It was a chilly February morning on the University of Michigan Campus as I hustled towards my warm dorm room. As I drew close to my building, I ran into my roommate who said my mother had called and that I should call her right back. I got home, dialed my mother and found out my gregarious, affectionate father had suddenly died. Life as I knew it changed and, in a matter of minutes, I grew from child to adult. 

It's been 20 years since that cold day in 1993 and I still haven't forgotten how I felt. I was 18 years old, in the middle of my freshman year of college at my father's alma mater. My father and mother had helped me move into my dorm merely five months earlier. I had just spent winter break with my parents and four siblings, laughing as my brother and father danced hilariously together on Christmas day.

Of all the sadness I've felt for losing my father at a young age, I have two great sorrows. The first is that I didn't get to know him as an adult. I was living away from home for the first time when he passed, and I wish I had had more time to be away so that I could return to him as my own person, not just his child. I like to think I would have begun to understand him better and that he would have started to see me in a new light as well, no longer as only his youngest daughter. 

The second sorrow is that he did not get to know my children. In my mind's eye, I see him taking Monkey and Munchkin and tossing them into the sky, laughing loudly as they giggle. I see him kicking the soccer ball around in his black shiny shoes and letting them win. I hear him correcting my children's Spanish, just as he corrected mine. 

When I look at Monkey, I see so much of my father in him that it's eerie. It amazes me that someone of such mixed heritage could be born with so many traits of the one person he'll never meet. After all, he knows Daadi and Daada--his dad's parents--and he knows my mother, Abuelita, but he can only look at pictures of Abuelito. 

In the past year, as Monkey's comprehension has grown, I've talked about my father. Monkey will often ask where is Abuelito so I tell him the same story my mother told me when I was growing up. My mother said that our deceased loved ones were con los angelitos--with the angels--watching over us, as, I told Monkey, is Abuelito. In Spanish the words for sky and heaven are one and the same, cielo. Despite my Catholic upbringing, I like that the word cielo leaves a certain ambiguity and is not weighed down with other people's definitions of heaven. The other day, Monkey was making a flying motion and when I asked what he was doing, he said his hand was Abuelito, flying over us with the angelitos. I like that, at the age of three, Monkey can have a concrete image of an abstract concept. 

As my father's birthday approaches, I imagine him watching over us. I wonder what he thinks of my siblings' accomplishments, their spouses and children. I think he watches most closely over my mother, the love of his life. I'm sure he is laughing and dancing, wherever he is. When my father died, his two kind and brilliant friends, Jack and Charlie, eulogized him. Most of my friends I have in my life now never met my father, so in his honor, I leave you with the first paragraph of Charlie's eulogy. With it, you get the essence of the father I knew and the man I wish I'd known better.

A little bit like a tailor, I have the honor of cutting out a farewell suit to clothe the memory of my dear, dear friend Alberto. But how do we take the measure of Alberto, a man whose memory acts like a child rich with life: it won't sit still, it's a blur of energy, appetites, enthusiasm, talents and--always--the agitated pulling of love and affection. What's more, the only cloth I have right now to try to make the suit is my own feelings and words of pain, loss and sadness. And like a child rich with life, his memory won't wear that kind of cloth. 

Charlie was right, my father's memory couldn't be clothed in pain and sadness. Instead, he is joyful and boisterous and, according to Monkey, flying right above us. 

How do you explain the passing of loved ones to your children? How do you honor their memory?

As the Academy Awards and its long red carpet rolls onto our TV screen this weekend, I already feel bombarded with "news" (if you consider which designer's clothes actors will be wearing to be news) and speculation about who will win by everyone and their celebrity-obsessed brother. I love to watch the Oscars, but sometimes this focus on celebrity drives me crazy. Both the Academy Awards, and it's funkier sister of event television, the Grammy Awards, are preceded by hours of red carpet coverage, interviews and gossip that have little to do with the music, movies or stories behind them

I know I'm going to sound like a fuddy duddy, but when actors exhibit outrageous behavior and inappropriate outfits, I start to wonder what I'll tell my kids about them when they watch these shows. They are too little to stay up late and, besides, they have yet to see a whole movie.

 At ages one and three, I know that the day they start to recognize actors and celebrities appearing will come too soon. Will Munchkin aspire to be like them? Will Monkey start talking like them? Will they look up to the hard-partier of their generation? The environmentalist? The rocker? Or will they keep their attention trained on the philanthropist? 

Kids become obsessed so quickly with Dora or Thomas today, a myriad of princesses and superheros tomorrow and who knows who it will be in 10 years? Will I be able to at least guide them towards the model turned businesswoman instead of the actor turned burned-out addict? Will I be able to convince them that their grandparents, aunts, uncles--blood-related or otherwise--are better role models? (I know better than to harbor hopes they'll see their parents as role models.) 
 
