Category: Family

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Being a girl Children Dreams Endings Family Fashion Home improvements Humor Love Memoir Nonfiction Sentiment Writing

(A room that is important to you)

In the notes section of my phone, there is a list of writing prompts. The third prompt is “A room that is important to you.”

==

My parents have a hot tub. The hot tub is just the latest item in a long list of reminders that I don’t live at home anymore.

How could they go from normal parents one day, to hot-tub-owning parents the next?

“But where is it?” I ask my mom over the phone.

“On the deck,” she says.

“What deck?”

“Oh yeah. We added a deck, too,” she says. Her tone is so casual, like she doesn’t realize she’s telling me about major home renovations. “You guys should come visit. You can sit in the hot tub.”

While it sounds amazing, especially now that California is having some actual winter weather, I can’t quite get used to that whole hot tub thing. I mean, I still feel homesick for the way our house was when I was a child – eight and ten and fourteen years old. It hasn’t been like that for almost half my lifetime.

I knew everything was different when I went to college. Not my freshman year, so much, when I still came home all the time and most of my stuff was still up on my bedroom walls. But once I started living in apartments, and my room at home started becoming storage, it was a slippery slope to “I don’t live here at all anymore.”

Probably moving to New York right after college had something to do with that. I didn’t go home that summer, except for a week or so before we got on a plane from SFO to JFK, in mid-August. And then I was gone for three years and the transition became even more complete.

I’ve been back in California for four and a half years. I have never in that time moved back home, and where would I have lived if I had? On the futon couch in the living room, probably. Despite multiple passings-off of my childhood stuff from my parents to me, there is still, inexplicably, more of my stuff in my bedroom, although it becomes more and more hidden among things that aren’t mine. My stuffed animals stick it out, though, sitting on a shelf above the bay window, covered in dust and, I’m positive, spiders. Every time someone suggests I go through them, I shiver and say I will as soon as they’ve all been run through the dryer or something.

The same thing happened to Drew. His room became an office, although his parents had to wait until we came back from New York and essentially stole all his bedroom furniture. But he and I are both in the same position of peeking into our childhood bedrooms and remembering them in a totally different way than they are now.

A few years ago, (after the my-bedroom transition but before the deck and hot tub,) my parents added a bathroom and walk-in closet onto their bedroom. Growing up it was always a point of contention/argument/self-righteousness (depending on one’s mood at the time) that our house only had one bathroom. But after the kids were out and it didn’t matter anymore, they fixed that. It’s good for resale, I guess, but I don’t even want to start thinking about that house being sold to strangers. It’s cool to see the addition, and cool that it happened, and surreal that there’s a whole add-on to the back of the house that wasn’t there when I was growing up.

I guess in a twisted way, that’s the room that is important to me. Because the addition, followed soon after by the deck and the hot tub, is something that I had no part in, I didn’t help at all with the planning, in fact I didn’t even have an idea something was up until it was already going down. And that just means that I definitely, unquestionably, 100% don’t live there anymore. The addition changed my childhood home in a way that putting in hardwood floors, moving the furniture around, and storing all the craft stuff on shelves in my old room does not.

Most of the time this doesn’t bother me too much. If my childhood home isn’t the same, well…neither am I, certainly. And it’s not like I want to stay in one place and never grow or change or move away.

But I’ve gotten so good at writing things down and journaling and documenting and taking photos – I wish I had been better at that at ages eight, ten, fourteen, eighteen. I wish I could remember more about all those summers spent at camp, or my 8th grade graduation dance, or some random trip my friends and I took to Cupertino my freshman year of college. (What the heck were we doing in Cupertino??) My memories of childhood are fuzzy. When I try to remember, I just end up picturing myself now, but like, wearing t-shirts with cat pictures and drawing with chalk pastels and making mix tapes.

On second thought, maybe the 90s are just not an inspiring time to keep constantly at the forefront of your mind. Maybe it’s good enough to know we made it through them unscathed.

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Baby Children Family Humor Love Memoir Nonfiction Sentiment

All 617 Tiny Little Pieces

I wouldn’t say I’m a neat freak. But I do like things to be organized. And complete.

