BFF

I met and lost my only best friend in elementary school. In first grade, Amy and I had an instant bond and laughed at things that no one else did. We saw the world through the same lens. At recess, we would jump up on the tall wire fence together--arms outstretched and feet fitting through the holes closest to the ground--and make up the rule that we must go around the entire playground by scaling its walls. Anyone else would have thought we were crazy, but I didn't care. I was safe and secure in the total abandon and recklessness of a friendship where I was accepted and loved exactly for who I was.

Life whizzed by for the next few years pretty uneventfully. Amy and I remained best friends up until third grade when the unthinkable happened. We had a fight. And not just a little one, either. We had a huge drama-filled ordeal where she had her posse on her side of the playground who also hated me, and I had...well I had myself to defend. Of course I don't remember what we argued about. Instead, I replay the moments of humiliation that were to come after that fateful day. Things like Amy wagging her newly-pierced earlobe from across the room in math class to torment me, because I wasn't yet allowed to get mine pierced. Or Amy and a few of her posse advancing on me (by myself) on the playground only to spit with venom in my face the most horrible word: "PUS!" and then walking away laughing, and saying she remembered how I hated that word. Or perhaps the most painful--the day that I so proudly came to school wearing my new-to-me second-hand green Guess jeans (complete with the Guess triangle on the back pocket) and Amy and her friends again taunting me: "Are those Guess jeans? I bet your mom got them at the second-hand store". Ouch. I denied the claim, but it shot an arrow deep into my chest. How could someone who knew me so well use the knowledge to rip me apart?

I'd like to say that the story ended in elementary school, but it didn't. As we got older and continued in the same schools, Amy and I got civil again. Even became friends again. I sought her friendship so long and hard that when I got to high school, I realized that I would need to start over looking for friends, because her ghost of friendship was all I had been clinging too. My already shattered heart broke into a million pieces one day in study hall as I hoped against hope that the multi-page note, now being folded up into that special friendship fold and about to be furtively passed on would find its way over in my direction, but at the last minute did not--although it had my name on the first page--since my Rival #1 was also named Melissa. The other Melissa had won in the triangle, again. At the end of the note in BIG letters was my sentence: BFF. Best friends forever with the other Melissa. I would never, ever win her affection again.

I have carried Amy and Melissa in my heart with sadness for many years. I cringe whenever I hear anyone mention their "best" friend, as innoncent as the reference may be. I mourn for my loss and I have been on a quest to find another best friend to fill Amy's shoes ever since, but it's never quite happened. I've been invited to be a bridesmaid in several friends' weddings, but I was never the maid of honor. I have met wonderful people, make incredible connections, but have been almost relieved when I had to move away or the other person left. I can keep friends better by distance, it seems. Or I have shared my friendship "issue" too soon with a new person and I have scared them away. In one of these cases I recently find a friend who I lost contact with for some mysterious reason and try to reconnect through facebook. When I ask (who even asks??) to "friend" her, she doesn't respond. So I wait. Finally after a month and a half, I can't stand it anymore. She and I had connected so well--so I call her out. Well, not really. I put the blame on myself. I tell her I'm sorry for making her uncomfortable with my request, and that I really was just happy to catch up a little with her, and I wish her well. (Which is not really true. My real motivation is to find her and show her how wonderful and I am and wait for her to pursue me, and want me to be her friend. Which of course doesn't happen). I'm let down again and the pain smarts from her final words "Um, okay thanks" as if it had been Amy pushing the P-bomb at me again at recess.

So here I am at square one once more. If I'm honest, I realize that my best relationships are with people from whom I don't expect to fill that BFF hole in my heart. I do well when I reflect on advice I have heard from a friend before: "Be careful not to put all of your eggs in one basket." I know I am a much better friend when I'm not needy and full of expectations. I know, I know, I know. I receive much joy by just being myself and enjoying the moment of shared experience or good conversation. I realize that back in elementary school I began to believe the lie that no one would want to be my friend simply for who I was, and that I've carried it along by defending myself and withdrawing at the first sign of conflict or discomfort in a relationship. In this "thin place" I have a choice to make. I either follow the same pattern and believe that every friend in my life is Amy (after third grade) in disguise waiting to tell the whole world that I still shop at thrift shop (even though I'm proud of it now). Or I can reach out in faith and carve out a whole new path, hand-in-hand with my friend who will never let me down, the friend that made me who I am and was with me in those awful friendless moments hurting right alongside with me. In this friendship I can again be safe and secure in being who I am. Little by little, I am opening myself up to that truth. Thank you, Jesus.

