It takes a village

One Year Later

368 days ago our family, minus one, hopped on a plane for six hours and flew to what many call a paradise. Being as it wasn’t my first time as a resident of Honolulu, I landed knowing that is not always the case; paradise is a lot of things but it isn’t equally the islands of Hawaii. Maybe paradise is sitting on a sunny beach, all lathered up with sunscreen and cheersing a cold bevvie with someone you love, or it is riding bicycles with your SO, hair in a ponytail and the sun at your back as you feel the wind under your feet and around your neck. What I am saying is I think of paradise as actions or feelings, not locations.

The first few months

We arrived in Honolulu and went straight into quarantine with family for two weeks. We spent those fourteen days adjusting poorly to the warmth of Honolulu, the famished mosquitoes who loved feasting on our sweet blood, and admiring the daily dose of vitamin D we were now ingesting.

And my job search began.

Then, my job search continued. And in some rash logic, I chopped something like 10 inches off of my hair to cut out all the bad juju I was feeling, to renew myself, and to have some dramatic start-over, just like our move.

At some point, I counted 35-ish applications submitted all around the island. I edited my resume a slew of time. I began walking daily just to clear my mind and do something. And more importantly, I started taking it personal. I had invested so much time and effort into earning my degree in HR Management and earning my SHRM certification that it just baffled me that I was only phone screened twice out of all those applications. What became glaringly obvious was that Hawaii operated human resources very differently from the mainland – where time spent in a specialty was more important than my time as a generalist. Yes, that eventually ended and I landed somewhere amazing but wow did imposter syndrome rear its ugly head at me.

A house vs a home

A couple years ago, a friend messaged me privately asking how I can so openly share my life experiences in my blog without fear of hurting other people’s feelings. I said, I write from my side and I tell my truth. I still stand by that but it just hasn’t been feasible here in Hawaii. My words might affect others. That is the best explanation I can give on my one-year-blog-post-hiatus. I couldn’t bring myself to look at it. And with that said…

In January we closed on our house alongside my father-in-love; this had been the plan for some time. This house has not been the greatest experience of my life for a myriad of reasons. Suffice to say the boys love their rooms, our dog loves her yard, and we anticipate a pool in the future.

When we drove by our old home on a visit to see family and friends, I turned away, unable to look at it. In that same sense, I cannot bring myself to share the Hawaii home. And that includes inside.

Island Time with Vee

Which brings me to the many friends who have reached out about Island Time. I really am continually surprised by how so many of you grew to love that weird little cooking show with me. I thank you all so much. We initially took a pause as the citizens of our nation cried out liberty and justice for all when it was becoming so glaringly obvious that still was not the case. It felt trite to film me making food while cracking eggs and jokes while protests erupted globally with experiences being shared that could bring you to your knees. George Floyd died and not one person opposed to the BLM movement has been able to eloquently excuse it or explain it away to me. Then the election. Then my grandfather died. No moment felt right, including purchasing this home that has not found my heart yet.

I don’t want to film it. Does that mean ever? I don’t know. It means not for now. I sincerely thank each and every person who has watched even one episode and cheersed with me and laughed. It means the world.

Family

Saying goodbye to my Grandfather before we left for Hawaii unsettled me. I knew without really knowing that I would not see him on this side again. As we began settling in here, I fell into a routine of calling him at least once a week on my drive in to work to chit chat. More often than not I would ask him how he was doing and almost always he would answer, I haven’t died yet. I would scold him, Grandpa, that is so morose! I mean, we danced this dance so many times that even though I knew it was coming it would still gut-punch me every time. We knew it was coming.

One of the last things he said to me was, the end is part of the journey.

I know it is true. It still hurts the same.

He passed on the morning of the election, which I laughed about because we disagreed so much on politics. He was convinced Trump would be reelected and he didn’t live to see that outcome. I find something poetic in this. I still think of him so often and being so far away from family was hard. I couldn’t just fly back because of my new job to hug my mom who had just lost her father. I couldn’t hold her hand and tell funny stories of him and his boisterous shenanigans and in turn, my other familial support was very limited. Grieving sucks. I wish I could have been with my family. I cannot thank my friends who became my family enough for the love and reaching out. I would be lost without you all.

Some of you have been able to visit me (I LOVE YOU SO MUCH) and some of you have weekly phone calls with me, and some of you have scheduled zoom happy hours. When you love people and they love you back, distance or a pandemic does not get in the middle of that noise. And I see you.

The Meanager

Parenting an adult son has been the tits, friend. No longer can I scold his one word responses or force him to answer my texts or calls. I’m always on a cliff of worry on if he is okay, if he is drinking water, if he is missing me, if he is not speeding while driving. I want to talk to him every day but in the same breath, I am not calling my own parents. Logistically, I know he is okay. I just want to snuggle him and chat with him. I have only gotten to physically see him twice since we moved and it hasn’t been enough. There are countless books on parenting small kiddos yet where is the What to Expect When You’re Expecting an Adult? Where is that nonsense? All the jokes about empty-nesters but what about missing-pieces-of-your-hearters? Where are they? Is there a support group? I would choose teething with him again over not seeing him daily. I would choose baby-poop blowouts with no diaper bag over not having him over for dinner and laughs every night. I want him to live his life and have the greatest time and still somehow be a part of it so bad that my heart physically hurts.

Hawaii and its new beginnings are harder without a complete family. I can love moments here while simultaneously missing so much from back home. And that is all I will say about that.

COVID

The end.

And then I shaved the side of my head.

Time to Forgive Myself

UW from the get-go

The only college I ever knew I wanted to go to was the University of Washington. From the beginning of time and without real reason it was on my list; the list of one. The idea of university made no sense to me, for whatever reason, except for UW. I made posters and cheered for them at the Rose Bowl growing up. I wore t-shirts and recited to everyone how I wanted to go there.

Adults would pat my head, in a belittling manner but without that intention. “Yes, dear,” as if to pacify a bratty child. I knew what I wanted and they didn’t care either way. My parents opened their Mexican restaurant when I was almost six years old. I grew up in it and with their regular patrons. The thing is, unexpectedly, you become the child of the town. Those who dine with you take an interest in your goals and your life. They tell you their thoughts and expect you to heed their advice because they’ve earned it. They’ve had dinner with you for the last ten years, for gawd’s sake.

For one important reason that I don’t have to share, I decided I wanted to be a neonatologist. A smaller part of this decision was that I loved helping people, including bandaging their wounds and holding their hands as they were brave. Medicine came to mind. Somewhere along the way a friend shared her college story about sociology and what that means. Okay, I thought. I’ll major in pre-med and minor in sociology. That made sense to me. Easy peasy.

I was an avid student but I didn’t force myself. In AP history in high school, I was excited to hear I had passed it and would have college credit. My teacher announced his astonishment, “You passed!” he exclaimed incredulously. I don’t think he could believe it but I could. I wasn’t surprised. I had worked for it. Kind of.

I remember the time coming to apply for colleges. I already knew my plan. I was only going to apply for the University of Washington, even though a certain classmate told me that if I got accepted, it was due to affirmative action. With a lot of hope and a little hard work, I applied. I didn’t care why, if they did say yes. I just wanted a yes.

And I was accepted. I’ve skipped over a lot of ups and downs in life because that isn’t what this is about, but don’t mistake that this was a feat. I didn’t come from privilege. This was exceptionally wonderful and I knew it. My father didn’t want me to go so far away; a spectacular scholarship from Western was part of the reason. If I stayed and attended WWU, I would have essentially zero debt at graduation. That was not the case for UW.

So, in true Vee fashion, I left. The day after graduation (my mom still reminds me of this) I packed up and moved south. I began classes in September and was ready to thrive.

Except, that was not the case. UW was hard. There were more students in some of my classes than my entire town growing up. UW slapped me back to reality fast and I was not prepared. It grabbed my confidence out of my hand and hurled it to the floor like a glass snow globe. It shattered when it hit the tile.