That said, B has a variety of toys. Many of these toys come in sets. Like a set of 8 stacking cups, or 12 books…or 75 plastic food items. (I saw that at Target for $10 and had to get it for him.)

Sometimes we do a quick clean-up at night, and just kind of collect everything in his toy drawer unit. But sometimes I have to sit down and put things back into their actual sets (and sometime their actual boxes) and see if all the pieces are, in fact, there.

I do this with varying success.

photo (10)1. From the top…the 75-piece food set. Once we got it open, we realized how much, shall we say, brand influence there was on this set. There’s some Hamburger Helper and a Betty Crocker cake mix and some Progresso soup. I still really like this set though, although the last couple days when B has pulled this out and looked at me hopefully, I’ve surveyed the soup of other small toy pieces on the living room floor…and redirected his attention.

2. Wooden alphabet blocks. I love them so much. Although do NOT step on one, it is SO painful. I’m not even sure how many there are in the set, but I counted 40 back in the bag, which sounds right.

3. Noah’s Ark set. This isn’t even fair because they don’t all fit into the ark. So it’s tricky.

4. Disney baby animal books. As soon as B sees any of them in the box they come in, he has to dump them out. But he loves these books. I don’t know when was the last time I saw all 12 books together.

5. While I was assessing the various sets of toys, I spotted these blocks and went to see if all 13 were actually accounted for. Which was a mistake, because then B was like OH YEAH I LOVE THOSE BLOCKS WHY ARE THEY CONSOLIDATED IN THAT CARRYING COMPARTMENT.

6. I love this train. But I find the pieces everywhere. Lately I’ve started putting it all back together whenever I get a chance. I had finally, finally found the last pieces right before I took that picture – I was actually saying to Drew, “Hold him for a sec, just a sec, hold him back–” while I was trying to grab my phone and turn on the camera, while B was crawling maniacally playfully toward the train to reclaim the smokestack for his own.

This is just scratching the surface. If anyone ever tells you that your child will accumulate a lot of stuff…they’re not kidding. People cannot resist giving toys to kids. And I totally get it. But I think I will start looking for nice, 1-piece toys to give to my friends’ kids from now on.

On the other hand…this weekend he started picking up his Duplos from the ground and putting them BACK in the box…which could open up a whole new world for us.

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Awesome Baby Beauty Being a girl cars Children Dreams Drew Family Fashion Food Humor Love Memoir Nonfiction Religion Sentiment Travel

A 1-year-old is an unreliable wedding guest

A couple weeks ago, we took B to a wedding. A francy wedding.

(I meant fancy, but I accidentally typed francy, and I immediately fell in love with that new word I just created.)

This francy wedding took place at St. Dominic’s Catholic Church in San Francisco. Drew and I were a little nervous about the whole day, for the following reasons:

a. wedding of a medium-close family member who might not be forgiving of 1-year-old antics;
b. ceremony at 3pm, reception at 6pm across the city;
c. our particular 1-year-old doesn’t always behave well in francy situations;
d. also we have to dress up

As a bonus thing to worry about, our car situation meant we were taking my parents’ bug, which is stick, so I had to drive.

We left plenty of time to get ready, get everything in the car, and get to SF. We got there about 10 minutes before 3:00, which was perfect. We parked right outside the church, which was perfect. I hopped into the backseat to pull B out of his carseat…and was greeted by an absolutely remarkable smell.

We opened the trunk (do you realize how small a VW bug trunk is??) and laid him down in it, button down shirt and all, to change his diaper. It wasn’t until I had the diaper half off, and Drew was digging through the diaper bag looking for the wipes, that I remembered I had used up the last wipe and forgotten to put a new package in. There were some exclamations of dismay. I mean, we were on the side of the road, outside a francy church, dressed in our best, trying to change our squirmy child in a trunk, and we had no wipes.

Luckily we had pacifier wipes, so we survived.

We got everything put together and went inside. The church was beautiful. We sat down in the back row, on the outside aisle, ignoring the waves from Drew’s family to come up and sit with them. Through a mixture of mouthing and mime, he told them, “Our kid is going to lose it so we need to be able to slip out quickly.”