I hope he has BFF scrawled on his palm for me.

Our High Priest is not one who cannot feel sympathy for our weaknesses....let us have confidence, then and approach God's throne where there is grace. There we will receive mercy and find grace to help us just when we need it. Hebrews 5:15-16

*The reference to a "thin place" comes from Mary Demuth's recent memoir Thin Places which inspired me to write this entry. By all means, go go go get the book!

A new storytime en español?

Shortly after getting home from our visit to Mexico over the holidays, Angelica and I went back to her beloved storytime at the local library. It occurred to me to ask if they might have any interest in starting a Spanish storytime--since to my disappointment, I could only find two places in the whole city that offered children's storytime in other languages. Even though they have been unequivocally positive in their response on the matter, it seems like it's already taking too long to get it off the ground. This past week, I brought up the subject again to the woman in charge of the children's programs at the library, and she got visibly excited. "Oh, it's you? Yes, I think it's a great idea! In fact, I was a Spanish minor in college." So then I asked her why no one had started something similar already and she said: "out of fear".

Out of fear? Fear of what? Turns out that I think she meant fear of not speaking the language well, since she went on to tell me how she wishes she could remember enough Spanish to do it herself. I didn't follow up on the subject, though, as she was already on to telling me about her brother who married a girl from Chile....telling her story. So I let her continue, and of course told her some of mine.

Every time we go to Mexico I buy books in Spanish for Angelica. I also go scavenger-hunting at the bookstores when we're home for the "good ones". Most of them are translated from familiar stories like Buenas noches, luna (Goodnight Moon) and I especially love stumbling upon a Dr. Suess story. Who couldn't love a title such as Huevos verdes con jamón (Green Eggs and Ham) or Hay un molillo en mi bolsillo (There's a Wocket in my Pocket) I mean, did you know that "wocket" in Spanish is a molillo? I sure didn't. What's a wocket anyway? Or a molillo? I don't know, but it's fun stuff. Both the English and Spanish books rhyme but with different sounds and rhythms. Cool, right?! Until the day I found the "treasure" of The Cat in the Hat as a bilingual book. I was sooo excited until (after I had bought it and brought it home), I realized that it didn't even rhyme in Spanish. What was the point of translating it, then? Since then, I've always been more than a little wary of "bilingual" books...

Playing scavenger hunt at the bookstore to find the "good ones" has always been a treat for me, ever since I was a child and our annual family travels always dictated a detour toward a bookstore excursion. My brother and I would always get to pick out a brand-new book of our choice, and it was a delight to me. Books were by far my favorite gifts, which were also tokens of love, from Mom and Dad. I remember being disappointed one year when my grandma wanted to buy me new clothes and my heart sank, since I would have prefered a book any day to a new sweater.

It's obvious to me that I'm trying to transfer this childhood joy to my daughter. Not only that, but also to share with her stories in Spanish, too, or in another language, like German--even though I don't speak it myself--since I recently had the opportunity to go to a German storytime with her. What a delight it is for small children to naturally acquire new words in another language through hearing stories and singing songs. It's so natural, I see it more and more every day as Angelica loves to repeat phrases from her current favorite books. Hearing a story in Spanish or French or German is completely uncomplicated and natural to her. I know I've said it before, but it's we adults that make learning a language complicated. But children have the natural capacity to soak it all up without giving it a second thought.

So with all of the opportunities for toddlers to experience new things, what's so radically different about a Spanish or German storytime than a gymboree or music or signing class? The goal is to expose them to new things so that they can find what they enjoy and are good at, and if foreign language isn't part of that curriculum during their early years it will never be a natural or easy endeavor for them as young adults. Is it just fear of introducing something new?

