LBCF (Life Beyond Clean Floors)

Jail Time

2011-09-08T13:54:00.000-07:00

Being a working mom (vs. a working-for-pay mom) means very little, if any, time truly alone. Eli is with me from the moment he wakes up to the moment his head misses the pillow in the evening (not to mention all the non-asleep times in between). After 8pm, I drop the "mom" bit of wife/mom and play the role of "wife". Basically, alone time has become entirely non-existent. Even the concept of "privacy" only applies when Eli deems it necessary. Just wait until he turns thirteen...payback time!

"Alone time" has become theoretical. I have learned to be "alone" while rolling Hot Wheels down a plastic ramp. Walking the dog while pushing a singing toddler in a stroller has become "alone" time. Watching TV on the couch next to Brian also has "alone time" innuendos. Basically, "alone time" has become a thing in my head. If I can detach myself mentally and emotionally, then I am "alone".

For the first time ever, I found myself contemplating jail time. What petty crime, what felony could I commit to land myself in jail overnight? Ah! Imagine the glories of being locked up in one place with no one NEEDING anything! One day of not having to clean urine off various toilet parts due to poor aim, one day of not having to wipe anyone's anus after waste elimination, one day of not having to prepare balanced meals, one day away from the pressure that I often feel to be the "perfect" mom. I truly doubt anyone has written books on how to be the "perfect" felon (or maybe I just don't browse the right library sections).

When I told Brian all this, he asked if he could get me a drink. DUI...hmmmm...that could land me in jail overnight, right?

Extraordinarily Ordinary

2011-02-27T15:19:00.000-08:00

Never have I ever had the need to proclaim anything from the mountaintop at the top of my lungs...until now. I AM MUNDANE. THERE IS NOTHING INTERESTING ABOUT MY LIFE.

There once was a time when I had an answer to friends, acquaintances and strangers asking me, "So...tell me what's new?". Now, I want to avoid this question altogether by tattooing "There's laundry to be done." across my forehead. These days, dirty laundry is all that's new.

Recently I cursed Brian out. It started when I asked Brian to be more discriminating when praising Eli--to use praise when praise is actually necessary.

"But Eli thought he was being helpful." (Brian, with eyebrows raised and eyeballs ready to roll)

"He helped you fix the bathroom tap?" (Me, incredulously)

"No, but he took all the tools out of my toolbox and laid them on the floor." (Brian, in a very convincing tone).

I don't know about you, but emptying the toolbox does not sound like much help to me.

"Well, instead of saying, 'Eli, good job helping me.' you might consider saying, 'Eli, thank you for laying out all my tools.'" (Me, with my eyebrows raised and my eyeballs rolling).

Thus began our argument. The next comment came from Brian: "That's ironic from someone who demands praise for doing the MUNDANE".

This is where I got pissed off. [a string of inappropriate words here]. MUNDANE? Apparently, the 'stuff' that currently embodies my life is MUNDANE in Brian's book. Apparently, making sure we are fed, the toilet is scrubbed, and our underwear is clean is MUNDANE. Taking Eli to and from classes, entertaining and teaching him is MUNDANE. Researching preschools, upkeeping Eli's Chinese, fostering a love of music is MUNDANE.

Basically, nothing I currently do with my life is worthy of praise.

What Brian doesn't understand (and many, many fathers are also in this boat) is that for us, educated, intelligent women, to CHOOSE to stay home and do the MUNDANE is in and of itself worthy of MUCH, MUCH praise. It is extraordinary for us to do the ordinary. In choosing to do the MUNDANE tasks of raising children and keeping house, I have to put aside my own desires to do what I would deem extraordinary (go back to school, write more seriously, get a new job).

For the time being, mundanity is my new best friend.

Hardball

2011-02-22T21:47:00.000-08:00

To the Chinese, childhood is not a time for unstructured discovery with hours spent manipulating sand with a shovel. The world is not a wondrous playground and play is considered a waste of time. Instead, childhood is a time for intellectual training. Children must be taught that the world is one giant competition where losing isn't an option. The Chinese have prided themselves on producing many child prodigies--kids who can play Chopin ballades at four years of age, kids who obtain M.D.s before they can drive, and kids who can solve algebraic algorithms when their peers are still learning to count past 50.

What I'm willing to bet is that these same kids have difficulty maintaining personal hygiene and have never learned to take turns or share toys.

Two weeks ago, I took Eli to the library. While browsing picture books, I overheard a Chinese mother drilling the librarian (this woman seriously sounded like a drill sergeant). She was talking about her son's prolific reading skills: "He's bored of picture books and he's read most of these science books..." to which the librarian responded, "What about poetry? What about nursery rhymes?" to which the mother retorted, "Nursery rhymes?! What good are those?"

Out of curiosity, I peek between the stacks. This kid is three feet tall. Bored of picture books or never allowed to read them??? The next thing I know, this Chinese boy has toddled over to Eli and smacked him upside the head with some elementary physics book he's holding and he's laughing about it. The librarian sees this, and we both wait for Mom to act. "Come over here to these other books." Mom says in Chinese without making eye contact with me or acknowledging Eli whose hand was still shielding his head.

I'm torn. My kid is half-Chinese. I'm trying so hard not to raise him the way I was raised which means that I honestly don't know what I'm doing. I second-guess my "positive" parenting only to then second-guess myself when I play Chinese hardball. My mom probably has a bit to do with it. Consider the following comments and then my reactions:

"So what does Eli learn in school? Does he learn the ABCs? Does he learn to count and do math?"

No, it's a play-based preschool where kids learn to share and take turns and develop appropriate and acceptable school behaviors.

(I started Chinese character flashcards that very afternoon to make up for the lack of learning at school).

"Oh, Eli takes music class? Is he learning the names of the notes and learning scales?"

No, it's just a time when kids play with rhythm and dance. We do some singing, but it's mostly play-based.

(I started teaching Eli the C-major scale that very day and almost gave him a time-out because he just wanted to smack the keys).

"You were toilet-trained before you were one! The kid can do it; Westerners are just lazy."

No, I think that he will do it when he's ready.

(The very next day, I confiscate his diapers and force Eli to wear underwear all day. He now hates the potty).

I am most frustrated on days when I see-saw between my two parenting selves. At the point of tears last night, I explained to Brian how hard it is to watch Eli NOT meeting his potential. Brian listened (bonus points here) and then said, "Isabella, he's two-and-a-half, go easy on the kid."

Part of me wanted to smack him for being too "Western" but I gave him a hug instead. At least one of us has to be the cheerleader in this parenting game.

Forever Young?

2011-02-17T13:43:00.001-08:00

Last week, I met someone who I thought was thirty years old. Turns out she's five years away from retirement. This woman isn't even Asian. A PG&E worker once asked another female friend if he could "speak with an adult of the house" to which she replied, "I own this house." My friend is ten years older than me. Yet another friend still manages to get away with ordering "12-and-under" meals at restaurants. While I'm sure it helps to be five feet tall, her ID puts her year of birth ten years before mine.

What do these women all have in common? They are childless. They have never had another person taking residence in their uteruses (or is that uteri?). They have never had to use their breasts as fast food machines and they have never had to handle another person's excrement.

So, I'm wondering if that old adage "Being with children makes one youthful." is just some lie to help mothers feel better about having saggy boobs and permanent rings around their eyes. Honestly, the thought "At least having children will make me younger." has never gone through my head while picking feces off the floor with my bare hands.

Okay, so I have Eli whom I love and would never return (not that I have that particular option), but having a child requires some serious self-sacrifice. Motherhood (at least for me) isn't some fluffy fantasy with clouds and butterflies and the "this person will always love me" kind of deluded thinking. Rather, it has meant many, many nights of incomplete sleep cycles, and remembering to pack your child a lunch but forgetting that you need to eat, and giving your child a hug and kiss even though he just punched your nose with his fist. Motherhood requires some serious humility.

It makes me sad that we moms tend to err on the side of forgetting we are also important people. We put off exercising, showering, peeing, eating in order to make sure our kids' needs are met. I'm sure this is why we don't age as well as our childless counterparts. Okay, so maybe our chances of developing breast cancer is lowered slightly because our boobs have once been milked, but honestly, most moms I know look permanently tired.

And that's why my goal is to make sure I exercise at least four times a week...starting next week when my family is healthy again.

(to my childless friends: don't let this deter you from having children. Some of the best sleep I've ever had was when Eli was nursing. Those "milking" hormones are awesome.)

Mommy So Happy?

2011-02-13T21:02:00.000-08:00

No one seems to care more about my personal happiness than Eli. Whether I am upset by a slow driver or irritated by his misuse of a chopstick (no, don't stick it there!), Eli is especially sensitive to my being sad or angry. His gut reaction (or is it learned?) is to wrap his arms around my neck in a bear hug then plant a big wet sloppy kiss on my mouth (be it open or closed). Usually, his brow expresses worry and in a plaintive, urgent tone asks, "Mommy, you so happy?" And he usually knows that I am anything but.

Which scares me. Eli and I are "joined at the hip". He sees my Dr. Jekyll and he sees my Mr. Hyde. His cognitive and emotional development means that I will not be able to hide my true colors from him much longer. While I know that it's very important for him to see that I too experience a palette of emotional shades, sometimes those shades are dark--too dark for him to understand, but dark enough for him to be colored by it. Those are times when his laser-beam-like eyes shoot into my skull asking, "Mommy so happy?" every few seconds or so.

On those days and in those moments, my patience is nonexistent. I scream at him unnecessarily, I glare at him unfairly, I have also hit him on occasion. I exist in an alternate reality--I am not fully present-- because my emotions overwhelm. In slow motion, I see his tears and hear his cries resulting from the grief I have imposed. Strangely, I could care less in the moment. But at some point, I am slapped back into reality, into the realization that I have hurt him--and then the guilt washes over. Dr. Jekyll is forced back into the closet.

What is a mother to do knowing full well that her sometimes irrational emotions cause pain to her child? Sometimes I allow that knowledge to drive me deeper into my guilt of being a "bad mother" (which actually causes more "bad mother" actions). Other times, I am comforted by Eli's show of empathy; he understand I am human.

We always debrief after "dark" episodes. He usually bounces back quickly. Kids are resilient. After another hug and another kiss, he's moved on. "Mommy, come play with me."