Fast forward to my last semester. I had moved out of my dorm to rent an apartment with a friend who then bailed because she lost a job, I had met a guy, and I was struggling to make it through my first year. Every decision I could wrongly make, I did. It was defeating me. I had practically zero visits from family, almost no friends in Seattle, my first failed class under my belt, and a full-time job. I was overwhelmed.

This isn’t a hate message to my loved ones. I made my decisions and I fostered or didn’t relationships then. I love my family, and it’s complicated. Relationships aren’t always pretty and I love my mother and father. Our relationship isn’t perfect. We managed how we could or how we knew when we needed to and so no judgement or finger-pointing. Life is what it is. I was alone. What I’m saying is I’ve consistently disappointed myself. Them, too. I learned not to expect for them to be there.

In my last class of the day, the teacher had a lackadaisical approach to school. He gave us three assignments on the first day and told us we could attend or not attend, but before a certain day the three assignments must be turned in. I thought it was wonderful. I had so much I was juggling that the idea of being in charge of my workload was exhilarating. Except, I knew shit about managing my workload. What my ears heard was that I could work an additional hour at my bank job and I could glean by imaginary osmosis whatever information I needed to complete my three assignments.

Days and then weeks went by. Little by little I chipped away at the first two assignments. Maybe that actually took months because before I knew it, two weeks were left before the end of the term and one assignment was outstanding. And I hadn’t attended class so I had absolutely zero idea on what my approach to the assignment would be. I frustratingly shared my concerns with my boyfriend at the time, who was a hop, skip, and a jump from becoming my husband.

He was living with me at this point. I had been drowning trying to pay this Seattle apartment on my own and he arrived, like a knight in shining rent assistance. I was terrified of bad credit, which is pretty fucking ironic since he singlehandedly ruined mine shortly after. I digress. I had been offered extra hours at work because I was excelling there unlike at school and he saw an opportunity. He offered to write my paper, stated he had taken a similar class and would be well equipped to get me a decent grade.

Not once had I cheated in school or in college. I argued with him for a long while, convinced I could do this paper and work the extra hours and give him the attention he demanded. He wasn’t so sure and he let me know it. Through gaslighting and manipulation, he convinced me. With pure words because he had never hit me up to now. He would write this paper and I would go to work and all would be well.

I came home and he had it. Beaming with pride he held it up, excited to show me his masterpiece. I read it in awe and with disdain. It didn’t sound like me at all, was an opinion I never would have taken. I was one day away from the due date so he proposed driving it over in that instant. I was hesitant. It didn’t feel right; it had never felt right. I knew this was wrong and yet I didn’t know what to say. I rode in silence to the university with him, walked begrudgingly to the required building. He accompanied me most of the way. I was alone in front of the mailbox and I really thought for a moment about what kind of person I wanted to be; what kind of person I already was. Somehow, cheater won and I slipped it into the professor’s mailbox.

It should come as no surprise that I was called in for an investigation into plagiarism. Absolutely the most embarrassing moment of my life, up until then. I entered the room downtrodden and listened as the student investigator told me that the paper had been copied, word by word, off the internet. I never fought or lied. I confessed right away. Other classes I had worked so hard to pass were brought into question. I was humiliated sitting in that room, trying to advocate that this had been the first time, as ridiculous as it might sound. I was placed on academic probation.

I dropped out of UW after that. Embarrassed and feeling defeated, I succumbed to working entry-level bank jobs. Even when I would be promoted I would berate myself. The damage had been done. Months later I found out I was pregnant with Samuel. It was literally the day before I married his father. I didn’t want to go through with any of this but that cemented it for me. I was stuck with this person who at this point was already physically abusive. This was my life for a decade. When I shared my pregnancy with restaurant friends, they expressed their disappointment. “But you’re so smart,” they said to me. “I can be smart and still have a family,” I had replied. I meant that. They were disappointed in me, too.

It wasn’t until a few years after Kulia and I were together that she decided to return to school to get her bachelors though an online university, WGU. During the first two years, I watched her and felt inspiration growing. Since four days after I turned 30, I had been rewriting my shitty first draft, living afraid but doing the things, regardless. It had been almost twenty years since my time at UW. I took a deep breath and applied amidst my terror. I made the decision to tackle my fear head on, panic attacks, doubt, fear and all.

Studying for WGU was a lot of work but manageable for me and I firmly believe that it was because of my audacity to prove to myself I was smart enough, and capable enough, and willing enough. All things I could have done two decades prior but wasn’t strong enough to follow through.

I kept it to myself, minus my wife and best friend knowing. Why? Because I was doing this for myself and I wanted zero outside noise. Someone once told me that they viewed themselves like an open book, just like me. Except, I’m not an open book. Not at all. Many people talk to me but few know me. I didn’t want to share this. I wanted to get through it on my almost sole belief that I could. Without complaining or excusing myself or quitting. Did I doubt myself? Hell yes. Did I question myself? Hell yes. Did I reprimand myself? Absolutely. But not once did I quit.

WGU gives each student a mentor. Aside from Kulia, my mentor, Chris, helped cheer me through this program that I successfully completed in two years. We had weekly calls where he figured out how to motivate and push me, I figured out how to sidetrack our convos into chatting about anything besides school, he would bring it back to school and I would ramble and doubt myself. He asked me during our first convo if I could handle this when things got tough.

What if someone dies that you’re close to? How will you handle school?

I think I can manage, I told him.

Yesenia. My grandmother. My uncle Bill. I did what I could while being there for them how I could. It made me want to push school aside but I didn’t.

Two years of working a full-time job, raising children, trying to workout and balance life. It was hard. It was exhausting. I had to put things on the back burner, like Island Time with Vee. And running. It made me question my sanity. Not once did I think about cheating. Not once did I think I wasn’t smart enough. The more I passed, the more I gained back the confidence I had once had. The teenager, moving to a new city on her own, didn’t give an eff who came to see her or not, doing her thang, confidence. I felt myself blooming.

And then, my last class was here before my capstone. It was information systems and was all about computers and I hated EVERY.DAMN.SECOND of it. It dragged. I half-assed it and thought that was enough and cockily asked for approval for the final exam. Then I failed it. My last damn test, slapped me right back to nineteen year old Virginia sitting in front of a student investigator admitting she wasn’t good enough for this. I beat myself up about it, I berated myself. I almost allowed it to defeat me.

Except between Kulia and my mentor, Chris, they wouldn’t let me. They said what I needed to hear, lifted my spirits when I wanted to break myself down.

This is your mile 12, Kulia reminded me. The hardest mile of my half-marathon five years ago. She was right.

You didn’t come this far to just come this far, Chris told me. Gawd, he was freakin right.

I put my head down and in the midst of a global pandemic, I passed that final class and began the last mile of the longest run I had taken. And within a couple weeks, I conquered my capstone.

And without further adieu, I present my bachelors in Human Resources Management.

Without asking anyone for permission, I learned how to fly

Degree earned the week of my birthday.

The end.

If I Were A Critic

It is no secret that I love Christmas. It should come as no surprise then, that when I began to see the recurring trailer for Last Christmas, featuring Emilia Clarke and Henry Golding, that I would do everything I could to watch it in theaters.

You know the one. It begins with Wham’s hit (do you even know how many times I googled who the other half of Wham was and still do not remember?! Ridic), sung slowly by Emilia who is forever the Mother of Dragons in my heart. You see her ice skating with Henry who is my second fave because Crazy Rich Asians (#duh). In four seconds it was the trifecta to convince me to throw money its way. It centering around some Christmas theme was extra. Literally neither here nor there. I was always going to want to see it.

I dressed up for the movie, by which I mean I donned my Christmas dress that sparked a movement (if you’re wondering what movement I mean, here it is: Christmas Dress Shenans), complete with accessories and my gingerbread house purse. It was the most justice I could do for this feature film. I was giddy excited and hardly noticed that our fellow attendees had an average age of 65 at the cinema. That is just what you get when you choose a Sunday morning matinee time. I have to add that it made for some interesting chuckles during some exciting trailers, but that’s for another day.

