10 Steps: How to Take the Worst Holiday Picture with Santa

A picture with Santa is one of those "must do" items on the Christmas check off list along with baking cookies and decorating the tree. For me, it is doubley exciting since my kiddos and my sister's kiddos take the picture together: 4 cousins, 2 laps, and a Santa in a pear tree. 

But take heed: the magical idea one creates in their mind of reliving their childhood Santa pictures through their own children is by no means easy. Last year, I came home early and without Husband to NJ with both kids (both barely under 2) and getting two kids dressed in Christmas attire, coats-scarves-hats-gloves on, in the car, out of the car, in the stroller, to the mall, on line, and on Santa's lap was it's own version of hell; a hell that should be accurately captured by the end product. 

What a crock it would be if after running behind kids in a crowded mall and knocking into people and waiting on line with tantrum-bellowing kids, they got to Santa's lap and smiled gloriously. That wouldn't truly reflect the spirit of Christmas pictures at the mall. By the time you reach Santa's chair, you should hope for a serious-faced kid staring blankly at the camera - or if you're lucky, like us two years ago, we hit pure gold with the trifecta of holiday picture taking. 

So if you too want the world's best worst holiday picture with Santa, follow some of these steps.

A Skeptic's Guide to Elf on a Shelf

When I first started seeing this Elf on a Shelf craze unfolding, I admit, I was skeptical. It seemed like something that would totally be up my alley but I thought it was a bit strange. When it began taking over my Pinterest account, I was a bit annoyed. 

And then I read the Elf on a Shelf / Dinovember dad post and the explanation: "how in this world of technology and non mystery this is a little bit of mystery that you can give your kids." That began my change of heart with the Elf. Then I read about the Kindness Elves and I was sold.

Now I get it. And once you get it, the world becomes impossibly huge 

... because there are soooo many possibilities. 

But first... the elf needs an identity 

I found THESE, a great (and super adorable) alternative to the typical Elf on the Shelf and if I'm gonna get Husband behind this, the elf has to look much more traditional and waaaay less commercial.

We also can't call the elf - "Elf"; Elf will need a name. Since our kids, at the moment, speak more Spanish than English, I could go with a Spanish name like Don Miguel or Señor Gigante (irony). Or maybe I could use one of the baby names we liked but didn't get to use like Penny. But let's be real, we're a family from Jersey, so this elf will be named Bruce or Tony Soprano. Let's go classy NJ style... Frank Sinatra.

So to get you (possibly a skeptic) started, I searched Pinterest and Google and Facebook and blogs and every other social media you could imagine for far too many hours and I have narrowed down my favorite ideas. And with 13 days left til the big day, here's a great place to start (or end). It's never too late to believe...

The Introduction

Since Frank Sinatra is going to be part of the family, he will need a proper introduction. I love the thought and detail behind creating a whole Facebook page for him.

SOURCE

Things I Could Teach My Son but That He'd Be Better Off Learning from His Dad

Moms struggle with their full mommy plates. We struggle with how much we do (getting kids dressed, combed, fed, clean-toothed, packing lunches, putting shoes on the correct foot - ours and our kids', telling the kids to not bite each other, and going to work) and then take on even more (taking on projects, buying presents for birthday parties, making doctor appointments, rescheduling doctor appointments, cleaning up, making dinner, working out, finding time to have a glass of wine and chat with our husbands... and friends... and mothers.) And those are just the physical responsibilities of a day without including the emotional are we doing it right, are we doing it well, are we doing it without causing too much permanent damage to our kids.

And then there are the posts telling me what else I should be doing, the lists: 46 Things Moms Should Be Awesome At, 38 Things Cool Moms Do, 18 Things A Mom Should Do to Avoid Being the Absolute Worst Parent Ever. I try to give these posts an honest try, after all, I like a good list, but instead I find myself wanting to shove these lists down someone's throat because I don't want to hear about the things I'm not doing but should be doing. I'm exhausted, remember?

Perfect Timing: A Memory

"What? Why didn't you wake me?!" He shouted in a calm panic.

"I didn't want to bother you if I wasn't sure."

"Doctor Fernandez said if it lasts more than an hour, it's probably time. How long have you been having them?"

"About two hours."

The contractions had started at 4:27 exactly. I know because I typed it down on our iPod (because it was my first pregnancy so I was anal like that). But I had no idea what contractions would feel like so I waited and noted: 

4:34.