The More We Get Together

2011-02-07T14:08:00.000-08:00

I am built like a T-Rex: strong legs, very little upper body strength. A bit over a year ago, I started doing Crossfit--a rather intense (or masochistic) fitness 'program' or philosophy for a better word. My first Crossfit workout required TEN minutes of continuous upper body strength--ring rows, push ups, pull ups. Not only did I want to throw up after those ten minutes, but I seriously had trouble washing my own hair for an entire week. It didn't take long for me to discover that 90% of all my strength resides in my legs....like a large carnivorous dinosaur.

This past summer, I finally managed a Kipping pull up and am now doing legit push ups (albeit, I still can't do too many in a row). I have improved even if I only go to the gym three times a week. As Coach Troy says, "Only perfect practice makes perfect." To that, I would add together. There was no way I could ever do so many practice push ups and pull ups on my own. I owe a lot to my Crossfit community.

The same thing can be said for motherhood (except replace "perfect" with "not screwing up your child so much as to require more than 2 years of therapy."). You see, I am a very selfish person at heart. Those of you who know me well can agree. If you disagree, you need to get to know me better (if I have the time, hee hee). To a degree, motherhood requires 100% selfless behavior. This is where I start to suck as a mom. I often put my own needs before Eli's needs (well, peeing doesn't count) and I often put my own needs before the needs of other people. You see, I often put myself first and that, my friends, is often when I start to feel like a failure.

And this is precisely why we need other mothers. There are other mothers in my life who are more patient, more compassionate and less selfish. I want to be around them because they inspire me to be a better mother. I want Eli to be around them because of what HE can gain from their mothering (is this selfish of me?). So, thanks to all the mothers and non-mothers in my life who are strong where I am weak. Perhaps perfect practice together means that we average a sense of perfection?

Multi Media Mania

2011-02-03T06:55:00.002-08:00

As a teacher, I spent multiple staff development days discussing the effects of media on children. The general consensus is that media exposure must be controlled. CONTROLLED--not banished. CONTROLLED--not hidden behind lock and key. CONTROLLED--not contraband. Then why is it that many, many mothers (myself included) feel deserving of the Medal of Honor when we don't allow any television or video games? Why is it that on days when I allow Eli to watch 20 minutes of PBS, I do so with a might guilty conscience?

My sister (former Electronic Arts and present Zynga employee) has her television on pretty much all the time. Eli often begs to go to her house not necessarily to see her, but to watch unlimited TV. My sister is one at the forefront of fighting the war FOR childhood exposure to all visual media and I seem to be her latest target. Accusations fly: It's almost neglect! TV is a fact-of-life! What? Are you so high and mighty by NOT letting him watch TV? Who's going to give you a medal? What's your problem? Why are you so uptight?

When I'm with my sister, I am able to relax a bit about Eli's limited exposure to Sesame Street and Bob the Builder. It's okay.

However, many of my mommy friends seem to compete for the title of "Anti-Media Dictator". When I am in their presence, the competition for allowing ZERO exposure to TV is furious. Ten minutes once a week is all so-and-so is allowed. Sometimes when I need a shower, I let so-and-so watch eight and a half minutes. TV is not allowed at all for so-and-so. When I am in the presence of these moms, I feel like I suck. I feel like I abuse my child by exposing him to Elmo.

Either I'm abusing or neglecting my child. Either way, I'm a LOSER.

So, like with everything else, there has to be a middle ground, right? I mean, most of those same anti-TV mommies spend hours every evening in front of the tube. We would rather sneak it than expose it.

Let's be honest. I sometimes use the TV or Sesamestreet.com for peace-of-mind. I'd much rather know that Eli is safe watching the TV when I am in the shower. I'd much rather he be learning his ABCs with Elmo on the computer while I chop onions for dinner. I will use media conscientiously. After all, TV can be on OUR side if we let it be.

Take Me Out of the Toilet

2011-02-02T20:17:00.000-08:00

Parents spend a great deal of effort and money on preventing horrible things from happening to their children. We vaccinate against scary diseases, put locks on kitchen cabinets, take the time to cut grapes into quarters (or eighths). But no matter how hard we try, there are just some things that are unpreventable--things that are difficult to foresee, things that just, well, happen.

Here is a smattering of such events as of late:

Event #1: The Black Eye

Yes, it looked like I beat him, but I didn't. I was actually trying to help him get a toy on the top shelf. Little did I know the toy he wanted would knock his wooden toolbox. With the help of gravity, that wooden box filled with wooden tools, screws and bolts landed...on top of Eli's face. Oops.

Event #2: Don't Flush

Only because Eli chose to sit on the adult toilet instead of the potty seat at preschool, he fell into a public toilet. I told him to hold on tightly and to lean forward. I even warned him about the slight possibility of falling in. Splash! Oh, and then I wiped him down with ice-cold baby wipes.

...And then there are the more "emotional" in nature:

Event #3: Wait!

Look up "Dawdle". You will find "Elijah Hill" listed under "See also". When Eli wouldn't put his shoes on to leave for preschool after the third request, I left. I locked and closed the door, reversed the car down the driveway and drove around the block. It worked. When I got back, Eli was trying to put his own shoes on.

Event #4: Oh Yeah?!

Okay, I recently started using the guilt trip. In true toddler form, Eli is trying to assert his independence in all areas--he fights me (unless I offer M&Ms). He would rather sit in his own poop for two weeks than have me change him. "No" is the word I hear most often followed by the words "Eli do it!" Just last week, at the end of my rope, I threatened to go back to work and leave him. I told him that if he continued to mistreat me, I would go to work like daddy and he will not get to see me. Needless to say, I received a lot of hugs and kisses. Eli was honestly scared and stressed. And honestly, I felt a sick sense of satisfaction that I had the power to make him feel so bad.

Before you start judging me as a mom, let me remind you that we all have those days. Days when we say what we shouldn't to someone we love, days when we sulk around in self-pity. Well, at least I know what I've done....and as G.I. Joe says, "Knowing is half the battle!"

Playing Catch-Up (or Ketchup, if you're 2)

2011-02-01T14:01:00.000-08:00

It's been over a year since my last blog entry and a lot has happened. Eli is now 2.5 years old, we have a new on-again and off-again dog, but most importantly, I have since chosen to completely abandon being someone other than a mom. My hard work no longer pays, my time belongs to someone else and I receive daily job-evaluations from a toddler. I have descended into a state where my brain officially resembles Swiss cheese. Lots and lots of holes from disuse and/or misuse.

Let's see, I have a degree from a well-regarded university (roughly 24% acceptance rate in 2010), I have spent over a decade trying to be a better teacher and now this is how I spend my time:

get up at 6am to walk the dog(s) and have a shower (maybe)
make breakfast then proceed to pick it up off the floor with a mop
handle excrement (not my own)
package food into neat little boxes and drink into neat little bottles so that we can
go out for a pre-paid activity where I usually find myself behaving like a 2-year-old
repeat above with lunch
repeat above with excrement
repeat above in order to get groceries to cook dinner
repeat above while doing laundry after cleaning up dinner
sit on the couch to spend "quality" time watching TV with Brian.

So you see. I am so glad I haven't taken the time or money to obtain any degree higher than a Bachelors and a CA State Teaching Credential. There are mothers I have met through Eli's preschool class who now use their PhDs as Professional Housecleaning Degrees.

I found myself wondering (at 6am this morning) why bother? Why bother to educate women? Is my university degree the root cause of my dissatisfaction with having chosen to stay at home full time to raise my child? Is the fact that my parents spent well over $15,000/year to educate me (with more in student loans) the reason of my plummeting self-worth because I don't even make a penny an hour? Maybe mothers of the 1940's never felt such a sense of self deprecation and depreciation.

I guess I just have to hope that my educated brain will make my child's life better (okay, so research has shown this to be true). I have to hope that some day, I can once again regain some sense of accomplishment beyond poop in the toilet (look! he did it!).

In the meantime.....on with the pull-ups, on with the unexplained tantrums and on with the aeration of my gray matter.

The Rain in Spain....

2010-01-22T13:40:00.000-08:00

It's been raining for a week. This has been what Californians call a big storm. It causes road closures, it stops traffic, it creates flooding. For mothers of toddler-aged children, it's just plain inconvenient.

With a pair of "wellies" (or "galoshes" to us Yankees) on his feet and his yellow hand-me-down rain jacket on the rest of him, Eli has found himself a new hobby: gutter traipsing. Yes, my child has become a gutter rat. He greets muddy puddles with more enthusiasm than he greets his own mother in the morning. Eli loves getting wet and I am finally understanding why the washing machine paved the way towards women's liberation.

I took him out during a perceived "break" in the weather only to be met with a near-torrential downpour once we reached the park. I ran for cover while Eli ran in the other direction and parked himself at the base of a gutter spout. For the next five minutes, I was treated to a symphony of the rain pattering on the pavement and toddler giggles. I came home with a shivering child soaked to the bone with two inches of rain inside each boot. My mother would have been appalled.

I guess this weather is like toddlerhood: an unavoidable inconvenience. At times, our opposing wills have left me feeling "soaked" and defeated. At times, his tantrums and refusals of basic human habits (getting dressed, washing up) have caused peaks in my blood pressure. At times, I just want to give up and give in to torrential toddlerhood. But I now have a visual image to hold onto in times when I am not having fun: that of Eli being soaked from head to toe and giggling hysterically.

Naked

2010-01-19T20:48:00.000-08:00

Since Eli's birth 18 months and 2 weeks ago, I have only spent one night away from him (thanks to Carolyn, who got married, and Marlies, who knew exactly what I needed - a break from Brian).

That was back in July 2009. Six months later, I am once again contemplating leaving Eli with daddy for the weekend, but instead of leaving for an overnight in San Francisco, this time, I'm thinking Chicago.

I should be hip-hip-hooraying at the thought that I can finally trust my husband to the task of minding Eli for 48 hours (it's just housework that Brian ignores really), but instead I am wondering whether or not I, yes I, would feel "okay" doing so. No, it's not guilt...it's just that, quite honestly, when I spend more than a couple hours away from Eli...I feel naked.

This realization happened gradually. Initially when given the opportunity to "get out" without Eli (thank you to our free babysitters), I am honestly excited to leave my child behind. I revel in the idea that I could briefly visit my "pre-child" self. There's even very noticeable internal explosion of excitement when the door is shut. A resounding, suppressed, long-deserved, "Finally, I'm FREE!!!"

