Love Letters

Photo of Becky Green Aaronson and Sweet BugAaah, Mother’s Day, one of my favorite days of the year. Not because it’s the day I’m fed peeled grapes and fanned with a palm frond as I lay on my fainting couch having my toenails painted (especially since I don’t even own a fainting couch).

It’s because this day reminds me of how profoundly my life has changed since becoming a mom; how that little universe I was comfortably operating in shifted on its axis so dramatically that my head still spins ten years later. How my already happy, full, crazy life instantly became more textured and meaningful, and infinitely more challenging (in all the best ways).

Becoming a mom also suddenly compelled me to start doing things I never imagined I’d be doing. For example, never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined that when Sweet Bug was just a Tiny Bug in preschool that my love for her would inspire me to dig deep into my creative bucket and pull out a quirky idea that would soon transform into a special ritual for both of us.

It started out simply as a little note and sketch in Tiny Bug’s lunch box, but quickly evolved into a more elaborate daily dose of love and learning. Each day I’d chose a new word for her to learn then make a crayon drawing on her napkin and place the corresponding letter cookies in her lunch so she could match the cookies to the letters on the napkin before she enjoyed her tasty treats.

Every single day of preschool I made Tiny Bug a napkin. And yes, she ate and shared a lot of letter cookies, especially when they were long words (bad mommy).

These napkins were simply meant to be momentary messages of love, to connect the two of us while she was away at school, and to surprise her with a new word each day as an extra way to get her excited about learning.

Photo of Becky Green Aaronson's book Love Letters with Library page

Photo of Becky Green Aaronson's book Love Letters with farm page

Photo of Becky Green Aaronson's book Love Letters with house page

Photo of Becky Green Aaronson's book Love Letters with star page

Photo of Becky Green Aaronson's book Love Letters with the write page

Photo of Becky Green Aaronson's book Love Letters with fish page

Photo of Becky Green Aaronson's book Love Letters with pink and purple pages

Photo of Becky Green Aaronson's book Love Letters with tree and spring pages

These napkins, which I made long after Tiny Bug went to bed each night, were never meant to be kept and saved. In fact, when Tiny Bug brought them home from school every day and insisted we keep them, I didn’t know what to do with them—especially the ones with glops of food spilled on them. For a long time I piled them in the corner of our kitchen counter. Eventually, they went into a drawer, then finally a box.

Photo of Becky Green Aaronson's book Love Letters with planet and colors pages

It was when we moved to a new house the real decision had to be made. Are we seriously going to move a pile of old napkins? I moaned. I’m sentimental, but not that sentimental. But Sweet Bug was adamant: “Mommy, these are special to me. You can’t throw them away.” So, as you may have guessed, Continue reading

Draw Your Lines Any (Damn) Way You Like, Sweet Bug

It has been a summer of art at our house. My hubby has been hunkered down in his art studio working away on his new project, I’ve been writing into the wee hours of the night, and our daughter has been painting her way through a swirl of art camps.

It has all been delightful.

Sweet Bug Art-Children's ArtSweet Bug Art 4 Children's Art Sydney Opera HouseSweet Bug Art Children's Art

That is until last week.

Continue reading

The Art of Fatherhood

“Hey guys, how were oceans made?”

When one of our daughter’s classic, epic questions swirled from the back seat of the car to the front, then danced around our heads, I could do little more than smile, take a deep breath, and hope with every ounce of my being that it would land squarely on the shoulders of my husband.

Being sleep-deprived from our puppy’s middle-of-the-night antics, I could barely muster up enough energy to go get coffee, let alone have a deep, philosophical conversation about the universe. I had the patience of a flea.

I sat there waiting, and silently willing my husband to come up with a brilliant answer, so I wouldn’t have to. When he finally began, “Well sweetie, that is one of life’s great questions…” then launched into an exquisite dissertation about philosophy, religion and scientific theory, my eyes brimmed with tears.

