It wasn't just a lizard

We get out of the car and start toward her weekly pre-school class. Halfway to the entrance she notices something.

"Mama, where's my lizard," Kalina asks.

"Oh, we left it in the car," I respond. Not thinking much of it.

Kalina begins to cry. Not just a whimper, no, more like a terrible cry as if her entire world was shattered.  We walk into her class and she is not happy.

"Hi, Kalina!" says a staffer. But Kalina doesn't respond. She's red in the face and sweaty. She's crying harder.

"Kalina, I can bring the lizard later," I tell her. I'm thinking that later is better than never. Right?

"No, no, no, I need it, Mama. I need it now," she says behind her tears.

I hug her and tell her that her class has already started but she doesn't care. She needs her lizard. That is all she knows. A classmate walks in a few minutes later and tries to get Kalina's attention.

"Kalina, are you okay?" The little girl asks. Her voice is soft and sweet.

Kalina ignores her. There was nothing I could say that would make Kalina feel better. No promises, not even attempting to distract her with a cute newborn nearby. Nothing.

"Do you want me to just take her to the class?" asks a staffer.

"Yes, ok," I say reluctantly. The pit of my stomach is unwell.

*  *  * 

I know that Kalina had created an image in her mind of showing all her classmates and her teachers the lizard SHE made at home. The one SHE painted. The one SHE decorated. The one SHE was proud of.

How could I have not acknowledged how important this was for her? It wasn't JUST a lizard, it was her work and her passion. Her emotions were very real to her and I felt it.

It's so easy to make 'little' of the things that seem small to us adults. They're not so small to the little ones in this big world.

I pushed the glass door open and walked back to my car. I realized what Kalina meant and I did what I felt was right in my heart.

I got her lizard and brought it back to her class. I let her teacher give it to her.

When Kalina got home later, she walked in with a big smile.

"Thank you, mama! Thank you for bringing my lizard!" she said.

We hugged.

Early song

I awoke to a little voice singing a made up song next to my ear, she was bouncing a little stuffed penguin on my pillow.

"It's morning, it's morning, mama!" Kalina said to me in between her made up lyrics.

"I know." I said with a smile and still trying to open my eyes little by little.

She continued her song, her golden curls cascading all around her neck... "Today is a beautiful day and I'm bouncing away. I love my sweet, sweet mama and today is the morning... I like today, I like the day and I'm a sweet penguin that wants to go home. I like you, mama." 


I hugged her close to me, her little body fitting like the perfect piece to a jigsaw puzzle into the curve of my torso. I inhaled the scent of her soft hair before she wriggled out.


I simply lay watching her. A slight glimmer of sunlight peered into the room from the corner of a window. If the scent of her sweet skin were colors, they'd be a mix of yellow and baby blue, yellow for its subtle quality and baby blue for its delicate nature.

Today, on my 35th birthday, this simple little moment is what I'll look back at and remember. The mundane quiet morning that grabbed my attention and allowed me to feel the joy of my daughter's giggles and happiness. It was the perfect gift to my day...

Sitting with anger and compassion

Meltdowns are inevitable. My two older daughters still get them from time to time. More recently, my eight-year-old had one. It was over a petty issue and not pretty.

Nevertheless, she was angry. What didn't help was having a slew of people around her that only made her embarrassment and frustration grow bigger. Outside comments from others rarely help. Even I, as her mother, can only offer some solace, if any.

So what does one do? As a parent? As someone witnessing their child in an uncontrollable state of sometimes 'whacky' outrage?

I started by talking to her. I failed.

I tried again. I failed again.

Finally, I had to remove her from the entire situation. She was not happy. It made her angrier!

What does a parent do, again?

Words fail us in moments like these. Words are irrelevant during these highly emotional bouts of anger, frustration and emotional exhaustion. Words do not suffice. Words are merely that, words. The feeling is what is important.

I took her to the car and we left. My husband and I let her grunt and sob her way through her anger. We asked her to breathe and try to 'collect' herself. I'm sure in her young mind she thought, "Collect myself? Clearly, you have no clue mom and dad!" 


Before going home, DH dropped me off at a frozen yogurt cafe with the younger two. He stayed in the car with Sabrina.

He's really good at talking her down from her anger most of the time. My role is more disciplinarian/authoritative since I'm the one that spends most of the time with them while DH works. This is just how the dynamics work in our home. We try to gauge our strengths with respect to balancing parenting issues. There is never an ideal situation but we do our best.

In the 10 minutes we were gone, DH did an interesting exercise with Sabrina. He guided her through sitting with her anger and owning it and deeply feeling every ounce of it. He shared this with me later.

He said to her, "Sabrina, you've very angry so I want you to say the first thing about me that comes to your mind. Anything."

Sabrina: "You are the worst daddy in the entire world! I hate you!" she yelled as she cried more.

DH: "Okay. That was good!" he responded to her.

Sabrina: "Daddy, I really didn't mean that but I do feel better." She said through teary eyes.

DH: "This is good, Sabrina. This is what you're supposed to feel. Being angry is not a bad thing. It is an emotion that you have to allow yourself to feel."

Then he proceeded with her to channel her anger with how she felt about me.

Sabrina: "But I don't want to hurt mommy's feelings. I love her but I am angry!"

DH: "This is okay. This is not bad. You're allowed to be angry at mommy. Being angry doesn't make you a bad person."

She ended up saying the same thing she had said when she used my husband as the focus, that I was the 'worst mom in the world.' Then her heart became compassionate because she became aware of herself and how she felt when she was angry.

So what was the purpose of all this?
He was teaching her the beauty of anger. Anger is not bad, it is an opportunity for compassion. Compassion is inevitably born. Compassion for herself. Compassion for others. Knowing the difference between anger and compassion was what he wanted her to feel.

Maybe you think that all this sounds lovely and easy? It is not. We all know that parenting is a challenge (if you are a parent, that is.) Melding personalities and emotions and situations are never-ending. There is always work to be done, but you knew that already.

I struggle everyday with trying to live in awareness. Trying to parent in awareness. It is a work in progress. I don't have the answers to most things. Who does?

What we all have is the way we 'feel' things. This is a moment to moment experience and we are trying to build this awareness within our children. It is very easy to get caught up in the minutiae of life, I do it all the time.

I've noticed that when I allow myself to sit with my anger, no matter how big or small it may be, I release something new about myself. I find a different perspective, meaning, experience that I can glean from. I want my children to have this experience as well. No thing is absolute or guaranteed to give you a certain outcome but in order to see the lesson in things, we must become aware and sit with whatever it is that we're experiencing.

Just as my daughter will continue to experience many meltdown moments, I will be learning something new each time she faces a challenge because this is what parenting and life is all about. Learning and becoming aware of our 'selves' because there is beauty in this.

Pain and suffering certainly sucks but somewhere between the ugliness and pain of it all, there is something to glean from it... something raw, something beautiful, something healing...

Why gun violence is a touchy topic for me

Once again I'm shocked at the news today. The shooting in Aurora, CO has siphoned another spine chilling memory for me. Gun violence is a touchy subject in my world.

No child should ever have to endure the paralyzing fear of their life being threatened with a firearm. Still, it happens too often. No child should ever have to question such horrid stories like the Columbine shooting or the Virginia Tech Massacre. I don't agree that these are topics are ones that children need to be privy to.

