The Phoenix: Epicuriousmothering Rising

I have Hero every Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings from 8am-11.   I get to Henry and Chloe’s house to find Hero usually ready, dancing on her tip toes so excited to go with me.  She picks out a pair of vans (no matter what she’s wearing) that John bought her when she was three months old (they still don’t fit her) and she starts yelling, “Bye-bye Mama, bye-bye Baba (dad in Chinese), Bye-bye Zuzu, Bye-bye Fae-Fae (Alfie),” as she leaves—or on some days she needs to give everyone kisses—on their lips.  If the babies faces aren’t angled right she grabs their cheeks and moves them so she can literally suck the air out of their lungs.  I am a horrible grandmother because it makes me laugh my head off! Then we drive up to my house with Hero reciting all the people who live in our house over and over again.  When we get home (these days without anyone there—she is VERY disappointed that Finn and PIper aren’t there) we have snacks, dance to Selena Gomez and Black Pink’s “Ice Cream” (at le

  My often daily life . . . (John is two feet away—I can’t do all of them by myself) Last week, every single time I sat down, I almost instantly fell asleep.  I kept telling John, I have the sleeping disease.  What is going on?  Am I getting old?  Is it the covid after effects?  What on earth? He didn’t have any answers for me because he was doing the same thing.   We didn’t really do anything for seven days straights.   And our kids joined us in the sleepy, do nothing, lazy slug bug state. It wasn’t until this morning as I was looking over the pictures of the summer that I realized why. . . We literally haven’t stopped ALL summer long—one awesome amazing trip/visit/fun after the other.  It’s like we are making up for last years “staycations.”  Holy hannah have we ever made up for it.  Just about did ourselves in playing and hugging and kissing and caring for babies. Highlights of the summer (in no particular order): Cousin sleepovers have resumed (most missed activity since the pandem

  I’ve been writing again.  Writing as in writing novels.  It’s both magical and terrifying.  I’m not exactly sure why this is but I think with anything that you love there is the potential of both healing you or breaking you.  It’s the risk of caring and hoping. Last night as I was brushing my teeth and dealing with a very upset stomach, I thought about all the things you don’t write about in your stories.  Upset stomachs and the results of them being one.  Or brushing your teeth or going to the bathroom or burning breath or blisters or BO or a million other unpleasant things.  But in reality those uncomfortable, messy, ugly, smelly parts are what make up a good portion of our lives.  Why don’t we write about them?  I mean, no one wants to read about a good bout of diarrhea do they?   Or do we?   Maybe we do.  I mean, not the nitty gritty details, but maybe we want to know we aren’t alone in our imperfections.  That is actually why I think we do read or watch or vlog—so we know we are

 There are heavy clouds hanging low in the sky making the green of the trees and grass, what green grass their is, greener.  The air is thick with humidity and each inhale of moisture rich oxygen hydrates me without ever drinking a drop. It is, in short, a miracle. This is the third year of horrible drought, after five years of much lower than average rain fall.  Last summer, there was no monsoon season.  There were no clouds, just endless days of clear skies and searing heat.  I prayed then for rain, but it was an afterthought.  I knew, I believed, that this dry spell could not hold, but it did through the summer.  And then the fall.  And winter arrived without snow to ski even at the highest resorts.  Spring came with days upon days of beautiful unusually warm days and nights without the dark, rainy, cold days that fill up the mountains and streams.  Summer arrived with searing, dry, leaf curling heat . . .and this year, I prayed in a way I have only prayed when a pregnancy was going

 My Chinese grandma name is Nai Nai.  It means Milk Milk or Boob Boob (Henry likes that one).  It’s my favorite name I’ve ever been called. Henry. My oldest.   Our surprise baby who came four years before we planned. When we discovered he was coming, we made a total change of plans—Law school for John and a more creative English degree for me.  I thought he’d slow us down or crimp our style, and in some ways, he might have, but mostly, he made us brave.  He made us passionate about him and our little family unit.  He taught us how to be self-less and patient (oh boy did we ever need that), and how beautiful and wonderful the world was. We almost lost him when he was two and a half.  I heard his heart stop beating and a hundred doctors rushed in, pushing us out of the room, yelling words no parents want to hear. But he’s a fierce little fighter and was running around, up to his wild mischief before I recovered let along he recovered.  Again and again throughout his life, he faced all so

Baby Torture:  Trying to get Hero to take a Selfie with us  1.  Sometimes, I just don’t like myself very much.  This used to send me into all sorts of self doubt and analysis and worry, but I have learned that it really usually means one of three things: I have done, said, or written something I shouldn’t have and I need to apologize ASAP and help whoever know I am sorry and I love them; I am about to get my period—hormones throw all sorts of crazy on the table and looking at the calendar helps alleviate a lot of that; or lastly, I am tired or hungry or haven’t had a second to myself—once I sleep, eat or just take a minute to think and let myself process, I feel sooo much better.  It’s amazing how quickly I like myself again when I figure out which one it is. 2.  I can actually ski some hard runs.  I have lived in fear of skiing, but thanks to kids making me go down trails I don’t know—and sometimes HAVE to manage—I have learned I am capable.  That however does not mean I am by any mea

  After reading my last post, my friend  a podcast  about sliding on ice (and falling through).  In this podcast, a Denali Mountain climbing guide tells about bringing a sick client across an ice bridge with thousands of feet deep crevasses.  At once point, the ice bridge breaks and his client falls in.  By some miracle, he catches both of them and secures them.  He finds his client dangling fifty feet down in the ice cold, dark whole.  (I'm going to very badly paraphrase what happens next). The guide yells down to his sick client, You must cut away your sled and back pack so the rope won't break.   The client looks up and says, But there are thousands of dollars worth of equipment and all my things. I don't want to let them go. The guide says, It is your life.   It's too heavy.  It will drag you down. Cut them away so you can have a chance at survival.  You can replace them, you can't replace your life.   He lists and cuts the sled and his pack off and they listen

  I love to sled.   We hike for miles up the snow covered hills, up steep slopes and through forests to get the perfect fifteen or twenty minute ride.   Sometimes it is smooth and sweet and gentle, sometimes, after lots of people have packed down the path, it is fast and thrilling and slightly terrifying.  But every time I sled, I always fall off.  After snowstorms, falling off is a puff of snow and a cold face and ice melt running down your neck, but more often, it is a slid into a rock or tree or a flip off your sled onto ice.  You get bruises and sometimes, like Finn last year, you break things (second arm break).  We laugh and say that we need to wear helmets, but I’m actually thinking I’ll wear one next time. This year, there isn’t much snow.  We have to go up to Pine Hallow and fight with mountain bikers and hikers on the narrow, barely there trail with cliffs on one side.  On that trail, there is no possibility of a soft landing.  It is nerve wracking and yet I still go (though