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The Secret to Life

My grandmother recently celebrated her eighty-third birthday.

EIGHTY-THREE!

As a treat, we offered to take her to lunch at her favorite spot. She loves Olive Garden, so naturally, that was where she picked. She called early the morning of, wanted to know when we would be there so she could be ready. I could hear the excitement in her voice and couldn’t help but smile. My grandma has always been down for a good time and some laughs. This was clearly not going to be an exception to the rule.

Of all the people I’ve met in my life, my Grandma has been the least judgmental person. Ever. She is always kind, offering a smile and sweet words to anyone. I’ve never heard her raise her voice or be upset, not even with my Grandpa, who is quite an ornery fellow at times. My Grandma was one of my first friends, near the top of a short list of people who know how to really hug.

My grandparents lived on Lopez Island for most of my formative years. For those that don’t know, Lopez is a relaxing, calm, almost hippie-like haven full of good souls and sunshine, soft rolling hills and welcoming friends island off the coast of northern Washington state. You can only get there by ferry, where you can drive your automobile onto. Lopez is where I spent nearly every Thanksgiving, Christmas holiday, and spring break. I would have lived there, with them, if I would have been allowed. My grandparents are true gems; absolute angels. My Grandpa gave me my first set of luggage, which I would eagerly pack whenever I was given the green light. Always without hesitation.

When I was five, I had gotten sick to the point I needed to be seen by a doctor. I was supposed to go visit Grandma and Grandpa but needed the go-ahead first. My Mom was told I had a touch of heat stroke and was prescribed more fluids. With that said, I was off for my next adventure. Except, I was in for a different kind of fun, you could say, since about two hours after arriving, I started to break out in spots all over. It was chicken pox, friends. And it was RARING to be seen.

Being sick is no fun. Unless you happen to win the sick lottery and end up at Grandma’s. I WAS IN HEAVEN! She took the BEST care of me, waited on me hand and foot. Made any meal I asked for, which was almost always pancakes or French toast (which I can’t stand nowadays, probably because no one makes them like Grandma) and played so many games with me, like cribbage, rummy and hearts. That summer is still one of my favorites.

When we picked Grandma up for lunch yesterday, she was glowing. Had her makeup on, some lipstick and a vibrant green shirt to match her energy. She was genuinely happy to see us. After we hugged Grandpa and promised to have her home safe before long, we set out on our date. Once we got to OG, we sat and jumped right back into our conversation that had started in the car. Chatting and spending time with my Grandma is one of my absolute favorite things in the world, and it was needed.

I shared my thoughts on this being my half-ways point in life, what with my upcoming thirty-fifth birthday. She laughed and said she thought that was a fun idea, a good idea. “You never know,” she said and she’s right. I, of course, asked her what her best piece of advice is for life, because I wanted to ask my friend when I saw her in hospice the other day, but couldn’t because she was sleeping and never woke back up. Grandma isn’t dying but I don’t want to miss my chance. I want everyone’s advice. I don’t want time to work against me anymore. I want to ask all the people, especially those close to me. Her answer made us all laugh out loud, but rang with so much truth.

“My Mom shared this with me once,” she began.

“You just got to learn when to shut your BIG, FAT mouth. If you can learn that, you got it made.”

Ohhhhhhhhmaaaaaagooooooodneeesssss, did we have a fantastic chuckle over that. It’s such a friggin truth bomb, though! I asked her so many questions yesterday, trying to remember every moment. None will stick out as much as that one. What we thought would be lunch with Grandma became life lessons, how to day drink a bottle (or two) of white wine, marriage tips, and raising kids. We learned about her Mom and all her ever knowing wisdom, taught Grandma about Snapchat, took hilarious photos. We made memories with her that I wouldn’t trade for anything.

Life is so short but can be as sweet and loving as you let it. Give people an opportunity to speak openly with you. Spend time with them and ask questions and don’t wait until it’s too late. We all just want to be heard and feel loved and all of us have that power in our hands.

Happy birthday, Grandma! I hope I get more years with you by my side!

The Meaning of 35

My birthday is twelve days away and has become quite the topic in our household. There’s the obvious reason, which is that ALL OF APRIL is reserved for the celebration of me…and also deciding how and when to do as many parties as we can. Will there be a theme? Dinner at a nice place? Kids or no kids? And if no kids, when is the party with the angels/monsters?