We were sitting down for about 4 minutes, and the family members were being escorted in, when B opened his mouth and let out a “Aawwwk?” And then his eyes got big and he looked around, as he realized what a great echo there was in here. I jumped up and tried to jiggle him to keep him occupied, but once he started squawking, there was no turning around. We saw the bride come in, and then I ended up taking him out to the narthex, where we walked back and forth for the entirety of the service. Sometimes we went outside.

But B was smack in the middle of wanting to walk everywhere but needing to hold hands, so I spent an hour alternating between being kind of hunched over, and tossing his 25 pounds into the air to make him laugh.

After the service, we had all this time to kill, and we thought if we drove around he might take a nap in the car seat. Well, we were wrong. So we drove all around San Francisco, went up to Twin Peaks and got gas, and got caught in the worst ever traffic on the way downtown to the financial district, where the reception was.

Despite being the most anxious about the reception, it was actually really lovely. As soon as we got to the table, one of the waitstaff came over and said, “Do you want a high chair?” and Drew and I were both like, “YOU HAVE HIGH CHAIRS??” Also, the first toast of the evening was by the bride’s father, and rather than being champagne, it was a tequila shot with cinnamon and orange. So good. B lasted for a really long time before he started melting down (like 9pm – like 2 hours after his usual bedtime) – although right at the moment when we decided it was time to get him out, they started other toasts, and then one of the bridesmaids gave like a 15-minute toast and were trapped on the side of the room opposite the door.

Anyway. B’s first wedding, and it was francy, and it was inside a Catholic church, and it was late at night. And he did great!

francy2
Blurry backwards camera!
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Awesome Children Family Food Friends Games Holidays Love Memoir Nonfiction Sentiment

First birthday party

Dear B,

We had your first birthday party on Sunday. We planned for it for weeks (dare I say months?). We made multiple trips to multiple stores to secure the decorations. We ordered things from different sites to supplement the store bought stuff. We did not one but two trial runs for your birthday cake. The day before the party, during both of your naps, we raced to the kitchen to bake EIGHT CAKE LAYERS (in batches of two) to ensure we had enough cake for everyone at the party (two four-layer cakes). After you went to bed, we made a vat of fruit salad, and I used three cans of frosting to put those cake layers together.

You probably had very little idea what was going on. You didn’t know who most of those people were. You won’t remember anything about the day. But trust me: it was great. It was a completely successful party. There were nigh on 40 people there, including 8 kids, 6 of whom were under the age of 5. There were your peninsula aunties and uncles, your BFF Tom, mommy’s coworkers, and of course family from both sides.

There was way too much food (of course) which neither daddy nor I really had time to eat. But don’t worry, we brought a lot of it home. (Two days later, we still have 2 gallon ziplocks of fruit salad to eat…so, get out your spoon…)

When we put your birthday cake in front of you and sang to you, everyone gathered around and you looked a little overwhelmed, and at the end of the song everyone clapped, so you clapped too, and then a wave of 40 people went “AWWWWW” and it startled you and you started crying, which made them laugh. We put a giant slice of rainbow layered cake in front of you, and it took some coaxing but you got your hands into it and you even ate some. You calmed down from crying, but we still seem to have a million pictures of you crying while clapping and cake-covered.

Daddy and I were so preoccupied during the party that we neglected to take many photos. But luckily our family members and friends are camera-happy and willing to share, so we’ll have plenty of visual memories.

You got so many presents that we don’t really know what do with all of them. We have hidden some to give to you later, when you’ve gotten used to the ones you have out now. (But your favorite things, of course, are still wiffle balls and plastic stacking cups.)

Everyone had a great time, and (of course) the party ran over the planned 2 hours. But despite me waking you from your morning nap around 10:45 so we could leave for your party, you were a total trooper, staying awake and mostly happy throughout the entire party, then the entire clean-up. On the way home, I sat in the backseat with you and tried to soothe you into falling asleep. You managed to stay awake until we got to the airport, at which time I watched you melt into sleep. You woke up 10 minutes later when we got home. Oops.

I think you had a lot of fun. I know I had a lot of fun. I’m glad so many people came. I’m glad we went all out for your first birthday. I’m glad everything went well. I’m glad it’s over and we made it through.

