Letter to my dad

When I was 13, the school therapist said I couldn’t love my dad as much as I did, because he was going to die one day and I wouldn’t be able to go on without him. She also said I’d never get married or leave my parent’s house because I was oh-so-attached to my dad.

Truth is, my dad has been through a lot. And he’s annoying. He’s getting old and I scream at him all the time, but I’ll miss him.

I won’t so much miss him, as I’ll feel bad imagining him passing by my empty room and remembering me. Perhaps even memories from when I was a baby. I was a little girl in his arms, and I was always there. I was born in this house and I know how much he hates changes. I know about how he found his dad dead in their house. I know about the note his dad left him. I know this sh%# must have messed up with his head.

Most of the stuff he says make absolutely no sense. It’s so crazy I’ve actually thought about writing a book about how he says stuff like “the cancer virus likes to eat tomatoes because they’re softer than human muscles”. And MEANS it.

Sometimes I think he’s crazy, or maybe just plain stupid… but he’s really just naive. The most naive, honest person in the world. I’ve kind of adopted my dad. It has always been my mission to take care of him.

I’ve done everything I could. I’ve given him time. A lot of time to understand that I’d leave one day. And I’m leaving… In 2 weeks. I don’t feel bad about leaving anything here. I won’t miss the house I grew up in, I won’t miss the streets, I won’t miss the memories, I’m not even sure I’ll miss my dad most of the time ’cause I’ll be busy taking care of my girls and thinking about finding a job and worried about something else… but sometimes at night I’ll remember him, and think about him passing by my empty room… and I’ll cry.

I wish there was some other way, dad. But our babies need a better chance at life.

Thank you for saying you’ll be with us for Christmas, even though you’ve never been in an airplane before and I KNOW you’re terrified of the idea.

I hope this doesn’t kill you. I cannot go on without you, depending on my faith on a God I’m not sure I believe to be sure you still exist somewhere. I just can’t. And I hope you can come and join us for good when you retire. If I make enough money, the lawyer says I can come and get you.

I’ll do my best, dad, I promise.

But you have to promise me you won’t cry. I never meant to make you cry.

Your daughter.

We’ve made it.

I was going through some old pictures today. Pictures from when I was pregnant and from when they were really small. Every time I look at those pictures I’m thinking “I wouldn’t wanna go back there”.

It is a magical moment, so they say, but I remember not having enough time even to cry. I was not allowed to break down and I certainly couldn’t rest. I wanted to cry from lack of sleep. Seriously.

I remember sleeping for a whole 20 minutes on the day my girls were born and thinking “Oh, God! I fell asleep! I CAN’T fall asleep”.

I watch movies where you see a sister, a mom or a friend holding a newborn so that the mom can rest from the labour. Well, that never happened to me. Main reason being because only my husband were allowed to enter the hospital and we had two babies and a mom with no milk. Do your math.

I also remember being trapped inside the house. I couldn’t go anywhere. I had to breastfeed a baby every hour. They’d spend 25 minutes in my breast to stimulate the milk, then I’d switch to the bottle, then I’d change the diaper, rest for 10 minutes and pick up the other baby. That was the routine, including in the middle of the night.

Seven days after the girls were born, I actually left the house for a couple minutes. I felt so free! I could walk again and I didn’t look like THIS anymore:


I know.

I remember one day, they were 2 months old precisely and my husband and I had to take the IELTS exam… so, we left the babies with our parents and went out alone for the first time. We felt SO guilty, we finished the test and even though we wanted to take a walk and grab something to eat, we couldn’t do it! We HAD to hurry back to them, even though they consumed every last sign of strength in our bodies.



We couldn’t go anywhere with them really, because any small excitement would cause endless cramps and suffering, so we avoided leaving the house with them because we desperately wanted to sleep for more then one hour straight in the night. I’m not sure if it solved the problem, but the few times we ignored our own rule I WAS HELL. So, we pretty much stuck by our rule and waited for the 100-ish crampy days to go by. Slowly, very slowly.