I think all days of birth are major freakin events. Mine, my wife’s, my family’s days, my co-workers, all my friends. I endorse all celebrations. I believe every year is magical and equally, if not more, important than previous milestones. I find incredible significance in making it around the sun another revolution. It’s a big deal! Eat ALL the cake. All of it. Smash it all over your face. Birthdays are that exciting to me. Now.

My parents have never been great at making big to do’s for the anniversary of your birth. They mean well and appreciate and love, but they are not the ones who do grandiose gestures of love or try really hard to embarrass you out in public or surprise you with all of your close friends. Mostly because that is not their nature and that is not their style. This has GOT to be a HUMONGOUS reason why I first began to love birthdays. It is not, however, the only one. In my previous relationship, my birthday was no big deal. Let’s chalk that up to it wasn’t where I was supposed to be and those were never my people. How do you celebrate someone that just doesn’t belong with your tribe? I get it. I never liked it the other way around, either. With that said, I had over a decade of no big hoorah made over April 10th. This is not a poor me post. I promise. Just stick with me.

My life quite literally changed as I moved from 29 to 30. I had been in a horrible situation for the better part of a decade and had reached a point where ENOUGH finally meant JUST THAT. I had stopped thinking about what if and had focused on HOW. As my thirtieth birthday drew closer, so did my anticipation of a new beginning. I was hyper-focused on finding that one second of insane courage that I needed and the promise of my thirties really felt like they were bringing NEW LIFE to my being. I anticipated this one. BIG TIME.

And I couldn’t wait for thirty-one. I began to name my birthdays with fun little rhymes or puns. This should come as no surprise to anyone. We pun everything in our life. So, it was thirty wonderful. Followed by thirty two good to be true, dirty tree, and thirty four more. The last one wasn’t my best work. My apologies.

As I began to reflect over the last year and tried to find a new pun for my upcoming day, I started to think about what 35 meant to me. Really, I want some meaning behind it. Something more than just a day to dress up and feel special. What does that whole NEW ORBIT around the golden globe mean to me? The more thought I gave it, the more it became clear. This is it. My Halfsie. There’s no silly pun or rhyme for this gem. It has a whole new category and it is journey based. I am considering this my half-ways point in life.

Of course, once I decided upon this newfound title for my LIFE DAY, I immediately shared it with Kulia. She was insta-pissed. “How dare you think that you’re only living another 35 years after this!” She has not moved on from that argument. She loves me sooooo much that she cannot fathom only having that many more years left with me. It’s easy to focus on that aspect and I want to clarify that I, by no means whatsoever, believe that I am prophesizing my downfall. Not one bit. Really, it’s an awareness for my SELF. I spent so much of my previous years learning and failing, falling and dusting myself back off in ungraceful manners. I didn’t know who I was or what I wanted to be. I hadn’t mastered the art of mastering my facial expressions and I had lost the remote to my mouth filter. My first AT LEAST thirty years were NOT PRETTY, friends. Some humans can be path-less with their life and be super cute about it. I think my beauty has found me slowly, with age and wisdom. I plan on being supermodel status by the time I reach my elusive seventieth birthday.

What I’m trying to explain is that my half ways life celebration is to keep me from taking any days for granted, to continue to make me strive to better myself and inspire those around me, to continue to improve. If I hit the next milestone feeling like I kept on doing all of the above, MAN, I’ll be on cloud friggin nine. This birthday is a reminder to not be complacent. LIFE IS SHORT and I want to keep the goal in sight. And that is not to die at seventy. It is to reach seventy and feel like I made great contributions to humanity, in as many shapes and forms and ways as possible.

A friend was recently given days to live. Her body began to shut down and I don’t know how any of her people will ever be the same when she passes. Life does this to us, sometimes. It takes someone we know and removes them from our lives forever and we are left behind to help each other figure out the why and how for moving on. We never know who will be next and we will always wonder what could have been done differently. We try to not be sad about it, even as we await the inevitable and yet, our hearts grow heavy and big sacks of feelings just plaster themselves into our throats to make breathing hard. How do you say goodbye to a friend? How do you watch your friends say goodbye to their best friends? How do you help pick up the people that can’t imagine their lives without her? I never have the right words for these things. No soothing words for these events and I know we will all be there one day. Mine just might be my 7-0.

And if I make it past seventy?!?

Well, then it’ll be a welcome surprise to everyone still around. And I will be even more grateful for more spins around the sun. Love with your whole heart everyone who touches your life. Consider that they may not always be around you. Remind them how much they mean to you and make their birthdays the BEST DAYS ON EARTH.