I’m not saying that parties or material possessions are an indicator of love. But, based purely on actual love, you are loved, little guy. Happy first birthday, and congratulations to all three of us for making it through your first year!

Love,
Mommy

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Baby Being a girl Drew Family Love Memoir Nonfiction Sentiment

Happy 1st Father’s Day!

When I was pregnant, Drew and I did not find out the sex of our baby – we wanted to wait. But for some reason, during those 9 months, we both had a strong intuition that it would be a girl. Which means no one was more surprised than we when B was born and Drew announced, more astonished than ebullient, “It’s a BOY.”

B was born just after midnight, which means that aside from being tired from the hours of labor, we were also dealing with it being the middle of the night. And B, like probably most newborns who have just been shoved unceremoniously into the world, would not stop crying. Since I was sort of stuck in bed, at least for a little while, Drew took up the task of walking ceaselessly around, shhhhing and soothing. This was the beginning of the rocking/swinging dance that, for awhile, was sometimes the only way to put B to sleep.

He immediately started calling B “Buddy,” which at the time, I found baffling. Where did this “buddy” thing come from? Who actually says that, outside of old TV shows? When did we decide that was going to be a nickname? But then it just stuck. And while I say it occasionally, I still think of it as a father’s nickname for his son – something he’ll call B when they’re out fishing or playing catch or camping in the backyard or something. You know, guy stuff.

For the record, I’m sure that Drew would be an amazing dad even if our first baby was a girl. But I’ve become obsessed with watching this father-son relationship develop. I love watching my two boys together. I hope that B realizes how lucky he is to have such a great dad, and I hope he grows up to be an equally incredible friend and partner. He’s got some big shoes to fill, but he’s got the right role model to help him grow into them.

Happy Father’s Day!

husband

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Awesome Family Humor Love Memoir Nonfiction Parents Sentiment

Happy Father’s Day, Dad!

In 5th grade, we had to do periodic book reports. For some people, that might have meant just standing up in front of the class and saying, “I liked the part when.” I don’t recall whether we were required to make our book reports more interesting, or just encouraged, or maybe I was just overeager and had too much time on my hands. But I remember book reports being A Thing.

When I read Black Beauty, my “report” took the form of a board game based on the book. The playing pieces were horses because I had many toy horses lying around. Inexplicably, I incorporated a bottle of “horse perfume” which was really just a giant green bottle with a stopper, and the stopper was sprayed with Lysol so it smelled like a vet’s office. I think it was called Eau de Horse, and there were flies drawn on the label. I have no recollection of how this was a part of the game.

The only other thing I remember is that part of my high-pressure performance was to roll the dice, count one-two-three, and land on a square saying, “You broke your leg. Game over,” and then I pulled out a cap gun and shot the horse figurine.

WHAT WAS THIS GAME ABOUT.

Confession #1: I never finished Black Beauty.

Confession #2: My dad was the mastermind behind this twisted board game. If you know him, then this probably doesn’t seem weird to you. In fact, this might sound strangely familiar to you. Maybe he helped you with a weird board game for a book you secretly never finished reading.

My dad is a quirky guy, who is willing to put himself out there, whether it’s in a skit or a performance or clowning or entertaining or just hamming it up behind the scenes. I admire that self-confidence and commitment.

I might not have inherited that same level of enthusiasm (unfortunately), but I think I did get a little bit of his artistic quirk. While making Black Beauty the Board Game, I showed my mom the label for the Eau de Horse, and her response was, “You can’t let Dad do the whole report for you.” I remember this very clearly because I was pretty much bursting with pride that she thought that Dad had created the label that I had written and illustrated all by myself! Clearly, if she mistook it for his work, it was amazing.

I learned two things from this experience:

1. Book reports are not always about the books; and

2. If I’m lucky, people will compare me to my dad and see the ways that I am like him.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad! Thanks for setting me on the right path early. I hope I am making you proud!

dad

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Awesome Family Holidays Love Parents Sentiment

Happy birthday, Mom!

Happy birthday to my wonderful, inspiring, awesome mom!