4:43. 

4:52. 

5:05. 

At visits, my doctor would ask me if I had been having any contractions and I would shrug my shoulders, "Maybe?"

I'm sure I drove her nuts, "What do you mean you don't know?"

"I don't know. Whaddo they feel like?"

"You would know," she'd assure.

"Thennn... no?" I'd say completely unsure.

What if They Fly?

Half way there I stopped dead in my tracks, "Maybe this isn't a good idea."
"We don't have to do it." Husband answered swiftly because he, too, was unsure about the decision we were making.
"I just feel like maybe we're rushing this."
"We could still turn around." 

I'm writing about this in real-time, as in, this just happened real-time so the wound is fresh. I'm still sobbing over our decision. As a very normal person, you'd think I was crazy. But I'm not a normal person. I've always bordered on the side of crazy and have pretty much eclipsed the moon of emotion and 3 years ago, almost to the day, I took a giant leap further into both abysses. That was the day I became a parent and would forever live in crazy and emotional.

Today was the first day I dropped that child off at school.
I didn't handle it well.

Don't let the smiles fool you; it was a hard day for both of us.

Birthday Party, Disney Style

Parents know that birthday parties are always more work than you originally plan. I always have the intention of keeping it *simple* but unless simple means gala-style, I don't do simple - one of those unavoidable truths I'm going to have to accept in my life. Worse even, a truth Husband will have to accept too.

Normally for me, throwing a birthday party is hard work, not so much because of the actual party but because I'm looking for decorations in a country where finding everyday things (like bananas) is sometimes hard to find so finding specialty items? Let's just say I start planning her October birthday in August and have been known to hole punch my own confetti. But this year, as luck would have it, our good friend (and one of Rafa's Godfathers) is getting married in September which meant that the kids and I stayed in NJ an month extra. I took the chance to not only celebrate her birthday party with our family and friends that never get to celebrate with us but I also got to throw a birthday party in the land of ease, where everything is accessible and easy to find and if it's not at Target, it's on Amazon. God, I love the U.S. sometimes!

Since we arrived here this summer, she has watched My Little Mermaid everyday (yes, I know she calls it My Little Mermaid). She's been giving me checkups as per Doc McStuffins, wears necklaces to mirror Sofia the First's amulet, dances to "Let It Go" like she's on So You Think You Could Dance, and treasure hunts with Jake and his Neverland Pirates. So...Disney was Captain Obvio theme and though the guest list was short - the festivities were big!

(I gathered many ideas via Pinterest and came up with the rest. Feel free to check out my Disney Birthday Party Pinterest page.)

This is my absolute favorite part of birthday parties!!!  Guests walked into the entryway and grabbed a Mickey Adventure bag. The bag had a few small toys already but would be used for the game prizes they would be winning and for the piñata candy!

From here they opened the front door to Arendelle:

...and the backyard tent with more balloons and the Princess piñata. 

It wouldn't be a Cuban thrown party without lechon (roast pork) and bocaditos (yummy Cuban-style finger sandwiches) so those were provided my Mom Extraordinaire. As for the rest, the typical snacks were made kinda fabulous by festive Disney signs.

The first game we played was Ariel's Under the Sea Search. I filled a baby pool with balloons and about an inch or two of water, dropped in a Nemo figurine and then covered the whole thing with a net. The kids then put on a blindfold and had to search for the fish through the balloons and water. This was a fun one to watch although my Princess chose to not use the blindfold… cheater. Everyone got a Disney coloring book for playing! (Shout out dollar store - where most decorations and prizes were bought.) 

Next, we played Doc McStuffin's Help Put Doc Back Together Puzzle Hunt. I bought a 24 piece Doc McStuffins puzzle from… you guessed it... the dollar store and separated the pieces into six groups of four. I put those pieces in a Ziploc and hid them around the backyard. The kids had to hunt around the yard looking for the pieces and once they were found worked as a team to put it together. I really liked this game. (Hint: Write down or remember where you put all of the pieces.) They all won a Jake and the Neverland Pirates magnetic picture frame for their Adventure bags.

The last game we played was another Doc McStuffins game: Pin the Band-Aid on the Band-Aid. This was a variation of a game I found on Pinterest where they pinned a band-aid on Lambie or Stuffy but I didn't have time to make a character so I used something from - drum roll, please - the dollar store. With the kids blindfolded, they had to stick a band-aid on the band-aid puzzle piece. The prizes for this game was a Disney pen and flashlight. (Did I mention how much I love that dollar store?!)

