someone that loves you back, stretch marks and all. In a "fair world" both the gloriously happy moments where you had no idea such joy could be felt at once and the moments that you're certain that you will indeed pull out each strand of hair from your head alike, all of it is meant to be shared. That would be beautiful and fair.

This Christmas, my friend, if I could, I would take all the unfair moments of your life and make them fair. I would put them in a lovely candy-striped box and tie a beautiful red bow around it. The card would say that I think you are a beautiful woman and an amazing mom.

If I could, I would.

Nice Events

2007-12-13T21:13:00.000-08:00

When I was single I was really nice. When I got married I was just nice. Now that I am a mom, "nice" is more of an event. My mom was always nice. She still is very nice.

The other day I went to Target for several important reasons and many frivolous ones. The important reasons were for such things like diapers, toilet paper, food for my baby, etc. The frivolous reasons were for such things like a fresh cup of Starbucks located conveniently at the Target I selected to go to (I would like to kiss whoever thought of that idea), clearance racks, ok, more clearance racks and anything cute. Oh, I must not forget I was in dire need of half and half for the fresh cups of coffee I make at home. The problem with the important reasons is that they are boring. There is no way around this. For example, there is nothing fun about reaching for a bundle of toilet paper and hearing the "thud" as it hits the cart. It's not particularly cute.

Target offers other problems for me. As I swing about the aisles of the store, coffee in one hand, cart in the other, thoughts of real importance swing away from my little brain ( I wonder if my brain is cute. Anything little usually is). I lose focus. I forget that I need things like diapers. If it's not cute, smells pretty, or absolutely frivolous my brain can't seem to think about it. The only type of information it can contain is everything I don't really need, like scented candles or half n' half.

The other problem that comes with Target is that I lose track of time. Time simply does not exist when I'm sipping coffee and looking at cute stuff. Not good.

Not good at all. I left Target in a tizzy. Usually, I can't stand the store by the time I leave, my brain is simply overtaken by over stimulation. Even still, I was nice to the cashier. When I got back into the car I realized that my baby should have already eaten lunch and should have been sleeping peacefully in her crib with a little drool drizzle on her cheek. How did this happen?

Well, naturally, as any baby should, mine started to scream. I reached for the fresh Target bag and realized that I purchased NO food for her, nothing. It didn't help matters much when I realized that I had remembered to buy half n' half. Home was about 500 miles away. My happy, swinging, coffee drinking mood took a sudden fall. It fell to right about where I feel like a horrible mom. So I called my husband. I told him this, that I am not a good mom. I wondered out loud if I was cut out for this or not. I said these things in kind of a loud voice, as it were. I like to call it venting. It's a nice term and it gives me permission not to be. I glanced at my half filled coffee cup. My brain seemed so little. The steady screaming was getting to me.

I opened the front door and my husband appeared out of nowhere! I almost screamed it scared me so much. I thought he was at work. I felt this presented an excellent opportunity to blame someone or something. I did what seemed most natural, even right at the time. I picked him to blame. Somehow being alarmed that he was home, adding to my already frenzied state, seemed to be a lovely segue into connecting him to my feeling of incompetence, and more importantly, it made him responsible for that feeling. I like blaming sometimes. It moves the guilt around to places that are far away from me. Ok, maybe the "place" is usually my husband. That is never nice.

I don't know how my mother was so nice all my growing up years and beyond. We certainly gave her plenty of reasons not to be nice to us. But she always was. Always. This is rather irritating because I can't blame my childhood for my lack of niceness. My sister-in-law says that people have it all wrong when they say that it's more spiritual to be single. It's not. You can be selfish without knowing it and therefore feel no guilt because of it. You get married and the opportunities to reveal your selfishness come up all the time. You become a parent and those opportunities multiply by the minute.

These days my nice "events" seem to get smaller and smaller. I guess I can only blame myself. That can be a problem, however. Blaming myself is not fun and definitely not cute. It's hard. My brain doesn't like it. It's little remember? Who knows, maybe if I practice taking the blame more often my brain will grow a little and those nice "events" will last longer. I'm going to work on that. I don't know, maybe another cup of Starbucks coffee will help.

Penelope, this blog's for you...

2007-12-04T07:32:00.000-08:00

Lovey, today you are 18 months old! You've grown into a lovely little toddler, but like papa says, you will still be our baby until you're three. Our year-and-a-half together has flown by. I know that sounds cliché, but that's how it feels. I'm sure I'll be saying that all throughout your life, your first day of school, when you graduate from college and even when you become a first-time mom.