If it is, I'm going to keep pushing against it. I will be that salmon swimming upstream, because it's that important to me. And hopefully there will be a new Spanish storytime soon at our local library!!

little hands

When I really looked closely at that tiny, outstretched hand it amazed me. The curved little lines sketched on it were there, just like on mine. The form was so perfect, yet so minature. It was another moment like any others--Angelica was waiting for me to pour some soap on her hands-- but for some reason today that little hand became something mystical to me. I guess it's partly because you treasure the tiny parts of a newborn, and dream about them being formed in the womb during pregnancy. But at some point all that fuzziness starts to fade and you just get into a routine, which doesn't leave much time or thought for reflecting on your child's perfect little form anymore.

But today it did. I felt like someone was saying "Remember these tiny hands. Memorize their form. They won't be so small forever. They won't cling so tight for long".

Angelica and I have come out of the weaning battle relatively unscathed. I never dreamed that it would be one of the hardest things I'd have to do in the early years with my daughter. However, now we have transitioned into a new stage and I think I'm finally really feeling the passage of time because I had clung to the old stage for so long. I'm really proud that I was able to nurse her into toddlerhood, but I think that subconciously I fell back into treating her as a baby all of the time that I nursed her. So all of a sudden, I wake up a week or so after the nursing has ended...and I see her as who she really is, which is a small person with a tremendous capacity for learning and creativity and for making me laugh, amid other things. She doesn't need me as she once did, but she needs me even more in other ways now. She is growing and I am too, since I now understand that I am learning as much a I am teaching in this parenthood thing.

Seeing that little hand today in all of its glory reminded me of how far we've come on this journey. It remains outstretched, vulnerable and oh-so-small. The lines on it tell only the beginning of a beautiful life story yet to come. I am filled with awe again to have been "chosen" as one of the people to guide it, cherish it and hold onto it as we both grow.

I've lost that loving feeling

It seems lately that I am struggling with everything. I always knew that the weaning process would be tough, and now I'm in the thick of it. It is emotionally draining. It probably doesn't help that we basically started it (I mean, the "hard core--this is it, no going back" version) right after we got home from a two-week trip to Mexico to spend the holidays with my husband's family. As if the poor girl wasn't already in some reverse-culture shock, coming back from playing outside in sunny mild-temperature afternoons to a stretch of below freezing temperatures that lasted for days and threatened all of our sanity as we seemed to pace from room to room. Oh yeah, then there was the fact that Angelica and I both brought back a nice cough as a souvenir from the trip, one that developed into a nasty full-blown this will knock you out cold and keep you miserable in every way except that you do have to go back to work this week cold. You know the kind. That make you want to spend all day complaining (which I did) and long to be in bed almost every minute of the day but yet don't get you that get-out-of-obligations-free pass that you long for. Daddy goes to work in the morning and sweet toddler still rises before 7:00 AM and the day begins.

The chocolate "shake" that originally was some sort of fortified, nutritious kids drink I found at the grocery store which turned into some Nestle's chocolate powder mixed with regular milk when we ran out of the former did at least move the process forward. In desperation as Angelica would demand to nurse I would offer her a "shake" (because the first time I gave it to her I shook the bottle, and from that point on the name was cemented and the sippy cup had to be shaken before she would drink it) and that seemed to work. I also tried a tip from a friend who's been through this before. In fact it was she who told me about the chocolate success she had had with her own boys months ago, but apparantly I either didn't really believe her or didn't believe in making my kid into a chocolate addict. Well Angelica is officially now a chocokid! Anyway, the tip was to have her put a bandaid on my...well, my milk supply...and tell her that it had a "boo boo" and needed to "rest" ("doctor's orders" but I left that part out). The result? Tears. The goodbye ceremony only brought tears from Angelica, but slowly the point was being made. She knew that we were done, and she didn't like it. Frankly, neither did I.