That joy is genuine. Okay, for about 2 hours. At about the 2.5 hour mark, I start to wonder how Eli is doing, whether or not he ate his dinner, whether or not he brushed his teeth, whether or not he made the babysitter laugh with his antics. I start to think about the cheesy-sweet smell of the crown of his head, the chubby give of his cheek, the upturned purse of his lips when he proclaims "no" to getting dressed. It takes less than 3 hours for me to go from Mommy-fully-ecstatic to Mommy-fully-feeling-naked.

Never will I be my "pre-child" self-not even in a well-simulated pre-Eli environment. Truth is, Eli has and always will be, part of me. Today, on my way back to my car after lunch with a girlfriend (sans Eli), I was stopped by a mother who spent 10 minutes sharing about the agony of having lost a child recently to cancer. I was caught completely off-guard. She didn't want money, she didn't want sympathy, she honestly just wanted to off-load. Why me? Has Motherhood changed me so much that my appearance screams, "MOTHER HERE!" (okay, so I did check myself in the mirror...and yes, I should brush my hair and wash fingerprints off my jacket).

Without her child, a part of her has become permanently naked. I can now add another line to my definition of Motherhood: risking the possibility of nakedness-emotionally, psychologically and physically (flying food, dirty fingers).

Kisses

2009-11-01T21:18:00.000-08:00

Eli kisses trees and leaves,
stone squirrels, gourds and pumpkins,
rocks, motorcycles, car tires,
stuffed cats, plastic trucks, the dog.

Eli kisses his stinky blankets,
his dinosaur books,
the moon, stars and crows overhead,
the grapes and cheese on his plate,
his pile of noodles.

Eli kisses crayons, rubber duckies,
shoes, socks, his airplane shirt,
the rake, the broom, the Swiffer,
doors, walls and even the vacuum.

But Eli won't kiss me.

Obedience School for Neanderthals

2009-10-15T12:40:00.000-07:00

I'm reading Harvey Karp's The Happiest Toddler on the Block in hopes of gaining wisdom into how to manage Eli. His basic philosophy is that toddlers are like cavemen. Like Neanderthals, toddlers lack higher thinking skills, the ability to control impulses and the ability to reason. In essence, they are what Homo sapiens were before we became Homo sapiens sapiens ('all-knowing' homonids).

Out of curiosity, I browsed the books on dog obedience at Petsmart. That was when I discovered that training a toddler is not all that different from the basic philosophies of training a golden retriever. If your dog does something you don't want it to, you can clap your hands really loudly, growl and say "no". According to Dr. Karp, you can do the same thing with Neanderthal-like toddlers. If your dog shows obedience, you reward him with treats and some T.L.C. The same thing goes for toddlers when they do what you want them to. Whenever disciplinary techniques are used, it is important to keep your head above that of your toddler-doesn't this remind you of the alpha dog?

Dr. Karp advises parents to learn "Toddlerese"-basically, dumbing down your speech to that used by Hollywood-inspired early man. Let's say Eli throws a tantrum because he doesn't want to put his shoes on. The right thing to do would be to get down (making sure the level of my head is above his) and say, "No shoes, no shoes, Eli wants no shoes...but yes, yes, Eli needs shoes to go outside." With your golden retriever, all this silly speech is unecessary. If Eli continues to not cooperate, I'm supposed to actively ignore him (but not leave the room-not like I would be able to because he would be hanging onto my pantleg). With your golden retriever, this situation calls for crate therapy.

What I'm trying to say is that I understand why people have dogs and not kids. With dogs, one round of obedience school and a few dog biscuits every once in a while will secure their obedience. With kids, one round of punchbag jabs and a few glasses of wine every evening might secure my sanity.

The QUESTION

2009-10-11T20:12:00.000-07:00

I took Eli to Brian's office last Friday on my day off. No sooner had I entered the room full of cubicles (aka: "The Office") and all the women on staff surrounded Eli, was the QUESTION shot into my face: "So, when are you having the next one?"

Excuse me, but does this seem rude to you? Why is it suddenly okay to request that I disclose my family planning with the entire world? Just because I have one child, am of childbearing age and happen to be in good health doesn't mean that I WANT to have a second child! I was asked the QUESTION not once, not twice, not thrice, but SIX times by FIVE different women (and ONE man) with whom I am not familiar. In fact, I could name only one of those inquisitors.

This question is not only uncalled for, but could be used to extrapolate false information . If I were to answer, "We're not sure.", others start to question the state of my marital intimacy. If I were to provide, "I don't really want another child.", others start to doubt my concern for Eli's social well-being. If I were to say nothing (which is what I chose to do), others start to comment, "Ah, Brian, you need to buy her something big to convince her to have another one." or "Ah, if I could I would have another one." or "Ah, she needs some serious convincing." (wink, wink). In the meantime, I tried to shrink away into my mental "happy place" and when that failed, I went to the bathroom.

What right do others have to ask this question? What's worse is that whenever I say I have a headache or am feeling ill or am tired, everyone immediately assumes that I'm pregnant?! I'm starting to think that I need to walk around with a piece of duct tape across my forehead proclaiming my state of "child withoutness" or "nonpregnancy". Better yet, how about wearing a T-shirt demanding others to "stay out of my uterus!" Seriously, people, stay out of my business. If I want just one child, I don't need any convincing to reprocreate. It just serves to do the opposite. On the otherhand, if I choose to have another, I don't need anyone to ask me how many sticks I've peed on.

Think about it. It's seriously bad form to ask when someone else is going to recatch the flu, or redevelop a hernia, or regrow a hemorrhoid. Did she just compare having a child to having a hemorrhoid? Yes. After all, having one often leads to having another.

Abrasive Stuff

2009-10-07T21:49:00.000-07:00

On a recent vocabulary test, my 8th graders were asked to: "Write down something that is abrasive." Now, this question can be taken several different ways (abrasive material, abrasive language, abrasive thinking, etc.). But, you can always count on a 14-year-old to give you this answer: "Creamy mashed potatoes with staples mixed in."

If you ask me, the above concoction isn't much different from mothering a toddler. My days with Eli are filled with sweet moments (these are very, very fleeting) spiked with not-so-sweet moments (these seem to last a very, very long time). This morning, Eli actually slept until 6:45am! I had the urge to check the liquor cabinet to make sure all the bottles were still sealed (Eli has already figured out the screw-top). Waking up a whole 2 hours earlier than normal to the sound of happy toddler babbling was downright decadent...until I opened the door to Eli's room. Apparently, prematurely disturbing a babbling toddler is reason enough to throw a temper tantrum. Two minutes of bliss followed by 20 minutes of protest. Go figure.

Every once in awhile, Eli actually eats what I make. Yesterday, I made him a quesadilla filled with Gouda cheese. He scarfed it down. Today, I thought I'd make him the same thing. He took one look (and half a bite), made a face ("what the hell is this?!") and threw his plate onto the floor. He then said, "Na na na na" (his version of "no no no no") shaking his head so hard his high chair shook. One minute of semi-bliss followed by 20 minutes of clean up.

Creamy mashed potatoes with staples mixed in. I can't tell you how many times a day I eat that dish. The craziest thing? I look forward to seeing Eli every single morning knowing full well that I will be given a few minutes of pure bliss and lots of abrasive stuff in between.

What Eli Eats

2009-09-28T20:30:00.000-07:00

[sung to the tune of "Mary Had a Little Lamb" repeated over and over again...sorry!]

I used to not care

what they put

in my mouth

I just ate

Be it peas or mashed up meat

it went down like a charm.

Since then I have wizened up

decided that

I don't like lots.

What I like consists of

foods that come from dairy cows.

Yogurt, ice cream, cheese and milk

in various forms

assorted smells

sometimes mixed with fruit and starch

like Cheerios and pears.

Also I don't mind most fruits

because they fit

with my sweet tooth

maple syrup is the best

and honey seconds that.

Mom is worried

that I might

waste away

overnight

or that suddenly I might

MOO myself away.

Mad, Mad, Mad

2009-09-26T21:22:00.000-07:00

Today was unusual. Brian got up with Eli at the butt crack of dawn (unusual occurance number 1-the "Brian getting up" part, that is). Then, I woke up feeling like the lining of my throat was being burned off by HCL (hydrochloric acid). On top of that, I seriously wanted to pull a "Zeus" on my head, but decided against it because there was no "Athena" magic in me. Stumbling out of bed, I walked into a kitchen littered with the remnants of breakfast, and was greeted by eight canine paws (we are dogsitting my sister's dog) clicking excitedly across the floor reeking of "not-having-been-walked-yet"ness.

Oy.

My physical presence equates to Brian's release from "duty" as he decides to walk the dogs, take the car into the shop, and engage in some economic stimulus-the purchasing of 2 tons of stones for our side yard (this has been planned for about 8 months now). He was "on" for 2 hours...and he was out of the house for 3.

Oy.

Somehow I managed to stumble through the morning. I even took Eli to the park (while Brian got some work done...going on 5 hours now). By the time I came home, it was time for lunch. Personally, I was ready for a nap, but someone had to feed us. After going through lunch prep and serving lunch, Brian confesses that he bought a late breakfast at Home Depot and wasn't really hungry. Just as well I didn't wait around for him to make us lunch.

Oy.

So, okay, I finally managed to take a nap...as did Eli. I was rudely awakened by screaming coming from Eli's room. Highly unusual. There he was, rolling around like a screeching pig straight out of the Bible. I picked him up, more screaming. I put him down on the floor, even more screaming. Thus began the hour-long temper tantrum resulting in two new welts on his forehead (from banging it into his toys), snot streaks up and down our walls and my pantlegs, and a cup of spilled milk (the dogs rejoiced).

Oy.

In a way, I think Eli was tantruming FOR me. It is just not socially-acceptable for a grown woman to behave in such a manner. But, for a 15-month-old? Perfect. Expected, even! Eli was modeling for me. He eventually got it all out. Literally, one moment he was screaming his head off, rolling around on the carpet and the next moment, he popped up and said, "peeboo".

Let's start a tantrum-throwing club for moms. Who's in?

To the Unprepared Mother

2009-09-24T21:38:00.000-07:00

To all those mothers who feel less-than-adequate, lower-than-low.

I am right there with you.

Is that poop I smell? Did Eli just go number 2?