Having both the Snow White Apple Station and the Ice Cream Station worked out well since I was able to use the same toppings for both: marshmallows, shaved coconut, chocolate chips, butterscotch chips, caramel, dulce de leche, chocolate frosting. And these pumpkin cookies my sister made were To. Die. For. 

And of course… 

The Princess with her Princess Cake

And after all of that our Princess was pooped.

Just kidding. She wasn't sleeping. She was hiding candy.

This was a special birthday for us but perhaps my favorite moment was when Rafaella changed into her Princess Belle dress and came out to everyone singing Happy Birthday. My parents had my sister and I make an entrance to our birthday parties and I remember it fondly - I don't know that my sister felt the same way about it but I lived for it. I didn't plan for Rafaella to make an entrance but it sort of miraculously worked out that way and I couldn't have been happier for the unexpected opportunity. 

Disneyly yours,

The Planning Crew,

You are welcome to use, share, pin, tweet materials from our Disney party but please link back to this post.

Tragic with a Side of Guillotine: A Milestone

"You could cut his hair short on the sides and keep the top long and style it up." 

"And then I could just move to Brooklyn with my hipster kid too? 

"Heepster? Que es eso?" 

and this was 5 months ago...

This is one variation of the ongoing conversation that I have had with my Cuban mom about getting Santiago's hair cut. If it were up to her she would have taken scissors to his hair months ago giving him a Tom Cruise style cut - Top Gun not Rain Man. Instead she refers to him as Einstein in the mornings due to the height of his hair. Hey it could be worse....

Husband, who went the whole summer not cutting his own hair until he looked slightly Wolverine-ish, obviously wasn't concerned with cutting T's hair. He was in my corner. Then, recently when we were talking over Skype he dropped the bomb, "Maybe we should cut his hair."

Et tu, Brute?

Betrayed by Brute and alone on my limb, I've held on to T's lovely, little, sweet-smelling head of light brown curls like a woman in the middle of rushing Class IV rapids. Why can't I let this ship sail?

I thought back to Rafa's first haircut. This, like that, is a major milestone but somehow it's different. It's harder this time. I thought back further. When I was pregnant with Rafa I had one dream of what she looked like. Beautifully round little face, big brown dancing eyes, and sparkly earrings. I remembered the earrings clearly. I had one of those dreams about Santiago too. Just one. And you know what stood out the most in that dream? You guessed it, his hair. The exact color it is now, long and wavy like a beach bum. Hmmmm... If I were a therapist, I'd say I was on to something.

Could it be that his hair is what I identify his babyness to and without it, he's no longer a baby but a (gulp) big kid? Oh, say it ain't so. If he's no longer a baby but a big kid then that means I don't have anymore babies - which oddly sends a current of excitement through my body at the same time as it sends a very sad one. It sounds so tragic, I know, but his hair is one of the last things that stands between being a mom of a baby and not and I'm sad about it. So I keep putting off cutting his hair until he looks like Einstein or is as old as him.

I know what comes next... the guillotine must drop...and soon because we leave for Dominican Republic in two weeks. Sometimes, I just wish that I could be more like one of those not-so-emotional moms, whose heart doesn't break over every thing.

The Advice My Dad Never Gave

My father is a man of little words.

He says only what needs to be said. No more. Sometimes less. Sometimes he just nods or shakes his head. Other times - and certainly the most frustrating - he gives you a one-word response that doesn't really answer your question at all.

"Dad. Where is the coffee?" 

"Yes."

On rare days, I call home and he has lots to tell me and I think IS HE ON SOMETHING? Caffeine? Uppers? ...crack, perhaps? And then I wonder if this is the day of the apocalypse. Are animals running for the hills? Are worms pouring out of the ground to avoid flooding? Because dad has a lot to say today and this is out of form.

I think it is safe to say at this point that you understand, right? He isn't much of a talker.

So for Father's Day when ManCrates, sent out their #DadBrags campaign to brag about some of the best advice Dad has ever given, I wasn't sure how to respond. He has never been much in the "You'll get 'em next time" advice realm. That was more my mom. And just as quickly as I knew that my dad never gave me words of advice, I understood that you don't always have to speak advice to give it.

Release the stress. You were never in control anyway. 

