IMPASSIONED- A STORY OF BECOMING

Soon after my first baby was born, I found myself floating in a sea of old friends and cherished memories. Amongst the singles and couples, artists and parties, and same glorious world of the downtown set that had become my everyday since moving to New York City, I floated. But now, I was there with a baby. I'd birthed a beautiful little girl in the pink-tiled kitchen of our railroad apartment on second street, and now had to learn to navigate the murky waters of our new world. As the first of our friends to have a child, we knew nothing, were willing to learn everything, and approached our new roles with as much gusto as two sleep deprived first-time parents could muster. It wasn't easy. Then again, it wasn't too hard. But more and more often, we found ourselves floating, still part of the same NYC that we knew and loved, but at the same time, in brand new, unfamiliar territory.

And so, I went to the place where I feel most at home- within my words. I began to write. 

I shared my birth story and for the first time, I was met with reactions that were empowering and accepting rather than judgmental or skeptical. Instead of giving me a look of bewilderment or taking two steps back when they heard that we'd birthed our baby at home, women were emailing me and asking "What was it like?" or chiming in, "Me too!".  It was the very beginning of an online community. MY online community. It was a glittery little lifeboat filled with new friends, and it was raw and honest and uplifting. I became passionate about telling my stories, and motherhood began to make sense.

The words flowed and the blog grew. Online friends became real life friends. With the birth of my son, I became a mother of two. My world, and my days, became more and more full. Then came sponsorships and social media, and the blogging fortress that I'd built and which rested so near and dear to my heart became my actual job. I was so grateful. But I watched as the online worlds of many writers slowly became bigger and more powerful than their real-life worlds.  I watched as online personas and branding overtook individuality and authenticity. Trying to fit into this new ocean of blogging, my words began to feel forced. That's when I knew that I needed a break from it all. I needed a sabbatical. 

I continued to write privately, cultivating my ideas and reflecting on gratitude and change. I focused on slowing down. I cooked more. I dug in the dirt with my children. I traveled to California. I developed my photography. I became pregnant again and birthed my third child at home in our new apartment in an unassisted home birth. I lived life. I gathered stories. And I knew that when the time was right, I would once again tell them to the world. 

Don’t ask yourself what the world needs; ask yourself what makes you come alive. And then go and do that. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.” 

 — Howard Thurman

The passion to write, to connect, swelled within me. I was busier than ever, with three children under five, a daughter in pre-K, a newborn, a thriving photography business, a pitbull, and a husband (who told me daily that he missed reading my blog).  But if motherhood has taught me one thing, it is that we are truly capable of anything we put our minds to, and that the more we do, the more we can do. 

And so, I write. 

I try to connect.

I tell my story. 

And I want to read yours. 

I have this theory that having kids forces us to abruptly reach our full potential (more on that later!), to take those risks we always wanted to, and to live as authentically as we can for our children's sake. If you had told me five years ago that today I would be sitting here at my laptop, writing (my then brand-new blog) at a fever pitch into the night, while simultaneously planning my daughter's fifth birthday party and my older son's third birthday party, and nursing my four-month-old son, I would have laughed boisterously. "Never in a million years!", I would have told you.  

But your gut has a funny way of steering you in the right direction, and my gut says that it's once again time to connect, to make my voice heard. I have so much to tell. I have so much to hear. And thank you so much for listening. 

xx

(I'm seriously looking for new blogs to read and friends to connect with, so please let me know via email or comments if you know of any spectacular writers out there. Let's uplift each other in this community together. Peace and love, dear friends!)

Images via my photo project with I Dig Denim

WHY CHILDREN'S BOOKS MATTER

"If you want your children to be intelligent, read them fairy tales.  If you want them to be more intelligent, read them more fairy tales."    - Albert Einstein

A few months ago, out of the blue, a torn and tattered paper package arrived in the post, labeled for me.  When I unwrapped the frayed edges of the paper I smelled a familiar scent, but I could not quite place it.  Then I saw the cover of the book, and a thousand memories flooded into me at once. "The Story of Babar," it read, and I knew the whole tale before I opened the first page.

