Urban Mama

An Unexpected Grief Trigger

Two days ago I almost got in a car accident. I was making a right turn at an intersection I drive by at least four times a day. It's about one mile away from my house, right in front a townhouse development. As I made the turn, I saw a grandmother with the same short and curly hairstyle and unnaturally purplish brown dye job Mami used to sport occasionally. The Abuelita was holding hands with her sundress-wearing young granddaughter, smoothing down her hair and fixing a bow that adorned the little girl's locks.

Staring at the tender scene between the petite grandmother and her preschool-aged granddaughter, I veered too far to the right and nearly crashed into a parked car. I corrected my course at the last possible second, and then I started to cry -- not only because I'd nearly rear-ended the sedan, but because that Abuelita reminded me so much of my mother. For the briefest of seconds my heart had sped up at the thought of her, the image of her touching my own daughter's hand, of her making sure my girl looked her best -- just like the grandmother on the sidewalk.

So I cried the rest of the short ride home, out of sadness that my daughter, who is in so many ways just like my mother, doesn't get to experience that love and attention from Mami. She does have a wonderful grandmother, a NaNa who loves and spoils her dearly, but it's just not the same, and it still hurts to be reminded of that loss.

Ten Things I Love About My Newly 10-Year-Old Son

My son is 10 today. As we like to tell him (after hearing the saying from a good friend), he's the one we've loved the longest. He's the one who taught us, through trial and error, how to be parents. He's such a funny, curious, loving child, and it boggles my mind how much of his father (and me, if I'm being honest) I can see in him, yet he's also so much more than either or both of us. On the occasion of his 10th birthday, here are 10 reasons he's an amazing kid.

1. He has a whip-smart sense of humor. I'm not an overly braggy mother (I tend to inwardly roll my eyes at parents who constantly say their kid is the smartest/most beautiful/most talented), but he really is a funny kid. It can definitely veer on the "sophisticated" (sarcastic) side, but he's known for making his teachers, friends (and family, natch) laugh with his one-liners.
2. He loves nature. I never had a fascination with the outdoors as a kid, but this child just loves learning about animals, habitats, meteorology, and astronomy. He and his father make regular trips to visit the natural history museums in DC and NYC, where they geek out together about all of the latest exhibits.
3. He is kind. Kindness, as my friend Patience writes about, is important to cultivate in children. Of my three kids, he's the one most likely to ask me how I'm feeling and whether he can do anything help. Recently, when I was going through a lot of health issues, he came home from school and made me a cup of hot cocoa and a quesadilla. Those foods don't usually go together, but it was a lovely "get well mama" treat.
4. He remembers his Abuela. Because he was 6 1/2 when she died, he's the only one of my kiddos who really remembers Mami. They had a special bond. She lived with us for two years in Brooklyn, and she would pick him up from pre-school every day at 4PM. Afterward they would go to Miss. Ellie's bodega or the long-defunct Peaches Ice Cream shop together for a treat. When he was not quite 5 years old, my son announced to his grandmother: "Abuela, I'm going to be a doctor when I grow up, so I can make you all better." Oh how she loved to tell that story. I do too.
5. He reads for pleasure. We weren't sure it was going to happen, because as a kindergartner, first and second grader, he only wanted to read non-fiction books about science and nature, but at some point near the end of second grade, we discovered the joy of Harry Potter together, and he's since become as addicted to fiction (mostly fantasy, graphic novels, and sci-fi) as I am. It's lovely to go into a bookstore with him and know
6. He's a good sport. Notice I didn't say he's good AT sports, because that wouldn't really be precise. But he is a good sport during the various team sports we make encourage him to play every year. So far, he doesn't seem destined for any athletic scholarships, but he isn't afraid to participate and play for fun.
7. He's a great friend. He's created these fabulous bonds with four or five boys, and they're all awesome kids. One BFF he's known since he was born and is more a cousin than a friend. That one we're sure will be our son's close friend for life. Seriously, they're future Best Man kind of friends.
8. He's curious. His favorite shows are "Mythbusters" and "How It's Made." He tinkers with everything and has to know how they were built or how they come apart This is definitely a trait he inherited from his father.
9. He makes connections. I remember my high-school English teachers telling us that making connections between art, literature, music and the rest of the world, the rest of life, was an important skill, and I can see how that's true with my own kid. The other day we had an in-depth conversation about orphans in books and movies, and it was like a dream come true (I love talking about the plucky orphan archetype).
10. He loves his siblings. Sure, he fights with them occasionally (especially his sister, who's three years younger than him and three years older than "The Baby"), but he's such a good big brother. Honestly, I'm sure my younger two will grow up singing his praises, because he's not the cruel, "Diary of a Wimpy Kid" type of big brother who delights in his younger siblings' misery. He's never decapitated his sister's dolls or dared his brother to paint his face green. Oldest brothers can be a dictatorial and mean, but not him.