Those words spilling from his mouth reminded me once again why I love this man so much, and why he is the epitome of a rock star father and husband.

It also made me appreciate just how “present” Jeffrey is in our daughter’s life. I don’t remember ever having a deep, philosophical conversation with my dad—at least nothing more profound than, “Rocky road or vanilla?” In fact, my dad never did any of the things Jeffrey does with our daughter. He never helped me with my homework, read to me, organized play dates, or took me on bike rides. Nor did he cook meals, help plan birthday parties, do artwork with me, set up lemonade stands, or take me on special dates. And the thought of him being a room parent or a chaperone on a school field trip? That makes me laugh out loud. I don’t think he even knew my teachers’ names.

Photo of a father and daughter riding bikesPhoto of a father and daughter playing basketballFather and daughter doing potteryPhoto of a father and daughter at HalloweenFather room parent at schoolPhoto of a father and daughter doing homework

But here’s the thing: I have nothing but fond memories of my dad and my childhood. Even though he was far from perfect and far from uber involved, I felt loved and nurtured by him. I don’t know if that’s the magic of a father or if that’s how I choose to remember him. Whatever the case, on this Father’s Day, I send a big shout out to my dad, the first man in my life who made me feel strong, smart and special.

I celebrate not only who he was and how hard he worked, but the impact he made on my life. Not only did he always treat me like an equal to my three older brothers, but he instilled in me a work ethic that has stayed with me my whole life. Most importantly, he believed in me—no matter what crazy idea I chased after—like figuring out how to get myself through college, even though he knew he wouldn’t be around to help me pay for it.

Photo of father and daughter at the beachFather and daughter fishing

Photo of dad and kids at beachDad wasn’t a gushy guy. In fact, I’m not sure I ever heard him say, “I love you.” It didn’t matter though; I knew he did.

The last five words he uttered to me before he died summed up his style and our relationship best. He simply smiled through the pain and morphine and said, “You are a tough bird,” which translated to: “I love you, be strong, and carry on. I know you will be fine without me.”

I’ve leaned on those simple five words many times over the years, and because of them I’ve always known I could stand on my own two feet and take on life’s adventures without being afraid.

A father’s words can be profoundly powerful. I can only imagine the strength our daughter is soaking up from Jeffrey. She may not fully understand or appreciate all that her daddy-o does or says quite yet, but I have no doubt it’s all sinking into the right places, slowly building a foundation that will support her throughout her life.

So here’s to you, my rock star husband. Thank you for being the person you are and for making fatherhood a priority. Thank you for answering the tough questions when I haven’t had my coffee, and thank you for always making our daughter feel strong, smart and special.

I know the world is your canvas. The fact that you have chosen to create your most meaningful art right here at home means everything.

Happy Father’s Day.

Just Wondering

Can you still call yourself a good mom if the first thing that flies off your tongue is, “BECAUSE I SAID SO,” when your child persistently whines, “Whhyyy, Mom?”

Can you still call yourself a good friend when it takes a month or two longer than it should to mail your dearest friend a birthday card, or worse, when your once-elaborate birthday gestures have been reduced to texts, emails and Facebook messages?

Can you still call yourself an athlete when dragging yourself to the gym once a week is cause for dialing up the Hallelujah Choir?

Can you call yourself one hot, hip mama when you realize the last time you went shopping for something other than a new pair of shorts or flip-flops was two years ago? Or that your collection of tanktops and sweatpants now outnumbers your collection of sexy dresses and va-va-voom blouses.

Can you still call yourself a writer when everything that floats from your mind to your keyboard reads like a giant pile of dog doo? And even after re-writing the same sentence fifty-seven different ways you are know you are in the running for the Grand Prize of the Crap Awards?

Can you still call yourself a domestic goddess when you’re happy that your new puppy has gone exploring under the bed or behind the couch because he makes a really great dust mop? Or when you feel the overwhelming need to do a happy dance because you’ve remembered to put the clothes in the dryer before they sit in the washer too long and you have to re-wash them?