When I was young,  a wee little thing, Babar was my friend.  He was my accomplice, my advisor, and my advocate.. and he always knew what I was going through. When the foster care system threw me and my sisters in and out of courtrooms and families and cities and states... he understood.  In case you haven't read the story (and I highly recommend that you do), Babar's elephant mother is killed, and he escapes to the foreign world of the city.  He learns to thrive there, with the help of a loving benfactor, and eventually returns to become the king of the jungle from which he was from, with his beautiful wife.   I used to request the story of Babar every single night, for many months, after my mother passed.  Then one day we were swept away in another move, to another home, and the book was left behind.  And with it, sitting on a dusty shelf, all of the promise and wanderlust of Babar's world remained, for two decades, just like that.  It was forgotten.

Until a few months ago, when it was returned to me.  And in an instant I realized how much children's books really do matter.

My long-lost cousin had tried to mail the book to me three times, originally as a baby shower gift for Biet, now almost three years old.  After navigating around misspelled addresses and unforeseen moves, it finally arrived to our Brooklyn home.   I opened the package and my heart flooded over: love, memories, forgotten hope, fantastical  dreams.. it all came forth.  It was like coming home after two decades of being away.  The smell, the words, the delicate illustrations- I knew them all, but then again, they seemed foreign.  I had to work to remember the story as I turned the pages, but when i did, it was magic.  It made sense.

I took Biet to the public library the other day to experience the exhibit, The ABC of it: Why Children's Book Matter.  I knew why they mattered.  I knew of the importance, the hope, and the promise that they lent to children.  I knew of the way in which a simple book could prepare you for the whole world.  I knew of the magic, the glory, and the shameless imagination that a fairytale could inspire in you.  I knew, and I wanted her to know.  And as she made her way through the life-size storybook exhibitions and listened to the excerpts in the wall-mounted recordings, I knew that she would understand their significance one day.  She would find the words and the pages that she needed to help make sense of her world, just as I had.

I now keep my copy of Babar- the same copy that I begged my caregivers to read me as a child, the same copy that instilled hope in me so long ago, up high on a bookshelf, a relic of magic and loss, thoughtfully preserved.  I will read it to Biet one day, when she is ready.  For now, we peruse the books at the library and make up magical tales on our own.  We pause at the end of the marble library hallway to introduce ourselves to the woman sitting there who sketches in her sketchbook the leaves that she has collected from parks all throughout the city .  We take a moment to grin in silence with our best friend, and stand together upon the windowsill, looking out at the whole world bustling below.

Reading fairytales to my babies will help them to make sense of that big, bustling, frenetic world outside.. in time.  And I'm honored to be the one to be reading now, as my children listen in wonder.

A New Year // Focus + Friendship

A new year is upon us, a new start, a renewal of all that we strive to be.  For the second year in a row, I reminisce: this past year was a very beautiful and very hard year.  I had high hopes, big dreams, and goals that soared above Manhattan's tallest buildings- and the funny thing is, they were all realized.  Somehow, through determination and unyielding belief, I accomplished more in this past year than I have in any year.  I had another baby.  I started a business.  I began exploring the worlds of professional writing and photography.  I learned how to make Sufganiyah for Channukah (that one's been on my list for a hot minute).  Did I mention that I had another baby?

And yet, this past year was trying, burdensome, and challenging beyond belief.  Jumping into the world of parenting two young children tests your relationship (and your tolerance of sleep-deprivation) like nothing else.   A start-up business takes every ounce of every second of every spare day that you've got, and still the work is never done.  Health issues arise.  Money comes, and goes, and sometimes waits in limbo just long enough to give you a panic attack.  Each step forward is paired with two leaps back, and we tread on.  There were times this past year when the going got so tough that I found it hard to see the light.  And just as the mounting uncertainty and fear would start to overwhelm me, an unexpected window would open and light would beam in from a most surprising source, and all would make sense once again.  But that uncertainty and fear was real, very real, and immensely challenging.  This past year was also filled with a tremendous amount of good- good opportunities, good times, and good people.  Sometimes, the only way I managed to keep on the sunny side of the street was by keeping grateful, for the good and the bad, and by accepting the help and support of the people around me.

I step into this new year with a clearer focus of what I want my life to look like, and a deeper understanding of what I need my life to feel like.  I want to focus on two things: purposefully directing my attention and focus onto what I want to manifest and grow, and putting more time, effort, and love into my relationships.  I aim to ultimately get to a place where I can naturally focus all of my attention and thoughts on the good around me, stop worrying, and stop wasting any effort on that which I cannot control.  I know this is easier said than done, and I want to work on it one day at a time.  I hope that by giving myself the next 365 days to consciously work towards this goal, I'll be able to grow into a better woman and mother.  There's just too little time in this world to distress, and too much good and magic to live any other way, at least for me.