Pictured: The birthday boy with his baby brother and cousin.

 

Father's Day Memories

Father's Day

is bittersweet.

is bitter, knowing you don't really have memories of your Papi but only flashes of what you think are memories based on what other people have told you about him. Growing up, you hated Father's Day and felt cheated every single year.

is sweet, knowing your own children have such a loving, kind, engaged father, who is always willing to... cook them a meal, tell them a story, ride bikes, pitch a tent, go exploring for cool bugs, take a hike, explain science, government, religion, and geography, and give them "kisses and cuddles."

I hope my kids are grateful of the blessing they have in their father.

My Daughter's Questions About Weddings and Marriage

My daughter (pictured, with three friends from dance class).

I write a lot more about her than my boys, I realize. I think it's because she's a much more fiery spirit than her sweet, funny (albeit occasionally stroppy) older brother, and her adorably tyrannical baby brother (OK, he's three, but he'll forever be The Baby).

Recently, she's begun asking a lot of questions about weddings ("Do girls always have to wear white?," "If two girls get married, who wears the dress?," "Why don't you ever wear your wedding dress?," "How do you become a princess?"). It is obviously thanks to all of the Royal Wedding hoopla and my upcoming 10th anniversary, which we're celebrating with a trip to London and Paris.

Some of the questions are easy to answer ("No"; "Whoever wants to wear a dress"; "It's in storage in case you want to wear it one day"; "You either have to be born one or fall in love with a Prince who asks you to marry him"), but some of her questions about marriage beyond the wedding day are more difficult to address. She asks about our friends who are separated but still friends. She asks who gets the kids when parents don't live together anymore. She asks what makes parents stop loving each other, and she asks why every day her father and I have "fights."

The thing is, my husband and I don't have "fights" every day -- we have spirited discussions or debates that range from the banal -- whether we should buy a pocket camera as a back-up to our DSLR -- to the political -- why the Osama Bin Laden raid has stirred up a lot of hypocrisy and hurt -- to the superficial -- why funny men in Hollywood can be unattractive but not women, period. We're not even talking about these things in her presence, necessarily, but she picks up on the fact that our conversations can turn into debates, and it frightens her. We've had to explain that we're not mad at each other, we just both have strongly held opinions (about everything) and that's how we communicate.

She also sees us hug and kiss and hold hands, but I'm worried that she perceives our discussions as fights. But my husband and I aren't the type to agree about everything or have quiet, whispered conversations. So what are we to do? We're not yelling or being abusive, it's just the way we talk. We were best friends before we started dating, and part of our friendship was based in engaging in this ongoing debate.

I realize everyone interacts with their spouse differently, but sometimes I worry that she'll remember these passionate conversations more than she'll remember the way her father and I take care of each other, show compassion to each other, work as partners for the good of our family.

Home Is Where the Diversity Is

My good friend Kim and I are in the Big Easy this weekend to speak about 21st Century Families at the Mom 2.0 conference with the amazing Mir, Polly, and Deb. I'm not fully operational (I've been battling an arse-kicking virus all week, and my normally latent asthma seems to have kicked in just in time for this speaking gig), but since I'm not up to talking like I usually am, I'm going to write instead.

A native Louisianan, Kim wrote an excellent post about how growing up down here, you were either black or white, and that left her -- a Vietnamese girl -- feeling isolated and disenfranchised. She explains why that's one of the reasons she and her African-American husband choose to stay in the DC area, even though it would be much less expensive to move back to their hometown state.

Her post reminded me of why my husband and I believe cultural diversity is one of the top criteria for any place we choose to live. It's not that we hate certain regions of the country -- every single city and state has its beauty, art, architecture, and cool folks. In fact, one of the states I was most awed by after only one visit is Utah, which is statistically one of the most homogeneous.

But, in terms of where we want our kids to grow up (or in the case of New York, grow up knowing like an insider and not a tourist), we choose multicultural areas where families like ours don't get remarked upon (OK, they do, but very, very rarely, and usually only by little old ladies who call my daughter a "Chinadoll" or ask where I adopted my son from), and where my six-year-old can come up with her "matching" theory on race. Maybe I'd feel differently if my parents were alive, or if my siblings all lived in the same city, or if my husband in any way loved his Central Pennsylvania hometown, but in the absence of any preset "roots," we feel compelled to live where race is beyond black and white. Where, yes, I can't help mentioning it, the Daisy Troop consists of girls of Jewish, Mormon, Protestant, Catholic, irreligious, African, Indian, Latina, Caribbean, and several multiracial girls. We just wouldn't want it any other way. 

