Making Memories

Big and small, the moments we share with our children are the stuff of memories

This is the time of year I sit down to compose our family's annual holiday letter. Before I put pen to paper, I usually flip through the family calendar and refresh my memory of all that happened the previous year. The dated squares of this dog-eared desk-size log are covered in multicolored scribbles and White Out. It chronicles everything from pediatrician appointments to play dates, but unlike a scrapbook it fails to reflect memories we made over the months.

This is one of the reasons I enjoy the hobby of scrapbooking so much, although I am woefully behind in putting all the photographs we have taken of our children into books. There is a wonderful sense of accomplishment when I complete a page of pictures and memorabilia but, for me, a layout is not truly finished until I have taken the time to journal or write down the anecdotes and thoughts that accompany the pictures.

Thankfully, I had more time to scrapbook this past year and I have several dozen completed pages to show for my efforts. These layouts are a true hodgepodge: some feature photographs of my daughter before she could walk yet others are as recent as this past summer when my now 4-year-old bade farewell to her first preschool teachers. Whenever I sit down to scrapbook, I like to look through the many pictures taken over the year. Like the family calendar, these often colorful images refresh my memory.

Our family did not go any big vacations in 2005, but there are plenty of pictures from birthdays, holidays, visits with family and our children at play. I carry a small digital camera in my purse just in case a I want to catch a special moment for posterity. Some of my favorite photos this year were of Barcelona and Berkeley peering out of a window, watching birds eat bugs in our garden. My children's fascination in the simple things never ceases to amaze me and this is a memory I wanted to capture on film.

Nothing makes a parent realize the importance of these stolen moments more than our own mortality. This hit home for us when two very close relatives were diagnosed with cancer earlier this year. The time spent with our children and extended family suddenly seemed more precious to all of us. My husband and I understood we were making memories not just for ourselves, but for our children as well. The scrapbooks are just one way I hope to help preserve these special times together.

The year 2005 was marked with many milestones including my son's first birthday, my daughter's first dance recital, the children's baptism, and my husband's and my fifth wedding anniversary. But these events were just as memorable for us as our quiet dinners together, family bike rides and long-distance phone calls and e-mails exchanged with extended family. When I review the year's calendar and look through our scrapbooks, I can get a little lost in the thoughts they stir in my heart and mind.

Already I know I will have a hard time narrowing down the year's high points when it comes time to write our family's holiday letter. The memories of this year, all of them wonderful...

Mommy Time Column ~ December 2005

Thanks Giving

A mother's list of blessings is long

Holiday season is upon us. This is the time to break out family traditions, dust them off and put them into practice.

There were some lean times growing up in a single-parent household yet there were always things to be grateful for. One Thanksgiving my mother decided the two of us should put our blessings down in writing. When we shared our lists with each other, we were reminded the fortunes of our little family, even in the toughest of times.

Blessings lists became a Thanksgiving tradition: Some were scribbled sitting side-by-side on lined pages torn from spiral notebooks while others were sent thousands of miles cross country via e-mail. My mother saved our lists over the years and at one point made photocopies for me. From time to time, I have read them and reflected on the path my life has taken.

The Thanksgiving blessings lists are like mini time capsules. They often refer to historic events such as the Loma Prieta earthquake in 1989 and September 11th as well as major life changes in jobs and relationships. Some blessings, such as having a home and good friends, find their way on the list year after year.

My husband and I have tried to make time to write Thanksgiving lists together. We have not always succeeded, but I plan to try again this year with our children. I want this to become one of our family's annual traditions -- something we all do together.

As a writer who is also a stay-at-home mom, most of my world revolves around the goings-on of my two youngsters. While my toddler and preschooler can be the source of some life's more challenging moments, they are also responsible for many of the most blessed.

I consider Barcelona and Berkeley precious graces. Like manna from Heaven their presence in my life feeds my soul and I dedicate this special list entirely to them. Here are a few of the things these two bring to my life, for which I am most grateful:

• Kisses. It fills my heart to overflowing when my 4-year-old daughter requests "nose kisses" and my young son leans his head toward me when I ask for a smooch. I will never tire of kissing these two cherubs.

• Baths. During a recent hotel stay, I watched my children entertain each other with two plastic cups and lukewarm water. I realized they don't just like the water, but how much they enjoy playing together and with me. I plan to join in more often.