That is the reason for this blog. I want to record my journey with you. You and I are writing a beautiful story, one that is real, unafraid and honest, threaded together with love and speckled throughout with many tears and a lot of laughter and tenderness. I want you to know that I am not perfect (not that you will need a blog to realize this! I am sure you are reminded of this everyday), but that I love you deeply, and that it is a wonderful thing to be a mother, your mamae. I hope years from now when you are a lovely young woman, maybe with a baby in your arms and when blogs will most likely seem archaic and old-fashioned you will find that our story will still ring true with the one you will write with your baby. I hope that it makes you laugh, cry and most of all, realize that your mother loves you without pretence and without condition.

This is our story, you and me. I like you and me...

I love that when you kiss me you pucker up only your lower lip and say, "Hmmm."

I love that when you try to sing along with a song you move your lips quickly, but make no sound. You do this earnestly.

I love that you know what you want and what you don't want.

I love your chuckle, especially when you're trying to laugh along with something papa and I think is funny.

I love that when you want me to read you a story you "back up" into me, your little bum leading the way.

I love that when you are in a room full of new people you will not crack a smile. When we are out and about, however, you are intentional about saying hi to every living soul. It's like you think you're required to.

I love how when you are hungry you say, "numa, numa, nummy."

I love that when I’m on the computer you come up behind me quietly and tickle my back, then say, “Tuckle, tuckle, tuckle.”

I love that you sometimes put your shoes on backwards.

I love that out of nowhere you will come and find me just to say hi and tilt your head so far to the side that sometimes you tip over.

I love that you know how to hug real tight, so tight that sometimes your little arms tremble and you always say, "Hmmm."

I love that when you see something pretty you bend your knees and lean forward and say, "Wow!"

I love that when you hear music you feel responsible to dance to it. You drop all your toy duties and stand up, usually raise your little arms in the air as if the music is about to lift you off. You twirl. I like that you don't always smile, you're sincere and earnest about the dance. Sometimes you look for your baby and dance with her. Other times, you ask me to dance with you. You say emphatically, "Dance!" We twirl cheek to cheek.

I love that when I rock you, your chest on mine, you like to tuck your soft little arms between us.

I love that when I say I'm sorry for losing my patience with you, you seem to understand and hug me back.

I love that even after a long day, I lay in bed and my last thoughts are often of you.

I love that you can make my heart swell up, full, with love.

We go well together, you and me. I like us a lot.

Sore Eyes

2007-11-27T20:47:00.000-08:00

There is a certain "mom look" that I swore I would never have. You know, the a-little-too-much-ruffle, a-little-too-much-seasonal-appliqued-vest, a-little-too-much-floral, all in the wrong places, topped off with the overgrown ponytail look. I used to wonder where these moms would purchase such things, maybe in a Mom Fashion catalog. I didn't know. I remember I would shake my little internal head with pity (ok, maybe a snobbish, condescending type of pity) and say, "how could they leave the house looking like that?'' I think I've been enlightened.

Since becoming a mom I haven't come across any Mom Fashion catalogs, but I have come across a lot of sleepless nights, for starters. Sleep depravity does something to a person. I can't figure out how to describe it. Perhaps it's a thinkless mode, called "I don't care." Usually, the thinkless mode outlasts the outing, as it were, to the grocery store, the gas station, the grocery store again. I remember not being shocked if I heard the expression, "a sight for sore eyes" in reference to me. These days I'm afraid I can make any eyes sore. I just wish the thinkless, "I don't care" mode would always outlast the outing, without exceptions. It doesn't.

A recent day ago, I pulled into a grocery parking lot and in the corner of my eye I noticed a fellow first-time-mom, well dressed and size minus 3, who I sort of knew. Her baby is a couple of months younger than mine. She was walking to the store that I was about to enter. I didn't let my glance rest on her more than a split second for fear that she, too, would see me. I chose the better, non-discriminating option and turned my head and talked to my baby who was unhappily strapped in her car seat. (Between these few lines my baby has already woken up twice! I've got my little prayers crossed that that will be it for at least five hours or so.) I didn't feel like bumping into her and doing the whole, we-have-to-small-talk-since-we-know-each-other's-names-even-though-we-both-think-this-is-stupid, thing, especially when I didn't need to look in the review mirror to remind myself of what I looked like when I left the house.

My shoulders slouched. I wanted them to slouch all the way down to my goldfish/graham cracker infested car floor. Earlier that day I clearly remembered noticing dandruff speckled throughout my year-old haircut. What was that all about? I could feel the crotch of my jeans halfway down my ripply thighs. My hand-me-down shirt didn't fit, but on the bright side, the sleeves had bleach stains. In that split second of seeing that person I was jolted into reality. I don't always like reality. So I promptly did what any reasonable person would do. I quickly exited the parking lot and off I went to another grocery store.