Room: Motherhood in Survival Mode

I finished the book Room, by Irish author Emma Donoghue, this weekend, and I can't stop thinking about how remarkable it was... I haven't read the other novels shortlisted for the prestigious Man Booker Prize, but I can see what drew the judges to Donoghue's novel. It's written from the perspective of a five-year-old boy named Jack, whose world consists of an 11x11 cork-lined Room. He and his mother, Ma (we never do learn her given name), are being kept captive in a sociopath's shed, but Jack doesn't know that for most of the book, and to him, life in Room isn't awful. It's all he knows. He's friends with Dora and Diego. He can read and write better than most third graders. He still nurses and shares an extraordinary relationship with his Ma, who has ensured he never has to see "Old Nick" (the nickname they bestow their captor) by making Jack sleep in a Wardrobe (everything in Room is a proper name, including Door, Wall, TV, Meltedy Spoon, Skylight, Table, Bath, etc.) before 9PM, when Old Nick comes to "visit."

Donoghue's book made me think of the lengths mothers in extraordinary circumstances will go to in order to keep their children safe. It made me think of the Holocaust and the Rwandan genocide and the slave tales about women who hid their pregnancies and then their babies so they wouldn't be separated from them. At one point, Ma tells Jack, "You're the one who matters," and although he doesn't understand what she means, because his life is completely dependent on her (except when he's asleep in Wardrobe, they've literally never been out of each other's sight), every mother who reads the line will understand it.

What wouldn't we do for our children? Wouldn't you also silently withstand a nightly rape if it meant another day of security for your son? Wouldn't you fabricate stories so your children feel safe, even if they really aren't? Wouldn't you consider yourself blessed, even under the worst of situations, if at the very least you could touch, and feel, and mother your own child? Room is extraordinary, not just because the point of view is that of a kindergarten-aged child, but because it explores the mother-child bond in a way that will make you think hard about your relationship with your children and the myriad ways that our children bless us, save us, even.

This post was written as part of my membership in the From Left to Write book club. I was sent a review copy of the novel.

And Then There Was One: Two Go Back to School

Today was the first day of school. The Schmoop (left, in his "awesome" Darth Vader backpack) started third grade, and my sassy girl the Schmoopette started kindergarten. It wasn't as emotional a morning as I expected, mostly because the Schmoopette didn't seem frightened, and because the Schmoop is an amazing older brother who helped her on the bus and told her exactly what to do. It was quite touching, actually, considering how combative those two can get with each other.

As I waved goodbye, I said a silent prayer for them to be strong, independent, enthusiastic learners this year. I want my son to continue to fall in love with books -- even if it means it's all Hogwarts and Greek mythology and silly boy-comics all the time here -- and to strengthen his friendships and to have a crush on his beautiful teacher. I want him to run and play and not feel like he has to be the most aggressive kid in P.E. or recess, because it's just not him, nor should it have to be. He is a sweet and cheerful kid. He's excited and empathetic and kind and once said he wished he could grow up and become a doctor so he could make his Abuela better. He is just a delightful son, and I couldn't get by (literally) without his help. What a blessing of an oldest child.

I want my daughter to learn to read, something she has struggled with but that I haven't pushed. I want her to stay confident and brassy (well, maybe not too brassy) and the social butterfly she's been since she was two. She will move mountains one day. She will make others fall to their knees in awe of her fiery spirit, her beauty and fierce intelligence.

I got emotional after they left, but not because I was worried about them. I cried, because I missed my mother. Unlike my sweet but a bit out-of-touch in-laws, she would not have needed to be called and TOLD it was their first day of school. Mami would've known. She would've been the one to buy the Schmoop his backpack or the Schmoopette her special first-day-of-school outfit. She would've been on the phone with me by 10AM to find out how their send-off went, and to make jokes about the kind of trouble the Schmoopette is going to cause me in the possibly very near future.

I think maybe it's time for me to attend a grief support group again if my grief is hijacking what's supposed to be a post about my children starting school. It's just that every milestone of theirs is also a reminder of a milestone Mami has missed. So when my husband arrived home and suggested we call his parents and fill them in on the kids' first day, I wasn't that interested. I didn't stop him, of course, but I got up and left the room. My kids are lucky to have grandparents on one side, but I selfishly can't stand that it's not my parents who the kids were calling.

This post was inspired by my volunteer participation in the Yahoo! Motherboard.