As the movie began, it occurred to me that I really had no idea what it was about. My best guess at the time is that it was a typical holiday RomCom that just happened to go straight to the big screen because of its clear A list of actors. Well, buckle up and let me add that no, there will be no major spoilers here. Just me listing out all the reasons why you need to go see it, even if you hate Christmas.

Here you go, without further adieu:

Ready to watch some magic!

Within five minutes of the movie starting, you realize that Catarina (played by Emilia) is a hot mess. She works at a Christmas Wonderland, which is actually now a dream for me, perpetually wearing a green elf dress. Her accessories are now legitimate wants of mine. The boot cover-ups to make them elf shoes are the best thing ever. I need a pair like I need oxygen! She is an adorable wreck. You love her instantly, even when you are cringing as she makes continuous bad choices.

She sings. This is no spoiler, as we heard that in the trailer and when she meets Tom Webster (played by Henry), he begins to help her overcome some challenges she has in nailing auditions. And, ya know, being a better human. Suffice to say that she doesn’t want to work for Santa (she is played by Michelle Yeoh, better known as the mean, unrelenting mom on Crazy Rich Asians) (and also YAY FOR WORK REUNIONS BECAUSE I LOVE THEM even though she’s a total beezy in that film) forever, either. I mean, I personally would, but to each their own.

You see, Catarina (or Cate, as she desperately wants to be called) cannot figure out how to turn her life around or who she even really is. She is a continual screw-up. Her sister is the shining star. They can’t stand each other because they both think the other gets more attention (sounds about right, right?). She has a fledgling relationship with her mother. They are a family of immigrants. I can relate with so much of it. Well, minus the singing. I mean, I do it anyway but I don’t sound angelic like she does. Maybe I should move my eyebrows more. I digress.

Tom slowly helps her regain some confidence, reminds her how to see people (but like, really see them), and to stop taking your village for granted. He refuses to be a slave to his cell phone. He asks her to eat better. He volunteers at a homeless shelter and takes her there to see it on their “second” date. There are mental health struggles, poverty, racism, lack of accountability, struggling relationships. Even when it is being cute, the film stays pretty true to a real world out there.

As Catarina begins to find her gumption and her drive, she starts to make some selfless acts. She stops being selfish and in that process, begins to find healing, both in her, and around her. She doesn’t need someone to save her or love her. She needs to do both of those things for herself, because you are the only person you can rely on one hundred percent for those things. Tom teaches her that, too.

Is there romance in this movie? Yes.

Is there comedy? Yes.

Is there almost every single George Michaels song in it? ABSOLUTELY. Get ready to sing along.

You also walk away from it with a renewed hope. Not just on Christmas, when we are most likely to reach out and help people but, in people, in general. This movie reiterates that with kindness we can break down walls, because we never really know what people are going through. We all have battles we are fighting. And the best love story is when you begin to love yourself.

And if you have a beating heart, you will love this film.

I just know it.

I don’t own the rights to this photo.

Grow with me

Aka – How to be a little better every day, with practice

Oh gosh. You did it. You clicked on this post to read my ideas on how to change something in your life, for whatever reason, because either you wanted to read this saying, “YOU DAMN HYPOCRITE,” and madly hit the X in whatever upper hand corner it appears in. Or because you think I deserve to give advice to anyone. Or maybe you’re just bored and it’s midnight on a Tuesday and you’re desperately crossing your fingers that this will be boring enough to put you to sleep.

Eek. No pressure.

All I’m doing is making a list of actual shit I’ve at least acknowledged as negatively affecting me and maybe that is the second step to fixing a problem. Or going to rehab. You never know!

First, put your damn phone down

Yeah, yeah. I don’t even need to explain it. You’re not continuing reading this thinking I’m going to give you some outrageous statistic that bitch-slaps you into realizing that by holding your phone, you’re holding hands with the devil. No wonder it’s called Apple.

I’m just saying, consciously recognize where your time goes. And if you’re one of those friends who thinks you don’t have a phone addiction, go ahead and pause your reading, go to screen time in your settings, and then think about whatever number of literal hours you see listed there. We can do better.

But don’t put it down yet. I’ve got more gems to share. And this is not permission to never respond to people’s texts or phone calls. FIND THE BALANCE!

Side note: my wife tells me to put my phone down a lot. Like, a lot a lot. I like to share our daily funsies but I think I’m getting better at choosing what and when and deciding when to put it away. With that said, nobody else tells me when to put my phone away and gets away with it. Not even my mother. So don’t even.

Second, listen to listen. Not to respond.

Yeah, it’s tough. I see it everyday. You ever feel like you’re talking to someone who just is not.hearing.you and you are getting frustrated? Well, brace yourself. Chances are, you have done it, too. I participated in an activity at a seminar once that I’d like to share. It’s pretty easy. Fairly eye-opening. You just need a counterpart. This helps you practice being engaged and active as a listener, which is essential for having real conversations. <– you know you’ve been a part of conversations that were really just someone else soliloquizing to you. Don’t front. Anyway, here is how it goes:

Set a timer for one minute. Yes, you can use your phone that you just promised to put away more often. Don’t be an ass. So, one minute. Literally just 60 seconds, which turns out is not really an eternity unless you’re planking or otherwise punishing your body. Sit facing whoever you dragged into this exercise, not to be confused with the plank.
Elect who will go first. I’m a big fan of the ole adage of saying, “Whoever raises their hand goes first,” as you shoot your whole arm into the air. It works like a charm and this activity has nothing to do with humility. You can go first. Someone has to.
Hit go on the timer. The elected speaker (aka you) will speak for the whole damn minute about a recent, major accomplishment. You know, that in and of itself is hard because we are told not to boast. Eff that noise right now. You get all these sixty seconds to brag on about yo’self. Finding it hard to figure out what to say about it? Explain that. Just keep your lips moving until your duck quacks or your robot does the waa-waa-waa-WAAA-waa-waa-waa-waa. Mmmkay?
While speaker #1 is talking, Silento needs to just listen. No interrupting allowed. They cannot open their hole until the duck or robot goes off. And during this time, they need to be actively NOT thinking about themselves, what to make for dinner, if there’s enough clean underwear for tomorrow, etc. JUST.LISTEN.
At the conclusion of that minute, the silent listener will write down three questions to ask later about what speaker one spoke about. THREE. It isn’t that hard because you were listening, right?! Not waiting to get a word in?
Next, set the time for one minute. Wash, rinse, and repeat. That means speaker two is up. Thundercats are go and it is their time to share.
Upon that timer meowing or whatever, speaker one will write their three questions.
Now, ask your questions. It can be alternating or all at once. Whatever feels right.
Practice. Even if you think you are already a phenomenal listener, try this every now and then. Hone those skills.
Revel in the fact you are working on listening better. You cannot control other people and how well they will listen. You can only set the example.

And if you don’t have anyone to practice with or are scared to ask because this is your first time and you get nervous, reach out to me. I’ll practice with you.

Sweep your socials

I know plenty of people who did or want to rid themselves of the social medias. Now, if you really want to, by all means. If you prefer one over the other, nobody says they’re beanie babies that you need to have a whole set of to matter. But if you’re just wanting to delete them because everything you’re seeing is negative, depressing, mean, etc, then it is time to evaluate who and what pages you are following. You are in control. I want to add that I also think it’s worthy to leave one or two sources of contention on your page so you aren’t oblivious to the stupid shit people say and do, but that’s just me. You do you.

Listen to the memes

Here is what I mean by this. I recently saw a quote (I know, they probably aren’t actually called memes. I’m just referring to the photo you can save that has inspirational ish on it, funny photos and odd captions that make you LOL, etc. I can call it what I want. You call it what you want), that said something to the effect of, I want to sit at tables that I’m not the topic of conversation of when I get up.

Dang. Can I get a HELLLLLLL YEAAAAAAH. Shitballs. That hit me like my fourth shot of tequila! I legitimately fist-pumped the air and felt instantly fired up! Who doesn’t want that? I mean, I was about to throw on my power hoops and my fave lipstick like it was a damn lava flower! You know, the one Super Mario eats? Watch out, lava balls coming your way!