The other day I was standing at a crosswalk with Monkey and a few people crossed the street against the red light. Monkey wasn't holding my hand, but he stayed with me. I though to myself, "This is the foundation I must lay." By which I mean that by the time Monkey is old enough to choose his role models, he should have learned--from me, from his father--what is the right thing to do. Then I can be confident that, with or without me, he can watch actors, celebrities or his friends cross the street on a red light or light up a cigarette, and still stay on the right side of the decision. 

I know I still have time before I have to worry about the kids values being shaped by awards shows and their attendees, so for now, the only Oscar they're going to know about is the grouchy one in their books. 

How old were you when you started watching awards shows? When do you think your kids will start watching them? What are your thoughts on what you'll tell them about lifestyles some celebrities lead?

I was debating what to write for today's post when I stumbled upon this article 
written by Cameron Russell, a veteran model. In it, she refers to the talk she gave for Ted, titled, "Looks Aren't Everything. Believe Me, I'm a Model." Her talk centered on the fact that even though she has worked hard to be a model, much of her success is due to enormous luck of her genetics--her height, slender frame, and white skin--and timing, because currently her look is considered ideal.  Russell admits that her looks have allowed her to be treated much more generously and to be judged much less harshly than other women and men.

After listening to Russell's speech, a few thoughts came to mind: 1) My obsession with models when I was in college and how I compared myself to them incessantly. 2) Lisa Bloom's post, How to Talk to Little Girls, which discourages adults from commenting on a little girl's appearance 3) My little, chubby, ethnic Munchkin.

My little Munchkin is 15 months old right now and I've wondered since she was born, how I will teach her to be strong and feminine (no the two are not mutually exclusive), to feel attractive and confident, to be healthy and to eat well without her ever hearing the word "diet" fall from my lips or "I'm fat" fall from hers. 

But as much as I want Munchkin to be book-smart, independent, athletic and many other non-looks related things, I, deep down, also want her to be pretty. It's embarrassing to admit that I'm even concerned about that, but I am. I've mentioned before that I want my children to have life easier than I did, but not just in appearance, but in overall confidence and opportunities. 

I'm not sure how to reconcile my desire for Munchkin to develop a myriad of skills along with my desire for her to be attractive, over which she has no control. I don't aspire to be a stage mom and have my children on TV or a reality show. I harbor no dreams about them entering beauty pageants. I don't want them to learn that the only valuable currency is beauty. Yet, I've read study after study that demonstrate that attractive people are given the benefit of the doubt and are treated better than those who are considered average. Is it so terrible that I want my children to have that benefit, to have just a little more insurance that they'll be treated well? Is it wrong to admit that boys and men often can make up for attractiveness with money and power in a way not equally afforded to girls and women?

Lisa Bloom's piece recommends to refrain from telling girls how pretty they are and instead asking them what they're reading. Her piece really resonates with me, yet I struggle to know what to say to--or about--kids who are not yet verbal or I don't know well. I also recognize that even though Munchkin is already mischievous, observant, and smart, I do enjoy hearing that she is also cute as a button. 

I wonder how my little Munchkin will be judged in the world in the future. Unlike Russell, she will likely not be tall, not be a size zero and probably only considered white by those who don't recognize her Hispanic and South Asian heritage. But as I trudge along in the swirling muddy waters of guilt and contradictions in my head, I will continue to help Munchkin develop her voice and her confidence. I hope that she will always--always--be safe in the knowledge that her mother will forever consider her brilliant and beautiful in every sense of the word. 

It was a warm day, shortly after Munchkin was born and I was at the playground with Monkey. He was running around the jungle gym while I spoke to another mother I had just met. Monkey started jumping in a large shallow puddle and this mom's son followed suit, gleefully playing around and splashing one another. A third little boy started happily stomping his feet in the water when his mother came running and started shouting at her son in another language. She quickly pulled him out of the puddle and then proceeded to pull our children out as well! Shocked, I went to Monkey, who was very confused, and told him that it was okay to splash his little heart out. 

I know many parents are not pleased when their kids start puddle jumping. They don't want their kids' shoes to get ruined or their clothes to get wet, but I find puddles to be irresistible and fun. There's an element of surprise in every jump. How deep is it? How much water can I kick up? What kind of ripples will I make if I dip my toe in? Kids are curious and puddles are the perfect muse.

Parents are very willing to haul their kids--and a change of clothes--to a manmade play area with sprinklers and water jets, yet they groan when kids tackle some dirt and water on their own. As a kid, dancing in the rain and kicking up water in my front lawn form some of my happiest memories. Why can't this generation of children do the same?

Not too long after the playground incident, I got Monkey a pair of blue rain boots. Every time it rains, he asks for his boots and we head outside. He'll often change into them on the way home from school and I love to see his face light up as jumps in puddles the whole way home. I'm proud that he can find joy outdoors without an iPad or smart phone in sight.