If you answered “ABSO-FRICKIN-LUTELY” to all of the above then you and I must be dear friends. We see eye to eye and dustball to dustball, and we know that life is about bursts of brilliance and moments of jaw-dropping mediocrity. We know that every once in a while we need to take our glasses off so we don’t look too closely at all our faults and imperfections. That way we can celebrate what’s good and quirky and funny about ourselves. And we can laugh—because as we know, laughter is often what sparks those moments of brilliance once again.

HAHAHAHAHA!

Yep, I’m starting to feel more brilliant already! How about you?

What’s a Mom to Do – odles?

Oh the whining…the heart-piercing whining. When it woke me up for the third time—this time at 3:34am—I could do little more than roll over and moan, “What the #@!% have we done?”

It was the same feeling that washed over me when I first became a mom. After being tortured night after night with sleep deprivation, I wondered if we’d made a huge mistake. “Can we return to sender?” I’d joke with my husband.

BUT, just like when our daughter was an infant, the only thing this whining little bundle of love had to do was look at me with his big green eyes and I instantly turned to mommy goo.

“All right, boy, I’ll take you out AGAIN,” I said as I patted his head and tried to wrangle a smidgeon of humor as playfulness consumed him in the middle of the night, his puppy teeth needling my toes and pj’s on the way to the door.

What’s a mom to do, I laughed to myself.

Some might wonder why on earth we’d add the complexity–and sleep deprivation–of a puppy to our already-full lives. The answer is simple. For one reason, and one reason only: our daughter.

Just like my mom and dad let us adopt a dog when I was a young girl and Jeffrey’s parents did the same, we’ve given Olivia the gift of a slathering, furry, bundle of unconditional love so she can grow up knowing the joys and responsibility of caring for another living being.

Labradoodle puppy "Doodles"Yep, it’s official: Doodles is now  a member of the Aaronson Family. And yes, this little furball of a Labradoodle is rocking our world.

As you might have guessed, we let Olivia name him, just like our parents let us name our dogs. Jeffrey crowned his Weimeraner with the name Harold when he was a kid, and I gave our brown mop of a poodle-ish pound mutt the name Brownie. Actually, it was far more sophisticated than that—Brownie Blue Green.

Every time I look at Doodles I think of Brownie Blue Green, and even more so my mom. No, not because my mom looked like Doodles, but because Doodles reminds me of all the things she sacrificed for me.

Let me take you back to when I was eight years old. With four kids, nothing was ever simple or calm around our house. Dad spent most waking hours trying to figure out how to make ends meet while Mom spent every minute of her day running our household, a job far more taxing than anything my dad ever did. From tackling mounds of laundry for three boys and a tomboy to grocery shopping, making school lunches, and mediating sibling disputes, she was at the center of it all. When she wasn’t applying band-aids or taking us to the ER, she was making dinner, sewing clothes for me or re-painting my room another shade of pink. I’m sure most nights she fell into bed exhausted. The fact that she would even consider adding a dog to this mix speaks volumes.

The only possible reason could have been her love for us kids.

Photo of my family when I was an infantPhoto of Green Family circa 1973

When Doodles is demanding my attention at three in the morning and causing me to bumble through the next day in sleepwalking mode and pull me away from my writing, or when he’s chewing on my hand for the eight hundredth time in a single day, or wreaking puppy havoc on our garden, I’m going to take a deep breath and remember my mom.

I’m going to remember how her love and patience gave me the gift of Brownie Blue Green.

Brownie Blue Green at the beachBrownie was a rescue dog who came with issues, but my eight-year old eyes saw nothing but sweet perfection. I adored everything about him, down to his stinky breath and matted hair. Every night he’d sleep on the end of my bed, often tracking muddy paw prints all over the delicate pink and white comforter my mom spent hours making. No doubt it drove her mad, but she never said a word, knowing I loved that dog more than I’d ever love a bedspread.