As an extension of that, I want to really work on cultivating my relationships with those who are dear to me.  I've begun to realize that with more children comes a greater need to schedule everything.  Friendships that I've had for years, which have always blossomed and grown on they're own without much conscious effort (mostly because we were all in the same city and in the same places most of the time and naturally spent a lot of time together) have unintentionally been pushed to the wayside in recent years.  Understandably, life became really busy.  But one too many times I've found myself saying to a dear friend, "Has it really been that long since we've seen each other?!"  And the answer is: yes, it has been that long.  Weeks turn to months, and months turn to years, and suddenly that person you used to talk to every day becomes your friend who has gotten married and moved three times and had an art opening since you last saw her.  Or it becomes your Aunt who you haven't called in a year, or your husband who you haven't been out on a date with in months.  Time has a way of slipping by while you're busy raising your brood, but I no longer want to let my relationships fall into the past.

So even if it means squeezing in coffee with a friend super early in the morning, or random playdates on the other side of town, or makeshift lunch dates in between meetings (and hopefully it also means more kid-friendly dinner parties and long evenings out and weekly playgroups!), I want to dedicate more time and energy to feeding my relationships and to building my community, which will in turn feed my soul. I feel so blessed to have so many amazing/crazy/supportive people in my life, and I want to take more time to nurture my relationships and to show people how much they mean to me.

So hello 2014.  I'm ready to focus on all of the good you have in store (over coffee and a  croissant with loved ones).  Let's go.

xx

THROUGH THEIR EYES

Gaby held Lucien in our living room and I stood by the record player, quietly watching a father and son interact.  Lou gazed up at his big bearded Papa.  You could feel the love in his eyes.  He wasn't just looking at his Papa, he was looking at the face of the familiar and the safe, the warm and the loving.  He had known that face since day one, and, to him, it was perfection.

Each morning, when I grumpily hope for just five more minutes of slumber, Biet jumps upon me and wedges herself under my arm, asking in a far-too-loud voice, "Mama, you awaaaaake?!". She sees not my red-rimmed, mascara-smeared eyes, nor the soft crinkles just beginning to crease my face.  She sees not the sprouts of postpartum hair regrowth sticking straight up on my forehead, nor my unshaven legs.  She sees not the imperfections, or as I've come to know them in my overly-critical and comparative adult life, my flaws.  She sees only Mama, her Mama, her everything.

It turns out that these children of ours, these utterly perfect children of ours, have a way of finding the perfection around them all of the time.  They see the world in a way that rises above stereotypes, judgement, and norms, and rests instead on pure insight and intuition.  They look at the world with great big eyes of wonder, and they are open to and accepting of it- to all that it is, and all that it is capable of becoming.  And when you think about it, that's kind of an incredibly healthy and inspiring way to be.

I know that if I can take a moment each day to try to see the world as they do, my world will become more beautiful.  If I can strive to focus on the perfection of the day to day things around me- the perfection of my tired eyes and crooked smile (those eyes are tired from growing and raising two beautiful human beings! That smile makes my children beam with happiness!) or my husband's salt and pepper hair (he's more and more handsome with age!), or the inevitable constant mess in our home (a well-lived-in home where there's always a project underway!), or the way that our bed always and forever smells like a dog (our beautiful Nico whom we love to the moon and back- we're lucky to call her a part of our family!)- well, I know that I'll begin to see everything more clearly.

These things don't bother our babies, and why should they? We have each other, we have our health, and we have a million things to make and adventures ahead of us.  My kids know that, and, when I let them remind me, I know that too.

And on this sunny morning, as I put on a record for my family, my boys reminded me of all this.

LUCIEN AT SEVEN MONTHS

My dear Lucien,

A couple of days ago you turned seven months old, and I didn't even realize the occasion until the day was nearly through.  Such is the fullness of our collective lives these days, with you and I and your sister and your papa and your dog in our busy, busy home, barely realizing the passing of time.  I warmed almond milk on the stove for your sister at the end of our long, laughter-filled evening, you sat on my hip observing my every move and lightly fiddling with my hair, and as I turned off the fire, I realized the date. Seven months had passed since we first met face-to-face on that powerful early monday morning.