In the Corner of Co-parenting

Almost five years ago, when I was working on my divorce from my ex-husband, the most irritating thing (for me, at the time) was that Washington state obligates both parents to attend a six hour “Co-parenting” class. It behooves me that you can get married with no obligatory wait time or trial period, no education in the aspect. Nothing. You pay a fee and set an appointment and before you know it, you can say “I do,” in front of a judge.

But to get divorced. Now, there’s a feat. And if you have children together, it’s even more daunting. There is the mandatory Parenting Plan, that establishes so many rules and expectations, such as drop-off and pick-up times, who gets whom when, the ever exciting tax reporting rights, etc. And then this class. You need to devote a Saturday to listening to someone chat about co-parenting and receive an attendance certificate at the end before your divorce is signed off on. In Washington. By the time you get the seal of approval no less than half a calendar year has passed and you are more than ready to be checking single on your W-4. Hell, you might even have a party.

I showed up on my Saturday with a headache, tired eyes and no expectations. It was pretty full and I remember thinking that this was a lot of broken families and broken hearts in this room. Divorce is most definitely the right action for some but it doesn’t come without a lot of work, pains in your rear and tears from your children. I remember nothing about the person who facilitated the whole event. I do, however, remember many of the points.

First, I want to set something straight. I SINCERELY admire any parent duos who decide to call it quits on their marriage but can still remain civil and respectful to each other for the good of the kiddos. I absolutely think HANDS DOWN that those are amazing anomalies. They are not the norm but they should be acknowledged, cherished, celebrated and revered. I cannot say I envy it but I’m in a different position. I’m in an opposite ballpark, playing a different sport, where there are no rules and tons of restrictions, lots of aggravating circumstances and lacking in the breath of fresh air category.

I want to say that there is a BIG DIFFERENCE between co-parenting and parallel parenting and sometimes it’s not such an easy choice, no matter how bad you want to do one or the other. This has been the case with me. I don’t have that sunshiney split that still brings everyone together. I don’t want it. For us, it will never work. I recognize that and I believe it to be healthy, because often times people tend to judge and want to put you down or make you feel bad for knowing what is right for your family. AND YOUR SANITY. I knew, once I heard the speaker differentiate the two, which group I would be in until my kids were grown.

Parallel parenting, which I’m a queen at, is where each guardian is doing the parenting on their own. They don’t communicate with each other, mostly because they can’t. Whether it’s because they don’t know how to in a healthy way, or because there is a danger in them trying to work things out, or there’s no respect in at least one of them. Any shadow of a doubt for one of those criteria puts you in PP. The adults are disengaged, with limited contact regardless of where the kiddos are. While there can be circumstances of trust being rebuilt to lower hostility, I don’t see that in our future.

One of the points of the speaker, on that obligatory Saturday, was to understand common triggers that make arguments. Oddly enough, the number one reason exes fight when exchanging the kids is clothing. Hearing that, I made a mental note to try my damnedest to let articles of clothing roll off my back. I do. Try my hardest. It has been a hard promise not to break to myself. Sometimes I want that stupid effin jacket to come back home! Or, on the flip side, I still don’t like the style of clothing he buys them. But at least he does and I try to remind myself that even though he likes douchey clothes, they aren’t going to grow up to be douches. Silver lining, right?

The other was to verbally allow them to continue to love their other parent. This was a big one for me to hear and understand, because one of the stipulations of the parenting plan was that neither parent nor anyone around the kiddos could verbally bash or speak ill of the other parent. I put that in there for a reason. I know him and his family. They live on rather high pedestals that most common folk can’t ever reach the heights of. It was no secret that they never liked me and they often spoke ish about me when I was in the room. I didn’t expect for one second that they would honor it but it gave me a basis in the event my boys ever came home and shared things with me. I was lucky enough to be granted almost full custody of my mini-men, which meant the most time with me, so I wanted them to know that them loving their dad was okay. Kids never want to choose a parent, unless of course they are meanagers and pissed off at you for not being their friend, so telling them they are allowed to love their other parent gives them permission they want but won’t ask for.

One of the biggest benefits is that it removes the children from being witness to toxic parental conflict, which is probably why the divorce is happening. It removes unrealistic mutual cooperation expectations and allows both parents to be equal contributors to the development of their little humans. I don’t know about you guys, but whoever can do that isn’t gonna hear any flack from me! No judgement! Not from me!