I'll change him after the next....[insert chore here]

At the playground nearly three hours after his last meal.

The sprinklers go on and the next thing I know

is that I have a sopping wet, hungry child.

Oops.

Where's the diaper bag?

Where's the snack?

Where's the extra top?

Good thing I have friends.

Running, running on the concrete.

Eli laughs and screeches for joy.

Old man walking, walking, walking.

Speaks no English but waves his arms

furiously

repeatedly

then he shouts, "hey, hey, hey!"

He mentions (with furrowed brow) that my child should run on grass.

In my attention to him, I forget my child.

There's a new welt on Eli's forehead.

Leave Me Alone!

2009-09-20T20:13:00.001-07:00

Ma-ma, ma-ma, ma-ma

is what I hear all day.

Ma-ma, ma-ma, ma-ma

Even when

playing

with his trucks

fiddling

with his puzzles

or reading his books.

Ma-ma, ma-ma, ma-ma

Sometimes all I want to do is

use the bathroom

ALONE.

Is that too much to ask?

Ma-ma, ma-ma, ma-ma.

When can I have my leg

back to myself?

Why do I have a "leech"

hanging on?

Ma-ma, ma-ma, ma-ma

When I don't pay attention,

CRASH! goes his dish.

SLAM! goes his cup.

WHACK! goes his head against the floor.

Ma-ma, ma-ma, ma-ma

First thing in the morning.

The last thing I hear at night.

And all hours in between.

I am responsible.

Ma-ma, ma-ma, ma-ma

I know I should be happy

that he loves me

that he wants me

that he needs me

but I miss having me to myself

to belong to me

to be selfish with me

Ma-ma, ma-ma, ma-ma

I shall never again be alone.

Pushing the Wagon-Haikus

2009-09-17T10:33:00.001-07:00

It has wheels and goes.

Let me push it all around!

Oops! I fell over.

Motorcycle zooms.

Vroom! Vroom! The motor screeches.

Driving down the street.

Firetrucks are red.

They have ladders and hoses.

I LOVE firetrucks.

I wish I had wheels.

They would be black and shiny.

And I would go "vroom!"

Diggers, dump trucks, wow!

Bulldozers and cranes, whoa-oh!

Yellow and black gods!

Dressing a Toddler

2009-09-16T21:09:00.000-07:00

He wiggles, he squirms, he cries and pouts

Naked boy is on the run!

I have to chase him all about.

His clothes are ready, all laid out,

The dawn has gone, out comes the sun,

He wiggles, he squirms, he cries and pouts.

"You must wear clothes!" I say, I shout,

His butt hangs out, oh so much fun,

I have to chase him all about.

A diaper in hand, my mind in doubt,

I chase him down, got you, my son!

He wiggles, he squirms, he cries and pouts.

I pull on his top, my patience without,

He's starting to feel a bit outdone,

I have to chase him all about.

Because I am a mother, devout

on making sure to dress her son, and though

He wiggles, he squirms, he cries and pouts.

I still chase him all about.

My Ex: Sleep

2009-09-14T19:12:00.000-07:00

Sleep and I had a rocky start

certainly not love at first sight.

He claims I did not do my part

but he never came to me at night.

(ask my mom about this stanza)

Over days and years, we forged a bond

and our mutual needs were met

for him, the attention of which he's fond

for me, the time with him to protect.

Not long ago came that dreaded day

when what we suspected came true.

The day when Eli came to stay

and my affair with Sleep thus blew.

Sleep is now neither friend nor foe

His presence is ever waning.

I long for him from my head to my toe

but he...his affection ever feigning.

Why BUY Toys....

2009-09-13T10:54:00.000-07:00

...when you can use your dog?

As a teether

the tail is sufficient

texturally-complex, soft-to-the-touch

and absolutely sustainable.

the no-waste, never-need-to-wash solution to your child's

oral fixation.

A developmentally-stimulating toy?

no problem.

the tail is sufficient:

naturally-springy, pattern-predictable

a most superior way to learn about

cause and effect.

push it, it moves

pull it, it moves

squeeze it...it moves far, far away.

As a musical instrument?

of course! the dog's head!

an entire percussion ensemble!

flick the ears-swoosh-flap!

poke the nose-sniff, sniff-lick!

hug the head-slurp, slurp, pant, pant, pant!

A track for toy vehicles?

wait for his nap in the sun

when he's conked out, stretched thin

all the way across the carpet.

then..

vroom! vroom! vroom! the cars fly

racing across the shoulders

bumping down the ribcage

speeding down the haunches

neck-and-neck down the legs...

WINNER!

(oh, and did I mention that this toy is self-cleaning?)

Pebbles, Peels, Dog Hairs and Marriage.

2009-09-12T20:11:00.000-07:00

Don't you hate getting a pebble stuck in your shoe?
or between your toes?
or under your sole?

Isn't it uncomfortable when food gets between your teeth?
that apple peel?
that piece of beef?

Doesn't it irk when you're wearing black pants
and sit on the couch where that
Pookie, that Penny, that Fido, Dido, Fifi, and Foo
has been?

Why do those tags on your sweater, your tank top,
trousers and bra
scratch and irritate the skin?

How come marriage can sometimes feel
like that pebble or piece of food, the pet hairs or tags
and irritate, irk, frustrate, exasperate?

Can someone please tell me where I can find
marriage floss or a marriage lint roller
or a pair of strong marriage scissors
or how I can take off that marriage shoe and shake out that pebble?

Or do I have to just be patient?

Inspired: Poems from Here on OUT! (or in the interested of time)

2009-09-12T19:57:00.000-07:00

I am now back at work
teaching 8th graders to write,
read and appreciate literature (for real? for real!)

I am trying to accomplish this
working 5 days per week
teaching one class per day
Ten classes per fortnight
which requires 50 hours of childcare per month

at $15 an hour
equating to $750 payable to...(insert babysitter name here)
60% of my paycheck
85% of my sanity
99.9% of my common economic sense (according to Brian)

All in hopes that this will buy me
some of my normal self
some of my former self
some of my social self
my giving-back self
my thinking self
my professional self

hey, at least I get to dress up nicely
and stay clean
for an hour
every day.

that's worth every penny.

I'm a Craigslist Addict

2009-08-23T20:18:00.000-07:00

Has it seriously been almost a month since I've blogged? Apparently so. It would seriously surprise me if anyone still reads this blog or cares about what I have to say. Well, I'm doing this for me...so let me just confess what I have been doing for the past month or so (it actually started a bit earlier than that).

I have become addicted to 'flipping strollers'. THANK YOU CRAIGSLIST!

It all started with the purchase of a Bugaboo Bee. I thought spending $300 was a bit steep for a stroller, but after some Craigslist research, $300 seemed like a bargain. So, I bought the stroller.

[Brian did not like that]

I first became addicted to the Bugaboo. They seriously make good strollers. Three walks with Eli around the neighborhood and I was thirsting for MORE Bugaboo!

I started looking for a Bugaboo Frog (the next level up-these retail for $700). This is when Craigslist really became handy. In fact, I found a community of stroller swappers...which is how I ended up with an orange/navy Bugaboo Frog. Loved the stroller...didn't love the color.

Have no fear! Craigslist is here! I listed my first Frog for sale. Someone bought it the next day. And I made a profit. However, I was left Bugaboo-less.

Craigslist saves the day again! I found myself another Bugaboo Frog with extra accessories for less than the price I sold the previous one for. This one was black. Again, I loved the stroller but really, really wanted a red one. So, what did I do?

Two days later, someone else bought this stroller from me...and again I made a profit. Two days after that, I found a RED BUGABOO FROG with TONS of accessories. Bought that one and still had money leftover from the previous sale. I really loved that stroller.

But of course, being who I am (never satisfied...could always be something better), a new stroller piqued my interest: the Orbit Baby (created here in the San Francisco Bay Area!). What do I do next? I sell my Frog...made a profit...bought the Orbit.

[At this point, Brian started doubting my sanity]

Two days later, Brian and I had a "discussion" (a heated one at that). Out came lots of strong language and the truth: Brian loved the Bugaboo Frog more than me and was upset I had gotten rid of it so quickly and without consulting him (granted he uses the stroller ONCE a week and I use it TWICE a day!).

Long story short, we now own a Bugaboo Cameleon-purchased off Craigslist. It's not in the best condition, but it is the best damn Bugaboo out there (with a $930 pricetag new). We bought it for $300+half the profits I had made off the other sales (basically, it cost us the original $300).

You might think this is the end...it's NOT. I am trading my Orbit Baby stroller for a 4-month new Bugaboo Frog. The question then becomes...do I keep my older Cameleon or the 4-month new Frog?

I might let Brian decide that.

The Wheels on the Bus....

2009-08-07T09:30:00.000-07:00

go round and round, as do wheels on motorcycles, steamrollers, race cars, airplanes, trucks, tractors...you get where I'm going with this. Eli is obsessed with wheeled vehicles whether or not they go round and round. On our daily walks up and down our street, we greet every single vehicle parked in each driveway. Hello to the green Dodge caravan, good morning to the Toyota Four Runner next door, good day to the rusty boat trailer permanently stationed at the end of the block. Occasional neighbors (who care to walk outside at 6am) greet Eli cheerfully ("Wow, you're up early!"...if only they knew HOW early) only to be reciprocated with a stare and half-frown. Of course, this is followed by a loud, exuberant "BVROOM!" and a finger indicating the item Eli really cares to see: the car in the driveway.

Eli has fully developed this obsession without my help. Supposedly, this is the case with most boys. A love of all things wheeled develops early in life. So, at least in Eli's case, the wheels on the bus will go round and round for a long time to come.

Behaviors (both good and bad) also seem to "go round and round". In a recent conversation with a neighbor who is now a grandmother, the topic of discipline came up. I am trying to find ways to discourage Eli from throwing food on the floor. She suggests that if I am too "hard lined" this early in life, the unwanted behavior will temporarily cease only to reemerge in the teenage years and come back to bite. Conversely speaking, if I allow Eli to "play" with limits, then eventually, he will adopt this ability to self-monitor and carry it throughout his life.

But...how does one do this with a one-year-old? I've tried taking his food away. Eli could care less. I've tried putting him in the corner. Eli found the humor in watching the fly on the wall. I've tried not giving him any finger foods. Eli discovered the dizzying effects of headbanging. Am I drawing limits or am I giving him new ways to play?