• Siblings. If my children are apart for any length of time, they start asking for their "sissy" or their "baby brother". My two little ones cuddle in bed together, snuggle while watching TV and hold hands willingly. I hope they always love each other as much as they do now.

• Nighttime. My favorite part of day's end is when I peek into my children's bedrooms before going to sleep myself. Watching them in repose, I imagine I can see them growing and resist the urge to wake them and prolong their childhood. I am humbled by their innocence and their very existence.

• Giggles. Barcelona and Berkeley both have unique little laughs. I delight in making them chuckle and adore when they crack each other up. I will try to laugh more with them.

• Dancing. My kids love music and are not shy about showing it. I love it when they bust out in dance moves and grab my hand to pull me away from a household task so I will join them. I promise to take time to dance with them.

• Love. Today my daughter looked at me and said, "Mommy, you are my best friend" and I am guessing some of my son's baby talk babbles would translate into something similar. My children's love for me is unconditional and I endeavor to deserve it.

This Thanksgiving our family's list of blessings should prove sizable. But each morning, when I see my children's faces, I am reminded they are gifts from God and I should thank Him everyday for my riches -- not just once a year.

Mommy Time Column ~ November 2005

Boys Will Be Boys

It's a whole new ballgame when brother comes along

Nothing in my life prepared me for mothering a son.

Not being a tomboy. Not being raised by a single mother. Not attending a women's college. Not having a half-brother 18 years my junior, being the niece of six uncles, marrying a man with three brothers, or having five nephews.

And most definitely not giving birth to a daughter first!

People like giving advice to the woman who is expecting a baby. Even more, they love to tell the mother of a newborn all the parenting horrors that await her.

Before my son, Berkeley, could even hold up his head, friends and family were comparing him to his older sister, Barcelona. I cannot tell you how many times I was told "boys are different than girls" in that truly annoying, singsong voice.

From the beginning, the differences between my offspring were obvious. Where it took two weeks for Barcelona to become efficient nursing at my breast, her little brother immediately latched on like an old pro. While my daughter slept well whether she was in the crib, car seat or swing from day one, my son preferred only to doze snuggled against me the first three months of his life while my husband snoozed on the couch.

Although my daughter was content to play in an exersaucer or in one spot on the floor, little Berkeley insisted on rolling, sitting and crawling in rapid succession. When he started walking at around 10-1/2 months old, my world changed forever -- before he turned 1, the little guy was running to keep up with his sister.

While I was blessed and both are happy, easygoing children, the differences in their gross motor development has been staggering to say the least. That my daughter -- bless her heart -- continues to be a cautious soul, comes as great comfort in light of my son's reckless disregard for his own safety.

Berkeley quickly outgrew the confines of his bouncer, the swing and exersaucer. Once he could move, he wanted nothing to do with anything that had a buckle. My only saving grace, was when he turned 1 and I was able to switch his car seat around; his constant screaming ceased when finally he could see where it was we were headed.

My son graduated from his high chair to a booster seat when he climbed into a chair and made it clear he preferred to eat at the table. It was not long after when I walked into the room and found him sitting atop that same table -- precariously perched four feet above our tiled kitchen floor -- pawing through a tub of crayons.

It did not take long before Berkeley could climb out of the playpen or onto my and his sister's beds or on the family room furniture like a little monkey. These shifts were taken in stride, but as is often the case with children, once it seemed my son could no longer surprise me, he climbed out his crib. This should not have come as a surprise, but I must have been in denial.

And then, to my horror, he did again! Unlike his sister, whose climbing-out-her-crib adventures were spaced days apart, he barely waited 20 seconds to give it another go.

Frantic, I called my mom friends, sent an e-mail to the pediatrician and posted a message on SacramentoMommas.Com asking "what should I do?" After all, this was not a transition I was prepared to make -- my daughter slept in her crib until she was nearly 3 years old and we needed it for Berkeley!

The responses varied. At least half, including my husband, said "get him a bed"! The other half were just as adamant I not do so.

"Get a crib tent today. He needs to be safe and you need a good night's sleep," one friend wrote.

This response resonated with me. It did not hurt the pediatrician had mentioned the very same alternative in his exhaustive response to my panicked e-mail. I did not hesitate and had the tent assembled and in place by bedtime that evening.

My son did not respond well to the new contraption on his crib and cried himself to sleep the first night. I kept reminding myself I was not ready for bedtime battles with Berkeley nor did I relish the idea of him having full reign of his room after dark. By the end of the week, he made nary a peep when I put him to bed.