Except, I also took a moment to think about the flip side, because being 37 can do that to you. Here you are aging, and also maturing! It’s the tits. When I reflected, I realized I’ve talked about people who have gotten up and left the table. Now, maybe my table is shorter and not full of directors. Yet. That doesn’t matter. I’ve still been guilty of this.

You hate excessive meetings? Don’t hold one after the initial one is over. You don’t like gossip? Don’t engage. Or better yet, say that. Literally say, “This conversation feels gossipy and I’m working on not doing that. I’m going to step away.” And I know that is awkward. I know it calls some people out. But damn it, I’m done tiptoeing around the boundaries I need to establish to make myself feel healthy. I empower you to do the same. And if you’re sitting there about to pop out of your damn chair because I’ve done this exact thing with you, just know this.I KNOW. I AM A HYPOCRITE WHO HAS DECIDED TO BE BETTER. Alright? Good.

Don’t be that person who makes everything about yourself

There’s one thing about connecting with someone, which is empathetic. There’s another thing about making everything about you. And maybe you’re feeling called out right now. Well, lace that sneaker up and get close because I mean what I am about to say. This is important. And I don’t say this maliciously. I’m bringing awareness to it because you are still reading and maybe this might help. Chew this over. Think about it. And ask yourself the following:

do I read posts and then comment about myself?
do I listen to my friend’s problem and then comment about myself?
do I interact with someone and turn what they say into something about myself?

It might sound something like this…

Person A: I feel crappy today. I haven’t pooped in a couple days. **Oh shit, no pun intended! Twice!**

Person B: I am so regular. I poop every morning.

Side note: Yes, I am always person B here. I KNOW!

Or it might sound like this…

Person A: I can’t believe Carol got that promotion over me.

Person B: I get skipped all the time because I refuse to play the politics, too.

Or like this…

Person A: I cooked some amazing fish and chips last night! I am so proud of them!

Person B: Oh, we make fish and chips all the time. They’re so easy.

See? What I’m saying is, sometimes, let up on you and be about them. Don’t be a B. I’ve practiced this a lot and let me tell you, it now stands out to me like a sore thumb (who came up with that? I’ve never really noticed anyone’s sore thumbs before), and I almost want to apologize (in fact, I think I have) on behalf of person B to person A before. It isn’t pretty.

Take note of what isn’t working

This is one piece of advice that sounds easy to me but isn’t, in fact, easy to me. I love to say yes to the fun stuff. The wifey likes to plan ahead. Turns out me wildly agreeing to shenans all the time is probably giving her high blood pressure. When you say yes to something, you are saying no to something else. That’s is what Shonda Rhimes taught me and while I still haven’t forgiven her for killing off Derrick, I see what she is saying. I AM WORKING ON IT, so you go work on it, too.

I’ll forever say this. If you know something makes you an ugly person or someone impossible to deal with, be it alcohol, video games, the political shit-show that is our country, instagramming your life, having your phone out all damn day, etc then MAKE.A.CHANGE.

Never let anything hold more power over you than you yourself hold. You’re too beautiful for that.

And last but not least…

When you can, be there. For the rallies. For those who need backup. For the hard fucking conversations. For when people are fighting for their life or saying goodbye to it. For when moms need their damn village. For when we need someone to show up and just sit uncomfortably with us without judgement. Show up for who is important to you.

And when you need someone, tell someone. <–That’s the hardest thing for me so if that sentence alone makes your throat squeeze shut tightly, I feel you. Let’s figure out how to ask for help also be willing to accept it. And let’s also figure out what isn’t working. Not for just those around us. For us, too.

Let’s do it together.

Be in a constant pursuit of what sets your soul on FIYA

Surviving

missingbeauty

I am almost 37 years old.

I am still at a point where the majority of my adult years were spent in fight, flight or freeze.

I have a lot of nightmares. Even when I am doing well and not getting bombarded with ugly memories, I will wake up drenched in sweat from trying to run away from him.

Ku and I watch movies or shows sometimes where there is a character in an abusive relationship. I’m usually shaking my head as it happens, both as a reminder that I am not that character and that I am okay, and also because I don’t get it. I lived that life for over a decade and I still can’t comprehend WHY. I’m not just saying why it happens. I’ve read plenty of articles and attended events where phrases like toxic masculinity and gender norms and rape culture are explained. They make sense and I can see where the change needs to happen. I always leave thinking YES, we can FIX THIS, TEACH THE BOYS! Except, it is deeper than that, right?

Why me, though?

Not to say it should have happened to someone else, anyone else, as long as I was spared. No. Not at all. I’m saying why did I allow it happen? Why didn’t I know better? Why didn’t I walk away? I can’t think of any situation where domestic violence makes sense. I also cannot think of one where it made sense that I would fall victim. You see, I graduated with a 3.8 GPA, honor roll, Honor Society, accepted to my first university of choice. I guess when I think about circumstances that people find themselves in, I think that education and book smarts should help play a role in how they handle themselves.

My book smarts didn’t save me.

My Dad taught me when I was young that I had to walk on the inside of the sidewalk and him on the outside because if it was reversed than guys would think I was for sale. This seems to be a pretty universal understanding, judging from popular culture. We have been taught to buy in to this belief that boys will be boys and consent isn’t always clear, and boys who are mean to you on the playground like you. That locker room talk is just that, and should be excused. Yet somehow, guys have a basic, universal understanding that if I’m closest to the curb than I am open for business.

Early on I learned that if a man behaves inappropriately to me than it is my fault. If I’m standing on a beach in Puerto Vallarta when I’m thirteen in a one-piece swimsuit and some male walks by and ogles me, I share the blame between myself and puberty. If I’m standing in a bar, chatting with the people I walked in with, and a guy walks up to me and inappropriately puts his hand on my shoulder to say things that I don’t want him telling me, I can’t make a scene because it would be rude. What I learned when I was growing up was that if a grown man did anything disgusting to me, such as rub his erect penis against my leg even when I was fifteen, it was my fault and that if I said something, I would be blamed. That easily translated to me being responsible if I was hit by my other half. We have been taught, as young girls, to be meek, quiet, accepting and to not embarrass our parents.

Before I got pregnant with Abraham, my ex and I were living in my hometown. It was a calm, beautiful summer day and my friend Yesenia had stopped by to make flour tortillas with me. My meanager, Sammy, was only two or three years old and playing in the living room. Everything was great that day, because it wasn’t always terrible. Except, my ex-husband didn’t like Yesenia and I hadn’t told him she stopped by. Of course his mom did, though and he came home from work so angry. I don’t remember the argument but I remember I got in my car and left. I drove to Yesenia’s house because I needed space. I couldn’t stay there one more second and I didn’t feel safe. I could always tell when he was going to get physical.

When I drove up to her house, I thought briefly about how he would probably guess where I was but I knocked anyway. I remember the wind blowing gently through my hair as she answered the door with a worried look and I distinctly recall sitting on her couch feeling calmer. What I can’t conjure no matter how hard I try is what he said when he called her house and made her reluctantly hand me the phone, my drive back because he threatened banging on her door until I left if I didn’t, or walking in to my house. And somewhere between the door shutting and me turning towards both him and his mom, he hit me. Hard.

She came in to the bedroom a short while later, and as I cried in to my pillow, she told me I should never have driven away, that I should never have gone to Yesenia’s, and that I should have stopped arguing before he got to that point.

I was blamed. And I spent many years thinking it was all my fault.

I’m still so hesitant to share my story. I would be lying if I said it was because I don’t want to be blamed. I didn’t deserve it then, when someone who witnessed it firsthand was quick to place it on me or by anyone who would continue to do it today.

We become a mean type of human when we use stories of survivors’ trauma to apply irrational justification. I hear a lot (usually as a joke lobbed at trying to ease the discomfort of a terrible truth that was just shared) of comments about how embarrassed my ex must be to have lost me to a woman. What I wouldn’t give for this to not be someone’s first response when we talk about something very painful for me, still.