Whether it’s you or your friends or maybe some acquaintance of yours that are going through some type of broken parenting, don’t be that a-hole that wants to say that one way or the other is a choice. I’ve found that to be untrue for most people. Even in my case, I didn’t have that ability to say I was going to be the bigger person and put my differences aside, for so many reasons. Whatever option works for you, embrace it and continue to do what is best for your babies and will teach them love and respect. Isn’t that the ultimate goal, anyway?

Everything in love and respect.

Island Time

Before I dive into explaining Island Time and all that it entails, I want to disclaim the following:

I am not a chef.

I’m not even a real cook.

I’ve had zero professional training.

I most DEFINITELY am not a nutritionist.

Not a wine sommelier.

When I was five years old, my parents did something they had been working towards, dreaming about, saving for. They opened their own business, a Mexican restaurant. I remember moving to a small city, in the middle of nowhere to a place that didn’t even have a stop light. It smelled of cow manure and the American Dream and we were knee deep in it.

It was a small place, just full of hopes and ownership. They did all the work themselves, at least from what I can recall. They painted, made brick archways on the walls, hung some tropical ceramic birds from the ceiling, bought some fake plants, set up a used cash register. There was endless days of cleaning and preparing and I can remember most of it. The opening day, though? It’s nowhere in my mind. Maybe I wasn’t privy to be there or maybe it happened while I was in school. All I know is that one day it was a “soon” and the next it just “was.”

In no time or maybe plenty of time it was a happening place and had created a buzz around our tiny hometown. The food was delicious and the atmosphere was welcoming. I think back to the beginning and I smile, because it was pure. As I grew, the restaurant grew. I think about it in terms of falling asleep. It was gradual and then all at once. My days revolved around enchiladas, rice and beans, burritos and so on. Within five years we had outgrown the cozy dwelling on Front street and we moved closer to the Canadian border, away from our roots.

In all its growth and all its success, I never found myself in the kitchen. The cooks were rough looking, older, spoke Spanish (unlike me at the time). They were intimidating, deviant looking people that towered over me. I wasn’t one to find myself conversing with them, or them with me. It just wasn’t an acceptable thing. And then the end of sixth grade came. My Dad decided I should spend some time in Mexico, with some family, so I could learn my culture, my language, my roots. And off I went.

I lived in Chihuahua, Chihuahua (yes, that’s a place) for a little over a year. I attended seventh grade there. It was a literal sink or swim for me, in terms of communicating with anyone. Naturally, I began to really understand Spanish. More than that, and more rewarding, was understanding this foreign notion to me. family time. With the business, my parents were so busy. We had limited time for family meals or hanging out. It’s just how it was and it was all I knew, really. Mexico, though. It was amazing and harsh and scary and fun. My Aunt and Uncle taught me so much with so much love and patience.

My Aunt Celia was a phenomenal cook. She would get up early in the morning and make her two older kids and myself breakfast. She would pack me a lunch. We would all sit and have dinner together. She was the first to show me how to make homemade salsa, Mexican rice, enchiladas. I taught her how the cooks cut onions and tomatoes faster (I was watching, if anything). She was everything you could ask for in a teacher, but the reality was that I only enjoyed eating the food. That’s the truth! I never found the joy in cooking like she did.

When I came back to the states, I began to pick up on certain assumptions that people made when you tell them your parents owned a restaurant. The most common was they would give me that sweeping look, the one that says, “Oh YEAH they do because you are CHUBBY.” Or, they would ask me if I could cook amazing food. Yes, I was overweight. No, I couldn’t cook. Not like their employees at the restaurant and certainly not like my Aunt Celia. I didn’t want to.

I got married at nineteen years old and kept hearing from my ex MIL that I had to start learning. That I needed to put the food on the table. That it was my responsibility and I think as sort of a big EFFFFF YOU, I refused. I didn’t want to learn. I wanted boiling water to be near impossible and I wanted to burn all the things. I wanted to make certain foods on repeat EVERY DAY and I wanted cereal for breakfast for the rest of my life. I didn’t want to be fancy. I certainly didn’t care if it was healthy. People deal with depression and anxiety in many different ways and this was one of mine. I had zero control over almost everything so this, this unreasonable aversion to cooking and house-wifing, this I would have on lock down. I wanted to fail and I made it obvious.