Last year, I too got a pair of sturdy rain boots, so now we jump into puddles together. After all, life is too short to not revel in the joy of puddle jumping and I certainly don't want to miss out. 

In an age where liking Valentine's Day is not cool, I am decidedly un-cool. I love Valentine's Day. I understand that it's over-hyped and that every company finds a reason to convince you (or your significant other) that you have to have their item or you don't know love. I get that I'm suckered into spending money on a card and chocolate just because that's what Hallmark's ads recommend I do, but here's the thing. I love flowers and chocolate! Even worse, I love red roses! And while there is a very valid argument that we should show love every day and buy flowers for no reason, things like that rarely happen, so I look forward to receiving flowers and giving my husband his favorite chocolates every February 14th.

Last week I received an email from my son's teacher about Valentines Day and I realized that almost-four-year old Monkey would enjoy Valentine's Day this year, especially since he gets excited when he receives cards. Even though I fantasized about creating 15 hand-made cards with Monkey, I decided to be practical--given Monkey's attention span--and buy cards. We bought Spider-Man themed Valentines' Day cards that came with various tattoos of spiders and Spider-Man in action. I addressed each of them and Monkey was in charge of selecting which Spider-Man tattoo went to which classmate. I'd ask, '"Which tattoo do you want to give Tommy?" and he'd reply, "I think Tommy would like the Spider-Man mask tattoo" with so much certainty, I could tell he was being thoughtful in his choices.

As Monkey and I sealed each of the cards with stickers, I thought about what I want to teach Monkey and Munchkin about Valentine's Day now and in the future. Despite the mass commercialism behind Valentine's Day, I stubbornly like that it reminds us to display affection at least once a year. Here are a few things I want them to know; 

• Valentine's Day is meant to be fun, it's a celebration of love and appreciation. It is not a measure of your lovability or your net worth. 
• All kinds of relationships should be celebrated, not just ones with a mate. I have a great husband, but I would not be the woman he fell in love with if it weren't for the love of my friends and family.
• Love is not determined by the size of the gift you receive on this day, be it chocolate hearts or diamond earrings.

• It's okay to be single on Valentine's Day. It will give you an excuse to pamper yourself or go out with friends.
• The most important person to love is yourself. You can’t share love if you don’t have love within you to give.  
  

I know it will be years before these lessons make sense, but I strive to model this kind of love and celebration so that by the time Monkey and Munchkin are old enough to feel the pressure of Valentine's Day, they'll be able to shrug it off and feel the fun instead. In five years, 10 years and 15 years I hope that they'll do much of what we'll be doing this week: making cards for friends and family, saying, "I love you" and giving one another chocolate. After all, the world can always use more love and even more chocolate. 

Yesterday, as news warned of the incoming blizzard, I pulled on my boots, dug out my warm gloves, bundled up my kids and put them in our sturdy double stroller. I had just returned from picking up Monkey from school, so I knew the conditions were wet, snowy and windy, but off we went. 

We carefully made it to our destination a few minutes later. We knocked and Monkey's little friend opened the door, revealing two of my good friends and their children ready for our regular Friday playdate. Of all the things that save my sanity--a few weekly hours kid-free, nights out with my friends every few weeks, sleeping in once a week--it's these late afternoon reunions that serve me best. They started when Monkey was about a year old when I or one of my neighborhood friends would order some pizza, serve wine and have the others over for a glorified play date that I call "Wine & Whine."  

After a week of hustling to work or getting the kids to school, waking up in the middle night, and exhausted from the continuous cycle of cooking and cleaning, spending time with my closest friends while my kids spend time with their closest friends is priceless. I love meeting at 4:30, tired and frustrated, and leaving at 6:30 with the children fed and me energized to face the bedtime routine. These nights let me reconnect with friends in person instead of subsisting on a diet of email updates and Facebook threads. They allow me to relax a bit, trusting that if my kids need a hand or redirection while I'm in the kitchen, another mom will step in without judgement. 

As my friends and I have expanded their families, these nights also allow the tired mom a moment of peace as others hold and coo over the newest addition. We also get to solicit advice on the current parenting, relationship or work issue plaguing us and often organize times to meet for a run or at the playground over the weekend. 

In the last year, a lot of my closest girlfriends have moved to one suburb or another and my neighborhood circle of friends has shrunk. Yet, as we get to know other moms in the vicinity, we've still managed to meet every few weeks for some pizza and wine. Last night was wonderful, as the kids played together without a single meltdown or fight over toys. My mother--who raised five kids of her own--came along and marveled at the companionship these friends and their kids provided. We left together with another mom, and as Monkey and her daughter held hands and walked across the street, babbling excitedly about the snow, I thanked my lucky stars for these friends, these children and these lovely Wine & Whine nights. 