But what about those of us that have endured gun violence first-hand? At the age of five my life was threatened by a very sick and broken person who pointed a gun to my left temple. This memory was seared in my psyche for life. The fear is still palpable to me today.

On days like today I'm faced with the choice of whether I should share these horrific stories with my children ages 8, 6 and 4.  Am I wrong for sharing the facts with them if I feel I need to?

I want my children to live a happy and almost carefree life. I don't want them burdened with the violence in today's world. I want them to understand that not every situation is perfect but that there are also so many things to be grateful for and to feel fulfilled about. I want them to be well-rounded people.

I'm trying to raise my three daughters to be aware of the world at large by cultivating compassion within them. I'm far from exceptional but am doing my best. So when I read today's headline, I had to choose how to go about sharing it with them because well, this is the world we live in.

I decided to share it with my eldest in private. She's almost 9. I've been incredibly candid with her about most things so I felt in my gut that she'd be okay with learning about the Aurora Theater shooting. Her empathy swelled in a matter of seconds for the people that were hurt and killed in the shooting. I decided to keep it from my 6 and 4 year old because my gut told me so.

I went on to explain to her that people that do these things are broken themselves. She understood perfectly. I also expressed to her to never forget that all beings, good and bad deserve compassion. I often tell her that people are born innocent and pure but that the world and other humans are what make them broken. We all have something good inside of us.

I respect all parents who choose not to share these awful stories with their children. Perhaps if my situation and experience were different, I'd choose the same thing. It's a heavy subject for me, still.

I find these moments in parenting challenging because the decisions we make on behalf of our children ultimately stay with them for the remainder of their lives. I've had to live with the traumatic memory of the day my life was 'almost taken' (all melodrama aside) and have had to dance around subjects such as the one like today's with respect to how I share them with my daughter(s) with the utmost care and sensitivity.

This is why gun violence is a touchy topic for me. No, it is not easy. No, it is not pleasant. No, I don't know if I'm choosing the correct answer but I'm doing my best and listening to my gut most of the time. Life is precious and so are our children.

The magical things that happen in ONE year

One year ago today I published my sexual abuse story right here on this blog. It was a great big leap in the direction of allowing myself to be vulnerable, open and candid about a dark piece of my past.

I was relieved and proud of my choice because I had held my truth in for too long.

Because of that post, I swung a pendulum into motion with my writing. Little did I know that the posts that would follow, would inevitably start to shape a bigger story. My story. The stories that shaped me. The stories that ultimately do not define me but that have allowed me to peel my layers down and own my own truth.

This blog has served as a much bigger purpose for me. Forget that I started this blog back in 2007. It was 2011 when this blog started to shine for me. While my readership isn't stellar in comparison with other 'blogs' out there, it doesn't matter because it is not about that. I'm not competing with anyone in the blogosphere. I write for myself and if I get readers out of it or inspire one more person, so be it.

Blogging has given me the permission to freely express myself without restrictions or censoring.

I share my raw self, always.

Among the positive moments, I shared how I was published on Babble and was syndicated on BlogHer, twice.

I've written about my struggles with depression, anxiety, PTSD and my road to becoming a writer. Most importantly, weaved between all these posts and authentic expressions, I've been shaping my memoir.

My epiphany came when I realized the one thing that carried me through my childhood with the hopes of something bigger, books.

I am a memoirist. I write and say this with confidence.  

It has taken me one year to own this truth. One year.

I still struggle with other issues, but that's just part of living. I have no qualms in admitting that most of the time, I'm a mess. If you are too, don't ever feel alone.

Today, the writing of my memoir is flowing and ignited with fervor and heart. It has taken two years of my putting it aside because there were things that I still needed to process. These things cannot be predicted or planned or forced, they simply have to happen when they need to (much like the birth of a baby.) Even when the story belongs to you, you cannot tell it until you fully own it.

Here's to one year of self-discovery, dedication, perseverance, a personal will bigger than my imagination and always believing that you CAN bring the mundane and the magical together.

Thank you, my beloved and loyal readers.

Current chaos

I'm craving a slower simpler life because my current chaos is simply draining. There are always too many fires to put out, never enough of the 'grossly overrated' time people are always talking about (such a cliché) and then there's the never ending droning of what 'didn't' get done.

I find myself feeling in a constant state of longing for something else, new, better, different, bold, away, far far away from all of the chaos that surrounds me. I know that 'normal' really doesn't exist but slower and simpler DOES. I want that-- slower and simpler.

How can I get there?

Oftentimes I feel like I've hit a plateau in terms of accomplishments. I'm not talking about the long-term ones but rather, the ones within reach. The ones that make you feel good at the end of the day or the end of the month. The ones that remind you that so much of what you're doing matters and is taking place for a really good reason.

Is it just me?

{random doodle by me}

My sweet DH is constantly trying to juggle his own chaos, which inevitably spills into one trying to keep their wits about them. There is not one thing that will ever come easy. Not. A. Thing.

Back to the current chaos issue: When does it get better? When does the dust start to settle? When does it all fall into place? When?

Seems like nothing makes sense and perhaps it's due to too much wading through the minutiae of life or better, all the chaos.

New goal: A heaping dose of slower and simpler, please. 

I guess most of us are simply doing our best... whatever that means. 

My writing path: How I came to own it

{Age 7}

Ms. Braynon was an elderly short and ultra skinny black woman. She'd wear her hair thickly braided and wrapped around her head like a regal head piece that was meticulously pinned and placed. Her large square seeing glasses took over most of her bony face.  She always wore her skirts down to her skinny ankles, long sleeve high buttoned blouses and closed chunky square heeled shoes and stockings.  She seemed like the sweetest and cutest grandmother type until she opened her mouth.

She was also my first grade teacher.

Ms. Braynon was not patient and she was not tolerant of disobedience either. She was always stern and rarely gentle. Her voice quivered when she got angry, which was often.

On one particular day, she wrote one long word on the blackboard and asked us to write as many three letter words as we can spell from that one word she wrote. I sat at the very back of the classroom, and I was still having a hard time with spelling. I remember worrying and getting a stomach ache about trying to spell words. I couldn't think of anything but feeling completely and utterly stupid.

I wrote some words down. Well, only the ones I knew how to spell correctly but they did not contain any of the letters that were in that one long word Ms. Braynon had written on her blackboard. When my paper was graded, I got an "F" and with that, I was asked to come to the front of the class while Ms. Braynon belittled and humiliated me in front of my peers that I didn't know how to spell or follow directions.

I cried at my desk. But I never gave up on words.

***************************

{Age 9}

Ms. Lee was a tall and heavy set woman. Her eyes were very round and buggy like and she always stored her blue Paper Mate pen in her hair, it awkwardly poked out from behind her head. She spoke in a low and vehement voice and she rarely cracked a smile. She controlled her students only with her eyes and she always chewed a small piece of gum that made intermittent 'pop' sounds.

She was also my third grade teacher. Actually, her entire name was Sarah Lee- you know, like that delicious buttered pound cake that came in an aluminum loaf pan except that there was nothing sweet about her.