Back to School Must Have: Mabel's Labels

My five-year-old, aka the Schmoopette, and my two-year-old, aka the Schmoopadoo, are heading off to college kindergarten and preschool in just a couple of weeks. While I trust my daughter to distinguish what's hers and what's not, my little one has a speech delay and sometimes has a hard time communicating. Since his two-day twos program will be full of fellow grabby tots, I (and every other parent at the co-op) have been asked to label ALL his belongings.

Enter Mabel's Labels. I bought labels from them ages ago when the Schmoop went off to pre-school, but since then used a Sharpie or, more often than not, plain forgot to write anything in the older kids' backpacks, lunch boxes or clothes. It's no surprise, then, that the kids occasionally came home with the wrong coat, hat, water bottle or pencil box.

If my older two, who could talk circles around the chattiest of chatterboxes (I know, because I am one!), lost track of their stuff or didn't speak up when they were given someone else's things, how much more is my quiet two-year-old going to lose his little school supplies? But that's not gonna happen, because we have the Ultimate Back to School Combo, which comes with:

• 50 Tag Mates^™ 
• 40 Skinny-Minis^™
• 16 Shoe Labels
• 2 Teeny Tags^™

The Teeny Tags are perfect for pencil or lunch boxes; the shoe labels are self-explanatory and will especially come in handy for the Schmoopette's ballet slippers and tap shoes; the Tag Mates go on clothing tags; and the Skinny Minis can go anywhere from books, pencils, crayon boxes, Tupperware, water bottles, and you get the picture. Now I can send the Schmoopadoo to preschool with one less worry on my mind. But I'm fairly sure even that peace of mind will not keep me from crying when I drop him off that very first day. I predict it will be the first-timers and me crying, with the middle-child moms laughing at all of us!

The lovely folks at Mabel's Labels have agreed to send one of my lucky readers their own Ultimate Back to School Combo (retail price, $44). To enter, leave a comment by midnight E.T. on Friday, Aug. 27th. Share a time your kid accidentally lost something or came home with a classmate's belongings, because items weren't labeled. Or, if that's never happened, go to Mabel's Labels and tell me which design you'd choose for your kid's combo. One entry per person. I'll (randomly) choose a winner on Saturday, Aug. 28th.

Full disclosure: I received two review sets of the Ultimate Back to School Combo for the Schmoopadoo and the Schmoopette, who start pre-school twos and full-day kindergarten in two weeks. However, anyone who has ever met me (or any other movie critic, for that matter) knows that seeing or getting something for free doesn't mean I'll like it!

Curly Girls Unite

I'm over at DC Metro Moms today discussing my relationship with my curly hair. My good friend over at West of the Loop also wrote about her curls today, and more specifically, how having a daughter with ringlets has affected her attitude about said curls. 

So today, I ask all of you curly haired mamas -- from the red-headed Irish lasses to brown-haired Jewish girls to multiracial girls with difficult-to-tame manes to Latinas who suffer through Dominican blow outs -- let's stop the self-hatred, OK? Don't spend thousands of dollars a year blowing your hair straight. Embrace your curls, if not for yourselves, for your daughters -- even if they don't have your curls!

A Pox On Our House

Our oldest son has a case of breakthrough chicken pox. I knew there was a small (10-15%) chance he could still get it despite the vaccination, but I didn't imagine he would contract it, much less during the penultimate week of first grade. Of course, knowing our family's history with odds and percentages (we're the couple that conceived three babies while using three different forms of birth control), perhaps I should have expected E to get chicken pox.

On the bright side, post-vaccination cases are milder than regular cases. E doesn't have any pockmarks on his face and isn't scratching wildly the way I remember from my own case when I was 12. He's still fairly miserable, but he's not nearly as hysterical his mama was as a tween. I got mine nearly exactly 20 years ago, the summer after 7th grade, and was doomed to spend 10 days stuck in my house -- a real prison sentence for any Florida kid who'd rather be pool-party-hopping.

I allowed E to konk out in my bed. We watched Shrek The Third together and then he drifted off into a four-hour, Benadryl-induced deep sleep. Watching him sleep (yes, that's him in the picture but he was only four then), I remembered that Mami let me stay in her room too, mostly because I had to stay away from my beloved grandmother, who was dying of pancreatic that summer in her own room across the house. It was pretty traumatic for me.

I'm thankful that E's chicken pox doesn't seem nearly as upsetting as mine was, and even though he's missing all but the last two days of first grade, I am determined to make the best of our in-home seclusion. I just PRAY that baby J is spared, because THAT would be traumatic.

Wish us luck, friends. But don't stop by unless you're willing to be exposed to the pox.