"Whew!" I thought and relaxed a bit.

That was until, less than a week later, I turned around from cooking dinner to find he had climbed one of our kitchen barstools and he was reaching for a very large China vase full of flowers -- now five feet above our tiled kitchen floor. Just imagine what I said under my breath then...

Mommy Time Column ~ October 2005

The Collector

Remembering the childlike wonder of savoring the little things

When I was a little girl growing up in Ashland, Ore., I was a collector of treasures. Most of my finds were discovered walking to and from school everyday: rocks, sticks, coins, gum wrappers, and more. I would pick up these items and carry them home. Later, like a pirate hoarding his booty, I would tuck my countless finds into the dark and hidden corners of my attic bedroom.

I do not recall now why exactly these little bits of this and that so entranced me, but I fancy myself a junior archaeologist who interpreted deep meaning in these discoveries. As a child I was a voracious reader and had an active imagination. I am certain these prizes were key to my creative play.

But my stockpile mounted to my mom's chagrin. She could not understand why I considered everyday garbage such precious finds. Finally, she decided it was easier -- for her and me -- to wait, clean my room, and purge it of these senseless trophies while I was visiting my dad in another state. I would return home to a sparkling bedroom, but with the daunting task of having to start my collection all over again.

Fast forward 30 years and it comes as no surprise that Barcelona, my 4-year-old daughter, is also a collector. She will find a penny (her name for coins of any value) and hold onto it until it gets lost or I convince her to deposit it in her piggy bank. She also picks up small pebbles, pine cones, feathers, leaves...

Unlike my mom, I understand some of the appeal as my daughter makes clear her delight in the size, textures and colors of her finds. Like I did, she tucks these tiny treasures of hers in places and often forgets where. If we unexpectedly find one of her souvenirs, she regards it with the same wonder as when first she discovered it. It was never really lost, per se, just temporarily misplaced.

There are times when I pick up the toys in Barcelona's bedroom and I think things have gone missing, disappeared into thin air. I remember reading "The Borrowers" as a youngster and shake my head knowing Barcelona's stuff is somewhere in the little girl's bedroom, but like a pirate, she's just hidden it from the view of adult eyes.

It was months after a play date with Barcelona's best friend Miranda when I discovered where the two girls squirreled away some baby doll accessories, Mardi Gras beads and more. That day I happened to pick up a frog hand puppet and I realized something was inside. I gave it a gentle shake and out tumbled the stuffing -- baby doll binkies and all! I cannot fathom what the two were playing at, but can imagine an interesting tale.

More recently, my daughter's collecting took an interesting, if not somewhat disturbing, turn. One evening, when I walked into her room to kiss her goodnight, I caught her pressing a freshly picked booger onto her headboard.

"Gross!" I said and grabbed a tissue in which I gathered the offending object and its neighboring friends.

"I want that," my daughter whined, hand outstretched.

"What, the Kleenex?" I asked.

"No... The BOOGER!"

Several motherly responses cycled through my brain, but none of them seemed appropriate for this little collector of mine. So I handed over the tissue with strict instructions that any other boogers be placed directly into the tissue and not on her headboard. The next morning, I was able to discreetly throw it away without protest from Barcelona.

When I recently shared this story with another mom, she laughed and assured me my daughter was just going through a phase.

"After all, I remember being pretty fascinated by boogers at this age -- and I am not anymore!" she said and we both chuckled over our children's heads.

Of course I realize my daughter will probably stop picking her nose for fun, but deep down I hope she keeps on collecting. I find something magical about how Barcelona views her world and what she thinks is important. After all, I am still known to pick up pretty rocks and leaves, now and then, and imagine their stories. We don't have to lose that childlike wonder in the little things just because we have grown up.

Mommy Time Column ~ September 2005

Supermom

If life were a summer blockbuster, Mom would star as the superhero

With "Fantastic Four" and "Batman Begins" in theaters this summer, I yearn for a movie about my favorite super hero -- mom.

In my mind's eye, motherhood has all the makings of a blockbuster film. The lead character, the heroine, also known to script writers as "the protagonist," would be a mom. This universal character would embody every woman and would not be outfitted in a 1970s circa gilded corset like Wonder Woman, but more likely in a pair of sweats, a T-shirt and running shoes. She would wear any color except white which attracts stains like a Venus flytrap attracts, well, flies. Her hair would be cropped short, pulled back in a scrunchie or hidden underneath a baseball cap depending on whether she caught a shower that morning between the feeding and dressing her offspring.