When I met Ku, who is a TOTAL FOODIE, my mind woke up. It started to remember what my lovely Aunt had shared with me, things I had seen in my parent’s kitchen, stuff I had seen on TV. My memory started to flash things back at me and this DESIRE to come out of my shell just took over. It’s been on fire since! Not a kitchen fire. A SOUL FIRE. And somehow, somewhere in that, a show was born.

There seems to be this misconception that cooking healthy is boring, bland, blah. It is salads on the daily and baked chicken breast with steamed broccoli. Friends. IT MOST CERTAINLY IS NOT! I promise I’m not making this up. I’ve had this EXACT conversation with NUMEROUS friends! And because of this, I started to put in the work myself and taste test away. I’m SACRIFICING myself for my friends and life has never felt more perfect!

We gave birth to Island Time with Vee (which is this homage to both the island in our kitchen, where we always congregate with family and friends, and a nod to our family in Hawaii, where our true Island time is) from this place of wanting to share healthy, easy recipes with everyone. My whole goal with it has been to keep it light, far from preachy, and fun! I make a show almost EVERY Sunday (sometimes life gets in the way and when that happens, I kick a throwback episode in there) and I bring some wine to the island because WINE IS LIFE, friends. When I can and it makes sense, we go live on my Facebook page to really showcase the simplicity and time saving recipe I found and tried before sharing it with you. There have been times I think something will be delicious and then try it and I’m like THAT IS NOT DELISH AND I CANNOT SHARE IT WITH MY FRIENDS and we scrap the whole thing in the garbage!

This latest episode is a skinny egg salad recipe and it’s easy to customize and AMAZING. Unless, of course, you don’t like eggs and if that’s the case, I don’t know what to say to you! I LOVE EGGS! If anything, watch it for a laugh, because you all know how MUCH I LOVE TO LAUGH. That’s the ONE thing I can promise on each episode! I hope you try it and share your thoughts with me! And the next time I post one of my videos here, I won’t go so deep into my backstory so we can cut straight to the chase!

And PS, the moral of this story is that it is INCREDIBLE how fantastic your food can taste when you use LOVE as your main ingredient. And if you would like to see my other Island Time episodes, find me on Facebook!

The Ides of March

When Julius Caesar looked upon the eyes of who was delivering his death blow, he was saddened to see it was his most trusted advisor, BFF forever, confidant, Brutus.

How could your bestie DO THAT TO YOU?!?! Long story short, the Ides of March was born. A thought or notion about being weary of who you call friend and just how loyal they can be. I’ve had many friends in life who have been amazing with a touch (family included) that would put Brutus to shame. I mean, Caesar got 23 stab wounds from a group of disloyal people. Been there. Minus the Coliseum. I get why he was so sad, as he lay there dying. I know what being backstabbed feels like.

Today, on the Ides of March of 2017, I think about my own worst BFF. MYSELF.

Since I started my journey to healthy, the biggest bumps in the road have absolutely been self sabotage. WHY IS THAT? Why is it SO easy to be shitty to ourselves? I mean, when I looked at myself in the mirror, days after a friend had asked me to join Weight Watchers with her, I said yes. I had just had this epiphany about how I had always said no. Not because I was saying no to someone who had best intentions for me, but because I was saying no to health, to sticking around longer, to finally knowing what self-love and self-respect would feel like. If I felt better, how would I talk to myself? These things scared me. But, alas, I stood there, in my bra and panties and just evaluated myself. I began a mental list of why I was finally going to say yes to her and, ultimately, to me.

“I hate my thighs. That’s always at the top. I hate my gut. I hate the baby apron that hangs over my thighs and sticks out in everything I wear. I hate my arms and how they jiggle whenever I move them.” OH MAAAA GOODNESS, that list went on and on. Never once, almost a year and a half ago, did I say yes for a positive reason.

Nevertheless, I did it. I began my journey and have reached some PRETTY epic milestones along the way. I ran a 5k, then a 10k, then a HALF MARATHON. Added a 15k to the mix. Ran numerous 5ks. It turns out I love long distance running! If I hadn’t started to figure out what felt good to me, if I hadn’t taken that first baby step, and then another, and then taken baby jog steps, I never would have discovered this side of me. It turns out I’m stronger than I imagined. I prove it to myself all the time.