In reality, his manhood was gone the second he hit me. The moment he dismissed my love and loyalty to manipulate me into staying. When he decided to use my feelings to make himself feel bigger. <–That is what is really embarrassing.

Bravery is an action that is hard to muster up.

I was a great student. I graduated in the top 10% of my class with a set determination to make something of myself. What took me a long time to realize was that even though I stepped back and chose to start a family over my education, I was still smart. Even though I fell into an abusive relationship, I was still strong. And when I got away, in those first few steps of freedom, I found the road lonely. I lost friendships. I fought with family. I was scared yet I was without quit in me. I was judged, sometimes to my face, even. I sat in my car and cried because I couldn’t immediately fix everything.

bravery

I rebuilt, brick by brick, my insides. Somewhere in all the mess I had made, I began to see the beauty again. One of the best discoveries was that I could use my scared, shaking voice to recount my stories, share them publicly, and discover that I was encouraging women to stand up and leave. I don’t blog as often as I initially meant to about surviving domestic violence, but every single post brings at least ONE woman forward, who chooses to disclose to me a trauma she is currently or has gone through.

That fuels my fire. Telling someone your deepest secret is a big kind of scary. To each of you who has found the strength to break your silence to me, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

And know I don’t judge you.

To my oldest, with all my heart

Sixteen years and one week ago, I was ridiculously round with angst and excitement, thinking I was about to push you out into this world. Even though you were a few weeks from your due date I was sure it was time. Except, you weren’t as ready as I thought I was so you held fast and stayed cozy.

FOR A WHOLE ‘NOTHER WEEK.

And this is what our relationship has grown into, love. Us waiting eternally for you because you’ve literally marched to the beat of your own trombone or baritone or whatever instrument you correct me on. A beat that we call Sam Sloth Speed.

Sam&I

I look at you with awe in the way I imagine most mothers do. Unbelieving that I once housed your heart in my body, that we shared thoughts and nutrients and laughs. I remember telling myself I would never forget the feeling of you kicking, or what it was like to hold you for the first time or kiss your cheek, but the thing is that I can’t believe I have. I sometimes stare at you and wish I had had you in improved circumstances or later on in life, you know, when I could have done it right and when I was ready. But life doesn’t work that way, does it? Here you are and who would you be if things had been different?

I know it hasn’t always been easy for you and can feel like I am unfair. I like to say that I am a cliche, having made all my mistakes with you. Except one-week-shy-of-sixteen continues to be the longest I’ve been a mother. Every day I parent you is the highest number of days I have been one so the mistakes keep coming. Thank you, Sam, for always having infinite patience in my motherhood journey. It hasn’t been lost on me that you’ve had to see my growing pains and yet you love me anyway. No matter where life has taken us, it continues to be us, you and me, making our way through it.

There were a lot of ugly days that we worked through. I know it was hard for you going into kindergarten only speaking Spanish and I wish I could take that back. All those days and nights that I tried to get you up to par in English so you could understand the six hours of class you were sitting in, trying to teach you how to rhyme words, and then breaking down and ugly crying, which probably scared you, when it finally clicked, so many months later. And then when I called Aunty Amber and we cried about it together because every day was work and every day was a challenge for more reasons than language.

And I know you want to drive. I remember that draw to be even more independent and grown-up when I was your age. I know I’m being tough about it but the thing is, I don’t know how not to be and we are working through that so bear with me and do your part and things might fall into place like you want them to. Or maybe they won’t because sometimes I’m ridiculous, in which case you are a pro at handling. I’m trying, love.

We spent the better part of a morning, recently, googling and discussing your future. Somehow you will be graduating in two years and neither one of us is ready. That’s the truth. I could tell you were overwhelmed and I get it but I also think you are so capable. Just remember that, Sam. After all, you are at least half of me and you’ve seen me do some seemingly impossible things. I know it can seem that you have to have your mind made up about what you want to be and where you want to go but you don’t. You can figure it out as you go and it’s okay.

You are so resilient and kind, Sam. Even when I’m upset with you I think of how lucky we are that you were born first. You shared your words about domestic violence which couldn’t have been easy, you sit and talk to us about things that are important to you, even if we disagree, you ask our opinions and listen intently. You walked me down the aisle, you took the job so seriously, intent on not making me fall even though you were nervous. Just as disappointed as I was with your grandfather but still trying to understand him and give him love, regardless. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve stared at you and wondered how I have gotten so much of it right. I know I can be a hard-ass and I know you think better. You might be right but only time will tell. Thank you for being my first-born, one of the bigger chunks of my heart, and for reminding me to slow down like only you can. I would say it’s an honor to be your Mother but the reality is that it’s so much bigger than that.

Photo credit: Shannon Sasaki Photography

You will always be my favorite meanager.

What is happening?

You might wonder why I took a hiatus from writing. No, that’s not quite true. See, I don’t think much about what exactly I’m going to write and rather I let the words come to me. Many a posts were written lately, all in my head, where most of them begin. They just never made it on my blog, because they were either too much of one thing or another. I wanted to write about love on Valentine’s Day but then there was a school shooting and I was heartbroken, unable to find words that would do any of the seventeen lost souls justice, except there were many, all strung together in my head in a jumble of sadness and anger. I read so many calls to action, so beautifully written yet I felt paralyzed because I don’t know what to do or how.

And then there were the conversations about the shooting, with friends and family and our boys. How could I share some of the most raw, irritating, frustrating conversations with all of you, who are out there having your own? And then when fun things happened, how do you share that, when our nation (well, most of us) is mourning all the children who didn’t come home after school because of other children who took a weapon into their own hands and made a safe place a nightmare?

The #meanager, who we remind daily that he has much to learn

Alex, a trombonist, who could have been my Sam. Sam, who didn’t participate in any of the walkouts for reasons I can’t understand. Sam, who spouted second amendment words to me that made me want to scream. He has been so mature of late and then we disagree on this, on the issue of gun control and I wonder if we picked the right town to live in. Except, whose town is really safe? Are any?

I read this book years back by Ishmael Beah, A Long Way Gone, which is a memoir of this poor boy’s time as a child soldier in Sierra Leone. Little babes stolen from their families and told horrible things to make them angry, given drugs and forced to shoot their friends to see who is toughest. They are handed rifles and in my mind they are AK-15s because that makes sense to me. He doesn’t want to kill. He knows it’s wrong. Yet his is a story of survival in a country going through civil war, where adults are using every resource they have, which is an abundance of children.

I read an interview by Suzanne Collins on where her inspiration came from for The Hunger Games and she spoke of not being able to sleep one night and flipping through the channels and landing on a documentary about child soldiers. I imagined she was learning of Ishmael and the horrors he went through. The effects of war on children is where THG began. Young boys and girls, forced to do unspeakable things. Forced.

Moose, who we remind daily to be kind and show love to people

My mind flashes back to a regular morning with Moose. I’m driving him to school and it’s the morning after the Parkland shooting. I ask him what he does if there’s an active shooter at his school and he answers me so casually. It was as if I’m asking him if he enjoys math over science.

“I would hide. We learned to hide,” my son replies in all his nine years of age. “Where would you hide?” I have to ask this. I have to make sure it makes sense. He spouts out different places, mostly supply closets. That doesn’t feel safe enough to me, but you know what? Neither does school, in general, now. I question him about where he would hide if he’s on the playground, expecting him to have to think about it for a minute or two. He doesn’t, though. They’ve gone over this, too. I don’t find that comforting, friends. Except, I do in a way. A guilty way.

Abraham, who is so brave and learning to do him, regardless

A heartfelt conversation with Abraham, the 11 year old, wise beyond his years. He is a lover, more emotional than we knew how to handle for a while there, who participated in the sit-downs (they weren’t allowed to walkout in middle school, but were allowed to go to the gym). “What made you want to join in?” we asked him, because we didn’t expect it. “I want to be safe in school and I feel bad for the students who went through that. I don’t want to be bullied or afraid.” Me, too, boo. I don’t want any of those things for you, either. We applauded him. Gave him some high-fives. I’m not saying I was more proud of him than Sam, because they are equal but not the same. Abraham identifies with some of these concepts, as he has been bullied and made fun of. He beats his drum to a different beat, regardless, but it hasn’t always been easy for him. Sam is challenging us and forcing us to think harder and longer about our words and our expectations.