In the mom-as-super-heroine movie, the villains would not be her children even though it might feel that way some days. Seemingly mundane things would challenge our leading lady. She would constantly battle the limits of getting everything done within a 24-hour day and seven-day week. There would be skirmishes with Murphy's Laws about clean outfits, getting to places on time, and colds. She would be called on to heal everything from small hurts requiring only a Band Aid to more mysterious ailments prompting frantic, midnight trips to the pediatrician's office.

As with any good movie story line, the film I envision would need a crisis and let me tell you, motherhood is fraught with them. Our super heroine could be seen staying up all night rocking a colicky baby or serial dialing a telephone during precious nap time in search of the perfect preschool program. There would also be enough material for a series of sequels: potty training, the first day of kindergarten, puberty...

Like any heroine, the mom's super powers would be called on for solving all these problems and more. And they would be abundant: invisible eyes in the back of her head, a keen sense of hearing and smell, incredible mind-reading abilities, not to mention the skill to navigate a grocery store with two children in tow as well as fold laundry, clean toilets, and pick up toys at incredible speeds. At the very least, she would get as much done as possible in the few minutes during the day allotted to these daily tasks.

Just like any good film, the conflicts and crises our heroine faces would be resolved with a happy ending by the movie's end. Ideally, the mom would see her well-groomed, well-mannered 18-year-old being packed off on his or her way to a fine college thanks to a full academic scholarship. But unlike the movies, mom's job will not done when the closing credits roll onto the silver screen.

A few years ago, when my daughter was about nine months old, I ran into a former colleague and her baby at a butterfly park in Pacific Grove. She admitted motherhood was the toughest job she'd ever had. Both of us -- she a former TV reporter and myself a former newspaper reporter -- agreed that breaking news, deadlines, and editors paled in comparison to our new bosses, two little cherubs riding strollers.

Three years later, now the mother of a preschooler as well as a toddler, there are some days when I do feel like a hero in one of those summer blockbusters, a woman whose powers know no bounds and I am able to accomplish amazing feats. But still, there are other days when I am nurturing and teaching my children, when I realize being their mom every day is a wonderful blessing, an achievement in itself, and indeed super.

Mommy Time Column ~ August 2005

Diagnosis: Normal

A doctor's visit causes pain for this mom

What makes a mom think they can be efficient with more than one child in tow? I know I cannot be the only one!

Just last week I took both my children -- my 4-year-old daughter and 17-month-old son -- to the pediatrician for their regular check ups. Having suffered a nagging sore throat for more than two weeks before that, I thought "Why not get checked out while you're aalready at the doctor's office?" and scheduled an appointment for myself.

The morning started smoothly enough with very little traffic and plentiful parking spaces at Kaiser. My children were patient on the elevator ride to the third floor and even as I wandered from one end of the corridor to the other trying to figure out which adult medicine clinic I was supposed to report to. Holding my son on my lap while the physician flashed a light at my tonsils and took a throat culture seemed a piece of cake at the time. Little did I know what was brewing.

The trouble all started when my daughter began to repeat "Mommy, I want a snack" like a ritualistic chant while I attempted to describe my symptoms to the patient doctor. Afterward, when I tried to put my son back in his stroller, he screamed and carried on in the way that is only embarrassing to a child's mother.

Soon we were in the elevator again and on our way to the first floor cafeteria where the pickings were slim thanks to a holiday weekend. I snatched up donuts, the last two bottles of strawberry milk, and sang songs to the little ones while they ate their snack and flirted with passerbys. I made myself an ice coffee and thought, "Now, this isn't so bad."

Less than 30 minutes later we were back on the elevator, this time headed to the second floor pediatrics department. We registered without incident and the children played quietly while I filled out their paperwork.

But when the medical assistant called our names, my son melted down again and my daughter shifted from the social butterfly she normally is into a scared little girl. It took some effort to get them both weighed, measured and undressed. All the while I promised my daughter a sticker if she was a good girl while I kissed my little guy on the top of the head in hopes love would somehow quash his toddler tendencies to wreck havoc.

