Oh, The Backyard.

The neglect of our backyard has once again led to a willful microcosm of blooms and wilderness. Weeds are prime examples of survivors belting it out at the bottom of the food chain and being heard - mind you - with such emphatic discord. Yet in the minutia of things, they are sights to behold up close. There is a note of innate beauty and tenderness in its organic hankering of mass destruction. They are delicate and harsh, stubborn and unforgiving, let’s not forget: a sore sight to behold.

The weeds per se aren’t entirely to blame for our poorly executed backyard. Seasons shifted, lemons grew and roses bloomed all with just the nurturing hands of nature, fertilized and nourished by my neglect.  And I say this without remorse. I simply shrugged my shoulders and went “hmph!” oh well. 

And because I have no control over the wildlife in our backyard (in my attempt to liven up the vibe of our borrowed 80's house) we’ve adopted a Peace Lily, which I admittedly had no idea was called that because as far as the grocery tag goes what we have is a $9.00 Spathiphyllum.  It caught my attention because it was vibrant and verdant, the perfect size for the cobalt blue pot I bought for $5.00 months ago, and because it undeniably bore a resemblance to Vulcan ears, that we simply couldn’t help but name (him), Spock. 

Spock, the Peace Lily meet...the internet. 

And Spock's distant cousin, Gene. 

The fact that I had to Google How to take care of a Peace Lily plant  means: A. I have no idea what I’m doing. B. I am still capable of killing the most house friendly plant there is. C. It turns out I didn’t inherit a single green gene from my grandmother, the plant whisperer. She can pull a Moses make a dead twig come to life. 

Nonetheless, I found it to be the perfect opportunity to start bringing in some flowers inside our house and while on a creative spell somehow managed to use a bottle of Sweet Basil Pasta sauce to and a bit of old gingham fabric from Mandarin’s blanket as a shabby chic vase. These flowers take such little space in the home but makes all the difference. They bring an air of renewing energy with a hint of nostalgia. 

No matter how bad a day must seem, the roses are a dependable bed to fall on. Their unkempt nature only adds to the charm, and glancing at them once in awhile makes a foggy day look ever so hopeful.  

And the weeds... 

So delicate.

Never mind the weeds. 

As long as they don’t completely take over.  Either way, they’re poignant reminders that there too is something wild and free quietly thriving in the shadows of the most organized facets of our routine-laden lives.  

Tweet

Motherhood...

Looks like I missed the obligatory Mother’s Day post. No great epiphanies to share from dawn’s breaking to dusk’s closing except that I really do value my mother a hundred fold, now that I’ve become one myself. But then everyday would be THE day to know this. Nonetheless, Mother’s Day merits some form of appreciative gesture; a phone call, a Facebook shout out, cheesy Hallmark card, or an iTunes gift card. It’s during these days that make it difficult to be 7,764 miles away from your mother when all you want to give her - to express your gratitude for giving you life, loving you and raising you - is a hug. It doesn’t help that she’s resistant to the internet either. So much for Skype. Or email.

So. What is it like to be a new mother?

Tiring. Rewarding. Often times I feel like I’m running on instinct and is probably the most that I’ve trusted myself; my body, my mind, and what I am capable of handling. All it takes is a smile (like I always say) but more often than not Mandarin sticks her tongue out on the corner of her mouth and I’m done. My-sappy-heart-is-melting - done. Sooner or later we all discover these soft spots; the twinkle in her eye, that naughty smirk...nothing like a dose of silliness to tug at those heartstrings.

Frustrating: when I feel like I can’t get it right. The laundry’s piled up, dishes unwashed, meals to be cooked, toys on the floor, rooms to clean, vacuum and swiffer through. It can get chaotic, but when all things are lined up and everything is in harmony, well, let’s just say I will dance with the spunk of a flash mob in Grand Central station when I’m happy.

Sentimental and weepy. Everyday.

Gratifying. Truth be told, there is a sense of pride knowing that you’re raising your daughter the best possible way you can. And loving her with as much love as your heart can fill.

The quiet and poignant ripples of inexplicable JOY.

Tweet

Pocket Review: Le Petit Reve

When a package you’ve been waiting for finally arrives, you don’t wait and find a pair of scissors, a knife, or anything resembling a sharp object to rip that bag open. Fingers, teeth, the corner of your remote control - anything will do. That’s the wonderful thing about packages that arrive at your doorstep; they can’t be judged based on how they look, because more often than not they look bruised, limp, and left-for-dead like it got into a fight - and lost.

The item in mind here is a blanket for Mandarin. A custom made quilt with vintage floral fabric, white eyelet ruffles held together with organic buttery soft fleece. Now, the imminent cliche that drops in this sentence : it is what is inside that counts. Because the filthy plastic bag that arrived that afternoon opened up to reveal a lovely boutique-style gift, wrapped in Japanese tissue and tied together with pink gingham fabric. Even lovelier was the blanket itself. Perfectly quilted with squares of dainty pink rosebuds, the softest vintage chenille and flannel, the muted colors of the roses - all pulled together with delicate pink lace; I thought twice before unraveling it because it was so pretty.

We are in L♥VE!

The shop, Le Petit Reve = The Little Dream with a BIG heart. ♥

Thank you Selena, seamstress extraordinaire!

Tweet

Where It's At

Here is where it’s at. 

The leak from the bathroom on the top floor to the guest bathroom has gotten worse. Much worse.  There are soaked towels laid out on the tile and the dripping sound of water instead providing Zen calm, has stained the general surrounding area with thoughts of ancient torture techniques. Surely back in the day someone must have gone mad just hearing one drip after another.   

While on the thoughts of torture, that’s what Mandarin’s face looked like as I gave her a spoonful of pureed zucchini. She gagged and shot me a horrified look reminiscent of green beans and pursed her lips and held up a closed for business sign.  How can she hate zucchini!? I can eat their healthy goodness everyday and now the batches I made for her either I will have to eat like an 8 month old - or the kitchen grinder will. Even the zucchini-carrot purees I made have gone to waste. She loves carrots on its own, I thought it would have been a good mix. 

Last night whilst reading Is your Mama a Lama before bed, she threw up everything she ate for dinner; what seemed to be a whole jar of Earth’s Best carrot tomato puree and her 6 oz bottle of milk. All over me, my PJ’s, her book, the WHITE duvet, our pillows and my computer. 

Yessssss. This calls the one defining photograph that speaks across generations and a wide spectrum of emotion: 

Here’s hoping the rest of the week goes smoothly!

Tweet