Very quietly, tiptoe over to mocha beanie mummy to see the rest of the entries.

Very quietly, tiptoe over to mocha beanie mummy to see the rest of the entries.

Very quietly, tiptoe over to mocha beanie mummy to see the rest of the entries.

My son’s school informed us that tomorrow is the infamous school photo day.  I say infamous because school photos often end up being the things of legend.  The media loves to dig up celebrity school photos and see if any of us unsung underlings can guess who the superstar is from her photo in Miss Knickerbocker’s second grade class. 

School photos really are – as are photos in general – tangible time capsules.  While holding them and looking at them, they can transport us to a time, a moment, a day, weeks, a year.  When I – the very late adopter – joined Facebook, I was surprised to see that several of my school photos were posted, courtesy of past classmates who were part of Operation Embarrass and Humiliate.  There I was, in between Leslie and Carmen, under Bridget and on top of Robert – all metaphorically speaking, for those of you that may be conjuring of images of a Ménage à many on a Twister game.  And out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a couple boys I had crushes on.  And there was Val, who hosted some of the best slumber parties, Tracy, who told me to meet her at the bridge so she could beat me up, and Marie, who performed the best Prince impersonation in any school talent show ever.

I called my mom to see if she could dig up my kindergarten school photo, and unearth she did.  She sent it to me, and after a few seconds of looking at this photo, a world rushed back to me.  I started mouthing the days of the week in Spanish, I could taste churros and Mexican hot chocolate, and I could see my teacher’s face, complete with her massive glasses, curly hair and reassuring smile.

I went to kindergarten and first grade in what some might label an impoverished city about 13 miles outside Los Angeles.  Because the majority of the city’s residents were Mexican, we had a chance to learn both Spanish and English at school.  We were exposed to Mexican culture, via food, stories, songs, objects and holidays.  It wasn’t until I was in college, in a sociology class, that I learned that during the time I went there, my school was one of the poorest schools in the nation.

I don’t remember the school being poor, but I had nothing to compare it to at the time.  What I remember is my teacher trying to instruct me on how to write sentences, explaining the notion of a complete thought or idea.  The paper I turned in looked like this:  Once.  Upon.  A.  Time.  A.  Girl.  Had.  A.  Dog.  Every word represented a complete thought to me, apparently.  I’m sure there is a philosopher or poet out there somewhere who would’ve been proud.  I remember the smell of the paste, and the boy who liked to eat it.  I remember making a card out of wallpaper for my granny for Mother’s Day.  Years later, I had the fortunate opportunity to read said card, and the inside of it read “I don’t know why you and grandpa aren’t together, but I think it’s okay.  I love you.”  This card undoubtedly went down as the most charming Mother’s Day card she ever received.

Yes, my friends, a school photo brings back a myriad of memories (I’d like to thank my hippocampus, my frontal lobes and Sudoku).  My mom made the outfit I wore for my kindergarten school photo, as she did almost all my clothes as a child. 

And ditto for all the inspired hairstyling.  She did the brushing, braiding, rubberbanding, barretting, and bow-tying, often to this kid’s bid.  Regardless of her efforts – as is evident in my kindergarten school photo – my hair wanted emancipation from the follicle.  It had a way of becoming so dishevelled that wayward wisps would end up in my mouth, strong-willed strands would compromise my eyesight, and titanic tangles became the norm.  In fact, this photo serves as a precursor of things to come.  My tousled hair today is still trying to declare its freedom.

How will my son’s hair look for his school photo tomorrow?  I suppose we’ll find out when he wakes up.  I don’t brush his hair.  It’s not because I’m opposed to him learning about grooming, but I have a fear that he might go the way of my beloved, spending twice as long as I do getting ready, making a variety of faces in the mirror – his “You lookin’ at me, you lookin’ at me Deniro look”, his “One, two, combo punch, oh ya, you want some of this Tyson look” which comes complete with mini punches at the mirror, and his “Oh ya, you look good, reeeeal good” look which sends my eyes into rolling overdrive.