The exam room -- decorated in a tropical fish theme -- was a hit. For about five minutes. My son got bored climbing in and out of his stroller and graduated to using a chair to make his way atop of the exam table. Suddenly, my daughter declared she had to "go potty."

Imagine me, navigating two near-naked children through narrow corridors to a bathroom from which my son kept trying to escape. After several minutes of trying, my daughter decided she did not have to go after all and back we paraded to the tiny exam room.

Thank goodness, Dr. Fitzpatrick showed up when he did because leftover strawberry milk and donut remnants were no longer keeping the troops at bay. Pleasantries were cut short (for obvious reasons) and it was down to the business of checking out the kids. My daughter shifted back to scared little girl, my son grabbed the doctor's pen and promptly started scribbling on himself.

As quickly as I could, I ticked off my list of questions for the pediatrician while he peered into my children's eyes, ears and mouths. He listened to hearts and lungs as well as my long-winded, parental concerns while my son and daughter fought over whether or not to open the exam room door.

The doctor succeeded in placating the children and reassuring me that everything about my them was normal in a way that was almost comical.

"I can see Berkeley's fine motor skills are right on target," referring to my son's little legs covered in scribbles. "No problem with gross motor development" as my son again climbed onto the exam table and my daughter showed off one of her dance moves. "They're both coming along fine in the talking department" added over the shouts of "no! no! no!" at the door.

We talked about shots and decided Barcelona was current for another year and Berkeley's would wait until another day when I could bring him in alone. "A wise decision," I told my husband later. As was the one I made on our final elevator ride that day -- to never take them both for their checkups at the same time again.

So much for efficiently, a mom must keep her sanity!

Mommy Time Column ~ July 2005

The Late Bloomer

Learning the lesson that it's never too late

When I stop and take time to watch my daughter, Barcelona, I marvel at the metamorphosis she is undergoing. Like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon, the toddler is fast becoming a little girl.

On the horizon, a new milestone for my 4-year-old: Her first dance recital. She practices her routine in dance class and I often catch her performing different movements throughout the week while she plays.

Just the other day Barcelona said, "Look, Mommy, look!" and I watched with a smile as she performed an arabesque -- both her arms out for balance as she stood on one leg with the other extended, toes pointed, behind her. She could have been flying!

At 15 months, when my first born had yet to walk or utter a word, our pediatrician at the time worried. The year that followed was a roller coaster of blood tests, specialists and therapies. We taught our daughter sign language, enrolled her in gym programs and preschool, and even took classes ourselves to learn how to talk to a non-talker.

We treated Barcelona as if she were "Leo the Late Bloomer" in the children's book by Robert Kraus. Our goal was always to boost her confidence, encourage her to try new things and, above all, not hover because as Kraus writes "a watched bloomer, never blooms."

And like Leo in the book, there came a day when my daughter could run along side her friends, draw us a picture and say "I love you, too." It did not happen overnight, but she did finally bloom.

When Barcelona started dance lessons a year ago, she watched with rapt attention as the teacher demonstrated an arabesque for the first time. At home she started practicing this position over and over that same day, holding onto myself, her father, her Nana, and furniture for balance. Most times she danced on her own, but other times she delighted in performing when one of us would call out, "Arabesque!"

My daughter's smile filled my heart when she asked me to watch her the other day. Hundreds of arabesques later, she was balancing on one leg and all on her own. Her pride was palatable.

Parents often measure their own success by those of their children. It is natural to want to take credit for everything from APGAR scores to grade point averages. But more often than not, it is our children who teach us.

When I saw my little girl's arabesque, it symbolized more than a simple dance move. For me, the mother of a late bloomer, it was a visible testament to my daughter's own perseverance, her desire to tackle a challenge and to succeed.

Watching Barcelona, I realized I could take a lesson or two from my first born. There are things in life I have tried, but given up when I did not succeed. I now look to my daughter as more than my child, she is a teacher who is showing me I still have time to bloom, I can become a butterfly, that I too can take flight.

Mommy Time Column ~ June 2005

Jumpin' on the bandwagon.

I cannot help feel the imposter -- I am a mama not a blogger.

But I have been reading the blogs of friends and colleagues and am inspired. Their words read like poetry and paint pictures of art, love, angst, wonder, pain... Maybe, in this forum, the words afloat in my brain will take anchor. Maybe I will tell a story.

I am a journalist turned traveler turned stay-at-home mama who sometimes writes for money. I start this blog and will see where it leads me.