- Steve Maraboli

First I should point out that my dad is not Steve Maraboli. Steve is a writer. Maybe a good one. My dad is Rafael and that was just a quote I liked but I digress. My mom has often said, "Your father will never die of a heart attack." She's right. If you can't see from that picture on the left where he is carrying his small baby in a fucking tree let me spell it out: That man doesn't stress about a thing. He wanders around in this day and age with no cell phone. When we go to the mall, I will follow him around otherwise he'll wander off and get lost and it will take ME hours to find him and when I do find him I'll ask worriedly, "Umm... where were you? I looked everywhere for you." And he'll shrug. No answer.  Shoulder shrug. That. Is. It. I'll realize he was never looking for me, never even realized I was gone in the first place and if he had, it wouldn't have bothered him in the slightest. 

"Travel is the only thing you buy that makes you richer." 

- Unknown

In fact, the only thing he might ever stress about is what cruise he and my mom will be taking next year or what new place they will visit. He loves to travel. He loves to pack his bags and go. He loves airplanes. Without ever saying it, traveling is my dad's purest form of education. Hmmm.... I wonder where I get my travel bug from?

Take pride in what you have and what you do.

My dad has clothes from the 70's in perfect condition. Not a wrinkle. Not a tear. Mint condition. He takes care of everything he owns. As kids we knew not to touch his things without total care. If you borrowed something bring it back as you found it. If you play with something take care of it. He bought us too many toys as kids so we were the house that all of our friends came to to play. Sure plenty was demolished but we also knew that not every child was as privileged as we were to have what we had. The same goes for his work. After Eastern airlines was liquidated due to bad leadership, my father took up work stocking shelves at our neighborhood market for years. He was never late. He hardly ever called out sick. And his aisles were always perfect. Now with kids of my own, I try to instill the same ideas. Take care of the things you have and have pride in what you do. 

"Eighty percent of success is showing up." - Woody Allen

He may not have been Rah-Rah-Rahing louder than any parent but he was at every dance competition my sister and I were in running after us with his video camera. He taped every single mother-effing performance we were involved in which in some years was about 20+ performances. He didn't miss one. At my very first competitive dance performance he was there waiting for me to come on with camera in hand and when my performance started the camera shut off. Battery dead. He stayed to watch but went to the room right after. My mom said he was so upset he didn't get it on video. We both knew. He may not have the words but sometimes words aren't needed. He felt like he let me down even though he was there. For my dad that was always how he showed up. I dare you to find another father who took more pictures and videos of his girls than my father did. He was behind the camera. Behind the lens. Capturing us in a way that didn't need talking. See, he was always there  - just not with advice in the form of words. Words didn't come easily to him but action did.

Life is not meant to be all that serious.

My dad is a silly guy. He played practical jokes on co-workers filling their coat pockets with sugar or leaving silly pictures of animals named after them in their locker.  In the summers, God help us if we wandered to the backyard in the evening after we were showered and in our PJs and he was out there. He would spray us with the hose soaking us completely. We'd run and try to hide behind the pool or in our clubhouse but it was no use. Sometimes I'd fall asleep on the couch watching television with him and he would stick a cigar in my mouth and take a picture of it hanging out of my open snoring hole. Other times he would write on my forehead I LOVE PAPI with a Sharpie marker. The next morning I would wake up and have to go to school with a faded black marker declaration of love for my father on my forehead. I danced on the ceiling thanks to Dad and Lionel Richie.* I learned to take silly pictures but more importantly not to care much for what others thought through his silliness. I remember a time when he still drove and he would put my sister and I in the car to visit my mom at work. She was working as a toll collector and he would drive us all the way there just to drive through her toll and say hi and then keep going. He was the kind of dad that would run from one end of the backyard and take a flying leap over the pool railing into our above ground 4ft. pool, F-L-O-A-T-I-N-G in the air before diving in the pool and bursting out of the water a moment later. He was magical. 

The Advice My Dad Never Gave

There are dads with deep, strong voices that hand out wisdomatic knowledge like brightly-colored gum balls. They say things like, "Be true to yourself" or "be whatever you want to be." That wasn't my dad's way. I'm not at all angry that he wasn't an advice dispenser, in fact, I think I myself could learn to be the kind of parent who practices what they preach without so much of the preaching. My dad never stood on a soapbox and claimed to know it all, never pretended to have all the answers; he just did the best he could - like we all do. 