Either way, the wheels on the bus, the car, the motorcycle will continue to remind me that things in life are cyclical...whether we like it or not. Eventually, Eli will stop throwing food on the floor only to discover other ways of driving me crazy.

Vows

2009-07-31T09:30:00.000-07:00

When Brian and I got married, we vowed to love each other, comfort each other, and honor each other in sickness and health, in sadness and joy, for richer or poorer, for better and for worse. Had I known what I know now about how adding a child complicates a marriage, I would have requested that the words "in times of parenthood..." be added to our vows.

As it is, loving (comforting, cherishing, honoring, etc.) Brian sometimes takes an effort on my part. Okay, quite honestly, it sometimes is a choice I have to consciously make. When I have massive amounts of emotional energy (pre-Elijah), I am better at making that conscious choice when times get tough (or when Brian repeatedly forgets to clean the bathrooms). However, in my post-Elijah world, I don't always have the emotional, physical, psychological energy required to make that conscious decision to love, comfort, cherish, honor, etc. Brian.

Which means that sometimes, Brian doesn't feel like I care about him. When I am tired after a full day of playing housekeeper and daycare worker, cook and gardener (aka "50's housewife"), I become resentful of Brian's ability to leave the house before 7am every morning and return to a clean house (with dinner planned, with laundry done, with plants watered, with dog walked, etc.) at 6pm every afternoon. He comes home in time to feed Eli (but not clean up after him), bathe Eli (lots of giggles), and then put Eli to bed (quiet time). Brian would like to be welcomed home like Fred Flintstone...the movie-perfect response to "Honey, I'm home!". However, reality is NOT like that. He comes home to a wife who has dealt with one too many wiggly diaper changes, one too many spilled cups of milk and one too many tantrums. Brian's usual welcome usually sounds like this:

[not a typo...there's nothing there].

Okay, so I realize that he works hard all day to pay for the luxury of my being a "stay-at-home", but when I'm wallowing in self-pity, there's no room for that realization to translate into action ("Honey, I'm so glad you're home!"). So, in my silent resentment, I pretend that everything is hunky-dory which only serves to make things worse. Where in the vows is the word "honesty"? Maybe a strong dose of honesty while being loving, comforting and honoring is what the vows should say. Because sometimes, being honest with Brian about how I feel is the best way to love, comfort and honor him...even when the truth bites.

Walking the Wire

2009-07-28T19:45:00.001-07:00

I want Eli to be a good kid. I am terrified of being the mother of a child who has been "red flagged". I don't want Eli to become the staff room gripe at his school. I don't want Eli to be the playground bully who is talked about by all mothers in the neighborhood. I don't want Eli to be the child who is as welcome at a restaurant as a rabid dog. I don't want Eli to be featured on "Supernanny". More importantly, I don't want to be the mother of that child.

Friends and strangers assure me that there is no way Eli could possibly turn out to be the kid of my worst imaginings. "There's no way YOU would allow him to be that way." they all say. However, because I am fully aware of my own shortcomings and faults, I have to be honest: Eli could turn out to be that child.

"Get them early!" is the advice I hear from relatives in terms of helping kids to walk the straight and narrow. But how early should I "get them"? Is it too early to starve Eli if he decides to decorate the floor with his food? Is it too early to use "tough love" (ignore him) when it comes to tantrums? Is it too early to allow him to fully experience the consequences of his choices (you want to hit your head repeatedly on the wall...go for it!)? I shouldn't be too soft (a sucker), I shouldn't be too hard (a cold-hearted mother), I should be "just right"...whatever the heck that's supposed to look like. I am seriously second-guessing everything I choose to do and when you factor in what other people are thinking...well...it can feel like a no-win situation every time.

A year into Motherhood, I still haven't found my stride. I am constantly watching other moms and taking mental notes (not being critical...just taking notes). I find myself comparing myself to "mother perfect" (she's an idea in my head). The irony is...I don't know any woman who lives up to that.

Okay, maybe I should turn this around. I don't want to be that mother who is constantly worrying about whether or not her child is "good enough". I don't want to be that mother who is constantly hovering...making choices for her child so that he can't fail. I don't want to be that mother who cares too much about what other think and in the process loses focus on the child she has. I certainly don't want to be that mother!

Up...Down

2009-07-27T10:15:00.000-07:00

Eli has a few words in English: 'turtle' (random!), 'up' and 'down' (I told you it was a few). He understands more than that, but these are his only comprehensibly said words. He recently invented a game...the "Up, Down Game". Basically, when he says "up" (and puts both arms up in the air), you follow suit. It is only when you take his lead that he then says "down" (and slaps both arms down on whatever surface happens to be available-the louder the better). Eli can play this game repeatedly for a long time. He also has a portable version of the game which involves luring complete strangers into playing with him.

Sometimes I play with his head. I purposely say "down" and throw my hands up. He responds by saying "up" with the correct corresponding movement of arms. If I say "up" and put my hands down, Eli says "up" with the correct corresponding movement of arms. Basically, no matter how many times I say "down", Eli must start the game over with "up". Yesterday, I said "woof!" and threw my hands sideways. Eli responded with "up"...and the correct corresponding movement of arms.

You can't fool him. He's into "up".

Lately, I've been feeling more down than up. I've played a lot of "up" with my hands, but in my head, my heart, my mood, I'm actually "down". I think to an extent, moms are really good at playing "up"...even when the rest of us (besides our arms) are anything but. We feel compelled to help our kids feel and know that the world is a very "up" place even when we ourselves are having a hard time believing that it is. Sometimes, with Eli's persistence in correcting my "up", I actually find myself laughing. There's a glimmer of pure "up".

I wish I could be so easily fooled all the time.

Someday, I'll be able to say to Eli..."Mommy's feeling sad today and that's why she needs some time to herself." and not feel guilty. Right now, if I pretend that everything's happy-g0-lucky even when my heart is not into being with or playing with Eli, I feel guilty. Yet, I feel even guiltier if I indulge in taking time for myself leaving Eli to play by himself. Is there a time when this mom guilt will end?

I'm just glad that Eli engages me in his "Up, Down Game". It helps to remind me that I can still play "up" even when I don't feel "up" and that usually, he can't tell the difference (since "up" is all he cares about). He's forgiving.

Insomnia

2009-07-25T23:08:00.000-07:00

Now that Eli is consistently sleeping through the night, I have suddenly stopped doing so. If it's not the inability to fall asleep, it's the inability to fall back asleep when I suddenly wake at 3am. It's as if my body has permanently adjusted to being awake at any given moment that I cannot sleep like a "normal" person. This is when I find myself giving thanks for electricity and the Internet and online shopping.

If sleep doesn't find me when I "go to bed", I usually crawl out of bed (where Brian lies snoring happily in dreamland) and spend another hour or two returning emails. Every five minutes or so, I find myself mentally calculating the amount of sleep I would get if I were to return to bed in the next 30 minutes-quite a defeating activity really since that number starts at 5 and dwindles rapidly from there. The alternative is to lie in bed (in the dark), listening to Brian's deep breathing and thinking...thinking about the five hours I could possibly spend resting.

No wonder my eyes are usually red.

It concerns me that this is happening more and more frequently...four out of six nights this week so far. Brian also alerted me to the fact that I seem to live my life a warp speed. I am now the first to finish my plate of food. I can shower in three minutes flat (including washing my hair and scrubbing callouses on my heels). I can cook a meal (from chopping to serving) in 15 minutes-BEAT THAT RACHAEL RAY! I can also do laundry, clean the floors, talk on the phone and play with Eli all at the same time.

No wonder I have a hard time settling down at night.

All this rushing seems like a necessity. If I want to get anything done these days, I HAVE to rush. I HAVE to use every single minute wisely. I CANNOT waste one single second.

But, I honestly think I'm losing myself in all this activity, in all this speed. It's like I can't even keep up with myself.

No wonder the scissors end up in the freezer and the ice cream ends up next to the laundry detergent.

To be honest, I'm a bit scared. I'm worried that I won't ever go back to "normal". When I rush like this, I forget things. I don't do anything well. Haste makes...well, CRAP.

I also can't be a good mother or wife, sister or daughter when I live life at warp speed.

But, can someone tell me how I can manage to get things done if I were to slow down? If I can't keep up now, what would happen if I were to slow down?

(If I go to bed now, I could possibly get 4 hours of sleep).

Another big sigh. Maybe tomorrow I shall try to slow down. Maybe tomorrow I will feel less tired and more "normal".

Quite honestly though, I haven't felt "normal" in about 13 months.

Walk this Way!

2009-07-23T10:28:00.001-07:00

Eli is walking. It kind of went like this: on Sunday, July 11th, he took two steps. He was showing signs of independent walking well before July 11th, but he required an audience (his grandparents, his aunt and uncle, his parents, two dogs) as well as a reason - GRAPES. Everyone was so pleased that Eli probably consumed 20 red grapes which then tested the strength of his diaper for two days. But, the important thing was that HE WALKED!

On Monday, July 12th, he was walking across the kitchen and on July 13th, he was walking from one end of our house to the other. Eli doesn't care about falling. He doesn't care whether he is walking on the carpet or barefoot across pebbles. He doesn't care about walking through mud or walking shoeless over hot cement. All he wants to do is walk. He's tried walking on water. He's tried walking on air. He's even tried walking while lying flat on his back (feet up in the air). Eli is so intent on walking that he'd rather spend an hour walking the length of his crib than napping. What this means for me is that I don't get a chance to sit down.

When Eli puts one foot in front of the other, he wears a novel expression on his face. It's a grin that speaks of pride and goofy giddiness. It's a "Look Ma! Look at what I can do!" smile. It's a look that beckons applause, and applaud I do (but not too loudly-wouldn't want to overfuel his ego).

I really want to live my own life with a strong dose of that goofy giddiness and pride. My entire world view would be a whole lot more positive. I would enjoy each moment and be thoroughly satisfied with my accomplishments. I would shout out to the world, "Life is awesome because I can!" Instead, I find myself caught in a state of constantly trying to make up...for the fact that I could be a better mother, a better wife, a better friend, a better person, a better [fill in the blank here, anything will do].

The truth is, I wish I had the courage to do what Eli does: to keep joyfully at a brand new skill and grin widely even as his butt hits the floor.

