Augusta — I live for these beautiful, ordinary moments. Nestled in my bed are two precious angels: my daughter and son. They are curled up in sunlight and blankets, their golden hair wild on the pillows. Tangled strands lay across my little girl’s cheek. I gently brush them aside holding my breath, watching her eyelids flicker with dreams. I don’t want to wake her. I pull the blankets up just a little and...
Antipolo — You see, today, on this rainy ripe-for-boredom day, I vowed we’d try finger painting. It seemed easy enough—the blogs promised it would be. Ella came in from her outdoor playtime and found me with my ...
Antipolo — I started with Duncan Sheik only because he was just a few artists down from Disneyland Children’s Sing-Along Chorus, which had been on repeat ever since my daughter decided that Mommy’s Office was mo...
Antipolo — Just last week, as I was working (or entertaining the delusion of productivity as it allowed me to), the thought crossed my mind that it and I could go on like this forever. A foolish thought in these...
File this under "meaning to". Also filed under "but didn't".
"I don't want people to say I'm beautiful."
I need to do mess better.
There is freedom in being a complete beginner and in saying I have no idea what I'm doing.
Today, I let her win.
"I don't want to play with you." And there it is. Her unexpressed anger and sadness. In my head, I understand it; in my heart, it's a knife, twisted.
"Is it three weeks yet?" I'd told her that Baby Brother was coming in three weeks, three weeks ago. He was due. He was overdue.
She insists she's a big girl, except at nap time, on the road.
"Mommy, Ella beautiful," she said. I wonder what that word means to her, at not even two.
My 2008 MacBook Pro is circling the drain. Too soon, old friend.
There are many things I don't know about tigers, but to my 21-month-old daughter, I'm the encyclopedia.
She didn't know the word "messy" until I used it. In that tone that meant it was a bad thing.
I feel really bad about her blue hands. As often happens in amateur experiments, first there is delight, then disaster.
There's music playing and I'm writing at my desk, knowing that this moment is just too good to last long.
I look away and when I look back, Ella has climbed up to the fourth step of the staircase.
The things they leave behind tell the story of their hopes and dreams.
"She looks just like you!" It's meant as a compliment, but it always makes me feel a little sad.
Watching angels dream
Charlotte, my daughter, said her first three-word sentence today. "I got it." Better than her first two-word sentence: "Mommy, no!"