Source

Ms. Lee  had a peculiar way of correcting our writing pieces. Row by row, she'd make us stand in a line that curled around her oval table desk and one by one, she'd review what each of us had written while the others waited. If she approved of the work, she'd hand it back over to the student and ask them to take their seat. Now, when she didn't approve, and this time is was my turn, she'd retrieve her pen from the back of her hair, hold the work up in the air then she'd violently stab holes on every square inch of the college ruled paper. Once satisfied with her 'stabby' correction, she'd return it and say, "fix that mess." I'd retrieve my 'holy' paper back and embarrassingly return to my seat and attempt to start over again.

This happened to me more times than I could ever count but what it did was increase my tenacity to fix it. No matter how violent Ms. Lee's approach was she ignited a fire within me.  I didn't realize it at the time but I know this as fact now.

Sometime during that school year, Ms. Lee picked me and four other students to participate in a school Spelling Bee. I was simply honored.  It was also the first and only time she non-verbally expressed to me that she knew I was capable of more than I ever thought myself. This stuck to me like fly paper.

***************************

{Age 18}

Ms. Feather was a bubbly and robust elderly lady. She was a grandmother and often talked about her grandchildren. Her skin was powdery pail with peachy cheeks and her hair was short and as silver as freshly polished quarter. She smiled often and animated her voice with every opportunity she could simply to get her point across. Her eyes were gentle and full of laughter.

She was also my twelfth grade English teacher.

Ms. Feather abhorred the phrase "a lot" and prohibited her students to use it. She was stern about this and only this. She encouraged each and every one of us to explore new words, use them in the correct context and read as much as possible because the world of literature was rich and fluid and vast.

She was a lover of the amazing African American writer, Zora Neale Hurston.  That year she had our class read, Their Eyes Were Watching God. This was the first real literary piece of fiction I had ever read and it completely fascinated me. Each week we had a different assignment associated with the novel.  One of my favorite assignments was the one where we had to choose one main character and write up a monologue of what he/she would say in the modern day. The proviso was that it had to be written in the exact same dialect Ms. Hurston wrote the novel in, which was the vernacular of Southern African American English in the early 1900's.

I worked diligently on my piece for two-weeks. I remember practicing it in front of the mirror of my boyfriend's room for clarity and correct slang. I typed up drafts of it in the school library on days I didn't have to work at my part-time job after school.

The day we had to turn the assignment in, Ms. Feather had every student read their piece aloud for a final grade. I nervously stood at the classroom podium to read mine.  I remember feeling proud of my work and of my dedicated efforts to bring forth a piece that would remain true to the character I chose. I had chosen the main character, Janie which was the hardest one.

The entire class applauded after I read and Ms. Feather sat behind her desk with a great big smile on her plump peachy cheeked face. Every opportunity Ms. Feather got, she always reminded me that my writing was something I needed to cultivate and hone because she knew that I had a talent for it. I've never forgotten this.

Each one of these women impacted me in a completely different way. No matter what, it was the path that I needed to trek down in order to arrive where I needed to be. Each experience was a gift in some way, be it discouragement or encouragement because in the end I ultimately choose how to handle the experience. The epiphany always comes later.

I didn't believe that I had writing talent until I was about 28 years old. Soon after that I decided on getting a Master's Degree in Creative Writing.  Even then it took me some time while in the writing program to own this truth of mine. My husband was my constant encouragement and reminder to always go for what I was passionate about. I feel lucky and blessed for this.

I'm currently working on my memoir as well as a book proposal.  I will soon be hunting for a literary agent to pitch my non-fiction book proposal to. I know that nothing will come easy but I also know that whatever the path, it will lead me to where I need to get to. I will be published sooner than later, I truly believe this.

I've come a long way and I struggle with many things but one thing I know for sure is that my voice matters, my stories matter and my talent matters.

Rule of Thumb in Motherhood: Be Flexible

In the almost nine years of being a mother, the one invaluable thing I've learned is to be flexible.

What I mean by this is that there will always be a moment, situation, instance, time, etc., that I simply have to throw out the rules and just let things 'be' because I know that I cannot control all things surrounding myself and especially not my children (even if I or many of us secretly or openly want to.) Follow?

Now I'm not saying that having rules is a bad thing. Boundaries are good, when needed. Limits are good, when necessary. Schedules are good for sanity. BUT these do not apply 100% of the time.

When I had my first child and found myself navigating the unknown waters of a newborn, teething, breast-feeing, me being sick or the baby being sick or both and all that jazz that comes with the territory of motherhood, I quickly learned that trying to meld a situation to my standards or liking was never going to work because I figured that this modus operandi would make me, well, narcissistic.

I had to drop my 'legal secretary' experienced mind with respect to order, schedules, predictability, expectations, high standards, rigidity but most of all, control. The legal world is brimming with control freaks and I was a soldier on that team. Until I became a mother.

After my first child arrived nearly six weeks early, she squashed my theory of planning a birth.  Then my second pregnancy became the epitome of my mantra, "let it go and let it be" (because we didn't quite know an estimated conception date therefore, an estimated due date was just a gestational hypothesis.) So I quickly learned that neurotic control would only make for an unhappy mama and later a tethered bebe.

My second round into motherhood gave me an acutely high maintenance baby with severe colic, cried 20 out of 24 hours and she had intense 'mommy-itis' which gave me the overall feeling that I was going to drown in my own tears.

She was a tough one but oh so sweet and loving. I almost didn't have number three because of her but am SO happy I did because as the cliché says, "alls well that ends well."

Now, don't be under the wrong impression, I still worry and plan and have rules and 'try' to keep to a bed 'time' and am overly cautious while out with them in public and make mistakes and struggle to keep my house clean and always have laundry coming out of my ears and yada, yada, yada... all that same boring stuff we ALL do and go through.    

I learned to be flexible. Yes, flexible because otherwise, everything surrounding my children and myself would simply become an issue, problem or pain in my ass and in the asses of others if I weren't. So, I loosened my grip, became more lax and allowed more because what I ultimately experienced was a more relaxed and satisfied me once I cultivated this within myself.

Sure, the girls had 'nap times' but if they didn't have one that day, no biggie (perhaps they were going through a growth spurt or some other change) and if they were tired, they slept anywhere. When they're tired, they're tired no matter what is happening around them. Yes, I also restricted certain foods, well, that is until they went to pre-school because it didn't always mean that what I packed in their lunchbox was what they consumed. That little bubble bursted real fast! At some point, there is only so much a parent can omit or restrict in a child's diet UNLESS they have a diagnosed food allergy or other medical issue (it happens to us all-no biggie.) TV? What about TV? They watch it, and? They aren't less smart or less imaginative or less social or couch potatoes because they view Dora or Pixar or heck, Word World. All in moderation is A-okay! If I'm too hard or strict on my kids, then that too will one day back fire on me... just my thoughts on this.    

There is no right or wrong way to parent. We are all doing the best with what we've been given. This is my experience and observations about what motherhood has taught me. All I'm saying is that flexibility is much more appealing in the long run and will surely give you less lines on your forehead.