When I look in your eyes (and I look into your bright blue eyes often) I see a full fledged boy.  I see a maturity, coupled with a lust for life, which exceeds your years.  You seem to have always had this quality, since you were in my belly actually, or at least it has always felt that way.  Your face holds a rather charming combination of equal parts wisdom and cheer.  When we ride the subway together, and you're wrapped close to my chest in your sling or carrier, you reach your little hand out in front of us to hold the bar, just like everyone else.  Then you peer out into the crowd with your knowing eyes, searching for friends. As you catch the gaze of a fellow passenger, your sparkling grin emerges, your entire being radiates joy, and whomever you are looking at melts.  You've enchanted entire subway cars with those eyes and that grin.  I don't know many people who can enchant entire subway cars without saying a word.

From the moment you rise in the morning until the moment you drift to sleep, you are simply so driven.  You are driven to explore, driven to learn, to move, and to see.  You're the kind of guy who wants to open every door, hear the whole anthology, and try one of everything on the menu.  You want to go everywhere.  You want to see it all.  It is entirely exhausting, and rather endearing.  I am so proud of your drive.

And then there's food.  You like food.  You have strong little muscle man arms, and chubby yet lanky legs, and more facial expressions than a seasoned actor, but you have yet to grow any teeth.  This does not stop you from eating.  The sight and smell of food makes you so excited.  When you smell a pot of soup cooking on the stove, and see me tasting it with the wooden spoon, you begin to chant and wail in a stylized, almost frantic way, flail your arms and legs in unison, and lunge your entire body towards the pot.  When we hand you a piece of food, your face becomes a beacon of determination and your eyes light up like Christmas morning.  Whether its an apple, a piece of toast, or a strip of steak, you figure out how to eat it, and then you ask for more.  I used to mash everything for you and feed you with a spoon, but as your desire to eat became apparent, and you proved your adeptness at not choking, I began to simply hand you whatever I was eating.  To my surprise, you rose to the occasion and quickly learned how to feed yourself.  I'm hoping I have a little foodie on my hands... or perhaps even a chef.

Your love for those around you, especially your sister, is palpable.  I never imagined I could feel so much love from a person so small.  It defies explanation. When I hold you sometimes, its almost as if our bodies meld together into one.  We breathe and move in unison, and I can feel your affection and sense your love.  When I sing you to sleep at the end of the day with an old Velvet Underground song, the sound of my voice calms you.  When I run my fingers through your funny little mop top of ginger curls, the weight of my touch comforts you.  When I come home after being away and you see me for the first time in hours, the sight of my face brings you joy.  Our connection feels so primal, so perfect.  I think its safe to say that we are terribly in love with one another.

I thank you, Lucien Hunter, for teaching me, in these past seven months, the magic and the toil and the honor that it is to mother a son.

With love and awe,
Mama

ME OH MY: A HAIRCUT

I'm beginning to realize the monumental importance of investing in oneself. Whether it be by eduation, leisure, pampering, or just a little free time here and there, taking the initiative to put yourself first is really, really important. As a mother, I often (read: always) put my children in the forefront of my mind, and dedicate one thousand percent of my energy to their happiness, as a mother should. But the other day it dawned on me, in an epiphany sort of way, that the way that I feel about myself influences the way that I feel about life, and the way that I feel about mothering, and somehow, I'm sure, the way that I'm teaching my kids to feel about themselves. It was a moment when I felt like I'd been running and running and was out of energy and out of breath, and looked like a hot sweaty food-stained mess, and I glanced in a mirror and said to myself, "It's ok- I'm a mom."

Oh, hell no.

I used to be the kind of girl who dreamed of living in Breakfast at Tiffany's. I used to be the kind of girl who would go giddy over what to wear to a party or a gallery opening, or even to the grocery store. I used to always say to myself, as I did my hair in the crooked antique mirror in my little apartment, "I live in New York City, and you never know who you're gonna meet just walking down the street!".  I'm happy that I am not that girl anymore.  My time is put towards grander and more sacred things these days.  But in all honesty, I miss being pulled together and feeling on top all of the time.

