Traveling with the kiddos

Traveling with Spaghetti and Meatball is an art all on its own. It takes me a good week before any trip to start prepping and packing for our family. This rings especially true since both the hubs and I are both working and can maybe at the most allot one hour each day prior to a coming trip to pack anything we may need, lest we forget. 

I always start with the girls first. Count out the days to equal the number of outfits divide the number of outfits in half and add the half to the pile. This formula equals to one and a half of the trip's worth of clothes for each of them. Why? They're kids and with kids accidents happen. And I know for a fact, I'm not going to find myself washing clothes on vacation. Along with their clothes, add shoes, socks, hair clips, toiletries, sun block, hats, books, toys, dvds, and dvd player to take along on the plane and other modes of transportation. Top off with Spaghetti's Pull-Ups and wipes, little bottle of detergent (just in case) and of course 3 or 4 reusable shopping bags and 3 or 4 quart and gallon size Ziploc bags because you never know when you're going to need them. Set aside the traveling car seat and traveling umbrella stroller, which should be as lightweight and fast to collapse should you happen to fall in line at a very busy airport security line.

The day of traveling, I dress the girls in layers. Easy removable layers and easy slip on shoes (again for airport security line ease). One bag for snacks, toys, and other distractions for the plane/car and another bag for in-case-those-bastards-lose-our-luggage packed with at least one day of wardrobe, extra pull-ups and wipes.

Can I begin packing for Pretty Pants and I yet?!? You get the picture, traveling with kiddos is a ton of work and preparation. But all in all, priceless.

dog days of summer

My parents rarely eat out. I don't know how they do it. Even as a child, I don't recall eating out at all during the week. The only eating out we did was our Sunday after Mass lunch ritual which went from Chicken Tenders at Burger King, to the lunch buffet at Pizza Hut, and the big time: Lo Mein and Moo Goo Gai Pan at the local Chinese restaurant, the Great Wall. Good stuff, really it was.

Now that I'm a parent in a dual income household (just like my parents), I just can't fathom how they found the time or maybe the energy to prepare home cooked meals every day. Incredible! .I can almost hear Rambo, my father, exclaim when we're at a restaurant he's not too fond of, "You know this chicken here, I can cook this at home and you can pay me half the price!" Goodness. 

Most times I wish I had that discipline, that energy, that developed practice of eating at home all the time.  Then there are times like below, when you just need a break from the norm and take your little one, like Spaghetti, to the local food court and partake in dollar Tuesday at Hot Dog on a Stick!  One hot dog, two hot dog, three hot dogs she scarfed down to that little belly of hers. For $3 dollars, I got this memory and maybe that's worth more sometimes than eating at home, just like Sunday after Mass lunch rituals...

Practicing the art of discipline

I just took Spaghetti out of a time out. Nothing new. Our 2 and a half year old gets a timeout at least twice a week. We plop her down while she screams and wails in the same timeout spot as I glance over at the clock, counting down five minutes. I'm sure those 5 minutes feel like hours in 2 and a half year old time. At this point, I'm not sure if timeouts are effective. I haven't read any books on discipline in a while, just recalling trial and error from disciplining her older sister, the Meatball (who, by the way, was and still is a saint growing up).

With Spaghetti it's a little different, she has a stubborn streak. My parents (and husband) say she's a lot like me. Go figure. So when it comes down to discipline, I try to be as firm and patient as possible, but like any one there is always the last straw pulled, the pushed button, the last nerve struck that gets my blood boiling where I cannot control it anymore and I become, my mother.

Well almost my mother. My mother was a hands off disciplinarian and a big fan of crying it out. She was the kind of parent that could take one look at you with a face full of disdain and in the next minute glance away and ignore you as if she could care less. From a child's perspective (aka what I remember from when I was little),  a child wants and needs acceptance especially from their parents, this move worked on me every time. She had this tactic down so well that my challenging, stubborn attitude diminished in seconds as her glare drowned me in guilt for even reacting. She had one of those glares that made you think twice about what you were doing and had you figure out fast that you were and always will be wrong. And boy did that wrong feel bad! I can remember wailing about one thing or another one second then begging and pleading for her forgiveness forgetting whatever the reason was I was wailing about. Throwing tantrums at my mother were battles I never won and I hated it, especially the feeling of not knowing if my mother actually cared if I was wailing on the floor for her for what seemed like days.