Each and every one of my girls have taught me a little more, pushed a little more, challenged a little and ultimately molded the mother I am and the mother they need me to be because I invited being flexible into my life. They are all different. They all have different needs. I notice them happier when they see me go with the flow. It affects them and how they interact with others as well. I can attest that motherhood is much easier when I'm flexible.

Again, I cannot predict or know a thing at any given moment but my children will remember and know how they felt depending on how flexible I was.

Try it... you may be surprised.

Poppa

Father's Day has always been a tainted holiday for me. Never feeling like I 'belonged' to anyone or that I was 'biologically' linked to a man who actually loved and cared for me. Father's Day was just another hellish holiday.

I've shared with you the story of how I met my biological father, as well as, how I was partially raised by a pedophile because, well, I never owned another story. Until now.

You see, I have a Poppa.

He didn't watch me grow up or share the excitement when I lost my first tooth or eased my angst of starting Kindergarten or see my face light up on a Christmas morning or disapprove of my first dorky boyfriend or guide me emotionally when I thought the world was being unfair or teach me to ride a bicycle or put a band-aid on my first knee scrape or tried his hardest to brush my unruly hair or reprimanded me for disrespecting him or stayed up late while building me a Barbie dream house or take me on my first camping trip or let me eat all the M&M's I can stuff in my mouth no matter how badly my tummy would ache later or sing me "Happy Birthday" when I turned a decade old or help me with an erupting volcano science project (never did that one but wished I had) or beat the shit out of anyone who looked at me 'shifty-eyed' or tell me that all those pictures he took when I was going through my 'odd' teen years that I was still beautiful to him or make a run to the drug store late at night because I had run out of my girlie monthly toiletries without feeling embarrassed or take me to Disney World for the first time or.... The list can go on.

The list doesn't matter anymore.

I have a Poppa. Here is what he HAS done.

He's told me how much he loves me. He's told my three amazing daughters how much he loves them. He's genuine and sweet and sensitive toward my feelings. He's shown me, with his unconditional love, that no matter how much time has passed between us and no matter how much he missed out on due to unfortunate circumstances, he's grateful for what we have today. What we have right now. What we have right here, in this life and for the rest of our days. He's appointed himself grand'Poppa' to the girls with all the glee that a man can muster up.

He was there when his 'muffin girl' (Luna) lost a tooth. He was there to witness his little Kalina (he'd say, aka-'just like her Momma') put on all the band-aid's she could stick on her body no matter if she needed them or not. He was there to witness his Sabrina ride the bicycle he bought her super fast and without a care in the world. He was there to witness his 'daughter' and wife share a rare moment of legacy passing late one night in his dining room as tears of joy and wonder filled him to his core. He witnessed pure love and pure gratitude. He was there to witness the mother that I am. He knows the daughter that I am and the authenticity and compassion I embody. He is my blood. He is my Poppa.

{Poppa and his girls! He let them paint his nails, 

put girlie things in his hair, lip-gloss, 

a fancy shawl and lot's of giggles. 

The best moments are these... } 

He made a Proclamation:

Let it be known and understood, that from this day forward…the personage known as Vanessa Rufino Jubis will no longer be known as our niece to all common man and women worldwide. 

She will be our daughter without the need for permission from any person, court of law or family member. She shall be our girl, and her daughters shall be our grand-daughters and she will take her rightful moral place as sister to our natural children, and as our daughter. Our absolute love for her cannot be taken, erased or forgotten with the passage of time or amount of distance from our proximity. 

On the 26^th of March 2012, she was the recipient of a mother’s legacy and love. She was given treasures that brought joy and smiles from the giver and the receiver alike. With her-self assured confidence, she stated that she knew it would look great on her and as I watched her try on things, I was thankful for her joy because of its genuine expression. Her face would light up with every gift…and then the realization struck her. She was being showered with love from far-away places, and the bond was being solidified all the more. When she was given prized memento’s of over 54 years…she would glow. Then she surveyed her legacy in front of her and her tears flowed, but she was warned not to do that or it would be all taken back…just a Mama’s white lie! It was her gift of love from the woman who held her love close, and now it was time to let her know in this small but significant way…she has always been our girl and it was time to let her know. We have no intention of taking her away from anyone, but understand that no one will ever take her away from us again. We shall dispatch with formalities of law and rely on the joy of love in this proclamation…so don’t say squat!

Poppa Julio

{My Momma & Poppa}

This Father's Day marks the beginning of a journey with the Poppa I never knew I had, the love that never died and the absolute beauty this life has to offer.

Happy Father's Day to the best Poppa in the Universe! I love you more and more each day...
your girl ♥

Letter to my 19-year-old self

The year is: 1996

Dear Vanessa,

You've recently graduated from High School and you're looking forward to college.

Nothing is going to come easy. Hard work and perseverance are at the forefront of your journey. No matter what you choose to do, do it with heart and authenticity because those two things will ultimately prove to be a valuable tool on your journey to self-discovery.

Love your parents, no matter their flaws. Know that they too were children that were broken by one mode or another.  They will both learn to be vulnerable with their deep rooted pain once they see you be candid and authentic about yours.

You've only known your father for two years. You're not sure what he feels most of the time but do know this: he loves you but isn't confident about how to show you because he feels guilty about your turbulent childhood. He is a sweet man despite his quiet and guarded position. He's thoughtful and caring but he hurts in ways that you'll learn about 15 years from now. He is full of guilt and shame and he'll one day face this head on. In the meantime, love him and be a listening ear. He'll be forever grateful to you.  He'll tell you one day, years after you've been married and after having three children, how proud he is of you and how honored he is to call himself your father.

You go to psychotherapy. At first you're reluctant but this is the start of your issues with trust. You don't know it yet but you struggle to trust people, you struggle to let down your guard and you struggle to understand your life thus far. Psychotherapy is the first brick that you lay down to begin your journey to learning who you are. Because you pay out of pocket for your psychotherapy, you can no longer afford it but you never forget the things you learned while there.

You've always felt the strangeness of not belonging. Because of your past revolving around neglect and misplacement, you have a deeply rooted desire to have your own intact family. You don't wonder about motherhood too much but you know that children are sacred to you because you spend so many years caring for your own siblings. When you finally become a mother, you carry the natural ability to be the mother that you always needed and this is your journey to healing the broken child within you. Your children will heal you in more ways than one.

Your mom needs you more than you need her. Be there for her even if you need a mom too. Her strife is bigger than you realize but you'll come to learn that once you have children of your own. You will come to accept the things that you cannot change about her. Your relationship will take 15 years to stabilize and after this, you'll appreciate her generous and open heart because at her core, she's a loving and sensitive soul that means no harm. You will become her confidant.

You spend four years with a young man that proves to be there very person you do not want to spend the rest of your life with. Although you loved him, you learn to listen to your gut and let go of a relationship that was not allowing you to grow as a person. This becomes a brave trait that you never knew you possessed. The time you spent with him were pivotal in your journey to self-discovery but you learn this once you allow yourself to reflect upon your young life.

Two years after you move on from that relationship, you reluctantly attend a Chinese New Year's party. Even though you don't want to, you make a wish at a bon fire. Be happy that you do because on that night, you ultimately meet your soul mate, husband and father to your three children.