And so I decided to make an effort to put myself first in line, some of the time. I made an appointment with the talented Jamie and took myself out for a little afternoon of pampering.  I hadn't been in for a haircut in years.  After years of hair modeling in NYC in the early 2000's, I consider myself scarred by the stylist world (a black and white bob, blue faux hawk, extensions, and a shaved head are amongst the most traumatic of my modeling days), and am ridiculously picky when it comes to who I let touch my hair.  I vowed to cut it myself for the rest of my life, but that ended up not looking so cute. Then I found Jamie. And I fell in love.  I've been to my share of stylists, and she is something else.  Instead of scissors, she uses a straight razor to cut hair, and it makes your hair have this unbelievable swing that lightness that is amazing.  (Also- almost like magic, every time she cuts my hair, good things start happening in my life.  It's nuts).  Luckily I caught her in between fashion weeks, so she was in her salon instead of dashing around the world doing hair for the shows, so she got me right in.  Thank goodness too, because between my naturally wild mane, summer humidity, and blotchy postpartum hair loss, it was time. It really was time.

I had Biet come with me to the salon at first to try to familiarize her with the whole hair-cutting process, because the day is fast approaching when her curly locks will need their first trim, and I have a feeling she might freak out.  She stayed for a few minutes watching in amusement before running off to the park with her Papa (I don't think she knew what to make of it).  And then it was just Jamie and me, chatting and laughing like old friends.  She talked me down from chopping off all of my hair (Thank you Jamie! And no thanks to you Pinterest for putting all those crazy pixie cut ideas in my head!), and still ended up cutting off about half of the weight of my hair!

Spending a couple of hours without the kids, without work, and without anyone to be concerned about except for yourself, is downright therapeutic.  It's good for my soul and my sanity, and in turn becomes good for my entire family.  It's something that I now believe has truly been missing from my life of late, and something that I plan to remedy in every way that I can.  Gaby and I are already scheduling blocks of hours each week when each one of us can run off for a while independently.  I'm really excited to walk around and experience the city again sans stroller, sans crying, with nothing but the hat on my head and the shoes on my feet.  I might even grab a danish one morning and wander up to Tiffany's.  :)

MY CITY : SPINNING PLATES

As we quietly crawl into the trenches of summer, as the sun beats down upon the city's restless pace, slowing it to worn-out roll, as the hot air hangs like draperies upon the buildings and lamp posts, I ponder.  I ponder this little domestic city life that Gaby and I have carved out for ourselves. We wake early (so early) to the wails of sleepy-eyed little ones, and it is then that we begin spinning our plates.  We move throughout the day in little spurts, traveling dutifully to our obligations, nourishing tiny souls with food and laughter and creativity, and putting bits of our own souls into our own projects.  And with each little spurt of parenting gusto or professional responsibility or artistic passion, we pick up another plate.  Just yesterday, it seems, I was lying exhausted and empowered in our queen size bed on freshly laundered sheets and a pink-skinned newborn baby in my arms, with nothing to do but feed and love my child.  Today we have a four-month-old and a two-year-old, and a dozen spinning plates, all balanced precariously on our fingertips.  For the most part we keep them spinning, somehow balancing the honorable responsibility and joy of raising a family with the reality of being two working parents whilst pouring ourselves into two different start-ups in the works, and navigating NYC life.  For the most part, the plates never crash. But sometimes they do.  Sometimes there just aren't enough hours in the day. Sometimes it feels impossible. Sometimes I need encouragement and inspiration. That's when the beautiful and wise New York City herself comes to my rescue.

The city is one of my greatest resources.  She is a source of beauty, serendipity, connection, and love.  The more hectic our days become, the more often she reminds me, in little ways, of the success and peace that lie just around the corner.  She gently nudges me along and encourages me to gain insight from all around, reminding me that the deepest beauty lies not locked away somewhere in a museum, but in the moment you spend with your daughter catching leaves as they fall, in the way you teach her to jump through puddles after a summer storm, in the aroma of fresh flowers from the farmers market, and in the glow of the Empire State... Each red brick, uneven cobblestone, shining light, vacant window, and lonely water-tower speaks to me, saying "This is it." And for me and my family, this. is. it.  Our days may be sweaty and long and hectic, but they are days spent with the people we love most in a place that speaks to us; a place that inspires us; a place that drives us to not only to keep spinning the plates, even after one or two crash to the floor, but to dance while we spin.  