So, for five months they cried and cried and cried and the only moment they’d stop crying was when they were sleeping. ‘Til one day… they started crying for 3 hours straight instead of 5. Next thing I knew, they were crying for 10 minutes. It was magical!

They actually woke up crying every day until they were about 16 months BUT it was nothing compared to the first 5 months. We wanted to go out, like normal un-encacerated people but we could never take them (harly ever, I mean) and it sucked. It really sucked leaving the house without our babies… our minds were never really there.

I kept imagining what it would be like when they were a bit bigger, when the cramping days would be over, when we could take them to the mall with us and have a good time…

So, one day…


See my point here? Having a newborn beats being pregnant with twins at anytime. Having a 6 months old baby beats having a newborn and having a one year old is a lot less complicated than having a 6 months old baby. I can barely wait to have a baby I can actually talk to and who’ll tell me WHY they’re crying!

Things are always changing. For better!

moving update: 2 and a half weeks to go, people!

I’m such a loner

I was taking a personality test the other day, just ’cause I do get curious sometimes to find out what those algorithms have to say about me and one of the questions was:

“Would you rather be alone or with your friends?”

I immediately thought of answering “with my friends”, but my husband actually screamed from the other side of the room “ALONE!”. I stopped. I clicked over “alone”, after all.

As I sit here, in this empty house, with nothing but the sound of distant cars out there and I know my husband and kids won’t be back for another 2 hours I realize it’s true.

I’ve been alone most of my life and it was awful. But now that my house and my life are filled with people, these quiet moment are rare… and precious.

I did what Macaulay Culkin taught me and unfroze a cheese lasagna. I also ordered a pizza just for me. I ate half of the lasagna with a tiny spoon, which took me about 45 minutes. I was not in a hurry and my meal was hot. That doesn’t happen very often, so I HAD to enjoy it.

I called my best friend and answered the phone to my mom about seven times.

They’ll be home in one hour and forty minutes. Which means, my alone time was great, but I’ve started looking at the clock already.

I cannot wait until it’s just the 4 of us. It’s been way too crowded lately…

Just 3 more weeks and we’ll finally be home. That is… if we can actually find a house. But that’s a whole different topic and I’ll get back on that!

Take care, people from the world.

A slightly supernatural story about my husband

About 13 years ago I got a tattoo. It was a little heart on my right wrist. From that moment, I fell in love with tattoos. If you had asked me a couple years back, I’d say I hated tattoos and people who had them. Then I realized that little voice in my head was not mine… it was my mom’s.

A while later, I decided to get a tattoo on my leg. So, I started to draw it. I drew an angel… it was a male angel with big wings and really long, straight, dark hair. It was no one I knew. I was just an angel. I felt protected by that powerful image, for some reason. But I was afraid to actually get it done, since it was sort of a realistic drawing and  it was really easy to mess it up. I lived in a small town with no really decent tattoo artists… so, no. I didn’t do it.

But  I  did give it to my friend Ana, who also loved it and wanted to get it done on her leg. She never did it, for the same reasons… but she is my witness that this story is true.

I had actually forgotten about this and never really connected the facts… but a couple days ago, Alanis Morissette posted on her facebook page “Happy Anniversary, angel husband”. And so it hit me.

Our words have power… and it seems like our drawings do too.

I might have called him with my wishes, it may be a crazy coincidence, but the fact is we found each othe years later (since he was probably 7 years old when I drew it)!

As a native american descendant and in his teens, that long haired boy looked exactly like my angel. How weird is that? And how much does this post need images to be a little more clear?

I’ll work on that. Promise.

Wouldn’t it be nice is magic was real, though?

Take care,


ps: How do you like my new main page at www.badubop.net? I’m trying to put a portfolio together, so, I haven’t had much time to think or blog. Terribly sorry about that.