Don't allow for disappointment in those you love change the course of your genuine emotions toward them. You'll learn that everyone is imperfect and most individuals have issues that they are not always willing to face or talk about. It's not about you. Some may try to mirror their unhappiness toward you, but don't take this personally.

Love those who betray you. Love those who speak ill of you. Love those who prove other things with their actions because they too need a compassionate heart to love them. You'll realize that life is never fair and unfortunate things do happen, no matter what. Make every excuse to tell those who are dear to you how much you love them.

Communication. Communication becomes a vital force in your life because you were raised without it. You learn to communicate your feelings because you realize that this is the only way to bridge gaps and fill voids. Don't worry about what others think of you because your character will speak for itself. When you're authentic and honest about who you are, there will never be a need to prove anything to anybody.

Love yourself first. Don't beat yourself up about silly mistakes. It's okay to be human and imperfect. You're not built to be mistake-free. Value those who value you.

Years later, you'll remember what your 12th grade English teacher told you: "Vanessa, you can become a great writer. Nurture your gift." You weren't exactly sure what she saw in you, but you didn't believe  her either because you didn't believe in yourself.

Six years later, when you're admiring the spectacular water fountains in the Gardens of Tivoli, in Italy, during your honeymoon, you'll have an epiphany. You don't want to go to Law School, no, what you really want is to become a writer. You do.

Many years after that, you find your voice. On a random summer day, you take a leap and you voice (by writing) your story of childhood sexual abuse and it is then that you appreciate the power of sharing the not so pretty moments of your early life. People value raw honesty. You're not ready for the outpouring of support and love that you receive after you publish this piece but you accept it and are grateful.

Strangely, you're surprised at how the people you thought you knew actually turn out to be the very people you never thought they'd become.  Your adult self sees things much differently than your young adult self. You struggle with this issue. Individuals that are dear to you grow a different skin and you inevitably learn to shed an old skin. You experience grief and sadness but you soon learn that these are the elements that make you a more resilient and compassionate individual. Don't expect people to apologize or take responsibility for their actions. Just know that you can't change people, you can only inspire them.

I cannot prepare for your issues with depression and anxiety that you'll experience in your early thirties. I can only tell you to be prepared to feel alone and for most to not understand you. You will have a supportive and loving husband and a dear friend that will serve as a listening ear.

Sadly, because of your unexpected bouts of depression, there will be an unfortunate event that will leave you mortified but it will reveal to you those who value you and your genuine emotions.  Take these moments with a grain of salt because you are human and imperfect. Still, continue to love those that shun you.

Right now you may think that you are who you are and that is that. Not true at all. Know that you will change and grow and become a different person at various stages of your life. Your life experiences and the people that you choose (notice, I said 'choose') to surround yourself with will play a pivotal role in your growth and self-discovery.

Don't sell yourself short, Vanessa. Surround yourself with people that will encourage you, not stifle you. Surround yourself with people that value family, not try to create havoc and discord. Choose your friends wisely. Be selective with whom you share your time and energy with because not every person will have the best intentions. Listen to your gut and hone your instinctive ability to see right through people because this will aid you in your path.

You will follow your dreams and cultivate purpose and passion in your life. The biggest lesson you'll learn is compassion. This will sit at the core of your being.

You will write a novel. You'll pour your heart into it. You don't know it yet, but you will get published one day. Make all the days of your life count because no matter what, every single one of them, good and bad, matter.

Sincerity meets Reuniting

About three years ago two very lovely people fell out of touch. For various reasons and perhaps some misunderstandings, things between them fell apart.

Their friendship was special.  They'd connected in a way that's virtually impossible to articulate.
A sisterly love was shared between them and was never broken.

Before they met, their hearts were left thousands of miles away.  They had both emigrated from the same country, so this was a vital force in their friendship. It's inevitable to want to find those that share a common thread with us.

I've been fortunate enough to call one of these lovely individuals my friend, my sister and one of the few people I trust to leave my children with. She's thoughtful and caring and honest and available emotionally and authentically. I value this. I value her. I love her dearly...

I knew how heavy her heart was about the loss of connection with her friend. I felt it and it affected me. It pains me to see people suffering over misunderstandings. The fact that we are human and imperfect drives a force within me to want to make things better for those that need a listening ear or a compassionate heart.

The human condition fascinates and bewilders me...

Because I had shared my thoughts on the subject of her loss with my dear friend and had encouraged her to reach out to her friend, it was my sincere desire to see her re-kindle that relationship because love and the people we choose to be our family is sacred to me.

Loyalty and sincerity is my nature.

I know that we don't always get the family we want or understand why certain people are the way that they are but there is no doubt in my mind that we get the people we need. We never know how we are going to affect or inspire anyone at any given moment in our lives.

Yesterday, I took it upon myself to reach out to her friend. This is when I mention how Facebook has allowed for magical things to happen.

Magical things happened.

Her friend was open, available, receptive, loving and absolutely ready to re-connect with her! I sent a simple message that basically said:

"Hi! I've been meaning to tell you that there is someone who misses her friend. She needs you but is too embarrassed to tell you because so much time has passed. She may get angry at me for telling you but I had to because I love her too much not to try.  There, I said it. I feel better... vj" 

Within moments I received a response from her. A positive one. She was over-the-moon delighted that I had shared this truth with her. She was grateful that I was sincere with her. She couldn't wait to speak to her friend.

This is where their journey, once again, begins.

The following day they spoke. They shared how much they missed one another. They let each other know how much they are loved.  They've already planned to see one another for a joyous occasion and this simply brings a song to my heart.

I was thanked for a simple act. Two hearts were needing one another but simply didn't know how to bridge the gap. Sometimes we're given a role to partake in and our heart always knows when its the right moment to act upon it. For whatever reason, I was the catalyst to this chapter in their friendship.

Yesterday was my friend's son's birthday and the friend I reached out to is his Godmother.
She'd been thinking of her Godson all day....

It was a good day because when sincerity met reuniting everyones heart smiled...      

Simply stated

Today I am grateful for the things that I have, good and bad.

Continuing to cultivate compassion is what my mantra will be.

Today I am grateful for personal growth and awareness.

Continuing to be authentic in my actions and loyal to myself will be my modus operandi.

Today and everyday I will continue to remind my daughters to acknowledge those who love them because expressing gratitude and authenticity shines brighter than any star in the Universe.

Continuing to be an example for my daughters is my number one priority because I am their foundation.

Today I'm allowing my cloak of discontent to fall to the ground because the only cloak that will keep me warm and safe is love.

Continuing to sew the pieces of my life together is the only way I'll have a quilt large enough to cover all of those that are dear to me.

Today is a good day.

I continue to learn.

I continue to grow.

I continue to make mistakes and pick myself back up again.

I'm alive and I'm imperfect and I'm okay with this.

Your life is your poem

I was asked if I write poetry. "Yes." I responded.

I've been writing poetry since I was about twelve. I never cared to share my poetry thoughts with anyone because I simply wrote them for myself.

Poetry, like books, saved me more than once.

I think that most people cringe at the thought of poetry because they think that it needs to be understood and interpreted into prose. This is not so. Poetry is personal and deep and moving and inspiring and heartbreaking all at once.

It can be simple or long or short or complicated. It can be anything you want it to be because your thoughts and your emotions are what makes it breathe.