What are we expecting of our children? What are we teaching them with our words and our actions? How are we raising our boys, who see violence glorified in so many ways, with so many avenues? The #meanager mentioned he didn’t feel the need to walkout and demand gun control because it didn’t apply to him. “That won’t happen in Ferndale,” he has the gall to tell me. Except, a few short weeks later an email from his school district was sent to the parents to explain that a student had been arrested two days prior (which has me all kinds of fired up in a totally different way), because that student had brought a firearm to school and waived it around at another student as school was being released. That won’t happen here, MY ASS. I would be naïve, we all would be, to think any of us are safe.

DVSAS had it’s annual Victory Over Violence luncheon last month, where an informative, engaging conversation was had about gender norms, roles, and expectations. Many times, without meaning to, any one of us is perpetuating it. Ever since that lunch I have been thinking about my words and how I speak to my boys, because talking about it and being aware is how change happens. And you know what I think the most? That no one has to agree with me. But we can all listen, regardless. Just in case we learn something.

This is how I feel about where we are right now. Even if we don’t agree. Even if you have the strongest opinions about guns and your amendments, which ironically, includes the first. I mean, I’ll listen, too. And work on little things, like not telling your boys that dolls or the color pink are only for girls. Or gifting play kitchen-stuff to the little ladies in your life, because they are more than soon-to-be housewives. All I’m saying is think about your ideas of gender roles and consciously make an effort to disrupt that thinking and begin spreading that change. Show your mini-men love and kindness, show their boy pals the same, because we don’t know what happens behind any closed doors and you might be the catalyst for them to grow up better.

We can do this, friends. We owe it to our littles.

Huffington Post

A bonus-ing we will go!

It’s Christmas time! And you know what that means…eggnog, presents under gloriously decorated trees, and perhaps a little extra in your direct deposit. Wait, is that still a thing?

I honestly can’t remember what it feels like to be a part of a company that does bonuses, being as I’ve been out of the banking game for about six years now <– and those were based on performance, mostly, so you had to do things to get em. And not to get all National Lampoon-y on you, even though ’tis the season and all, but Clark was on to something when he yelled at his boss. He really was!

We are entering an era where employee engagement and retention of top notch worker bees is becoming cruuuuuucial. And not to get all HR on you, because dat’s my liiiiiife, but in the time of Google and Facebook and Starbucks, upping your boss game is more than just with moola. But, let’s say you do get a fatty little bump at the end of the year, in the form of the ever-sought-after B-O-N-U-S. What then?

See, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what I do with my monies. Maybe it’s because I sit on the board of DVSAS and it stays active and changes lives in our community because of the generosity of the upper crust and the medium crust and you know what, the whole damn pie. I think about how there was a time my boys were only unwrapping gifts from family because there wasn’t enough to feed them AND get them a toy. I know that now, where we are in our lives, we can reach out and help in so many ways. Except, it can be overwhelming, especially if you don’t have three zeros after your first number in whatever check you may be writing and that makes you feel bad. Maybe you don’t even know where to start because you want to help ALL the peoples.

Is that you? Do you feel like you just don’t know when or how? Well, you’re in luck, because I haven’t had much luck in sleeping lately, so my mind did most of the work for my friends. Here’s what I came up with, with hopefully something for those who maybe just have $5 to give.

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Idea #1: A charity that speaks to your heart

Now, this will take a little work on your end, so I apologize in advance, but here’s what I recommend: Sit down, take some deep breaths, and think about the valleys of your life. The low times, the hard times, the I-would-rather-not-think-about-that-time-of-my-life times. It might make you emotional, it might even make you mad, but take that energy and GET OUT THE GOOGLE. Mad-type your problem into the search bar and hit freakin ENTER like you’re lighting something on fire. Because you are. It could be a time when you were homeless or close to it, battling an addiction or watching someone battle one, domestic violence (oh, there are my heartstrings, alive and well), it could be you wanting to play a youth sport but your parents couldn’t afford it, maybe it was a puppy you begged for every year but never received, or how about if you just didn’t have healthy meals on the daily because you could barely afford food. Now, if you’re in Whatcom County, that could look like this:

Lydia Place, DVSAS, The Lighthouse Mission, Boys and Girls Club of Whatcom County, Whatcom Humane Society, Bellingham Food Bank, Northwest Youth Services , etc.

You could literally donate $5 and begin making a difference.

Idea #2: Support Political Action

It’s no surprise that for so many 2017 has been a let-down of a year. If you aren’t in that boat and you don’t feel any sort of ill-feelings toward the political state of our country, go ahead and skip on down to idea #3, because this one won’t speak to you. It’s been a trying set of months of who is a pre-existing condition, what women can or can’t say about their bodies, #metoo, and so on. Use your dollars like you would your voice because even your George Washington can come in hot, yelling like a CRAAAAAZY, just like you. Some great places to start are: Planned Parenthood (and please do so in Mike Pence’s name), DACA (because I’m not up for squashing anybody’s dreams, most certainly not those of the innocent), American Civil Liberties Union, Human Rights Org, National Assoc for the Advancement of Colored People, GLAAD, and so on. We cannot let those who don’t look like us, think like us, pee like us, etc get the better of us.

Idea #3: Education is going to change a world <– yours or whoever else’s. Someone’s world. It’s going to be changed. Let it be because of you.

If you can read this, thank a damn teacher. I mean it. Send a huge effin round of applause to the ladies and men who are there with our kiddos on the daily, listening to them drone on about whatever is important to them at the time. Who were also there for you. Yes, they aren’t perfect but neither are we and so they still deserve it. You can do any of the following and I’m sure tears would be shed: Donate to a PTO, whichever is closest to you, or at the school you went to, or stop in to a school one day and ask to pay some money on a student’s lunch bill. Because everyone needs to eat to be able to focus in class and some kids are in NEED OF FUNDS. I hope you all clapped that out with me, because I typed it HARD as if I was clapping. This is essential. Just take a Jackson in and find the office, ask where you can pay money on lunch accounts and hand it over. It will feel INCREDIBLE. Or you could buy a gift card at a store like the Dollar Store so the teachers, who make so little and still use their OWN MONIES to supply whatever is needed in their classroom and hand it to your kiddos educator. Or your neighbor’s kiddos educator. They are in abundance but their account balances are not. Again, even $10 could change someone’s world.

Idea #4: Listen

One day I was in Safeway and I did what every normal person does when I was ready to checkout. I scanned all the lines and picked the shortest one because #duh. I put all my items on the belt and waited patiently. I think I may have even texted Kulia something, because phones distract me from boring moments. I noticed I wasn’t moving even though I was next in line and I looked up to see the gentleman in front of me digging in his pockets and then choose an item to return. He nervous laughed and said he wasn’t sure how much his debit card would allow and so he asked the cashier to key in $20 and see if it would take. It did but he had a balance of $4.50 and all he had was milk, eggs, bacon and some other staple items. He was about to pick another item to put back when I handed a $5 bill to the kind lady and said, “Here. Please use this.” When he realized what had happened, he turned beet red because he was embarrassed. I felt bad for him when he turned to thank me over and over. It was such a small amount of help and he was so grateful and what I’m trying to say is, if I would have been stuck on my phone and not paying attention, I couldn’t have said yes to helping someone. Often times we hear of people paying it forward in coffee lines or things of the sort, but you can do it almost anywhere and I encourage you to be open and ready for it. I especially would like to throw out there that helping an elderly person at a store is monumental. They almost all live on set incomes that aren’t increasing with inflation. Help them out, friends.