Living in a high rise building means the kids and I are constantly running into our neighbors--some we know and many we don't. Riding the elevator, we often find ourselves squeezed in with complete strangers who pay no attention to the kids while others are intent on making them smile. 

From the time Monkey was a baby and continuing today with Munchkin, it's the latter interaction that has struck me to be full of expectation. Usually there is a routine:  First the person asks the baby's age and makes small talk with me. Then the person leans in to try to make the baby smile or laugh. Regardless of the age, gender or ethnic background of the person in question, there is this sense that the baby has to smile. Not only that, the adult doing the baby talk or peek-a-boo, walks away visibly pleased and validated by a baby who smiles and disappointed by the baby who doesn't. That's a lot of pressure on a baby!

My kids are both pretty smiley kids, so they "perform" most of the time. People comment on what a "good baby" I have. While I appreciate a compliment, such comments make me uneasy. If my kids are good babies, are there bad babies? There are shy babies, there are anxious babies, and there are quiet babies, none of whom might smile for a stranger. But they're not bad babies. How is it that people are so quick to decide what is good or, if not exactly bad, not-as-good? Why is everyone so quick to label a tiny baby after a 60-second interaction?

It's not just strangers who do this, I'm guilty of doing something similar. When people would ask how I was doing with my newborn, I'd say, "She is eating a lot and sleeping okay, so I can't complain. She's a good baby." But the thing is, even if she wasn't a eating enough and started waking up a lot (which did happen), she was still a good baby. All babies, who for some reason or another have trouble nursing, are colicky,or just won't go to sleep are not being bad, they are just being babies. 

I find it a little disturbing that there is so much pressure for babies and kids to behave in a certain manner. American culture puts a lot of value in the outgoing, happy child who can talk to adults and not hide behind their mother's skirts or, more realistically, jeans. Not all kids are easygoing and happy all the time and even happy kids aren't that way 24 hours a day. Adults get grumpy and irritable and though we know better when to hide it, socializing kids to always be happy seems unreasonable. They should always be polite, but not be required to fake a smile.

Even though Munchkin will eventually have to say please and thank you, hello and good-bye, she will not be "bad" if she doesn't smile for people in the elevator or want to hug people she barely knows. I've learned that Monkey, who has some shy tendencies, is more comfortable giving a high-five than he is giving a hug. Even though I can sometimes feel the expectation for more, I won't be pressuring him to do otherwise any time soon.

How does your child react to being asked for a smile or a display of affection? Do you feel pressure to have a smiley happy kid at all times?

Back in the eighth grade, I made it to the cheerleading squad and spent a whole season cheering our hard-working football team that, if memory serves me right, never won a game. I remember a lot of cheers like this one: "First in Ten, Do it Again, Go Aces Go!" Sadly, that is probably the last time I knew what "first in ten" meant. 

I watched games in high school and at the University of Michigan, but 20 years later, I still don't know many rules of the game. Don't get me wrong, I can get into the game--watch every second, cheer for every touchdown and yell at the ref--but a week later, I'll probably forget who I was rooting for. 

Yet every year I get excited about watching the Super Bowl. The stakes are high, the commercials are good and the food ridiculously unhealthy. Junk food rarely makes my weekly grocery list, but you better believe I already have a variety of chips and, lured by those hilarious Velveeta Ro*Tel ads, a box of Velveeta's "cheese product" to make a spicy, melty dip only Americans can enjoy. I used to watch the game with friends, but with two kids, aged one and three, I can't subject them to the constant madness that is watching a game with kids. 

First there is the noise. Three-year-old-Monkey can talk to himself, his cars, and his "peoples" at a volume that makes me think he's trying to communicate with his superheros on another planet. He runs around, he's goofy and likes to sit perilously close to the TV. Munchkin, however, is not content with being close to the TV. Instead, she has to touch the TV repeatedly. She is also adept at changing the volume and channel by pressing the buttons on the side of the television screen. Once she changed the mode of the TV so drastically, we had to pull out the owner's manual to fix it.  

When the kids aren't chasing each other around the living room, they like to eat everything. That doesn't sound like a bad thing, but "everything" means "everything-I-have-on-my-plate-and-was-about-to-eat." That means that even if we feed the kids a huge dinner and give them a fair share of Super Bowl chips, they will still want every single item I have in my hand. It's the method we used to get Monkey into green peppers, but it's annoying when trying to focus on a commercial, er, game and, you know, eat! I have a feeling my husband and I are going to have to pull out a chalkboard and strategize game day positions, tackles and offensive moves just to make it to the kids' bedtime.

This Sunday I really don't know who will claim victory, but I'm not worried about the Ravens or the 49ers, I'm worried we're going to lose to the the kids.