A WELCOME ENDING

Today I am lighter.  The invisible brick that has been sitting on my shoulder for the past two years suddenly turned to dust, and with the first gust of wind was blown away down the avenue, to mix and mingle with all of the other dust on the ledges of windows and in the corners of alleys, becoming just another old remnant of another old story of a citizen of the city.

The story it tells will be one of fear, one of unease.  It's a story that began with a routine test when I was pregnant with Biet, and ended with a test result that I read today.  And in the middle were hospital appointments, procedures, biopsies, doctors advising us to consider how many children we wanted to have, saying the sooner the better was in our best interest, and the unending fear of the worst case scenario: the c word.  I could have come face to face with that word today.  I tried for months and months not to think about it.  Then Lucien was born and testing resumed, and today I opened the results.  And instead of that dreaded word, I read the one word that I had truly not expected: negative.  Completely negative.  My body had healed.

Fear has a funny way of manifesting itself in the most unexpected ways.  I realize now that this rut that I've been in and out of for quite some time, of not being able to completely throw myself into my projects and my art as I'd like to, probably has nothing to do with being uninspired, and everything to do with being scared.   I've been living with this silent fear for over two years, dreading the worst.  I tried so hard to push it out of my mind.  But every morning when we made a fresh juice, I couldn't help but throw in an extra handful of kale for its anti-cancer properties, and then my mind would reel.  I would think about what it must have been like for my mother when, upon going in for her third cesarian, they found multiple tumors spread throughout her body.  She never got to see her babies grow up, and we never got to know her.  I would tell myself, "that was her story and this is mine," but that invisible brick of fear remained on my shoulder, night and day.

Until today.  Today I am lighter.  Today I am free.

I have my babies, and they have me.  And I completely and wholly have my health.  And now, with unending gratitude, I will go on to write my story.

WHAT NOBODY TELLS YOU

When you are pregnant with your second child, you hear story upon story of the sleep deprivation, the messes, the exhaustion, and the massive amount of work that you're in for.  You hear "Oh you'll certainly have your hands full!" from many a friend and stranger.  You hear about the inherent rivalry, the undying love, and the intimate friendship that is bound develop between them; about the matriarchal presence that will surely envelop you.  

Once in awhile you hear, from women who've walked in these shoes before you, about how quickly and intensely you'll love the second one (since you've already learned how to love from the first).  This strikes you as interesting, and somewhat unfathomable. And then it happens.  Your newborn arrives and from that very first breath you are overpowered with devotion.  You sweep him into your arms and before a thought can even form in your mind you are smitten.   

And then something else happens, something that nobody tells you about.  Your firstborn climbs onto the bed and you throw your arm around her waist and pull her close to you.  And suddenly your love for her explodes.  Into a million pieces it bursts, then magnifies, then consumes your heart again, a million times stronger than before. And then it continues to grow. 

The days and weeks float by and you find yourself falling more and more in love with your firstborn.  Perhaps its that the presence of a brand new baby makes you realize what an amazing person you're first baby has become.  Perhaps its because opening your heart to another child has forced it to expand in all areas.  Perhaps its simply because exponential love is the core purpose of motherhood. 

For whatever reason, your love for her deepens to beyond the point you knew possible.  You're more proud of her than ever before.  You miss her when she's not around.  You throw her up in the air and catch her when you come home.  You love that kid like nobody's business.  And you find yourself awestruck at least once a day, saying with a full heart that's bound to grow fuller, "my goodness. this girl."

AND THEN OUR HEARTS EXPLODED

A quick update: he has arrived!  Our son was born in our home early this morning after an intense and amazing whirlwind labor.  Each time I look down and marvel at my boy, with his puffy eyes and dark pink skin and teeny little hands and feet, I sense my heart growing larger with adoration and gratitude.  I can't believe he has only been with us for less than one day.  He has carried so much strength and love with him into this world.  Thank you to all who have sent support our way.  I will soon put his birth experience into words, but for now we rest, a family of four.