Even though Brownie tried to attack my dad every time he wore a gray suit (did I mention issues?), he was a lovable pooch. At bath time he’d always plop his scrappy-doo body next to the tub and keep me company while I washed away the day’s fun. And when it was time to practice my oboe, he’d sit patiently, his ears rising in pain as my squeaky music filled the room. Brownie Blue Green was the ultimate party animal, too. Be it slumber parties, dance parties or pool parties, somehow he always tolerated being dragged into the middle of the action.

Photo of dog, Brownie Blue GreenBrownie Blue Green slumber party

I’m sure Brownie was a handful, but several decades later I have the selective amnesia of an eight-year old. I don’t even remember having to take care of him; somehow he was magically fed and bathed and his poop was scooped. My guess is that Mom was the one who pulled yeoman’s duty taking care of this rascal. For that I’m grateful because Brownie Blue Green gave me a treasure trove of childhood memories.

Now as I celebrate my mom–and her patience, love and strength (and hopefully draw upon it)–I know it’s my turn to pass this gift on to Olivia. No doubt Mom would agree, even if life was significantly less complicated before Doodles. She’d probably even tell me to let Doodles sleep on Olivia’s bed and leave muddy paw prints. After all, what’s a mom to
Do-odles anyway?

Photo of Olivia and DoodlesLabradoodle pupy "Doodles"

Did you have a dog when you were a kid? If so, how did he or she impact your life?

The Dance of Parenthood

Most of our friends and family were shocked when Jeffrey and I decided to have a baby, and even more so when they discovered it was Jeffrey’s idea.

With Jeffrey zipping around the world much of the year and me running our busy photo agency, and also partaking in deliciously selfish activities like marathon running, having a baby never felt like a reasonable idea.

But on a cold January evening, in the middle of celebrating my 37th birthday over a romantic dinner in one of our favorite restaurants, Jeffrey took a long sip of wine, smiled at me mischievously then simply asked, “What would you think about starting a family?”

I nearly fell out of my chair.

We’d been together for over thirteen years and this topic had never once entered our conversation. We both knew our unpredictable lifestyle would be challenging for raising a child. When Jeffrey asked though, goosebumps formed on my arms and liquid pearls of happiness rose in my eyes as I staggered under the weight of this tender, life-changing moment.

All I could choke out was, “Yes,” in a half-breath as my hands flew up to my mouth in disbelief. It was a spontaneous reaction for which I had no control, but everything about it felt right. Jeffrey looked dizzy as he reached over the table and kissed me. Then we both burst into laughter and raised a toast to the insanity of this idea.

__________

Well, here we are nearly a decade later, still delighting in the insanity of this idea, and even more so, the person this idea produced.

Sweet Olivia just turned eight years old, and as we celebrated our spunky and sensitive girl whom Jeffrey likes to say, “was born with two scoops of sugar,” we reveled in the notion that life’s most outlandish ideas often become the best. Originating in the heart instead of the mind, these irrational ideas often inspire us to learn a new, and sometimes-difficult dance, which pushes us to a whole new level in life.

As parents, Jeffrey and I have been swirling, dipping, tripping, gliding, sliding, and waltzing from the moment Miss O was born. Our love for our daughter has produced choreography filled with the highest highs and the lowest lows as we’ve experienced every emotion imaginable: love, tenderness, awe, delight, fear, frustration, pain, pride, exuberance and exhaustion. And like most parents, each time we’ve finally mastered one tricky step, we’ve been thrown a new challenge to keep us on our toes on this ever-changing dance floor of parenthood.

Jeffrey and I are nowhere near perfect parents—in fact those kinds of people scare me—but one thing for certain is that in this great big ballroom of life, I have the most steady and dedicated dance partner anybody could ever hope for. And for that, I am grateful.

As we hold onto Olivia’s hands and let her dance on our feet, she is learning to create her own moves—ones that will inform her life when she’s eventually ready to launch out on her own into this big, creative world which is filled with endless adventure.

Who knew this dance of parenthood could ever be so exquisite?