Well, peeps, there you have it. Four but really 100 ways (because what’s life without a little exaggeration) to do something with your bonus. Or your fiver that you may or may not just spend on a coffee for yourself. Every little bit helps and I do mean every little bit. Don’t do what I did for so many years and think that because I don’t have thousands to hand out that I couldn’t partake in giving. And if you truly don’t have even $1 to help, I believe you but I ask this: Give your smiles. Show kindness to your fellow Earth-mates. Connect eyes and show some care. Genuine care. Even to the people panhandling on the streets and most especially to them.

Merry Christmas, you jolly bunch of non-a-holes. I love you all. And if you decide to buy yourself a pool, I won’t hold it against you.

giving

Advocate means voice, right?

The calm AND the storm

Once upon a time I was a really judge-y a-hole. I thought I knew everything about everything and this wasn’t even my teenage years. Gaaaaah, I was exhausting. One of the things I knew nothing about but thought I did?

ADHD

Until not only Samuel, but Abraham as well were diagnosed with it. No, scratch that. That’s a lie if I’ve ever told one. I still didn’t know. And quite frankly, it was the beginning of one of the hardest uphill battles I’ve ever fought. Alone but with people, together but on opposite sides of the river. Different but the same words to apply to two of my three boys who just rode the struggle-bus-wave at school something fierce. It was hard to swallow because it was personal and I felt like I had failed them in some way, even though it had nothing to do with me but was about to consume my life. Our lives. Each of us in different ways.

Samuel’s diagnosis, as a Type 1, meaning he has inattention but not hyperactivity, was an absolute dream in terms of handling it. He was put on a small dose of Ritalin and it was an overnight change, where he went from testing below grade level in every subject to making the honor roll no less than three months later. “He’s not dumb, he just needs a little help,” his sweet fifth grade teacher had told us. Learning about what he needed and why completing homework and turning it in was so hard made a lot of difference in understanding him better. Isn’t that what we all want? To be understood better? He started to gain self-confidence, boosting his self-esteem. You could see a visible change in him, almost immediately but also over time. Not to say he hasn’t had some ups and downs that have needed revisiting and adjusting. Sam still continues to be so much easier to handle.

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So, enter Abraham, who has been marching to the beat of his own drum since the moment he was born. Yesterday he asked me for a picture of that day, and you know what? I don’t have one. He was my fastest delivery, being born less than an hour after I finally got to the hospital because nobody believed that I was in labor and then when the nurse checked me I was dilated to 8. When they told me I couldn’t have an epidural or any other sort of pain meds because I was too far advanced, I broke down crying. I had been trying to keep it together for so long, thinking it would be coming. It wasn’t. He got stuck and the doctor had to help him get his head unstuck and I just screamed in pain. I remember it like it was yesterday, all the pain and commotion, but I don’t remember his face. I hardly saw it. He came early, was whisked out of the room so fast. I had only gotten to hold him for about five minutes and then he was gone but I didn’t even notice because then I was surrounded by doctors and nurses. I was hemorrhaging and they were working fast.

I don’t even know how much time went by before I realized he never came back to the room. And then it was a twilight zone because they started lying to me in ways I would mimic later, when my kiddos asked for something I knew I wouldn’t deliver on. “Maybe in a bit, not right now, etc” kept being fed to me. I remember wanting my Mom there but she wasn’t. Hearing false information in a hospital should be a crime. And you shouldn’t feel alone when you hear it.

****** You’re probably wondering why I’m rambling on about all of this. It’s most likely because I’m defending why I’m so Mama Bear with him. Ku thinks this is why and I don’t think she’s wrong. ******

Not even two hours later, after being told maybe and soon and a whole bunch of other no-in-disguise words, he was off, on a helicopter, to Children’s hospital. See, he couldn’t breathe on his own, he was considered a preemie and they didn’t have what he needed to keep him alive at St. Josephs. And then I was mad, because my doctor wouldn’t release me to go to him. You guys, I was straight up mean to that doctor and he took it like a champ. I’m still not even a little sorry, though.

Skipping forward, he was in the NICU for three a half long weeks where I was by his side day and night, practically forgetting I had four year old Samuel at home, being cared for by my ex’s family. It’s the one thing I’ve ever sincerely thanked them for. I wouldn’t allow pictures in there, not that we had many visitors, which I think I still struggle with, inside. I was so alone during one of the hardest months of my life. He was on a morphine drip, intubated, and not improving for so long. I could hardly take it and yet that’s what moms do; the hardest work and almost always on their own.

AB and his tia at our wedding, where he unapologetically tore it UP on the dance floor and just lived his life

I still see him, so little and helpless in the incubator, muted and fighting for his life. I was willing his lungs to do their job for so long, and yet I couldn’t make him better. When he was finally home, I would stare at him in the night, convinced that something would happen and he would stop breathing, because joy forebodes fear because that’s what we are taught in the movies.

I taught him baby sign and he was full on signing sentences before he was even eleven months old. He started walking on his tiptoes. He taught himself to read at four years old. He learned cursive on his own, at home, because it was interesting to him. He has a signature, friends. And he’s barely eleven.

He’s also type 2 ADHD. Which means hyperactivity.

It isn’t even what I would consider severe but holy moses, it’s so true for him. He will sit and watch a movie but his body will not stop moving. In fact, from so many talks with his doctor and counselor, he needs the movement to focus his mind. And this has not come without difficulty at school. Difficulty and distractions and distracting. To say it’s interfering with his learning is an understatement, even though he is still so smart.

We’ve been lucky in that a) I believe it. The other side of his family did not. Frick, some of my own family didn’t either. The fact of the matter is that while ADHD has almost certainly been not only one of the most misunderstood medical conditions, it’s also been misdiagnosed and over-diagnosed in many cases. Not in Abraham’s. I mean that sincerely. It wasn’t something we could change with just eliminating things like food dye from his diet. That doesn’t mean it isn’t true. I know that works for some kiddos.

It doesn’t mean that getting more activity in with your little isn’t the answer. It just wasn’t the sole answer for him. It isn’t a pass to just medicate and while Sam was such a big win with his, we have tried so many different kinds, stimulant and non stimulant alike without finding the best helper.

You want to know what one of the biggest helps has been? Having had some of the BEST teachers for him that understood or tried to understand him, that believed in his intelligence and that worked alongside us to help him thrive. It was such a weight off our shoulders to feel like we had an army behind us. Except, fairy tale elementary school is over and we have entered middle school and all its chaos and we are all drowning at our house.

We have entered a season of school struggle in a way we aren’t used to. Yes, middle school was tough for Sam, but it was Sam tough, so that still makes it sort of mild. I call him the meanager and that’s mostly from those rough years because he couldn’t figure out how to excel in school anymore. Getting him to do his homework, keeping him up on his assignments and learning how to actually study were so hard. Now, it all applies to Abraham and we are RIPPING OUR GAWWWWD DAMN HAIRS OUT.

I mean it. It’s been friggin tough as hell. It is straight up square peg, round hole time and all of us are at our wit’s end. I mean, I scheduled a meeting with his teachers and it was fruitless. Unfruitful. Without fruit? I’m saying I walked out of there feeling like I could have gotten more done trying to teach a giraffe their ABCs. It’s no wonder he’s having a hard time. If I feel like they don’t care, I can only imagine he feels like they don’t care because he’s pretty intuitive and you’d basically have to be blind to not see it. I even called, ten minutes after leaving and on my way to work, and spoke to his vice-principal and expressed how wasteful my time there had felt, was promised a call back and action, a commitment to helping him, etc. It was like being in that hospital room all over again, hearing fake news told to my face without an ounce of meaningfulness.

Today, I took my voice back and I Mama Bear’d it because I am not playing around. I don’t want to be that person that loses their patience with their kiddo over something they haven’t figured out how to control yet, because that’s bananas and not right. It’s not cool to get mad at a child with diabetes for having their blood sugar in the wrong numbers because they aren’t directly in charge of metabolizing their glucose and making insulin. <— wait, did I say that correctly? Do you get my drift?

What I’m saying is, if you have a little with either type of ADHD, or if you have ADHD, hear me on the following:

You are smart.