The thing is, though, that I still find that Brutus inside of me. I still get stabbed by the disloyal friend. Me. I’m my own worst enemy. That’s the hard that is difficult to describe when you find all these awesome things out about yourself. I have so many new muscles and the one that I have to flex and work the MOST continues to be will power and motivation. Oftentimes it is said that it takes 21 days to break a habit or to form a new one and yet I’m so many cycles in to 21 days that I should have these routines DOWN and I do not. A part of me, that Brutus part, wants to shout that it’s because I’m a failure, I’m a joke, I don’t deserve results and I certainly don’t deserve to hear people tell me I inspire them to get moving. I hate Brutus and yet Brutus is a part of me.

I pushed play the other day at a time when I wanted to put sweatpants on and melt into the couch. Brutus tried to convince me that I deserved a break and some bread and I found that strength to get past the lying eyes, put a mint workout top on to remind myself of the upcoming wedding we have (mint is one of our colors) and the fact that I have HUGE goals for that big day, and set my camera up to record me. Not because I want to say, “Look at me and what I can do,” but really to share with everyone that if I CAN DO THIS, I have ZERO doubt in my mind that ANYONE ELSE CAN ALSO.

This isn’t a happily ever laughter story. I can’t stop here. It would be half of what happened and that would be untrue.

I watched the videos and then I deleted them. They sat in my trashed pics for two days because I HATED EVERY SECOND OF THEM. Brutus had emerged, full force, and was stabbing away. So many more than usual. I don’t feel good looking at this compilation. It makes me ugly sweat and breathe hard. Hell, I’m breathing hard IN IT and I couldn’t figure out how to mute the background. EVERY second of this is agony for me to watch. I had a MAJOR milestone that I shared earlier Monday morning, which was that I had finally, FINALLY, fit into a size 14 pair of jeans and I was over the moon wearing them. This video and my ugly, inner BFF negated all those feelings.

What could I do in this sitchi? Well, for starters, I could have ordered a pizza and gotten some beer, curled up and stuffed my face and let my emotions get eaten. Fitness? Fitness whole pizza in my mouth! *For the record, I have never eaten a whole pizza.

OR, and this is a big one, I could reach out to someone who will keep it real with me. Not Brutus, he’s the ultimate B. And I could have asked Kulia, but she has wifey goggles and she would have said too many sweet things. I love that about her but I needed someone NOT wearing “You’re perfect even when you poop,” eyes. I hit up a fabulous friend that I met through Beachbody, who has shared some of the SAME struggles I’ve faced with me. Some pretty effin real convos have happened between us and I expected no less from her this time. And she said, BE REAL.

Well, this is it. This is real. This is belly jelly and me continuing to show up. And I’ll do the same tonight, instead of letting Brutus take me out. You do the same for you, in whatever capacity that means because YOU CAN BE YOUR BEST FRIEND, BUT IN A REAL SENSE.

VINI. VIDI. VICI.

It’s the little things

Back in September of 2011, I had the pleasure of meeting one of the best humans on this planet. I didn’t know it at the time, never expected it or saw it coming, which is much like most of life, right? You search and search for what you want and desire and it’s not until you give up, throw in the towel, say eff it and take a swig of a bitter drink called life.

And then there it is. LOVE. Just staring you in the face.

At least, that’s what happened to me. I was living in Hawaii. I would say it was a hot, sunny day but it always was there. It’s always hot and sunny. Even when it does rain, it’s but for a fleeting moment. You only need wait five minutes and the sunshine is back.

Well, here we were. In one of those moments when you can look back at any given time and say, “THAT is the moment where my life shifted it’s direction. Where my heart woke up. THAT is when my feet found the ground and my vision came into focus.” And you smile, because it’s such a beautiful, defined moment for you. For all involved.

She introduced herself. I introduced myself and as I did so, she made this face, along with a half nod. Almost to herself, as if no one was watching. Except I was. It was such a small gesture with a major impact on me. She doesn’t even remember it. I do. I will, forever. So, we are in this place of introductions and faces. I don’t realize that my life is reshaping itself and yet nothing is the same anymore.

We became friends in a slow, lullaby sort of way. A ballad that starts slow and builds into a jam. Chock full of laughter and all the best movies over coffee and lunch. I carry so much baggage in my heart and in my mind and yet she patiently waited for it to start to spill forward. She listened to me, kept up with my wit, challenged me. Won me over with her smile.