I must add that we got into the weaning boat to begin with because even though I had tried a month or so earlier to get the process going little by little, it really never was very consistent and as soon as we started traveling, she wanted to nurse constantly. Sleep-deprivation was about as bad as it was the first 6 months of her life, and my husband and I decided that we couldn't take it anymore. It was time to get rested again. And thankfully, as this process has gone on, we have seen wonderful results on that end. No more waking up at night for comfort nursing.

But on the other end, I'm irritable, I'm overwhelmed with starting work and being sick, I feel that I'm struggling with depression and I do believe that part of it is this letting-go process. Ironically as soon as I had felt more confident as a mother, I'm doubting it all again. The nursing was such a huge part of our bond and even though I know--I really do--that it's not all about the milk (her love for me), it breaks my heart when she cries with such feeling and reaches to pull up my shirt, trying to seek out one more time that physical bond that we are moving away from.
So we read another book, and I offer her more shake (usually she's agreeable, but not always). I tickle her or we sing a silly song. But I know that she misses it. And so do I.

Mommy guilt

My newly pregnant friend shared with me in an e-mail this week that she had read somewhere that having children is like subjecting yourself to complete guilt all the time. I wrote her back to say that the quote that had stuck out for me while pregnant was something to the effect that being a mom is like having your heart walk outside of your body. And it got me thinking about both subjects--guilt and love--that overcome us as parents.

I told my friend that I thought love was the bigger emotion. It starts while you're pregnant and then just keeps growing as you get to know your child. Sometimes I marvel at the confidence I finally seem to be having as a mother. But then I realize that it's not because I know anything more about mothering; it's that I now know my child more. I have a deeper understanding of who she is and what makes her tick as each month goes by. That knowing translates into a deeper caring on my part because there is this joy in knowing. Deep knowing=loving? I think so. And I love loving her. I love the fact that as I get to know her more, I find it that much more easier to love her. So I told my friend that love was the emotion that took me by surprise with my daughter, that this love is so big and consuming and like none I've known before. It's a love that is altruistic in nature, and protective and nurturing. It's a mother's love that still makes my heart catch in my throat. It's one that I just never imagined would be mine to give away. It's not a perfect love, but it makes me ponder one that is, one that comes from above.

It's within this love that we see how vulnerable we really are. We know that we are forever changed by the little life or lives that we are leading and it makes us so hard on ourselves sometimes. I think that the mommy wars and competitiveness come out of this spot of weakness, when we realize how much we have at stake and how we want so much for our little ones to thrive and love and be loved and succeed, sometimes we yearn for them to achieve what we were not even able to achieve or be loved as we have not yet learned how to love. It makes us strive to be perfect parents, which of course we cannot be; it makes us sick with remorse when we decide that we have been the ones at fault for a situation that may or may not have been in our hands after all.

Twice this has hit home in the last few days. Once I lost Angelica for a brief minute (that felt like a lifetime) at the museum, as I got distracted in converation and she was off within the blink of an eye. The next time I was out by myself while she got sick and developed a fever while grocery shopping with her daddy. In the first situation I still feel this sense of dread that I was not there, watching out for my girl when she skipped away. In the second, I know there was absolutely nothing I could have done at that moment, but I still feel the guilt for not being there at that moment to help soothe her. It's the feeling of failing her. I don't want to fail her, yet I know that I will many more times in many small ways in the years to come, and that knowing pains me. The guilt creeps in because we understand that the love, as big as it is, is not always as we wish it to be because we are flawed. We are not perfect and cannot be in this lifetime.

However, the fact remains that this love--and love in all of its most basic and purist forms--is the most precious and valuable entity that we possess on this earth. We must remember to forgive ourselves and move forward, and let go of the guilt once in a while. It's not worth letting it eat us up inside, because that stagnates us while the love that we carry will move always move us forward if we let it.

Give me another day or two, and I think I'll finally get over the museum thing....

This week in lists (Listomania)

Oh, the joys of motherhood. The ups and downs and unexpected weird turns. I realized I could make a list of them for the past seven days (I'm pretty sure that every thing on every list did happen within that framework...sorry if I'm off by an extra day or two). So then I didn't stop at one list, I realized that the listomania was like a living animal and finally I did have to reign it in. But this is what I ended up with, so read away....