We don't all have to be dispensers of wisdom nuggets to be good parents. Sometimes carrying your daughter upside down on your shoulders so she could dance on the ceiling is enough. 

* * * * *

"Post your dad at his best to Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram with the tag #DadBrags and win him something awesome." Visit ManCrates for more details. 

* * * * * 

The views and opinions expressed on DTWB are 100% my own. I might be occasionally compensated to provide opinions on products, services, websites, etc.  at which time I will inform my readers of such compensation. However, compensated or not, I always give my honest opinion on those topics or products. 

With that being said, my mention of Man Crates is not a compensated post nor is it a product review, it is simply an opportunity to win a cool prize right in time for Father's Day. 


*Refers to Lionel Richie's 1984 hit "Dancing on the Ceiling"

When Mami has to Deal with a Big Girl Bed

We've talked about this in logical terms (for months... and months):

In order to make this room a play room, they have to share a room.

Would two cribs fit in one room? 

Would we also be able to fit the queen sized-bed in that room? 

Probably not.

So if we got rid of that bed where would we read to them?

Ok, so we could get rid of one crib and move Rafa to a big girl bed?

But what about naps? 

Would Rafaella nap in a big girl bed? 

Would Santiago nap with her in the same room?

And how about Rafa? She's gotta make the biggest move.

Will she like it - this "big girl bed" thing?

Because she loves her crib so much. 

She feels safe in her crib with her GiRafa pillow.

...but she does drop clues sometimes about sleeping in a bed.

For months, we deliberated, discussed, and then decided. And then when we had finally decided, we un-decided. Rafa stays in her room in her bed and Santiago in his too. No one moves yet.

If I'm honest, I made these decisions (time & time again) from a sentimental, illogical place. (Yes, it's the same place that I make many decisions from; the corner of Overly-Sentimental Irrational Mother Drive and Illogical Emotional Lady Ave.) I wasn't afraid she'd fall out of the big girl bed or that my sleeping would be sacrificed at the altar of a big girl bed. I was afriad of what the big girl bed meant. A big girl bed meant one step closer to her being a big girl. A big girl bed meant she was my little girl one day less. A big girl bed meant she no longer needed the literal (and imaginary) walls of security.

Waaaaaaah! Sniffle. Tears.

As much as I joke that I'm ready for these kids to be old enough so that I could (take your pick):

I don't like the speed in which these two are growing. Who do they think they are, growing so fast? She's ready for a bed, really? I suppose she's ready for college too. Why not just move her out of our home and have her contribute to a 401 plan. (Sorry, ended up on that corner again.)


I started prepping her all day. Telling her that tonight she was going to sleep in her bed. I changed the sheets to a previously never before used bed and set it up with a comforter and pillows and blanket - a proper bed instead of the jumping/landing zone it was before.

The evening was the same as always but tonight after her bath and her pajamas and her screaming, "I LOVE YOU, PAPI," to daddy who is putting Santiago to sleep in the room down the hall, we laid down in her bed, her big girl bed. For the first time in over a year, I was unsure of what to do at our bedtime routine. I didn't want to freak her out with something new so I asked without asking if she wanted to lie in her bed so that she thought but kinda knew she didn't have a choice (confusing parent tricks).

"Rafa. Let's lay in your bed?"
"Ok."
Whew... that part was easy enough.

We read a book titled Siempre. I thought it appropriate for the night. When it was done she asked me for her tete.

"Do you want your pacifier now, Rafa?" I was willing to stay in there as long as she needed.
"Si," she confirmed. So I got up to get her pacifier and brought it back. And she continued, "Quiero mi tete. Para dormir aqui en la cama. Como la gente. --- I want my tete. To sleep here in the bed. Like the people."
"Ok, Rafa," I laughed

She asked for "Música I Love You" which is what she's named the lullaby I sing her 3 or 4 times repeatedly. After singing her lullaby only once last night, she was already snuggled into the pillow like the north pole to the south pole of a magnet. She muttered, "I love you mucho mucho," her cue that she's good to go and that I was, in fact, also good to go.

I knew if she fell asleep that she would be asleep for the night but I secretly hoped she would get up and need me to tuck her back in, that maybe she wouldn't like her big girl bed or being a big girl because then that would mean she wanted to stay my little girl. Irrational, I know. But no such thing happened. I was so proud of her last night and so sad for me.