It wasn't a fun ride. My baby was hungry and tired (never a good combination). But I couldn't really blame her, when that combination is going on with me I always want to act like a 17-month-old: scream. That is precisely what she was doing. I acted quickly and broke off pieces of a candy bar that my boss had just given me and eagerly gave it to her as I drove in a panic. (That was her first official candy bar, another one of those, "I would never do that" ideals. Mind you, I had some of that candy bar, too.)

There is something about anonymity. It can be very soothing. Not to be known, not to be spoken a whole lot to. Not to be reminded of all that I hoped to be but wasn't. That's what I wanted at that moment. I don't like that I want that sometimes. The elusive goal of the perfect mom can often plague me. The problem with that goal is the "perfect" part. It doesn't exist. I think all of us, first-time moms, second and fifth-time moms and floral-applique-ruffly-moms alike just need to give ourselves a pat on the back that one more day our baby (or babies) was fed, hugged and kissed an awful lot. That is beautiful. Beautiful enough for any sore eyes.

(Update on the baby: since last mentioned, she has woken up four additional times. Rocked twice, snuggled cheek-to-cheek in mama and papa's bed once and currently, in mama's arm. The other arm is busy typing.)

Squeeze

2007-11-24T13:36:00.000-08:00

I heard it, the sound I most dread hearing at night: my daughter’s cry. I know that might sound like a “motherly” thing to say. It might even conjure up certain ideals of motherhood, the compassionate tug at a mother’s heart to imagine that her child is sad or even hurt followed by the innate desire to rescue and to hold. Well, this is not what I’m talking about. None of those so-called motherly instincts are invoked in the middle of the night. It’s like I forget that I’m a mom. It’s more like the feeling of sheer anxiety mixed in with a good dose of selfishness and thoughts like, “what the heck is the matter with this child?” or, “I can’t stand this!” “Why do I have to get her (as if she had another mom)?”

The room was pitch black (which come to think of it, maybe if I saw her little face looking up at me I might feel a bit more “motherly”, but then again, do I want her to have memories of my irritated expression? Nah. I’m sticking with the pitch black thing). Her cry was mournful but soon it turned into rage. This did not help matters much. I picked her up and decided to rock her (screw all the books that say you shouldn’t do that for fear of creating a habit). I was tired, I figured I’d do the quick fix method (translated, anything that makes my baby stop crying with no thought of future consequences). She settled down and within a second she was asleep. So I carefully put her back in her crib. War erupted! Immediately, without hesitation, which was so impolite, she became like a dormant volcano who finally decides to erupt after four hundred years. I decided to do the “book” thing and stay by her side, but not pick her up. Whatever.

Ten minutes or so had gone by, but by “middle-of-the-night” standard this is equivalent to a solid two hours. I had had it! No remnants of “motherliness” left in this one! I wanted to cry. I, too, felt I had good reason to. I wanted to cry because I wasn’t sleeping and wanted to be. I was so tired! I wanted to cry because those stupid books were probably right; rocking your baby to sleep is never a good idea. I wanted to cry because I realized that my left over “baby fat” was sort of “hanging” over the crib railing and it was so infuriatingly uncomfortable! I wanted to cry because some moms are so freakin’ skinny! I wanted to cry because I felt helpless. I wanted to cry because this is not how it’s supposed to go, this motherhood thing. So I did. I cried and cried.
It was quite a sight, if there ever was one, baby in the crib crying her head off and mother gently leaning over the crib a few inches away from baby’s face crying her head off. I could hear my hot tears rapidly falling around my daughter and even on her tummy. I kept praying that my husband wouldn’t come in for fear that the light from the hallway would shine on my face which inevitably would have made my daughter believe in monsters. I am certain of it. My mouth was wide open (and I have a big one) and my face was all crumpled up. A sight it was and one that is never found in the storybooks of mother and child.

I picked her up. I sat down in the rocking chair and rocked her (Screw those stupid baby books again!). This time I just listened to her. She was still catching her breath from all that crying. Her heart was beating fast. Her little pudgy cheeks were hot to the touch, still wet with tears. She put her little arms around me and squeezed me tight. I squeezed her back. And just like that, all my selfishness just melted away. My motherly instincts were back in full force. Nothing is ever better than snuggling with my baby. Her breathing became calm and steady like a light whispering of leaves on a fall day. I could listen to that sound all night.

I remembered that I was a mom. All I needed was a little squeeze.