Three things that make me cringe:
1.) Angelica running to the corner of her bedroom, squatting and peeing before I can get a new diaper on her
2.) my little chipmunk spitting milk all over my sweater and hair (that was actually fixed) after having held it in her mouth for a new record amount of time...
3.) What?! That smell again? four poopy diapers in one day before 1:00 PM

Three things that make me feel so peaceful:
1.) being able to shower, get dressed, brush my teeth and do hair/makeup all before going in to get my sleeping beauty in the morning (however...a sacrifice of sleep and warm covers is in the mix for this one)
2.) afternoon naps that go beyond two hours...heavenly
3.) being able to do the dishes or a load of laundry or better yet, drink a coffee leisurely while Elmo or the characters from Meet the Colors are entertaining my girl via "educational" videos (haha, well the "educational" part makes me feel better about this one, and the fact that I ALWAYS choose the Spanish option).

Three things that make me abolutely crazy:
1.) two days straight of trying to put down a super-awake toddler for an afternoon nap who staunchly refuses to sleep and even mocks me by pointing in two directions after I tell her to put her head down "here... okay then put your head down over here because it's time to sleep...." All attempts to settle her down--except by the magic one, breastmilk since this is a first step in the weaning process--fail miserably. Encouraged by her chanting "sleepy sleepy sleepy" I ask her if she is sleepy and get a wide-eyed head-shaking adament "no!" in reply. For two entire hours I struggle with her the first day, and just let her cry it out the second day. Finally on that day there is relief after an hour or so, I think, as silence (oh, beautiful silence) blankets the house and I lie down to rest my weary bones...
2.) I must be dreaming because otherwise I'd swear I'm in my classroom in front of a group of 5-6 students on the last day of class who have come to take the final after not coming to class all semester long. A situation to make any teacher's blood absolutely boil. I remember that I am vividly chewing one female student out, saying "If you didn't want to come to class, you should have bought one of those TV DVD things [What? "TV DVD things?" What are those? I think I meant to say "Rosetta Stone Language Software programs", so obviously I get flustered in confrontational situations even in my dreams...] but if you sign up for a course you ought to know that you have to be there!" when a loud bell rings, and wait, I'm obviously not used to getting much REM sleep these days because it really shocks me to realize that it is the door buzzer to my unit that has just sounded, and the UPS guy has come for a delivery. Oh, the timing. Then it takes me until 2 seconds before opening the door to even try to dissimulate the fact that I'm basically sleep-walking, you know, I do the whole "open-the-eyes-really-wide" trick to make myself look more awake, but first and almost only words out of the soft-spoken UPS guy are "Did I wake you?" (Hey--is he chuckling to himself?!) I fumble through an embarrassed response of something to the effect of "Uh...sometimes when my daughter sleeps I try to, too." Dude, if you only knew.
3.) then there's the slaving over trying to pack a balanced lunch to go and then GET OUT of the house on time for the children museum's story hour and then once ready for lunch time, seeing little Angel girl tear around the area of chairs and tables and fun condiment stands as if her mother never gets her out of the house, just to watch helplessly as this mother can only get her to take bites of the sugary flavored yogurt here and there in between the Tarzan and Jane-like wild-child running episodes and between the disapproving stares consider "lunch" a good idea, but getting her out of there and safely in the car to go home an even better one....

Wow. What a week it's been. Last, but not least, my favorite list.
Three things that make me giggle:
1) watching Angelica stealthily place a styrofoam coffee cup filled with water in the cupholder of an unsuspecting grandmother at church who upon noticing turns to her distracted daughter holding a baby and says "Did you bring a coffee in?" The distracted mother shakes her head with a blank look, and the grandmother looks bewildered. (Sidenote to this one: I got the giggles watching this and said nothing. But don't think that I'm that rude. She IS a toddler, so of course this routine of placing the cup in the holder, removing the cup and running around, and placing the cup in the holder....went on numerous times. Obviously the grandmother soon picked up on the origin of the "mysterious coffee". Although I don't think she was quite as amused by it as I was.)
2.) seeing Angelica's reunion with her daddy after work one afternoon, silly as can be...he squeals at her in this impossible high-pitched tone, and she reciprocates the squeal. (Is this some kind of whale greeting that they're practicing that I'm not aware of?) She then runs into his arms, he scoops her up and it is a Hallmark Hall of Fame moment. Until the door slams shut and she wiggles out of his arms and starts jumping up and down, yelling "Elmo! Elmo! Elmo!"
3.) gleaning words of wisdom from story time at the museum. Sandwiched in between books and songs and toddler joy the story teller dead-pans the following:
You can pick your friends, you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your friends' noses.