It is real.

You are not defined by it.

Use your voice.

What about if you don’t? You probably know someone who does, so read up a little on it, so you don’t sound like Vee2013 who was just a judge-y a-hole. Don’t tell people it’s made up because it isn’t. And offer some love.

Abraham in fifth grade, on his way to camp which was a huge stress to us but he did wonderfully

Raising Men

Back when they were super cute and easy to handle. No, wait, that’s wrong. Easier? Agh, forget it. They were little.

This has been a tough week to be a growing man in our household. And it is only Wednesday, friends! What the hell?! Is Mercury in retrograde or WHAAAAT… Often times the boys will take turns on who is going to give us the most grey hairs but every now and again we are reminded that life isn’t fair because they all wake up on the wrong side of their bed and collectively come down and play Who-can-be-the-biggest-A-hole all at once. It’s fantastic.

Yesterday, which was only TUESDAY, was a real effin treat and I thought to myself, people think we have it easy. I don’t know why, I don’t understand what is giving them this impression, but it’s not true. Since forever, when I would be out with all three at once, old ladies would stop me at the grocery store or wherever and make sure to tell me how blessed I was. Never mind that this mostly happened in Hawaii and almost all the grandmas were Asian. Having three boys made me a LUCKY GAL to all of them. A hero walking amongst the commoners, with the golden uterus that only pushed out males. I didn’t take that crown so easily. Mostly because I didn’t feel lucky. I will say, though, that I never imagined myself with girls. I just don’t think I could have done this world any favors trying to raise a boss babe. I’ll leave that work to my darling gal pals who are crushing it in terms of raising empowered, strong, brave ladies.

The fam bam

In the meantime, I’m over here, surrounded by crotch scratchers who love to fart and talk about things that are downright gross. Doing things that girls would never do because they’re all natural princesses who’s hair falls in perfect ringlets. No? I’m dreaming, you say? Huh. I was sure that was the law of the land. I get asked a lot how we do it. Ku and I both. “How do you do it? How do you raise three boys into gentlemen?”

Oh maaaaaaaan, am I glad you asked, because here come a whole heck of a lot of truth bombs. Buckle up.

#1: All boys are different

Whoooooaaaaa, did I just blow your mind there? What are you TALKING about, Vee?!? Yes, friends. I don’t lie to my fraaaaaans. While there are absolute similarities between my three boys, holy mooooosssseeeeessss, was I surprised at how each is their own person. One is quiet and awkward, one is articulate and political, with the remaining one athletic, stubborn and sweet. Yes, all those words can go together because I’m the one writing this. I’m the expert on making all the mistakes with them and so I get to choose how to string my words together. What I’m really trying to say, though, is that each one of them has to be handled uniquely. We use different tones and tactics with each one sprinkled with a healthy dose of losing our ish almost all the time. I’m not perfect, friends.

When they upset me more than usual, I look back at old pics that make me smile. It’s the easiest way to get over the moment.

#2: It’s okay to lose your ish

That leads me right to this point. We are not without our own faults and one of mine is I can have goads of patience for almost any other little but if my own spawn come at me with ‘tude or sass or utter ridiculousness, I.WILL.LOSE.IT. I will start to huff and puff, roll my eyes, break out some serious sarcasm, and then say something like, “Are you friggin KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW?” And then they shape up. Seeing the whites of my eyes really freaks them out. And when friends ask me how to not lose my cool, I have some suggestions but I always throw in that sometimes you will just lose it. And as long as you don’t rage on your children, it’s okay. We’ve all been there and we get it. It happens.

#3: I make up punishments that I hope I don’t get my bluff called on

Abraham used to be a total little ish to get to go the eff to sleep. He was so naughty. We yelled all the damn time at him to just close his eyes and stop talking. All.the.time. So, one day, I told him that if he kept it up I was going to make him sleep all by himself in the car. We didn’t have a garage then, we had this tiny little duplex in Lynden (so I wasn’t worried about his safety) and this carport four steps away where we parked Ku’s car. I didn’t really mean it and he figured that out and I remember like it was yesterday that Kulia turned to me and said, “Now you have to follow through,” which made me even more mad, because of course she was right and I never really meant it. All I’ll say about that is that luckily the cops weren’t called on us because he LEGIT screamed bloody murder in her backseat. But he went to sleep when we let him back in, so who’s winning?

#4: Bodily functions are funny. And safe in our home.

We try our damn hardest not to be pretentious. Not in our house. We allow burping, farting, itching, adjusting at your heart’s content. They have to be able to do it somewhere, guys. We let it be with us. I’m not sorry.

#5: ADHD is a real thing

When Sam was in fifth grade, his lovely teacher called us in for a conference. “He’s not dumb but he’s testing in at below average. I think he has ADD and should be tested.” I’ll make this short. He was tested, put on a small dose of medication and subsequently on the Honor Roll. Abraham was tested and we have tried almost EVERYTHING under the sun. He is a work in progress but I bristle when people make assumptions that ADHD is this or that. Over-diagnosed? Maybe. Not real? False. Just boys being boys? I have no words. Boys are a lot of things and they are most certainly a lot of energy, usually in the form of wiggling and playing and roughhousing. Yes. Sometimes, though, something is going on in their premature frontal lobe and it all starts to make sense. Trust your instinct. It’s not always taken care of with a certain diet or eliminating food dyes or making them do one thing or the other. Just stop with that judging. Mom-ing is hard effin work and the less you judge your fellow peeps, the better this world will be. And if your son loses his $350 trumpet for the SECOND time and you yell at him in the car because you cannot contain your words, just stop and take a deep breath and be grateful he’s not living with someone else who doesn’t advocate on his behalf and doesn’t try to understand him and doesn’t just friggin hug him when he needs it. I’m not trying to be uber specific there….I’m just sayin.

#6: Boys love their Mamas

And in this case, they get two for the price of one. My three are especially lucky. Each of them (false, I have to beg the meanager) is pretty loose in handing out hugs (what can I say, I love hugging!) and I make sure to try get one in on the roughest days. Except yesterday. Yesterday was ridiculous.

We are ridiculous when it comes to Halloween. Or are we just ridiculous. That’s probably more right.

#7: Wine and coffee

I’ve already touched on how much of an anomaly I am when I’m out with my three guys. Aside from the elder adorers I gain I also have the younger ones who might blurt out, “Three boys?!?! (Insert incredulous face) How do you DO it?” I almost always blurt out, “Coffee and wine, friend. Coffee and WINE.” Emphasis on the wine. Did I mention we order it by the case? Yeah, we have quite the hookup through Barclay’s and I’ll send you a coupon code for a HELLUVA deal if you’re interested. Delivered to your doorstep and ready for the parenting magic because a) everything is funnier with a glass of wine in your hand and b) it’s okay to deal with a little help from the grapes. They are fruit, everyone. No shaming here. No shame.

#8: Not everyone is going to adore your kiddos. That’s okay

This one. It’s a conundrum. What do you MEAN not everyone is going to love the crap out of my offspring? How is that even a thing? Yeah, I know. I thought everybody would adore my littles and the reality is, they get on people’s nerves sometimes. They rub them the wrong way, maybe piss them off, say something unacceptable or just have that face that you can’t handle. They might feel like they can say that to you and it’ll be nutso because why would they think that? It always blindsides me and hurts my feelings because they are little projections of my persona. Of course it’ll hurt my feelings. But don’t fret, I’ll get over it and love on them harder. They aren’t going to be everybody’s cup of tea and I’m sorry that life is so harsh sometimes. Just keep loving them.

I’m not ending on a normal number. I’m leaving it at eight because I write this for a little bit of a laugh and a release. I fully realize that my heart is walking outside my body in three separate forms and I don’t take it lightly that one day they may be husbands and fathers. I want them to have solid foundations of love and respect with a whole lotta silly. And I want them to know I am not perfect and neither are they. Cheers to all you mamas, putting in the work and the care. We are raising the future, friends. That’s tough work.

hawaii

Vee's Happily Ever Laughter