As for my little guy’s overall look in his school photo, I’m betting on one of three.  As of late, when I ask to take a photo of him, he gazes at me very seriously, with a “Nobody can get me to smile no matter how much they plead to see my pearly whites.  I am steadfast in my solemn stare”.  After a bit of coercing – or what I like to refer to as chocolate bribery – Enlai will come up with expression number two, which is when he smiles with such fervour, his cheeks push up so much, making his eyes all but disappear.  And the third look is the nonexistent look, when he runs away, shouting, “I don’t do photos!”

I hope he gets a kick out of his first school photo experience tomorrow, and I hope that in years to come, while looking at the photo together, we smile.  Not for a camera, but because we’re both relishing in our own memories of the day.

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I’m a smidgen of a puzzle geek and have been for as long as I can remember.  When I was in the hospital as a young child, I credit my Cinderella jigsaw puzzle with saving my life.  If I wasn’t running away from doctors and nurses, I was doing this puzzle of the future princess as she climbed into her carriage.  I believe I was doing it for the 941^st time when the doctors decided to discharge me.

As an adult, I have done many a jigsaw puzzle with my mom.  The more pieces, the better.  The more complicated, and I could hardly contain my excitement.  I know.  Geek.  Someone told me I might need a little more of something else in my life.  Different blog post entirely, my friend, different blog post entirely.

Not completely sure if it’s down to nature or nurture, but my son seems to share my love of puzzles.  I don’t think he likes the fact that I’m neurotic about my line of attack to puzzle completion, but this dislike of his has taught me a thing or two about self-control and the fact that the journey is often more fulfilling than the destination.

In our puzzle pursuits together – as I hold back from completing the cardboard conundrums and timber toughies in 0.8 seconds – I have to remind myself that the little guy is developing his shape and size recognition, spatial relation skills, logic, and perseverance.  And at my son’s current age, such development often requires minimal interference, so I’m told.

As my husband observed me and my son doing a puzzle together one day, he gave me a somewhat alarmed look, asking why I never disclosed my love of puzzles pre-marriage, to which I responded, “Oh sweetheart, my honey, my snuggle buggle, you do know that puzzles are considered brain-challenging activities, right?  And do you know what such activities do?  Well, my dearest, they build up a reserve of neuron connections.  And do you know what this reserve does, sweetie pie?  Well, let me tell you.  It takes longer for the Alzheimer’s process to destroy enough neurons, which ultimately means that jigsaw puzzles can delay the onset of Alzheimer’s, which means I might actually remember that you’re my husband when we’re in our later decades.”  After listening to my response, his look was even more fretful, prompting my son to ask, “What’s wrong with pa?”

Because my affection for interlocking and tessellating pieces of joy is on par with Simon Cowell’s fondness for tight shirts, I was over the moon when Bags of Love asked me to review a personalised photo jigsaw.  Christmas came early in our home this year as I unwrapped the Bags of Love package to reveal a silver tin box which sheltered 96 chunky wooden bits of happiness.

I immediately cleared a space on our dining table, using one forearm to brush away any and all plates, bowls, cutlery, papers, toys and other slab stuff to the floor.  In one fell swoop, broken belongings were scattered on the ground.  Who cares, it was puzzle time. 

My little prince commented on the photo on the hinged lid of the tin box, saying, “That’s me!”  My husband – holding a few pieces in his hand – remarked, “Wow, these are pretty cool.  There’s a nice weight to them.”  Truth be told, the thick, glossy, laminated pieces did make for a posh little puzzle.  And waterproof?  Perfect when the whole family is doing the puzzle together and someone decides they’re thirsty, and…

Although the 14” x 9.5” puzzles are supposed to be ideal for ages six and up, my little guy is three, and he did okay.  He managed to incorrectly connect a few pieces, but such minor mishaps were outweighed by his delight when he finished connecting the pieces that made up his own face.  And when my son accidentally knocked some of the wooden pieces on our hardwood floor, their weight made it easy to hear where they fell.