True enough. And that's about as deep as I can get this week.

Ode to her daddy

I think about sacrifices of time, of wondering if I am doing the right thing, if this work thing is ever really "working" for me now that I have Angelica. I wish it away in my mind, wish it weren't a necessity for us to have me working full-time, I fantasize about the possibility of going to part-time or maybe just working here or there or from home, and then I am running around and around in my head...again. If I were a dog I would be chasing my tail until I fell to the floor in a heap, exhausted from so much activity. It's the typical grass is always greener scenario. And so I have a lot of questions that don't have answers for the time being. How long do I have to keep up this insane schedule of teaching evenings after full days caring for my girl? Will it ever be possible for our family to not need the two incomes? How in the world would we do this with another child in the mix? How long can we go on like this, and make it work?

Discontent creeps in and I have to make a conscious effort to realize that even though it may not be exactly how I expected, somehow it really is working for now (even though very shakily at times). I have to stop and remind myself that the craziness is not forever, because in the moment it sure feels that way. It's easy to look around and compare, for example, in my case to point the finger and say "Well SHE doesn't have to work" or "Her husband has a job making much more money". Wait a minute. It was never about money when we were dating. It wasn't about how soon we'd be able to afford a new refrigerator or how much money we'd have in the bank, sitting there, waiting for the rainy day. No. It was about doing whatever it took to make it work, to let love be the north star. We sacrificed a lot to even be together; he came from a different country and learned a new language and culture just to be with me. And to think that the years go by and the lines get blurry and I find myself actually thinking that the things and the amounts and the accounts are what bind us?

I may not have the answers to the questions that haunt me; no I definitely don't have them and most likely won't get them until the questions have passed. So, I ask myself if the questions are really so important after all? What is important has been there all along. I look at my strong, independent, loving daughter (who's not even two!) and realize that she is who she is because she has a daddy. And not just any daddy, but a daddy who has always been there from day one. A daddy who's voice she recognized as she was placed in his arms, minutes after birth, her eyes locking on his as he spoke to her. Yes, she recognized that voice because it spoke lovingly to her in the womb. A daddy who learned the precise spot on my belly to rest his ear on, month after month of my pregnancy, in order to hear the heartbeat of his little princess-to-be (even though we thought she was he, the prince, in those days!) A daddy who bounces her on his shoulders, lifts her in the air standing on his hands, chases her around the living room to squeals of glee, and cradles her in his arms at night and sings the same sweet lulliby Hasta mañana, si Dios quiere, que descanses bien, llegó la hora de acostarte y de dormir también, porque mañana será otro día, hay que vivirlo con alegría...each night to her as she settles into his arms and looks into his eyes and sleepily repeats "día" at the end before drifting into dreamland. A daddy who because of the situation, spends four nights a week of one-on-one time with his little girl while mommy is away at work. They eat together, play together, he bathes her. That's after a full day of work for him, and he never complains. He lives for this time with her. Even though he's already out the door and off to work, she asks for him after waking most mornings: papá?

So I've begun to realize what a joy it is that they have this bond. It's so strong because they have this time together, time I have wished away because I resent that I have to be at work. When I look at it from that perspective, I realize that my work is our family blessing. Not just financially, but relationally as well. I guess I better be careful what I wish for, since what I have is what is supposed to be, for now, at this time, in the present. Gotta stop wishing the present away. Soon enough it will have passed and we will long for these sweet days with her. These days that I hope are laying a foundation for a strong childhood and teenage years and beyond. Where she will be able to look back and say "I don't remember how much we had or didn't have. I just remember being together".