50's Housewife

2009-07-13T09:52:00.000-07:00

First, I want everyone to know that I still exist. It's been a mad two weeks in the Hill household. Eli turning one, family gatherings and a visit from the English in-laws and family friend. All in all, I've been hosting and entertaining for about 2 weeks now...which involves managing the unsuccessful inner ignorance of the increasingly unkempt state of my house as well as the ever-increasing filth on my floors. Thankfully I've had time to perfect outward zen while my insides boil in chaos.

[The above was written last week-7/12]

Honestly, it was quite a mixed two weeks for me. On the one hand, I had a nice break from being Elijah's sole source of entertainment, waitstaff, personal walker, storyteller. On the other hand, I had to adopt some new replacement roles: driver, tour guide, hostess, cook, maid, shopper (just to name a few). And, for the most part, I tried doing it all with a smile (okay, half smile...okay, I was smiling in my head-honest!). I had to sit with feelings of guilt (they came so far, forget the dirty floors), more guilt, anger (these aren't MY people!), and the ever nagging sense that I am not meeting the standards for an average grade in the roles of mother and wife (more guilt).

I'm someone who is deathly afraid of others thinking badly of me. Even if public feedback is positive, there's always the steady stream of negative consciousness. "Oh, this dish is really quite good!" translates into, "Well, this dish is edible, I suppose, but it is really too salty." Or, "Thank you for doing our laundry." becomes, "You're finally fulfilling your role as a housewife!"

So, for two weeks, I struggled with that internal dialogue, telling me what I could have or should have done better. I constantly feel judged on my behavior (or my abilities) as a wife and mother. Brian works hard all day, so he ought to come home every evening to a 3-course sit-down meal complete with wine and loving words from his wife, right? Elijah is like wet clay so I must use every single waking moment and opportunity to shape his character, right? Basically, I can never do anything right.

Two weeks with the in-laws have taught me that I am not a 50's housewife, that the English are very quiet people who keep opinions to themselves, that I'm thankful for store-bought bread, and that it's exhausting to pay attention to those negative voices in my head.

...and he's off!

2009-06-24T14:05:00.000-07:00

Eli will soon officially be a "toddler". The official definition (as provided by dictionary.com), is "a person who toddles". Apparently, babies aren't the only people deserving of the "toddler" label. Apparently, any person who "toddles" is a toddler.

Lately, Eli's been aggressively asserting his will upon everyone and everything. I suppose this new phase of development coincides with his newfound ability to mobilize on two feet (with adult support and supervision). Eli's a risk-taker. He's not afraid of falling down, tripping over toys, stepping on the dog. He's even developed a look that reads nothing short of "dare me!" which he usually flashes before he releases his death grip on my fingers. Beaming a broad smile, he proudly shows off his free-stand, the "look Ma! No hands!" act followed by a rump-smack on the floor finale. Eli likes doing this over and over and over again. We've taken this act throughout the house, the yard and up and down our street. Eli's a show-off and he commands attention.

Mealtimes have also reached a new level of mess. Artistically, you could say Eli's becoming a Jackson Pollock. No longer is he satisfied with what is presented to him as dinner. With his mouth stamped shut, his back pressed into his chair, his index finger flailing wildly, I can now see he's done with baby food. He demands adult food...because it flies with greater velocity than baby mush. Whatever we place on his table, he throws. Whatever we place on his spoon, he flings. Whatever we try to place in his mouth, comes back out in a projectile spit. I've even perused Craigslist in search of body suits worn while assembling computer chips or working with the Ebola virus. Yesterday, I gave in and Youtubed segments of "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" for Eli to watch during lunch so his attention would be diverted elsewhere. Sherlock was very disappointed.

When Eli doesn't get his way. He lies face down and screams, slamming his head on the floor for the effect. I swear he peeks at me every so often to see if I break. This is when being a middle school teacher comes in handy. I feign indifference and stand by watching...expressionless...what I really want to do is laugh. I'm sure at some point, Eli's going to do something that will make me want to cry or bang my own head on the floor.

To be honest, I'm apprehensive about this new stage of development. I can sound like I know what I'm doing, but I don't. There are hundreds of books out there that I'm sure I will browse on the topic of discipline, but in the meantime, I'm just going to toddle along.

So, in some ways, I'm a toddler. Almost a year into this motherhood act, I am still proceeding with an unsteady gait. I fall down, I get back up. Sometimes I fall down, I cry. And still other times, I fall down and don't get back up for a few days.

How Deep?

2009-06-15T19:13:00.000-07:00

I love the California coastline. Despite the high cost of living, the ever-present danger of earthquakes, wildfires and tsunamis, living within a day's drive to where the Pacific meets land is awesome. We are spending the week with our unrelated family members, the Curtises, in Cambria-a quaint artist community on the California coast, about 12 miles south of Hearst Castle.

I'm not the best at being on vacation. It always takes me at least two days to adopt the nothing-really-needs-to-be-done-in-a-rush mentality. It always takes me at least two days to forget all the really-not-that-important tasks that need doing back home. It also takes me at least two days to ignore the state of never-been-Swiffered-before floors. Usually, my winding down into "vacation mode" requires insistent reminders from Brian to "chill out", many walks along the beach, a few pints of wine and thick socks. After all, you're talking about someone whose family defines "vacation" as driving across the United States visiting as many National Parks as possible in two and a half weeks (we only made it to Utah from Washington D.C., by the way, much to my mother's disappointment...of course, she blamed my father for poor planning and miscalculating the daily required mileage).

So, here I am, in Cambria with great people, a glass of wine, my feet off the floors trying to relax.

We took Eli down to the beach today, his only prior experience with the Pacific Ocean sand having been at a dog beach on the San Francisco Bay. This beach was different. It was seaweedy, it was rugged and waves actually crashed onto its shore. Of course, we were careful, first making sure Eli gained a feel for the fine-grain sand between his toes, his fingers and in his mouth. Then we walked him down to the water. Excitement exuded out of his sand-crusted lips. At first, the waves washed around his feet, then around his ankles. He loved it, and kept walking further and further out to sea.

Unexpectedly, a wave washed up drowning his feet, drowning his ankles, swallowing his knees and covering his belly button. I freaked out and Eli, well, he freaked out more. Suddenly, his smile turned upside down, his excitement became a signal for evacuation. He underestimated the unpredictability of ocean waves.

And...I got thinking: how many times have I prepared for a large-all-encompassing wave only to be met with a situation equivalent to water between my toes? How many times have I stressed outover situations of perceived tsunami status only to realize (after losing sleep, some hair and sanity) that I wasted my time on creeping sea foam? Maybe I ought to live most of life functioning on "vacation mode" instead of on "mission mode". After all, like ocean waves, most of what happens in life is somewhat unpredictable. We can plan for high tides and low tides, but the in-betweens? Well, perhaps we should just plan to have a change of clothes and towel handy!

Feisty Entitlement

2009-06-12T14:11:00.001-07:00

I think we all have entitlement issues. At the end of a long day with Eli, I feel entitled to some time "off" as soon as Brian walks through the door. Brian probably feels entitled to ten or fifteen minutes of non-responsibility after having worked all day. Sherlock feels entitled to a bowl of food after his morning walk and will follow you around relentlessly until you remember. And Eli? Well, Eli just feels he's entitled to me all the time.

Since I bought the Bugaboo, my entitlement issues have hit the roof reaching a new height of feistiness. Because I paid more than any stroller should cost, I feel entitled to perfection (or at least near-perfection). No sooner had I decided to keep the stroller, did the front wheels start to go crazy on me. Every bump in the sidewalk sent the entire stroller vibrating back and forth like a buzzing bee. A day later, a friend clued me in on a recall made in January on the Bugaboo Bee due to brake failure. Obviously, a very expensive stroller should not have these issues (even if it was living up to its name) especially since this particular one was made in September 2008! I called customer service and was on hold for 20 minutes. I called again and was on hold for another ten. Finally, I left a message (which the recording promised they'd respond to in the next 24 hours) followed by an email, and then another phone message and email 24 hours later.

Three days later (that's 72 hours), I still haven't heard from them. So, this morning, I called again. Finally, a living person answered. What came out of my mouth were some strong words fed with an undercurrent of entitlement. Of course, I was as nice I could be about it, but I had to let Bugaboo know that the quality of their workmanship should be better than what I received. I stated that I was very disappointed with the quality of their customer service and that if they make expensive, but undependable strollers, they should at least have decent customer service. I told them I no longer wanted this stroller and that they should seriously consider redesigning future models. I asked if I could "upgrade" to another model. No. I asked if they could send me a new stroller. No. I asked what they could do for me. We'll send you some brake supports and new wheels. Okay, I guess that's fine.

Brian said that I sounded like a rich snob who feels entitled to only the best the world has to offer. Stunned by his accusation, I honestly started wondering if I had really become one. Of course, I thought I was doing Bugaboo a service by clueing them in on areas for growth. I even thanked Yadira several times for helping me (even if she wasn't all that helpful). But, I did, for a moment there, think myself as the woman who actually bought the Bee at the original $530.00 pricetag. I honestly forgot I was the one who bought it used for half that. Maybe I am not entitled to anything!

I will tell you this much: thinking myself as the one who made that expensive purchase gave me a sense of power...power to tell another person what I think I deserve. Now, that's something I don't do often, something that the "normal" me could not do comfortably. I confess I enjoyed the feistiness that surfaced, but for some reason, I'm feeling more so than ever that I should sell this stroller.

Classes Overkill

2009-06-08T14:52:00.000-07:00

New moms succumb to peer pressure as easily as thirteen year-olds. See my "Very Expensive Experiment" post and you'll understand what I'm talking about. Sometimes this pressure is a good thing: I now know what quinoa is and how it is different from spelt and pearled barley thanks to a you-must-make-your-own-baby-food devotee. Sometimes it can be a bad thing: read my "Very Expensive Experiment" post. But then sometimes, the pressure just makes me think.

Stay-at-home moms are constantly inviting me to join them at this class or at that class. I hope these invitations aren't inferences to the possiblity that both Eli and I are undersocialized. The mom I see at swim class invites me to a Music Together class, the mom I see at the park invites me to Gymboree, the neighbor down the street recommends Kindermusik, the clerk at Whole Foods raves about Little Gym and the librarian can't stop talking about the Baby Lapsit program at the library. Honestly, I could fill up every single one of my days just going to class after class after class....emptying my pocketbook along the way.

