Motherhood Uncensored

I'm off to see about a mouse

And while I do, which I'll explain more about later, here are a few things from some of my favorite bloggers (and friends) that you should definitely read:

• Here's how Yvonne lost 52 lbs. It's pretty inspiring and doesn't involve surgery, weird diets, or massive amounts of exercise. 
• And here's how Laurie got fat. You'll be blown away by the honesty, frankness, and eloquence of this post.
• Some thoughts on gender specific kid's products - this time pull-ups - but you'll appreciate this discussion on pink and blue. 
• Did you hear about the kids flying alone that accidentally got sent to the wrong city? Oy.

And here are a few things I've been up to:

• Here's our brand spankin' new Father's Day Gift Guide from Cool Mom Picks. If you need something racier, try the Mominatrix version.
• I'm posting at The Shredheads again - so if you're trying to lose weight and/or maintain a healthy lifestyle, add us to your feedreader. Up today - the BlogHer 5K and Tutus for Tanner!
• I'm talking about the challenges of creating a family schedule when you've got a spouse who works away some or most of the time. Got any tips to share?
• Speaking of The Stir, there are a lot of great columns over there. I'm enjoying Julie's controversial and thought provoking news-op posts on Mondays and Fridays, Lindsay's "She's Still Got It" tips on how to stay hip, and Amalah's wonderful weekly tidbits about parenting a children with special needs. Don't miss the other great folks that I didn't mention here, but are definitely read-worthy.
• And finally, don't miss the Mominatrix pre-Father's Day "live" talk at The Motherhood next week. Mark your calendars and join in!

And I just have to share this little parenting tidbit: Yesterday at the pool, I heard a mom say a couple of the coolest lines I've ever heard to her son after he tossed a flipper in the direction of a college girl who was sitting quietly at the pool reading. Lucky for him, it missed her and just landed near her - with a little splash.

But the mom said to him "What do you need to do to make this right?" followed by "Tell me what could have happened?"

I'm implementing this discussion over "Go tell her you're sorry" immediately.

Have you read something awesome lately? Feel free to link it up in the comments, but keep in mind that spam, crap, and anything I don't deem fit will be deleted.

On dreaming and dying.

Every few weeks, my near 6-year-old pops into our room a few minutes after we turn off her lights bed complaining about a bad dream. And trying to be sympathetic without being too drawn into the intelligent anti-bedtime antics, we remind her that she's safe in her room with her brother and 400 lights on, and more importantly, that she can't really have dreams when she hasn't fallen asleep yet.

Now this is hardly as bad as my son's repeat offenses that have been almost completely squelched by the cruel but effective blanket threats combined with a later bedtime and swimming laps in the neighborhood pool.

Of course, we're dealing with the middle of the night visits which I think might actually be worse, because even though he goes right back to his room when we gently usher him with a very sleepy pointy finger back to his bed, he still happens to show up right when some sort of hot naked movie star is licking Doritos crumbs off my lips. 

I'm pregnant. What's a hot dream without 6000 calorie chips?

But this time, Quinlan frantically called me back into her room even before I had turned the corner in the hall.

"I'm having bad dreams, mom," she squeaked from under her covers.

I have her my spiel, trying not to make it sound canned or like I've rattled it off 20 some odd times.

"But I can dream with my eyes open. And it's about dying."

Of course, this might be the most brilliant attempt ever delivered by a child to get out of bedtime because knowing me (and knowing that she knows me), that would automatically get her my complete attention for a very extended period of time.

But her brilliance aside, I finally understood why she had been complaining of those bad dreams - a wandering, analytical and quite fantastical mind that I know all too well.

My ability to create fantasies and escape my reality had been my solace and my protection for years in an abusive household. I dreamed about leaving. I dreamed about seeking out my revenge. I dreamed about every single thing in my life, so much so that for awhile, I was living my life in my head.

It was safe. I was happy. And protected.

But my mind, especially after having children, was and often is my worst enemy. After a few years of what I now know to be plain old anxiety, I've learned to keep it mostly under control, for the most part, with positive self talk and reminding myself that I'm in control of my mind and not the other way around.

Restating the facts and keeping myself grounded. Closing Google. Turning off the news. Talking to my husband. Eating a bag of Oreos.

And even then, particularly when I'm pregnant and breastfeeding (which has been for the last six years straight) and my husband is away and my kids are sick, my mind could eat me from the inside out.

I'm fortunate that it's never gone past the point where I couldn't talk myself down.

But it's come very close.

So when my daughter told me about her thoughts about dying, I (along with my 723 death scenarios that I've already played out) could comisserate.

And I did.

There's not much I can say about the fear of dying to a 6-year-old, other than that death happens, it's scary, and she's perfectly right to feel that way - no extra details. No "but you'll be very old so you don't have to worry about all that." Just the facts.

But what I can also say to her is that she is in control of her mind. And when she starts to think about the scary part of life, that she can be the one to change that around, and replace her thoughts with good ones - an upcoming birthday trip I'm taking her on this week. The fantastic girl's day we had with a drop-in art class, lunch, and a hair appointment.