It has to be said that it felt a tad narcissistic initially to do a jigsaw which included my own photo, but I got over it when I entered the puzzle zone.  It was about completion, and the image became an afterthought. 

A fan of personalised gifts in general, I was excited to find out all the goodies that could be individualised, including Kindle cases, iPad slip cases, wallpaper, and a variety of baby gifts.  With a handful of pregnant friends, I’m eyeing the photo cubes.  And I’m really partial to the photo books, especially the Book of Love.  What better gift could there be for my better half on our swiftly approaching 10-year anniversary than one of these books?  I’ll need to decide which title would be the most appropriate – “Good Lord, I Can’t Believe We’ve Been Together A Whole Decade Without Killing Each Other”, “Haikus For My Darling, From A Master Haikuer”, or “Marriage Is Not Malarkey, It’s Utterly Magnificent”.  Which do you think might work best?

[Disclosure:  We were given the personalised photo jigsaw puzzle from Bags of Love for the purposes of this review.] 

 
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My cousin Ileana is my greatest friend, and on this US Mother’s Day, I feel compelled to remind her.  We’re only a few years apart, but despite such a small gap, she’s been a surrogate mother to me from the time we were knee-high to grasshoppers and other unmentionable insects.  She was my partner in crimes related to hula hoops, ice cream trucks, and two-hand touch football in the street.  We were two young girls who would walk to school together on a bridge over a freeway.  Two young girls who spent one too many nights with intoxicated parents at Shakey’s Pizza.  Two young girls who, during those sticky summer days at our granny’s, found someone to rely on in each other.

There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for Ana, and she’s already proven she’d do anything for me.  She’s given me shelter from torrential downpours of the figurative variety and strong cups of pragmatism when I’m skipping and jumping toward the deep end.

 Despite a lack of support and encouragement, as a single mom to two boys, Ana somehow managed to earn two degrees from two of the best colleges in the US and is now a teacher.  She’s opinionated, intelligent, and beautiful.  

She understands being there, really being present.  And my goodness does she make me laugh.  

We live in different countries now, and I miss her terribly.  My son and I had the fortunate opportunity to spend a lot of time with Ana over several months last year, going to Disneyland, Discovery Science Center, Natural History Museum, Huntington Library, Skirball Cultural Center, Museum of Contemporary Art, and the beach, among many other places.  She introduced my son to some of life’s most important pleasures – Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, sour candy, and beignets covered in powdered/icing sugar.  When we sat on the beach at sunset, eating chili powder on mango and cucumber slices, I never wanted to leave.  Just reminiscing about this time breaks my heart a bit.  It makes me wish I could call her and ask her to come around for a glass of wine because as she says in her infinite wisdom, “sometimes mama needs a drink.” 

When Ana’s elder son Bryon went off to college, she wrote the below words – The Mommy Manifesto – and I want to share it with you.

The past few months have been a blur for me.  I’ve watched as my first son, my big baby, got his first girlfriend, went to his prom, graduated from high school, and moved into his first dorm room what feels like a million miles away.  I would love to say I went through it all while maintaining poise but honestly that wasn’t always the case. We, or really I, had my blow-ups and breakdowns and they really haven’t completely ceased. 

When I became a mom at such a young age I didn’t have a clue what I was doing.  All I knew was I wanted to give my child, and then a couple years later my children, a decent, healthy, and as close to “normal” life as possible.  That normalcy, to me, meant going to school and furthering my education in order to open my (and in turn their) options.  Although I recently have questioned every parental choice I’ve made, I am pleased with the fact that my children were raised on college – might I even say the best college – campuses and were exposed to a lifestyle that I, at their age, had little idea existed.