This leaves me wondering what people did 50 years ago! Did moms and dads, aunts and uncles, neighbors and friends do what we pay "teachers" to do now? Parents undoubtedly had more time and fewer distractions, extended families were much closer-knit and neighbors probably shared more than just a fence. There wasn't the massive pull of T.V., internet and print media to fill our "spare" time or to help us fill create "spare" time (Baby Einstein DVD=free time for mom to shower). How sad that we have created so many classes to take the place of what families and communities used to provide for these babies.

So, Eli and I are going to continue swim class. Then maybe when he's old enough to tell me what he would like to learn, I'll actually sign him up for something. But for now, I much rather allow him to spend his time pushing plastic boxes across the floor picking up his toys for a "ride" or clapping pots and pans together than force him to sit through a structured program. Granted, I'm sure some of these classes are worthwhile and teach valuable skills, but honestly, I'm going to trust that the environment I provide at home with a large dose of time, will give Eli more than an hour once a week at Gymboree.

Hold On? Let Go!

2009-06-04T08:44:00.000-07:00

Whenever we go to Trader Joe's, Eli will undoubtedly point towards the bathrooms adjacent to which The magic of balloon inflation and distribution takes place. Eli loves balloons even though they are considered one of the top three choking hazards for children. But, if a balloon means a quiet trip through the grocery store, I will gladly risk my child choking to death.

On our last trip, Eli refused to have his balloon tied to the shopping cart and instead insisted on holding it. Okay, I thought, why not? It's technically his balloon. Throughout the store, he held it tightly, past the checkout, into the car, into the house, during lunch, through a diaper change. I had to pry it out of his hands so he could take his nap. I wasn't going to risk strangulation for the sake of a babyhood obsession! He cried longer than usual, no doubt for his inflated best friend.

All through the afternoon, Eli held fast to his balloon. He held it on our walk, held it while playing with his ball (using his mouth as an alterate appendage). He held it through dinner and even during his bath, refusing to let it out of his sight. He loved that balloon. The balloon? Well, it had started losing steam somewhere between the third diaper change and dinner. The green balloon accompanied Eli to his crib where, for the first time that day, Eli let it go willingly-trading it for his most beloved item-his stinky blankey. Bye, Bye balloon!

I took Eli's one-day companion, now starting to deflate, stained with blueberry fingerprints and sticky spots. I took it into the kitchen where, wielding a pair of scissors, put it out of its misery. For the briefest of moments, I felt saddened by Eli's loss of his "friend". But I knew that if I left it for Eli, it would have become an even riskier choking hazard the next day. Besides, I know exactly where to go for another one just like it!

If only I had a pair of scissors with which to destroy all things that I decide to hold onto emotioanlly (like the dog incident or the Bugaboo mistake). Maybe I ought to buy a bunch of balloons, a tank of helium and a Sharpie. What fun I'd have then!

A Very Expensive Experiment

2009-06-03T21:21:00.001-07:00

We are all a bit impulsive-some of us more than others. I have an impulsive streak, one that involves buying things to give me the exhilaration of throwing caution to the wind. These are typically expensive items that I usually end up returning once the "high" of risk taking leaves me with an aftertaste of bitter guilt.

Today, I did just that. In the need to feel emotionally alive (and to satisfy an impulse), I bought a Bugaboo Bee stroller off of Craigslist. I guess stroller envy first set in when I started hanging out with ex-lawyer moms who all have stylish, European-engineered Bugaboos. Compared to my 8-year-old Maclaren stroller, the Bugaboo aluminum is brushed, the Bugaboo truly features a one-handed set-up and collapse mechanism, and unlike my stroller, the Bugaboo honestly maneuvers with a flick of the wrist (without a sticky front right wheel). Envy soon became a small obsession which then became a bigger one as I secretly perused Craigslist daily in pursuit of a used Bugaboo Bee.

This stroller is truly beautiful. I took Eli for two walks in it. He even napped during one of the walks, which he rarely does. Unlike my other strollers, I actually reclined the seat so that he could continue napping in it. Me, on the other hand and much to my surprise, was very uncomfortable pushing my deal-of-an-expensive-stroller around. The feeling took me back to 7th grade when I tried to pass off Walmart jeans as Guess jeans by drawing a Guess triangle on my right butt with a Sharpie. I felt like a fake. Worse than that, I felt like a hypocrite.

Suddenly, my enthrallment with this stroller fell a few notches. But I was still caught in the trance of its superior maneuverability. I actually love this thing.

As the day wore on, I knew I would have to face Brian with the truth behind the price of this great-deal-of-an-expensive stroller. Unexpectedly a wave of shame and guilt washed over me. How could I have gone out and bought just the thing I "preached" against?! I had become one of THEM! and would now have to face my husband with my impulsive mistake.

He took it well. But I know what he thinks I should do. I do love this stroller, but I can't imagine telling people I own one (uh, I just did...) let alone push my child in it every day (honestly! I would use it every day). Even if it was a good deal, I still saw a few Ben Franklins jump out of my pocketbook.

So, I'm going to kiss my Bugaboo Bee goodnight, maybe take it out for one more very early morning walk (so no one will see me) and then hopefully someone will have answered my post on Craigslist.

If you're in the market to make an expensive mistake...let me know...I can help you out.

Dogged Catiness

2009-06-02T10:07:00.000-07:00

I've been in a strange funk for about a week (thus the four attempts at blogging without publishing anything). Last Tuesday afternoon, I bumped into the president of our neighborhood association while out walking the dog (and baby). He was also out "walking" his son and so naturally, we walked together. This was the second time Wouter and Sebastian joined us on our walk and I truly enjoyed the company of a "stay-at-home" dad. The risk of mommyhood judgment was low and the fear of mommyhood talk was even lower even if Sebastian lounged in a Bugaboo stroller.

As we approached our house, Brian had also just arrived home from work and was pulling into our driveway. Naturally, all three of us parked ourselves on the corner and chatted. Sherlock, with his leash dragging behind him, headed for the front door where he settled down for a rest. Waist deep in socializing, not one of us noticed a woman walking her two golden retrievers down our side of the street. Sherlock, however, did. Before we knew what was happening, Sherlock and one of the other dogs was in a tangle snarling. The woman (whose name as I would later learn is Erin) held on tightly to her dog's leash. There was definitely a moment of silent pause as Brian, Wouter and I stared at the dog fight. I then yelled for Brian to go get Sherlock since I had Eli in my arms.

Once the dogs were untangled, we apologized to Erin. She assured us that she was okay and that everything "was fine and okay". So, Brian and I left Wouter and Sebastian and headed for our house. The last thing I heard was Wouter saying, "At least the baby got some entertainment!".

Two days later, I came across our neighborhood "gossip". The first thing Millie said to me was, "So, is Sherlock the big aggressive attack dog described on our neighborhood Yahoo group?" WHAT?! I purposely never joined this group because of all the "tattle tailing" that occurs on it. Millie went on to explain how Erin posted a message stating our address and the presence of a large scary brown dog and his irresponsible owners within. "Yeah, she said Sherlock nearly took off her arm and she's having to claim worker's comp. for injuries." I was flabbergasted. The cherry on top? "She also said that you made fun of the scene, saying that it was 'good entertainment for the babies'".

I honestly didn't know HOW to respond. I wanted to scream. But I took a deep breath, thanked Millie for her information and started to fall apart as I walked homeward. The entire neighborhood now knows me as an irresponsible bitch who is probably doing a piss poor job of raising her son.

No wonder people get angry at being misquoted. My reputation in the neighborhood is now tainted. I have decided not to respond to Erin's posting because I don't want to add fuel to the flame. However, I'm considering going out to buy one of those full-face visors fashionable among Asian women drivers. In my mind, every single person I pass in our neighborhood thinks I suck. Maybe I ought to wear a T-shirt stating: "IT WASN'T ME WHO SAID IT!"

Pavlov and Pilates

2009-05-21T09:39:00.000-07:00

Last night, I went to Track. I've been running on and off with Tattersols (www.tattersols.org) for the past seven years. We are like a "tribe" of women who enjoy challenging track workouts as much as socializing-sometimes we manage to do both and breathe as well! Our workouts are analogous to a four course meal. We begin with an "amuse-pieds": a short, comfortably-paced warm up. This is then followed by a palate cleanser-a set of drills that leave me thankful I am not a ballet dancer. What comes next is the main course: the not-so-comfortable running of lap after lap after lap at varying paces during which I must constantly remind myself that what doesn't kill me should make me stronger. And just when I breathe a sigh of relief, dessert is presented in the form of pilates.

I usually LOVE dessert but I harbor no such sentiment towards pilates. First of all, I don't understand pilates. Yes, it was created by Mr. Pilates for professional ballet dancers in New York City, but remember...I am glad I'm not a ballet dancer and I have a butt! The "pelvic bowl" is not intuitive and rotating it in various directions and angles is too complicated for someone whose math, quite honestly, stinks. Then there's the flapping of arms at your sides to supposedly stregthen your abs. I am usually left with sore arms. What really boggles me is how lying prostrate while "stamping" the sky with your feet is supposed to tone the glutes. This usually give me a very sore pubic bone.

Therefore, I "escape" during pilates. My mind wanders to the planes flying overhead or to counting the blades of grass below my face. Whatever it takes to get my mind off of what I must look like doing piss-poor pilates. The session usually ends just before I honestly carry out my physical escape.

Which leads me to Ivan Pavlov-the man who did experiments with salivating dogs and coined the term "conditioned response" or "conditioning". He was awarded a Nobel Prize for his work in physiology. But the man is known for his work with salivating dogs. It must have been somewhat unpleasant. So, what do Pavlov and Pilates have in common? Conditioning. Unpleasant work environments and a possibly large payoff.

Dulce et Decorum Est

2009-05-20T13:50:00.000-07:00

For some strange reason, I woke up with that famous title of the World War I poem by Wilfred Owen in my head. I first studied it in high school and for some strange reason, it has always stuck with me. It probably has something to do with the tragic descriptions of a fallen soldier choking on his own blood, or the translation of the full title: "Dulce et Decorum Est Pro Patria Mori" It is sweet and right to die for your country. Read the full poem here: http://www.english.emory.edu/LostPoets/Dulce.html

Lately, I've been experiencing moments of nostalgia for when Eli was really "itty bitty". I know that he's still pretty little, but the realization that he's growing older by the day scares the bejesus out of me! I can now understand why some people want to have more babies when they already have three living under one roof! Babies are innocent, sweet, cute but most of all, you can hold them and keep them safe and sound-literally. The older Elijah gets, the harder it will be for me to keep him safe and sound. My mind then gets carried away to the harsh realities imposed on people-who were all once babies.