And better, all the wonderful positive dreams and wishes she has about her life. 

Because for all the pain that a creative, imaginative mind can cause, there is much beauty in being able to envision all the goodness you will for you life even before it happens.

Have you hugged a Half Asian today?

A few days ago, my friend Julie offered me a hug if I signed up for some Facebook event which just so happened to be "Hug a Half Asian" day.

Now I have to say that hugging a HAPA (which is the "correct" term, by the way, and stands for Holy Affordable Awesome Piece of Ass) happens a lot around my house.

Or as the Mominatrix would say - "hugging."

Ahem.

Cough. Cough.

Being the daughter of a full Chinese woman and a European mixed man was never a big deal until I got into my teen years and it became the world's worst pick-up line ever.

"What are you?"

Your worst fucking nightmare, asshole.

And dear God if someone compares me to the Tilly sisters again.

Um, am I the one that starred as a distraught nun or the one with the really big boobs and annoying high pitched voice?

Oddly enough, I've found over the years that my Asian-ness is made more or less obvious by my hairstyle. And my amazing talent with chopsticks.

Ahem.

Cough. Cough.

It's usually a toss up as to whether people can pick out me out, though interestingly enough is never the case for young children or psychiatric patients (seriously), who figure it out right away and then obsess about it.

But even I have trouble sometimes, particularly on the internet, where there happen to be a zillion Half Asians (like City Mama and Glennia from MOMocrats - two name two lovely ones), who you wouldn't necessarily know were HAPA until you saw them or stared at their picture for awhile. 

So in case you're in the mood to give out some serious hugs today, or just want to stop using the "What are you" pick up line, here are my 10 easy, and completely stereootypical identifiers of HAPAs.

Simply look for these characteristics in white-ish looking people and you've probably got a HAPA on your hands:

1. Played a stringed instrument at some point in their lives.

2. Is particularly good at math - typically the very useless kind.

3. Has wicked knife skills but never went to chef school.

4. Cooks rice perfectly every time. In a pot.

5. Owns a rice cooker.

6. Uses chopsticks to do any of the following: eat rice with, cook with, stir powdered or mixed drinks with.

7. Gets the "you're one of us" eye, nod, and/or smile at any Asian eating establishment.

8. Can do a mean Asian American accent without using the words "Ching or Chong" and looking like a complete racist asshole.

9. Takes offense to the word "Oriental" unless it's being used to describe floor coverings or food.

10. Is fucking hot.

So, friends, go forth and find yourself a HAPA to hug today. That is after you've given me my love.

Ahem.

Cough. Cough.

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So much coolness people - my Mominatrix-inspired Father's Day Gift Guide should not be missed (or shared with all 300 of your closest friends. And my column The Sometimes Single Mom - are you one? I'd love to meet you - and head over to meet moms just like you.

Mamas, don't let your daughters grow up without playing with trucks

Margot is equally as infatuated with her pink baby stroller as she is with her brother's Playmobil firetruck. And rightfully so - the cute little firemen, the hose that shoots real water, the siren that flashes and makes noise. I can't think of any cool girl equivalent.

A Barbie car? Um, I don't think so.

Now I can't take full credit for being a pioneer of gender neutral toys in my household. She really has no choice but to play with what we have because it's somewhat ridiculous to purchase toys "just for her" when there are more than plenty of options strewn about my floors at any given second of the day.

Oh those 3rd child woes.

And so, she plays with what she finds, and with an older brother around, that generally means many battery powered things with annoying music from a 1980's Bruce Willis movie that won't turn off courtesy of my in-laws, along with a ton of other trains, planes, and automobiles in many shapes and sizes.

And I have to admit that I can't blame her, as I mentioned to my husband as I watched her happily push around a couple of zoom-zoom cars on our kitchen floors. Labels aside, which by the way, I really do hate: Boy toys are just way more fun than girl toys.

Even though I was always aware of exposing Quinlan to more than just play kitchens and baby dolls, she certainly never had the amount of moving vehicle toys that we inherited once Drew came along.

It's sort of a rite of passage I guess. You have a girl and you open the floodgates to the sea of pink into your living room. And when you have a boy, they figure anything with wheels is fair game.

Granted, it's a little easier these days to find girl-friendly trucks, which when you say that a few times sounds utterly ridiculous.

What exactly does that mean, anyway? Do they have better suspension to save you from getting smacked in the face with your boobs? Do they have real-light make-up mirrors so you can be sure not to over-blush your cheeks?

Usually, it's just the damn color.

But hey, if it means people will buy a truck for a girl because it's pink and has a driver who's wearing a crown and a glitter dress, so be it.

However, if I could do things over again with my first, who has gotten some post-facto exposure, I would have been sure to park plenty of trucks and airplanes at her princess palace.

Regular old fast moving possibly battery operated loud as hell gigantic wheeled put hair on your chest trucks.

I mean, a girl's got to get around. And a horse and carriage is pretty 1892 if you ask me.

Besides, the last time I checked, girls drive cars, planes, heck, even fire engines, none of which are pink. And they're still pretty damn cool.