Breathe. Life. Into Poetry.

I resort to poetry during random moments, overwhelming moments, silent or alone moments and even moments that I'm afraid to one day forget.

We all have a story. Whether we choose to share it or not is a personal matter. Oftentimes, while in deep thought or reflective moments, I hear myself thinking in poetry. My thoughts form like stanzas and repetitive verses or occasionally rhyme without intending to.

Some call poetry a form of therapy. Others see it for simple creative beauty or a small crevice into the mind of a person or poet.

For me, poetry is my life. It's your life. It encompasses all the beautiful, the ugly, the mundane, the magical, the inspiring, the wonder, the happiness, the sadness and so much more that we feel, experience, see or imagine.

Your life is your poem. Write it.

Dissipate

I've been disappointed. More than once. I know you can relate. Who hasn't felt this way?

Disappointment brings forth pain.

It gets sticky when the disappointment revolves around my children. You see, I'm not disappointed in them but rather, in some people that surround, or actually, that could surround them. These sort of disappointments sting and inflict the kind of pain that you want to let go real fast, like when you grab a scorchingly hot pan without wearing a glove.

Letting go is the easy part.

In my younger/single days, I'd carry a disappointment for a short time but then I'd let it slip away from me like a fallen silk scarf. Now that I have children, certain disappointments that affect them stick to me like when you walk through a cob web, you feel it and it's difficult to get rid of it.

Moving on is always a bit harder.

The job of having to explain a one-sided truth to them allows me to be fully transparent but only half correct. Still, I must be careful of not transmitting my own pain with the message but as you know, this too can be a treacherous road.

I understand that we are not free from problems. I know that every single one of us has their own troubles and heartaches to deal with. But I also understand that a choice is always made. When it relates to innocent children, they simply want to be loved and cannot fully grasp why anyone would not want to be a part of their lives.

Life is complicated and confusing, eh?

In spite of all this, I'm not teaching them to be hard and unfeeling. Quite the contrary, I'm teaching them to be soft and vulnerable with their feelings because this is what makes them human and raw.

Being human is breathing and feeling and sitting with their pain or disappointment because no matter what, they'll inevitably grow from it.  I can only hope that they emulate what I am showing them in myself.

Hard isn't better. Swallowing an issue for the sake of proving to be 'tough' will not give them what they need to grow.  I want them to know that pain and disappointment are tough but it will eventually dissipate if and when they allow themselves to sit with it and own it.

Dissipate.

I'm trying to parent my daughters without masks or armor. I want them to see me raw and real and vulnerable. I'm choosing to be fully authentic with them. You see, there is always a choice to be made.

When I let disappointment dissipate it doesn't mean that I'm weak or uncaring. It means that there is no point in me holding on to anger and resentment because these are the things that'll consume me if I let it.

For quite some time now I've been diverting my attention and energy toward the people that do want to be a part of my daughters' lives. The ones that enjoy their company and are eager to learn more about them. The ones that celebrate the minuscule details of who they are and the very things that make them smile and laugh out loud.  These are the ones that matter. I don't need to chase the ones that don't put an effort because I'm only taking away from the ones that do.

I know my place and I know when to allow certain things to dissipate. My heart always remains open but I've become strictly selective with how I share my daughter's vulnerable emotions. They'll always get to choose either way. I guess you can call it the 'Tiger Mama' in me. I can't help it.

Children know who genuinely love them. Children know when they are wanted. Children know when not to ask for someone anymore because whether we think so or not, they've owned their pain in some unique way and they too have moved on.

I want my daughters to know that while disappointment is inevitable, allowing it to dissipate is their choice. As their mother I can only provide them with certain tools but I cannot choose how they ultimately utilize them.

Slow

Slow is what I feel like today. I feel like taking several steps back and just breathing in a slow pace. A deliberate pace. A pace that'll make me once again realize that this life is precious and wondrous.

There is a cliché that I've grown to dislike—"enjoy it because they grow up fast", and I say 'dislike' because while I know that this holds some truth, still, it's a nagging reminder that I and most of us take the rushed road toward life.

I don't want fast. I want more slow.

Slow lingers a bit longer. Slow brings you closer to 'in the moment.' Slow let's you enjoy every mundane minute. Slow makes you smile at the glimpses of magic in your life without you ever wondering how you'd miss it. Slow is right here, right now.  

Today is my husband's 42nd birthday. He is my everything. He often reminds me that slow is better than rushed. I love this and many more things about him.

Slow was my walk down the long and narrow isle on my wedding day as I smiled and refused to cry.

Slow were the days of my honeymoon in Italy because we hadn't a care in the world but to be blissfully in love.

Slow was my first labor because I remember every detail of it.

Slow were the days that followed becoming a mother of two. While it was overwhelmingly consuming, I can still remember the scent of my colicky newborn and hear the little voice calling out, "mama", from my sweet 20 month old while she sat and waited for me in her highchair. A difficult and guilt infused memory for me, nevertheless.

Slow were the days that I watched my older two fall in love with their newborn baby sister, my third daughter.  As they admired and kissed her little face, my heart swelled with joy times three.

On this wonderful day, slow is the gift that I've been given and an exceptional man is the one I am celebrating. Happy Birthday to my one and only love...

Slow holds bitter and sweet but slow is still better than rushed.  

Beneath the surface

I always find it interesting to learn what a person's impression of me is.  At the same time, I'm rarely surprised at how little people know about me. I guess this happens to many of us. Right?

There are a handful, and I mean a handful of people who 1) truly know me and 2) actually get me. I don't 'show' much of myself which is contradictory to what you read here. I share a great deal here on this blog.  I'm expressive but I'm very selective with whom I express my deeper self to in 'person.'

It is what it is.

There is a sort of restrain I maintain for the sake of 'safety' and 'trust' and some may not understand this. Worse, they may think it's about them. It's not. The ego always finds a way to fit themselves into the equation. Funny, eh?!

I'm a friendly person but I maintain very little 'close' friends.  I'm loyal and protective with those I love. I'm severely flawed and I'm quite okay with this. What others think of me doesn't define me because although I don't seek the approval of others, I do consider myself altruistic.

At my core, I'm deeply passionate and in tune with the subtleties of body language. I often find myself acutely observing people. Obviously, this is one of the reasons why I'm a writer. Interestingly, my husband shares a few of these qualities along with me and it fascinates me. He's my 'go-to' person and ultimate confidant.  

The one obligation I have toward myself is to be authentic. Self-reflection is oftentimes a difficult task because you don't always like what you see. Wading through all the garbage is tiresome. Tossing out the things that weigh me down is liberating. Choosing to keep individuals that stifle my energy out of my life is a relief. Being selective with whom I put my energy into is smart. This is the process of peeling down the layers of my authentic self. I'm not saying that any of this is easy but it 'is' necessary.  

While having a conversation with a very close friend today, we talked a bit about compassion. I expressed to her that for the past decade I've been cultivating compassion within myself.

It has taken me this long to realize that many individuals whom have willfully inflicted harm and pain toward me are also broken and lost souls that deserve my compassion. Yes, they deserve my compassion.  This awareness did not happen overnight. It has taken me this long to own it. There were certain events that had to happen for me to cultivate and own this emotion.  Follow?