Over the past few months many people have congratulated and even praised me for my son Bryon’s accomplishments.  The truth is I am honored, truly HONORED, to be his mother.  It’s hard not to become religious or at least spiritual when I think about it.  I truly believe my boys were God-sent.  I’ve heard many scary stories from parents of teenagers.  Not once has Bryon or Devyn argued with me or talked back to me.  God sent!  Bryon has never been blatantly disrespectful to me.  God sent!  And we end every major conversation with “I love you” even when we disagree on certain choices he has made.  Truly, God sent!  Okay, so maybe the last one sounds like a marriage. (Oh no, not what I meant, nothing creepy.)

Actually, when Bry was born I did truly fall in love with him.  It’s indescribable, my connection to both Bry and D.  This is something I don’t see often.  It could be that it’s a private connection between parent and child, and I have seen it recently with Lisha and Enlai.  I remember every year talking to parents who couldn’t wait for school to start to get their children out of their hair, and I remember feeling sad and worried, sad that they were growing up and worried that the other germy, dirty kids would make them sick or corrupt them.  In my eyes they were perfect.  My love for Bry continued to grow and evolve as he got older.  On the pitch, the court, the sand, and the field, I was always his biggest and sometimes loudest fan.  Not that he had a choice, but he never seemed to mind me being there.  The truth is we always hung out together, the three of us, going to movies, amusement parks, Vegas, wherever we could afford.  There’s no one I’d rather be with than my two boys.  Don’t be mistaken though.  As in love as I have been and as much time as we have spent together, we have always had a clear relationship.  I am the parent, and they are the children.  This is something which I’m happy to say I’ve only occasionally had to remind them.

Another question I’ve recently heard is, “How do you do it, raising two boys on your own?”  My only answer is you just do it.  I live day-to-day and handle each challenge as it comes.  So those times I may seem distant or even aloof, please know that I’m not being snooty.  I’m just handling my parental business, keeping it all together and doing what I have to for my boys and myself.

Over the summer I tried to give Bry a little more freedom.  I told myself, “He did graduate. Maybe he should be able to go out two days in a row…”  Of course I still had to know exactly where he was all the time, but he was and still is underage for Pete’s sake.  I thought that maybe it would help me get used to the quiet but it’s palpable and looms over our home.  As much as I bug D, it’s just not the same without Bry here.

Driving him out of state, and then home without him, was the hardest thing emotionally I’ve ever had to do.  I’ve been a fighter and survivor for so long.  I think I have a handle on anger and frustration but loneliness, sadness and a broken heart are not as easy.  For some reason, going for a run or to the gym doesn’t help those emotions.  It’s crazy how reflective I became during those few days.  I questioned every choice made.  Should I have moved them around so much? What if us being so close makes it harder for him to survive on his own?  What if he resents me for encouraging him to go to a school out of state?  They were endless, the questions.  With the questions also came regrets.  I shouldn’t have sheltered him so much.  I should have been a better advocate for his primary education.  It seems as though my culture (and I don’t just mean Latina with a little Filipina but more of my family culture) emphasized parenting as teaching my children to be respectful and obedient and putting teachers in charge of teaching.  I trusted their teachers to handle their education and made sure they were well-behaved boys.  The regrets and questions were never-ending – at least for the six-hour drive home. 

The truth is we are so close.  I would often tell him and D that we were a team, and we all had to pull our weight to make our team succeed.  These discussions came when he began slacking with his studies.  Those were some tough times.  I considered sending him out of the state or even the country to do some volunteer work so he could see how fortunate he was.  I considered sending him to live with my parents to finish his junior year.  I remember telling (or yelling at) him, “Let them see you fail because I can’t stand around and watch it.”  After talking to his advisor at a parent-conference I decided to give him another chance, and he did it.  He pulled his weight and ended up doing quite well his senior year.

All in all, I cannot express how proud I am of my son. Not just for graduating from high school (an accomplishment I never fulfilled) and not just for going to college, but for being a wonderful human being.

Bryon, I am honored, absolutely honored, that God chose me to be your mother.  I love you honey!

Very quietly, tiptoe over to mocha beanie mummy to see the rest of the entries.

Very quietly, tiptoe over to mocha beanie mummy to see the rest of the entries.