Haven’t we all had that dream in which our house is on fire or being taken by water and we have a few seconds to grab what’s important and leave?

Many times I dreamt I could fill a bag with my stuff and some other times I could fill the car.

Pictures, documents, my computer… they’ve all been in my dreams. Even my Hanson CD collection. Last time I dreamt the house was sinking, I just grabbed my babies and left.

There’s always my dad, though. Cleaning the stuff before we can put them in the car. I’m screaming at him, desperately, asking him to come with us. Asking him to hurry.

The dream is always the same. I’m leaving, I’m running away and my dad is taking his time and wanting to stay just where he is, ignoring the fire, the water or the mood.

What happens when stuff you’ve dreamt about becomes real? Were those nightmares a preparation for what was yet to come? What do I put on my bag?

It is time to go.

At least I’ve got time to pack… but it feels exactly like it did in the dream. I’ll miss my dad.

Round here we stay up very, very, very, very late…

instagram badubop

Last night Aurora woke up at 3:00am and didn’t fall back sleep before 6:00am. I feel like I’ve taken several sleeping pills right now.

Isn’t amazing how I can type things in my sleep?

I can’t really write right now, but I do have a question to you, fellow bloggers: I wanna move this blog into my host so I can play with the layouts better, but I’m afraid I’ll lose the stuff I’ve organized here. Does anyone have any experience with that?

Thank you,

Good night. I hope your babies sleep in today.

Do I still exist?

A couple months ago I met a woman who had just lost her daughter. She wanted me to design her new laundry room.

We’ve scheduled an appointment and went to her house to take measures. Money wasn’t an issue. Space wasn’t an issue. Her issues were deeper.

The house was quiet and clean. It had large windows that opened into a beautiful garden. It was a beautiful beach house that also felt welcoming on those cold winter days. I loved it, and I couldn’t wait to get out of there.

At one point, I said something about the dogs. A big rottweiller and a small Terrier. Her exact words to me were: “That dog is all I have left of my daughter”.

I wanted to cry. I wanted it to not be true. That beautiful house, that sweet lady… the emptiness and the silence in every room.

Oddly enough, one of the first things that crossed my mind, as I pretended not to fight against my tears and played with the dogs was “I’m so glad my parents wouldn’t suffer this much if I died… because they’d still have my children, and they are the best part of me.”

I know where that feeling came from. Ever since they were born, it’s like I’m a little less here. My instagram pictures are all about them. They are all I talk about. They are all I care about. For a year, I didn’t exist at all anymore. I didn’t care about me, the way I looked or had enough sleep time to care or understand what I was feeling or IF I was feeling anything at all.

I was gonna go through surgery in May and my mom asked me if I had completed the documents saying who would have custody of them if I died. I yelled at her and she said with no emotion “But this is important!”.

People take dieting and plastic surgery the wrong way. Sometimes, it’s not about finding a pattern. Sometimes, it’s about finding yourself when you’re lost deep down inside a body and your soul feels way away from the surface of that skin. You can’t understand the world around you when you’re floating somewhere in a road with no directions back home. You need to see yourself in the mirror and understand that this is reality ’cause you can see yourself standing there. Sometimes, there’s a stranger looking at you and you don’t know in which parallel universe the actual you are. I needed to find me. I miss me and I didn’t know where I was.

But I’m finding myself again. I’m sleeping again. And I have my husband… who is not a fan of this blogging thing and might never read this. But he’s the only person sometimes who still loves me and sees me inside this zumbi body I don’t recognize. He worries if I’m stressed, or quiet or have a different look in my face. To him, I still exist. The old me. With my own issues, which are not diapers what need changing or healthy dinners. Just plain old selfish me. And I love him for it.

And my best friend. My children’s Godmother and guardian angel, who’ll listen to me for hours and never lose track of the details on my stories.

Thank you, guys… for sticking with me.