This morning, I heard, "MAMI!" and a door slam at the exact same time. I jumped out of bed and opened my door and there she was in the hallway, not sure where to go since she had never just walked out of her room alone before so these walls appeared totally different then she had ever seen them. So out she walked confused but happy. Beaming with happy about her first night in her bed. And then she ran down the hall to me.

Turns out she's still little enough to run into my arms and that just because she doesn't need her literal walls of security doesn't mean she doesn't need these arms of security.

Moms: The Greatest Force of Nature

More and more since I've become a mother I've read blogs, and facebook statuses, and articles, and posts on how some amazing father did some amazing job with his kids by doing his daughter's hair and making her lunch and driving her to school.


REALLY? That's all it takes.

My husband laughs when he goes food shopping with our kids by himself; strangers - both women and men - have physically taken one of our children "off his hands" to relieve my husband of Dadly duties. Then they salute him. Applaud him. Celebrate him. Oooh and Ahhhh him. My husband, with our daughter in a shopping cart and our son in a carrier - neither of them throwing any kind of tantrum - is cheered on by Dad supporters for "giving mom a break" and taking the kids - his kids - for an hour of food shopping. He is revered in a way that would seem as if he just saved them from a burning building. 10th floor. While blindfolded. Carrying 50 pound weights in each arm. Naked. Balls on fire.

LET ME BE CLEAR. I am astonished my the amazingness of the man I married to be a wonderful father and an equally terrific husband on the daily. He is a superstar, rockstar, and moviestar. He is one remarkable parent. But isn't that his job? To be a dad and dare I say, a remarkable one? But I digress, this is not to take away from the GREATNESS of a GREAT dad. He is. Many dads are. But most don't do anything that mothers don't do too. They just get way more credit for, well, parenting.


So today, I don't want my focus (too much) to be on why dads get so much attention for the spectacular job they do but rather, today, I want to remind you, Mothers of why you are spectacular. Why you too should be saluted. Applauded. Celebrated. Ooooh-ed and Ahhhh-ed. Even if it is just a trip to the supermarket.

Here's a Reminder of why you, Mom, are the grandest force of nature:

Because you get migraines and even when you feel like Wile E. Coyote has just dropped an Acme anvil on your head and you've spent the afternoon hovered over a toilet dizzy and nauseous and vomiting, you still try to figure out how to get out of bed and take care of your children.

Because you know when your children have a fever without a thermometer.

Because when your child throws up all over her crib in the middle of the night and screams, "Mami!" You're already there cleaning her up.

Because when your other child gets the fever your first child had, you now check his warm body for a fever every 15 minutes. And can't think of anything else.

Because in the most hellish of weeks with headaches, and fevers, and throat infections you can still plan the world's greatest birthday party and your in-laws visiting.

Because said birthday party is for your second child, who everyone said would get the shaft, but that won't stop you from throwing the greatest first birthday ever.

Because you schedule doctor's appointments and reservations and dinner dates and family outings while making breakfast, drinking cold coffee, and putting away all of the toys on the living room floor. For the third time this hour.

Because you fly home on a plane with two kids under three to two different states and shrug, "Yeah. I'll be ok."

Because you wake up every morning when the sun is still down and dress two kids, feed them, and drive them to grandma's so that you could work a full day and then come straight home to pick them up and work a full evening.

Because every decision regarding your child is the biggest decision you will ever face and so you put a lot of weight into each and every decision you make: natural birth or c-section, start school this year or next, creamy or chunky peanut butter.

Because the things that make you feel normal or better (i.e. excercise, eating, tooth brushing, sleeping, getting dressed, seeing friends) take a back burner to everything they need.

Because you find ways to leave the house without your children noticing so that they won't cry ferociously and without bereathing until their face turns purple and you could see that punching bag thingy in the back of their throat (which is called an uvula) at the idea of you not being there.

Because when you try to leave the house without them noticing, they always notice and your mother-effing heart breaks every. single. time.

Because when anyone says anything even remotely offensive about your kid, you want to deck them.

Because your kids smack you in the mouth, scream in your face, and throw more attitude at you than a diva and you sit there with a bold, straight face and take it.

Because you know when your kid is about to lose their shit at the table and fling a plate full of food like a frisbee and you snatch it before eggs go flying everywhere.

Because you are a mom and a wife and a woman and a friend and a daughter and are on your A game in all of these fields without batting an eye.

Because the reason the kids don't throw (too) many tantrums in the shopping cart with dad is because YOU have taught them patience and how to sit at a table without throwing a fit, all at the expense of your eardrums. 