"Forget your personal tragedy. We are all bitched from the start and you especially have to hurt like hell before you can write seriously. But when you get damned hurt use it- don't cheat with it. Be as faithful to it as a scientist." Quote from a letter E. Hemingway wrote to F. S. Fitzgerald in 1934.

The thing about compassion is that it is not an easy feat. No. But it is a reality that has stricken my sense of worth in this world. Contrary to what I witnessed as a young child and for as long as I can remember, the one thing I always knew for sure was what I did 'not' want in my life.

I did not want an unstable life. I did not want a life full of regret. Basically, I did not want to be 'like' my mother. But I needed to be compassionate toward my mother, regardless.  Beneath the surface of my pain and resentment, compassion was being cultivated. It was a choice I made in order to heal and continue to grow and ultimately understand myself.

Growth doesn't come without pain.  Healing doesn't happen without once again ripping the wounds open. Compassion cannot be born without self-reflection.

As a child, my dreams were always bigger than my problems even when I thought the sun would never shine brightly enough. Perhaps this could explain why I'm confident in my own skin no matter what is happening to me. Sure, I get depressed and down and suffer from sudden bouts of anxiety but I don't ever lose my self-confidence. Only a a selected 'few' get to hear my moments of darkness because only a selected 'few' understand me.

I'd be a phony if I told you that I have all my garbage together. I don't. I'm 'far' from it. I've never claimed to have anything 'together' and I'm okay with this. I'm okay with telling you that I am a mess.  I. Am. A. Mess. Questions?

Most of us are a lot more complicated that what we seem while others simply seem ordinary. We all have our flaws and this is what makes us so interesting and beautiful. What fun would it be if we were all perfect? Blah, no way! Imperfect is way better. We are human. Imperfect beautiful humans.

Beneath the surface, I know that I am a rare and valuable individual. We all are.

One is like a pearl, sometimes irregular but always beautiful...

Beneath the surface of all this mess there is a compassionate soul.

We all have something that we need to work on and work with. Be authentic with yourself and you'll find your pearl beneath the surface too...

I Am NOT Supermom but I AM Mom Enough

The other day I was feeling overwhelmed, consumed and simply up to my neck with everything around me so I updated my personal Facebook page to read this:

There were more threads of people who commented (I just didn't snap the entire screen shot.)

You may say: 'Ok, fine. No big deal.' 

Now this comes as no surprise but you know what I noticed, yet again? That every single mother out there is practically in the same boat as me.

We're all struggling to keep our sanity, our homes in order, our kids fed and bathed and ALIVE, our life in some semblance of balance, yet we still put an enormous amount of pressure on ourselves no matter how many times we know this fact: "I'm NOT supermom."

I second guess my parenting decisions, DAILY. But I'm doing my BEST.
I worry that I'm scarring my kids in some emotional way, DAILY.  But I'm doing my BEST.
I struggle with feeling inadequate as a mother, DAILY.  But I'm doing my BEST.
I don't know what each day will bring me. But I'm doing my BEST.

There are so many other ridiculous things that would take up this entire post but I just don't want to do that to you. Follow?

Repeat after me, "I. Am. NOT. Supermom. But. I. AM. Mom. Enough."

Why do we do this to ourselves?

Here's one thing I KNOW for sure: There is no RIGHT way or WRONG way to parent. Period.

We're parents. We make mistakes, we do wonderful and not so wonderful things, we learn, we cry, we praise, we support, we give, we receive, we love and we're HUMAN.

Human.

So when TIME Magazine published their cover that read, "Are You Mom Enough?" along with the blogger, Jamie Lynne Grumet and her 'standing' breastfeeding toddler, I wasn't so much offended by the fact that a three-year-old was nursing but more about the hook and posture of the entire image.

Mom enough? Really?

Stooped on a chair, nursing? Really? No breastfeeding mother I know nurses her toddler in this fashion.  It's absurd and contradictory with how nursing a toddler is really done.  

I was baffled.

TIME got what they wanted. A seriously heated debate.

It has taken me days to let the rage settle and the hurt to subside. Rage because this depiction is insane. Hurt because I'm simply tired of yet another media incited 'mommy war' to take on another stab at ALL mothers.

This is a stab to every mother on this planet. Why? Because here is another tactic to cause 'the great debate' over parenting styles.

Just to be clear, I embrace, practice and advocate home-birthing, attachment parenting, long-term breastfeeding, co-sleeping, baby-wearing and pretty much all the other 'unconventional' parenting practices.  It doesn't matter to me what parenting style you embrace or practice for your child so long as you're not judging and placing a stigma on the ones that differ from yours.

Who am I to judge or criticize any mother or her choices?

My mother was not an attached parent and did not breastfeed me or my four sisters. She parented me as best she could. I'm okay with this.

This is not about good mom/bad mom. If you ask me, that term should not even exist because if you're a mom, you're simply doing your best. Period.

What is grossly missing in today's society with respect to mothers as a whole is one simple thing:

Compassion.

There is zero compassion for the working mom.
There is zero compassion for the breastfeeding mom.
There is zero compassion for the formula feeding mom.
There is zero compassion for the mentally ill mom.
There is zero compassion for the mother who has a baby as a result of rape or incest.
There is zero compassion for the mother who gave her baby up for adoption.
There is zero compassion for the stay-at-home-mom.
There is zero compassion for the mother who turned away for a split second and lost sight of her child.
There is zero compassion for the lesbian mom.
There is zero compassion for the single mom.
There is zero compassion for the artificially inseminated and unmarried mom.
There is zero compassion for the mother who had an elective c-section.
There is zero compassion for the mother who chose to terminate her pregnancy.
There is zero compassion for the mother who forgot her baby in a heated car.
There is zero compassion for mothers. Period.

Yes, I strongly believe that there is little to no compassion in the areas I listed above and many, many more.

If mothers continue trekking down this 'mommy war' road then how does this shed a positive example for our children?  What will our children think of all this drama? How are we shaping their impression of motherhood, moms, mom culture and parenting collectively?

I think we need to start with extending a heck of a lot more compassion in ALL areas of mothering, motherhood, parenting and the like.

Let's BE compassionate toward each other.

My friend and editor over at ShePosts, Kristen Howerton, wrote a phenomenal piece on her blog, Rage Against the Minivan, where she brings up an undeniable and important factor in the mom world:
"Where is the Mommy War for the Motherless Child?", just read it and you'll see.

Her points are mind-blowing and her tone is just what the world NEEDS to hear.
These are the 'wars' I applaud, back-up and am the first one to stand up and shout for.
Thank you, Kristen!

While I and most of us moms are not supermoms, I can proudly say and with smug smile, we ARE mom enough.  Period.

Mom, remember when...

There were some pivotal things I learned from my mother and other things about her that I'd simply like to forget. Still, I love her dearly.

I was sitting at a café down the street from my house the other morning, Luna was watching a flick on the Kindle Fire and I starting thinking long and hard about the positive things my mother had imparted to me as a young girl.

I always knew that I wanted to be a mother.  Children are gifts.  Mothering is an art.  Feeling completely consumed by mothering your children and trying to do it 'right' is a natural and expected emotion.  I feel the latter quite often.  Still, I love being a mother. Period.