I remember feeling so alone during those times. I promised myself that I would never do that to my children and even if they would be a pain, I wouldn't leave them to 'cry it out' extensively. After the Meatball was born, I finally asked my mother why she handled my tantrums that way. "My goodness, anak(child in Tagalog), you still remember those!?!" in her Filipino accent. "Uh yah, you made me feel really bad." "I did not hurt you. You are too sensitive. Emotional." "Gee thanks, Mom." "You know what, anak? I was just tired. I worked so long hours for you and then you were so active, I cannot entertain you so much." "Maybe I was just happy to see you, Mom." "I know, I think you were so hyperactive too." "Why didn't you just tell me you were tired back then, Mom?" "I am not so good in communication like you. We do not do that in the Philippines so much." "Oh." "You are better with Spaghetti and Meatball than me. You are able to talk to them and have patience. You are good in the parenting." 


After this conversation, I understood my mother and her ways. A tired, working mother doesn't have that much energy at the end of the day to pay their children the attention they need. I guess that's the trade off. Our main difference is that I may communicate it better before I impose firmer discipline. I can tell you that half of the reason why I communicate it, is probably because of my own experience. The other half lies in our cultural difference. Growing up, my mother never exercised many emotions. If you were quiet and followed orders, that meant you were well behaved and that's all parents expected. Everything else wasn't really defined. Here it seems like everyone expresses themselves in one way shape or form. I wonder if the combination of the two is effective? I guess, only time will tell.

Happy Fourth!

Don't ask me how but I've known the lyrics to Lee Greenwood's class "God Bless The USA" for as long as I remember. And I couldn't think of a better day than the 4th of July to share it with all of you. Thanks to YouTube I was able to pull up American Idol, Season 2's rendition for your viewing pleasure since Mr. Greenwood's music video doesn't necessarily represent the United States I love and live in. But that's one of the beauties of living in this country, to each his own.



How much more patriotic can you get?!? American. American and Filipino. In between. Or maybe not in between, maybe I've come to the point in my life when both perspectives co-exist successfully within me. How do I know?  Last week, I was running through YouTube checking out the NY Handog Project's rendition of  Handog Ng Pilipino Sa Mundo (translated, "The Filipinos Gift To The World) and well today, it's "God Bless The USA". Both brought the same feeling of pride. Of connection. Of my identity. And maybe my history doesn't go back to 1776 and I'd probably have a harder time tracing my ancestors through the Smithsonian, but I am an American. Born here to immigrant parents who served in the United States Armed Forces, raising my children as Americans, continuing our history with our roots in the Philippines but our story in the United States.

Cheers to celebrating yours!

The bummer of summer: a half sister experience

It's summer, which means the Meatball is off to her Dad's 8 hours away. It didn't use to be as hard when Spaghetti was a baby. But this summer the connection between the two sisters is beginning to show.

When we get in the car, Spaghetti announces, "Let's go pick up Meatball!" When we prepare Spaghetti's bath, she screams, "I want to take a bath with my Ate! (Tagalog word for big sister). When we put her to bed, "I want to sleep with Ate!" Spaghetti whimpers.

It's definitely beginning to show. And I know it's going to get worse, before it gets any better. As Spaghetti grows and starts to realize what spending summers away from the Meatball really means, it kills to see the deeper sadness in her face masked by her innocent confusion. My mother only shakes her head in dismay for the separated sisters. "Kawawa naman. (translated to how sorry they are, how sad), she empathizes about the girls' summer separation. She's probably praying right now for the Meatball's swift return. The downside of blended families.