And then I met her mother. Now, don’t get me wrong. Her entire family is AMAZEBALLS and fun. But her mom. When she hugged me, she really hugged me. Now, I’m not trying to get all Andie Anderson, How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, on you. I mean, I love that movie and all (Krull, the Warrior King!) but this was IT. And while I can’t keep a love fern alive for the LIFE of me we can play an awesome game of Bullshit.

There’s something to be said about who people are to you when they take you in. How genuinely they show care. How willing they are to get to know you and give you a chance. Obviously, this isn’t Ku and I’s whole story, but it is definitely the beginning. What I want to say is this, it is never too late to rewrite your first draft. If you aren’t with someone who gave you a cryptic look that you STILL think about, even five years later, YOU NEED A CHANGE. The only rut is the one you neglect to remove yourself from. I firmly believe it.

My Firstborn

jvvd3880 Meet Samuel Alejandro. My self-proclaimed #meanager. He is deep in the throes of the big 1-4 and he loves to pretend he can’t show me ONE OUNCE of affection. Friends, I digress with him.

WHY DOES HE MAKE ME BEG FOR HIS LOVE?

What all do people share about their kiddos without getting SUPES sappy with mom goggles or emotionally outraged over recent shenanigans they may have pulled? And how do you not share THAT ISH since we allllllllll know that the teens are ALWAYS pulling some crap thinking they are smarter than us?

I’m not saying I never did any of that messy teenage stuff. Luckily, my cherry popper blog post isn’t going to be about me as a teenager because my goal is to keep readers. Hahahaha. No. This first one is dedicated to my smelly, soft, emotional, smart but likes to play like he’s not, first-born son.

He really was a sweet little boy. Loved to be hugged and followed me around more than our pooch. He’s timid, scares easy, just WANTS TO BE LOVED and is learning some sarcasm, which has me OH SO PROUD but also ready to smack him. Oh, and let’s not forget he shares a birthday with my own Mother. How many can say they’ve given birth on the SAME DAY as their Grandma!?! Pretty cool, huh?

We are so different.

SO.DIFFERENT.

Where I will talk with anyone about anything, strangers included, Sam is quiet. He’s pensive. He can almost NEVER find his words. If there’s unrest or arguing, he wants to peace keep. Fighting gives him anxiety. Although he’s a terrible tooth brusher, he abhors the dentist. He loathes reading. He is one of those learners who has to see it and do it and experience it a BAJILLION times before he gets it. When he finally understood rhyming in kindergarten, I FRIGGIN CRIED. It took us so much work.

He has taught me patience in a way I never thought I would. Because of Sam, I try to understand people better. Through him, I have learned to stop, listen, try a different way. Being his mother has helped me in my work, my relationship with my wife, who I am as a friend, who I am as a person, and how I mother my other two boys. Through life’s curveballs, turns in the road, unexpected bumps and dives and speed ups, Sam is my constant reminder to slow down a little and breathe and it continues to BLOW MY DAMN MIND how incredible of a person he is becoming.

Damn it. I’m making this emotional. I TOLD YOU.

I will end on this note. HE CAN FART ON COMMAND.

BOOM.

A word in regards to this endeavor

For many moons, probably about six, friends of mine have been telling me I should start a blog. I’m not exactly sure why, but I would like to speculate:

A) I’m hilarious. Naturally. Even in my darkest times, helping people laugh has been something I pride myself in being able to do. I think it is TRULY the best medicine.

B) I’m wiser now. I’ve been through some things. I like to share my life stories and I like to talk to people. I’m a firm believer in each of us needing a village. Not just to raise our kids, but to keep all of us feeling engaged, loved, heard. This is big to me.

C) I like connecting with people. Not even in the same sense as B. Just a little more profoundly. Whether it’s privately or through different causes, I am always here.

D) I like to share my new found love of cooking. Wait. Back up. Rewind. I like to share my newfound love of clean eating that is easy. I even have a little show I do bi-weekly, called “Island Time with Vee.” It’s pretty fun and I always bring wine with me.

So, what is my mission, you ask? What do I see as a vision for this blog about laughter, love, healthy eating and shenanigans? Well, thanks for asking! I see it as a place to get a laugh, learn a little something either about food or me or parenting boys or living a happy life. I can be an escape for people, a voice of reason, an ear to chat and mull things over with. Just be prepared, because sometimes I drop an eff bomb or two.

Most of all, though, I want people to know that I am just a girl who decided to stop being afraid of big choices in life, decided to go for it, and is living a life happily ever laughter. Even if that DOES sound cheesy!

Vee's Happily Ever Laughter