Mom Collage

You’re the best mom a girl could ask for! Hope today is wonderful!

(We need to take some new pictures together!)

Categories
Being a girl Family Fashion Humor Memoir Nonfiction Not awesome

Isn’t it neat?

The other night the three of us were driving back from Lodi and listening to a CD I found in my CD case with no label, no name, and no track list. It could have been anything.

What it ended up being was a pretty good mix of the kind of classics that most people are sure to know: American Pie, Manic Monday, For the Longest Time, Fast Car, Tom’s Diner, etc. A pleasant surprise…a lot of those unlabeled CDs end up being much worse.

Then Part of Your World came on (yes, definitely the best mix ever) and I remembered, as I always do, a Disney trip with my family when I was in…late middle school? Early high school? I was in a big Little Mermaid phase, and I wanted to wait in line to take a picture with Ariel. (I’m already embarrassed about telling this story.)

I was in line, up next, and watching Ariel interact with the little girl ahead of me. She said, “Okay, now smile at the – what do you call it? – photographer!” and I thought that was so sweet. She was made of big arm gestures and smiles and hair flips.

When I got up there though, she was all business in a bad wig. She smiled for the picture but where was all the cutesy stuff? That’s okay, it would have been worse to be patronized. But the photo that came of it – awkward 13-ish-year-old me in a t-shirt and shorts and sandals with socks (oh man, I sat just now and debated including that, but you know, the truth will out) – is all the more embarrassing because of the big gap between the two of us.

Every so often, that photo resurfaces in my “stuff from the past,” and each time I debate throwing it out. Seriously, I don’t know if I need to say this again, but it is a really embarrassing picture. There is no possible reason I could ever want to show it to anyone, or look at it myself. But I just haven’t gotten around to getting rid of it. Maybe someone can tell me why.

Categories
Family Humor Memoir Nonfiction Parents

Fatherly Advice

About three years ago, at the inception of this blog, I wrote a post that ended up being about things I was told as a child that I still firmly believe. Since then I’ve kind of made a mental note whenever I think of another one of those things, because it’s interesting to realize how much of your personal beliefs are based in maybe-not-entirely-truth.

The other night this train of thought happened: I hope B doesn’t pull his blanket over his face –> although maybe if he did he would be warmer –> also, maybe if he did he would sleep longer –> because my dad says that’s a thing –> huh, I wonder if that’s not really a thing? –> even if it is a thing, maybe it shouldn’t be a thing for 20-week-old babies.

So the back story to this is, we were all spending the night at my grandma’s (mom’s mom’s) house one night, and the cousins were sleeping in the living room in sleeping bags. I was too excited to go to sleep, I guess, so my dad told me to put my head down inside my sleeping bag and as I breathed the oxygen, it would make me sleepy.

(Dad, any memory of this?)

I have always had this in the back of my head, even as an adult, that if I needed a trick to fall asleep, I could just cover my face and start breathing less-oxygenated air. And soon, sleep!

But when I told Drew about this, he said, “Your dad tried to suffocate you?”

But I like to think that it was all out of love.

Categories
Family Fiction Humor Memoir Self improvement Work

over the rainbow

Let me start out by saying, I really like my job.

But it’s hard to be away from B for 9+ hours a day, counting my commute. So sometimes I find myself wondering, Where is that Perfect Job for me?

The one that’s a career, not just a job.

Flexible hours, but generally 9-5.

Preferably there’s a daycare onsite.

They pay me what I think I deserve to get paid. Plus awesome benefits (including dental and vision) for me and my whole family. Plus a retirement package.

There’s the possibility of advancement.

It’s something I enjoy doing, ideally in the arts. It is both challenging and satisfying on a daily basis.

Casual dress code, friendly work environment, fun coworkers.

A boss who’s also a mentor.

Maybe I can work from home some of the time.

I guess as long as I’m reaching for the stars, some Google-style cafeterias offering free lunches wouldn’t be so bad. And maybe, like, an on-site gym? I guess it’d be cool if they issued me an iPad too. And paid for my personal phone? Which I use for work stuff occasionally.

So if anyone hears of a job like this, ideal for a San Francisco-based almost-30-year-old with an English degree, could you let me know?