A NEW YEAR // RAISING A DREAMER

A new beginning is upon us.  As a mother with a new family member set to arrive in just a few weeks, as an artist with an anticipated new venture slowly coming to a head, and as a dreamer with big plans set to unfold over the next few months, I am ready.  I breathe in this new year with such relief, excitement, and peace, and happily bid farewell to 2012.  It was a tough one.  The past year challenged me in ways that I could have never imagined.  2012 uprooted me in so many ways, and made me deeply question the decisions I have made and the path that I am walking.  Things that had always been so easy and sure suddenly fell away, leaving stressful nights and financial hardship in their wake.  We moved away from the community that we had known and loved for the past decade.  We realized that our hard-earned jobs may not make the best careers in the long run, and we were faced with difficult choices.  In the face of those choices, we sometimes made decisions that were best for our family, and sometimes made decisions that society says are "best for a family," and from both, we learned.  I emerge from 2012 with deeper clarity and wisdom that I have ever held.  And for this, I am truly grateful.

I am a dreamer. Like everyone, I have seen tough times, heartache, and loss.  And through it all, or perhaps because if it all, I continued to dream.  I have felt overwhelming joy, elation, purpose, and love, and they have given me strength to dream of even greater things.  Imagining and acting upon my creative ideas and life's unpredictable adventures is what gets me out of bed in the morning.  Following my heart is what led me to New York City, through many cherished years or experiences, to my husband, and to the decision to have a family.  Following my heart, and nothing else.  As this new year -this new era- begins, I want to constantly remember this. 

As a mother, there is nothing I wish to pass on to my children more than this knowledge, this way of being.  I wish for them to leap as far as they can imagine, and to sidestep convention and mediocrity for greatness- for their own self-determined greatness.  I want my Biet, and my little boy on the way, to know no end to their potential.  Yes, I want to tell them to follow their dreams.  But more importantly, I want to show them how to live their dreams, everyday. 

I vow to show them.  This is not a resolution, but rather a manifesto.  Gaby and I have thought long and hard about what we want, what we really want, out of these precious days with our family, and out of our individual careers.  We have come to the conclusion that we have no choice but to bring our great dreams, which have been unintentionally brushed aside over the past 12 months, back to center of our lives.  We began this journey a few months ago when we decided to really give our creative careers a go, but somehow fear of failure, and financial woes, led us astray.  Now we have no choice but to put our fears into a little box, lock it, and to throw away the key.  We have no choice but to reconnect with our inner dreamers.  We have no choice but to live the life that we have always imagined.  We deserve it.  And our children deserve it. 

Perhaps it's the universal collective sense of new beginnings that arises at this time of year.  Or perhaps our family is simply ready, finally, to move on to the next stage.  But I feel that the winds have changed.  Potential is creeping up through the cracks of everything, and letting in the light to propel our dreams forward.  I vow to show my babies what it means to be a dreamer, and I have a feeling, or more of a knowing, that great adventures are in store for us along the way.  It is all so clear.  

I wish everyone great happiness in each dream and venture of 2013. 

Happy new year.

xx   

"MAMA!"

I open my tired eyes in the morning and roll over in bed, squinting as her round little face comes into focus.  There she stands, her face just inches away from mine, at my bedside.  As she eagerly waits to be lifted onto the white pillowy land of the big bed, she looks me in the eyes and exclaims,
"Mama!"
"Good morning Biet."
Then she rattles off a sentence in baby babble, which I imagine to mean something along the lines of its so nice to see you this morning.  And from here on out, the "Mama's!" never stop.

Sometimes she wants to get my attention. Sometimes she wants to tell me a story. Sometimes she simply wants to sing her "Mama! Mama! Mama!" song.  Sometimes the back and forth between us ("Mama!" "Yes, Biet?" "blahahablahabaaha!".... "Mama!" "Yes, Biet?" "hahadododo!"...) is pure entertainment.

As we stroll down the street on a chilly autumn eve, her booming bright voice calls out my name over and over and over and over.  Every passing taxi cab, every smiling stranger, every flashing city light, and every bump in the sidewalk warrants an excited "Mama!".

Then, just as I'm thinking to myself that I must have heard her call out my name about 75,000 times that day, she falls silent. I peek over the edge of the stroller to find her eyes gently closed, and her happy tired face finally slumbering after a long day.

Finally, Gaby and I can have a decent baby-free conversation, free of slobbery bursts of babble and nonsensical sounds and songs.  Finally, a bit of peace and quiet and normalcy.

And then the funniest thing happens.
After only a couple of blocks, everything feels a little too quiet. I miss the excited nonstop "Mama's!".  Her pretty happy little cries have become my new normal.  And as much as I cherish this silent time, I look forward to the next morning when her voice will once again call out my name.