My mother confessed to me once that she wasn't too thrilled about having children but that she was glad she had had all five of us.  Of course, she had her first child at age 16 and no one WANTS a child at that age, right?!  

She always wanted to travel.  Her dream job was to become a flight attendant (a Stewardess back then) and to be free to roam the globe as she pleased.

Instead, she takes care of two children that are not related to her.  She's a nanny.  Those children spend more time with her than her own grandkids do.  Life is funny that way.

She once told me that she wished she could have her five daughters and nine grandchildren in one room together, sharing and being her family.  I don't know that this will ever happen but I sure wish I could give it to her even for just one moment.

Her life is filled with so much regret that perhaps this one little gesture would ease her pain just a little...
Or maybe I'm being a little too optimistic?

I came up with four things my mother taught me.

1. Give and don't expect anything back:
My mother never told me this but she taught it to me by her generous way toward others and her charismatic demeanor.

She has a fickle heart but she's genuine in her actions.

Growing up, I found myself wanting to help others because of my mom.  My mother gives until she barely has enough for herself and she'll never ask for anything in return.

Simply how she is and I like that about her.

2. Be cautious with your decisions:
My mother never really voiced this lesson either, however, I did watch her every step and analyzed her choices and decisions closely.  There was always a sense of doubt in her choices.

Her doubt often expressed itself through her candid ability to flee in retreat from her decision making.  It inadvertently affected me in such way that nine out of ten times I'm looked upon as being way too cautious.  I'm okay with that.  

3. Keep good friends close:
My mother estranged herself from her family for about 10 years.  I was about five years old.  I have no recollection of ever hugging or kissing my maternal grandmother, Carmen.  I have no memories of playing with my other cousins, my mother's nieces and nephews, that were my age.

My mother relied heavily on her friends and her 'chosen family.'  I grew up feeling and believing that family wasn't worth having around because they'd probably never be there for you when you really needed them.  This is what I saw.  This is what I lived.  This is the only thing I knew.  

Somewhere deep down in my soul I knew that there was something missing. Still, I value family.  I love connecting with relatives and I look at relationships much differently than the way I observed them as a child. 

I keep my friends close.  I'm selective in how I engage but I'm authentic and genuine in my actions.  My mother taught me that friends are sometimes a little better than family.  Then there are times where one ends up coming back to one's roots to further understand themselves.  

My dearest friends are my heart and they know it... 

4. Be self-sufficient:

One random day my mother said to me, "Don't ever depend on a man for security."  I was 10 years old. It was a bold statement.  I understood what she meant.  I also knew that she wasn't practicing her own advice.  

For some unknown reason, her advice seared itself in my mind.  It made a huge impression on me.  I'm so glad she said this to me because it further cemented my desire, passion and will to follow my dreams no matter who or what was standing in front of me.  

My teenage years were a challenge because I struggled with my mother to take me to school or work.  

I held a 25 hour per week part-time job while in tenth grade.  Every two-weeks, I'd give her half of my paycheck, something I felt like I had to do.  She often said that she was either too busy or that she didn't have enough gas to take me to school or work.  Thank goodness for public transportation and a couple of friends.  

These challenges shaped who I am.  For better or worse, I thank my mother for this.   

The other day, I asked my mother what color tulips she liked most, "Pink.", she said. 

So I got her these... just a blooming reminder that I love her.     

*To my dear and loyal readers, I wish you all a lovely Mother's Day... ♥

Mom 2.0 Summit: Insight and Inspiration

Mom 2.0 Summit brings together a variety of moms, dads, bloggers, brands and social media experts.

This was my very first blog conference.  I had no idea what to expect.  I was open and willing to learn everything and anything that it had to offer.

Needless to say, I was blown away.

The first event was the White Party.  Attendees and brands networked and got to meet one another.  The crowd was lively and we all had a fabulous time.

Of course being in Miami, it was Mojito central!!

I die for baby toes! 

These cute little toes belong to Jane Maynard's of Daily Buzz Moms baby! 

Image via Mi Caminar

White Party at The Ritz-Carlton

I got a whole lot from this conference, probably more than I bargained for.

Here's my under $50 outfit for day 1 of the conference.
All except for the shoes are from Goodwill!

Top: Loft- $3

Necklace: Vintage-$8

Skirt: No brand-$4

Shoes: Zappos $30

Lunch and Dessert was sponsored by Aldi on Friday.

At one point during the conference I felt a bit overwhelmed.  I was worried that a slight little panic was going to rise in me.

It was not because of the amount of people, rather more because of the amazing speakers and breakout sessions.  The breakout sessions were individual blocks sectioned off for the attendees to get more out of the conference, i.e,. 'improving your blog through social media', 'discovering the right direction for you' or 'standing in the spotlight', just to name some.  

Note to self:  A tab bit of over excitement can bring on a migraine.  Just remember that.   

The highlight of the event for me was listening to the amazing Brené Brown speak. 

WOW.

Amazed.

Inspired.

Moved.

Brené brought pure heart to the entire conference.  Her words were uplifting and her spirit was exactly where she puts her message into—Compassion.  

"We have to normalize discomfort"-Brené Brown

 I was thrilled to personally meet and have her sign one of her books for me.  It was awesome.

"Tell the story of who you are with your whole heart"- Brené Brown

If you want to hear more from Brené, watch her Ted Talk here. 

It was also very exciting to meet some top bloggers that I read and follow.  I also met the editors of the site I contribute to, ShePosts.

I mentioned to one of them that while social media is an amazing platform, nothing can beat the face-to-face connection that's made when you meet someone.  There is a void that's filled.

I'm all for social media but I also know how important it is to connect face-to-face with people.
Just grateful I was able to do this... 

Kristen Howerton, editor of ShePosts and author of Rage Against the Minivan. 

That's us at the Versace Mansion Party! 

What I learned from Kristen? Write what you're passionate about even if it's controversial. 

Gabrielle Blair of Design Mom 

I briefly met Gabrielle while she was trying to eat.  I kindly asked her to pause for a photo.  

She was generous and sweet. 

What I learned from Gabrielle? Take risks! 

She and her husband and six children moved to France almost on a whim and they love it! 

I admire this spontaneity... 

Cecily Kellogg of Uppercase Woman and Babble's Mom Crunch 

was my bus ride buddy to the Versace Mansion.  

Don't you just love her bold pink hair?! It was great to chat with her.  

Made some West coast buddies! Alexis Gentry (middle-from Seattle) of Design Sundries

and Cathy Pollak (wine maker from Oregon) of Noble Pig

Another big plus for me was meeting and connecting with local Miami mom bloggers! 

Alexis (far left) of The Exhausted Mom and 

Caroline (on the right side of me) of Smarty Pants Mama

Both amazing women! 

Simply thrilled to have met all of these awesome mamas... 

I'm still feeling the effects of the positive energy and inspiration I got from the Mom 2.0 Summit.  

The fact that I went and made such incredible connections reminds me that we're all striving to inspire the many that come to our blogs, read us, follow us, comment and share the love. 

If you blog, continue.

If you comment, continue.

If you read, continue.

If you have a passion, continue.

Nothing can stop you from achieving your dreams... 

So. Worth. It.