You are exceptional, mom.

Daily. Minutely. And sometimes you forget that. You convince yourself that mothers are supposed to do these things and be this way so it's easy to take yourself for granted; to forget that what you do every day is an offering of love, an exchange - exchanging a part of yourself and asking for nothing in return. Not all mothers do this. But you do. Remind yourself of this.

No one can do what you do
...except, apparently, really remarkable dads.

My Dear Baby Boy: A Love Letter to You, Santiago

Dear Santiago,

In less than two weeks you will turn a year old. A whole year has flown by and as fast as sometimes I wished it would go, I find myself wanting to bury my feet in the sand and get stuck in this time. Like a goalie, I want to guard these moments and not allow anymore of them to whiz by.

You are our little baby: mine, Papi's, and Rafaella's. It is beautiful to see how much you are loved in this family, like you were needed to somehow prove how much love we have to give. Every morning your sister wakes up and you are the first thing she asks for. Not me or your dad. She asks for you, for your presence, for you to be brought to her room and and put in her crib so she could share that precious space with you as her first order of daily business. She does not remember a life without you, doesn't care to as if she was waiting for you all of those months before you ever arrived. Being a second sibling can be hard in many ways, sometimes you feel cheated. Not enough time with dad or not enough attention from mom but she is one way you will never be cheated. She is as bonded to you and as protective and motherly to you as we are, reminding you when things are dangerous and informing me when you need help. She is your greatest fan. You were born into a world with unbreakable, unconditional love from her. You will never know a life where Rafaella didn't love you this much. And that is something that first siblings never get.

I feel so lucky that Papi and I were able to have two totally different experiences with both of our perfect babies: Rafa a surprise and you a decision. Both so extremely special but such unique emotions. I looked at you this morning and held your little hands and remembered how you were so purposefully made: how Papi and I chose you, how I like surprises but for you I planned. And I remembered how quickly I knew when you were already a part of me. I kept that secret for a few weeks before telling your father but I knew you were there. You and I both had our own little secret even then. Is that why you are so sad when you're away from me, why you cry so roaringly when we're apart? Because we've been so entwined from the beginning; so entangled, you and I, that you didn't even want to come out of my belly, like it was more natural for you to stay where you were so I could take you everywhere I went. Sometimes I think you would have preferred to stay in there, you put up quite the fight, I'll give you that, you even made la Doctora come in to get you and drag you out.

Other mothers are jealous of me because you want to cuddle and be snuggled because I get to hold you tight and breathe you in and give you a million little kisses because you ask me to. It's a gift to have a baby who demands that of you, although sometimes I forget that. And your father could be jealous of you because you steal all of his kisses. I spend so much time adoring you that sometimes there's none left for him. He'll be fine. It's not your fault you're so cute... actually it's his fault.

Everyone thinks you look like him. I'll give him that because while you may look like him, you are my son: hot tempered and fiery quick at it when you don't get your way, demanding to be noticed, demanding to be embraced. It's your way or the High(pitched-scream)way. You command attention and to be loved and that doesn't make you needy. It means you're someone who knows what you deserve and aren't afraid to demand it. You have flirty eyes and a flirtier smile and are a social little bumblebee without ever leaving the arms of the woman you love best. You're loyal to a fault. You like to be surrounded by others but know where home is and insist on it, actually. We all want you to walk, we encourage you, push you, bribe you - but you - you have different plans on your own time. You'll walk when you're damn well ready. And no body can tell you differently. Yeah, you're my son.

You are pure laughter and happiness and smiles and we get to keep you. I find myself guilty of reaching into the years of the future wondering about what kind of son you will be, what kind of man you will grow into, no doubt one that will make us proud. And that is said with no pressure, no insisting that you must, no burdening of how you will. Choose your path. Follow it. Make no excuses. To anyone. Make no apologies either. Even to us. We're already proud.

I never imagined having a son. I came from a family where I had a sister, where my parents had two daughters, our dog, Fi-Fi was even a girl, so I guess, without deliberately doing so I never imagined myself "the mother of a son" and dreamed about the future when I would be the mother of girls. That's what's funny about dreams. You think you know what they are so you mold them and use them to motivate you. They keep you hoping. They lead you in a direction but only so far. Until you realize that the reality you've created because of those dreams is so much better than what you could have ever imagined.

You are my reality, my planned for and never imagined son.