You know that homeless man with straggly hair and dirty clothes and no shoes living under the park bench being passed by person after person? He was once someone's baby. What about the woman who works three jobs, is raising two kids, and doesn't have enough money to feed them? She was once someone's baby. Think about the miner who risks his life each and every day working a risky job to support his family. He was once someone's baby too. Then consider the soldiers who leave their bases each day not knowing whether or not they'll return alive. Each was once someone's baby.

Now I'm depressed and sad. But, I think of these things not because I'm a morbid person (uh, well, maybe just a little), but because it scares me knowing Elijah will one day have to fend for himself. It scares me that all this hard work I'm putting in to feed him, teach him and nurture him might end abruptly one day. It scares me that my love for him is also the source for the pain I will feel if he is taken away. I guess this just forces me to realize again and again that, as much as I love and want to "keep" Eli always, ultimately he's not mine to keep.

I am, however, being given the gifts that are his smiles, his "heiii"s upon seeing me, his quick-head-down crawl towards me, his gurgling laughter, his fascination with the garbage truck. And for these, I am honored and blessed.

My Niche

2009-05-19T06:39:00.000-07:00

This morning, I came across eight...yes, eight deceased members of the insect family. Two bees, three flies, two large crane flies, and one long bug with pincers on its rear end. Each one found a final resting place near a window as if pining for the unattainable escape from an unfamiliar niche. Each spent its last living moments banging its head, legs, wings against a deceptive and unforgiving prison wall: the window pane. Take a living thing out of its comfort zone (or niche, if we're speaking ecologically) and its survival suddenly becomes precarious...something of a fight, flight or die!

Since becoming a mom, it's been a struggle to find my niche. With an area as culturally and socially diverse as Silicon Valley, it is surprising to me that after ten months of "trial memberships" at various new moms support groups, I still haven't found a group of women with whom I "jive". Each group I've visited has a lowest common denominator, something that members all share: a zip code, a religious affiliation, an ethnicity, or a common language. However, it takes more than just a room full of Christian women to find camaraderie. I've discovered that I need people who share my world view, share my laissez-faire attitude in terms of childrearing (so far), agree with my distaste of expensive strollers, and most importantly, people who know what it's like to have lived paycheck to paycheck.

However, many women I've met who have the ability to stay home full time don't fit this set of criteria. More than once, I am the only mother in the room whose child doesn't ride in a $500 stroller. Other moms often comment on my braveness when I allow Eli to share a playstructure with a handful of older kids. I'm sure that some moms frown internally when I whip out frozen blueberries and a jar of baby food for Eli's lunch. These are the same moms who find it appalling that I sometimes apply the 15 minute rule to food on the floor. At playdates, I often find myself surrounded by ex-executives and ex-lawyers who marvel or patronize my ex-middle-school teacher status. Even talk around the seemingly neutral subject of toys grows uncomfortable when I discover that my child is the only one whose toys are purchased off Craigslist.

And yet, I continue to go meet with these women. Partly, it is so that I can grow comfortable in my own mom "skin". Partly, it is so that I can practice letting go of my pre-conceptions about people and see that we are all first-time moms whose babies can drive us crazy. In the meantime, I'm just thankful that I can always find a group of nannies at the playground with whom I feel at home.

Relentlessly Neverending

2009-05-18T08:58:00.000-07:00

We have a tree in our front patio that sheds annoyingly small, off-white, funky-smelling flowers from the end of April through the end of June. For three months, the relentless tracking of disgusting flowers into the house is performed by all four members of the family (Sherlock actually stores them in the spaces between his toes and then distributes them where no off-white flowers should ever go). For three months, I "sing" the praises of my vacuum cleaner as it fights back against the onslaught of flower power. After the third run of the vacuum in just as many hours however, I decided to raise the white flag of surrender. It is a losing battle.

The same losing battle is fought against sand from the playground. I recently discovered that by dressing Eli in closed-toed pants, I no longer have to deal with sand between his toes. However, I cannot prevent sand from getting between his fingers since the concept of closed-fingered sleeves seems inhumane as does the chopping them off entirely! The trouble with sand in between his fingers is that it ends up behind his ears, in his mouth and eyes. Sandy clothes equals more laundry. Sandy baby means another bath and struggle with a child who detests clothing.

I am currently reading a new biography of Mrs. Abraham Lincoln (Mrs. Lincoln by Catherine Clinton). It is very good. In one chapter, Clinton describes the relentlessness of the work of a Victorian housewife. In Lincoln's earlier years of marriage when they were still dirt poor, the luxury of having hired help was impossible. So the tasks of fetching water, cooking meals (it was customary to serve your husband three hot meals a day!), laundry (a long drawn-out process), and keeping the fire going (getting wood or coals), and buying provisions fell onto her shoulders alone. However, even with hired help in the latter years before moving into the White House, the burden of housekeeping still made the home "a woman's workshop".

Even with the advent of the stove and oven, the washer and dryer, electricity and running water, Swiffer and vacuum cleaners, I am still finding the work of the housewife to be relentless and neverending. Though I am glad that I don't have to cook for Brian three times a day, or empty a family's worth of chamber pots, I still sometimes dread the laundry and the dishes awaiting me. Some people may wonder what I do with all my "free" time at home. Let me assure you, I HAVE NO FREE TIME AT HOME.

I'm sure that if Mrs. Lincoln were alive today, she would spend her free moments hugging the washing machine and writing poetry about the toilet. My bet is that she would soon discover that the machines still have to loaded and the toilet scrubbed. Perhaps she would then be inspired to pen another version of the Emancipation Proclamation...of housewives.

Three to Please

2009-05-15T09:41:00.000-07:00

Charlie is my sister's slightly psychotic, emotionally unstable dog. He was rescued off the street of Taipei by my parents and brought to California for my sister to keep. The years of living in "survival mode" has permanently conditioned Charlie to guard anything he considers "his". This includes Eli's toys, Sherlock's toys, and my socks. He belongs to the unique group of selectively-bilingual dogs. Charlie "speaks" Chinglish.

Charlie is staying with us this week which means that my attention is now divided three ways (four, if you count Brian). During the day, I have to shut both dogs in the garage in order for Eli to play with his toys without the threat of Charlie's jowls. It's bad enough that when everyone (including Sherlock) is fast asleep, Charlie goes through Eli's toys to gather all the squeaky ones. Every morning, I find a distinct pile of toys behind the rocking chair.

The task of walking two dogs with a stroller and baby in tow proves extremely difficult. I have somehow worked myself into the mental space of a musher. At first, I had both dogs on one side of the stroller, but this resulted in tangled leashes and one dog getting run over while in pursuit of a grassy patch. I next tried one dog on each side of the stroller. Charlie, perhaps due to his being Asian, has great difficult walking in a straight line. I must have nearly run him over five times. Apparently, he's slow-to-learn. Finally, I tried to musher approach. I strapped both dogs onto the front of the stroller and let them pull.

Eli has already found a hobby in feeding Sherlock food from his high chair. With Charlie here, this hobby has developed into an obsession. As soon as meal time approaches, Eli looks towards both dogs. Sure enough, it's not long before both dogs are seated at the right and left hands of the high chair. Even if I shut them in the garage, Eli has learned that food thrown on the floor equals happy dogs and a good post-meal show.

Yesterday, I left all three "boys" in the house while I loaded the stroller into the car. As I made my way back to the front door, I saw Eli leaning against the window flanked by Sherlock on one side and Charlie on the other. The look of anticipation was plastered on all three faces. The dogs wagged their tails while Eli banged his head repeatedly on the glass. I laughed.

You have no idea what joy is until you take a baby and two dogs for a ride in a cramped vehicle on a warm day. It might smell, but at least you know that you are loved.

In Times of Stupidity...take Detour

2009-05-13T14:13:00.000-07:00

Last week, I used Google Maps for directions to meet my friend, Kathy, for lunch. Google Maps estimated my driving time to be 15 minutes. In the event of traffic, however, my traveling time would increase to 25 minutes. Now, I have no idea how this estimate is made, but it took me a total of nearly 30 minutes to get to lunch. There was no traffic. There were just several moments of plain driver stupidity. I think Google Maps might need to add another feature to their "get directions" function: in the event of stupidity...

This left me thinking about the difference between "Bad Mommy" moments and moments of plain "Mommy Stupidity". Last week I misplaced the scissors. I eventually found them in the freezer but not before the tub of ice cream sitting in the refrigerator melted to a sludge.

Yesterday, I left Eli unattended for maybe five minutes while I rushed to changed into my running clothes. While pulling on my shorts, I heard "splash, splash, splash" followed by a series of high-pitched gleeful screeches. Much to my amusement (and slight disgust), I found my boy playing with the water in the toilet. His wide smile sparkled with pride and water droplets. Thank goodness I had flushed the toilet earlier.

I'm all about killing two birds with one stone these days, so while in the yard, I sometimes leave Eli to crawl around on the lawn while I go seeking weeds to kill. Usually, he stays in one place examining the blades of grass below him and the trees above, but two days ago, he discovered a pile of Sherlock excrement (this reads better than "dog shit"). Thinking he was just playing with mud, I smiled at his raised fist of brown. It quickly dawned on me that it would be unlikely for him to come across a pile of mud raised cleanly above the grass. Thank goodness I caught him before he stuffed his find into his mouth. Thank goodness for Dial soap.

I am learning to play the piano with Eli "roaming" the room. He just recently discovered the pair of piano pedals (my piano only has 2). I thought it would be funny to step down on his hand covering one pedal, so I did just that. What I failed to consider was that little hands do not fare well with large spaces. What made for "foot free" pedal action also required Eli little hand to be stuck between the pedal and the piano. Thank goodness I don't faint at the sight of squished fingers, black and blue marks...and oh, a bit of blood.

I could go on and on, but I'm going to take a detour here. Besides, Eli is all by himself in his room with a space heater and open socket. Let's just hope he's playing with his diaper pail!

It Takes a Village

2009-05-13T09:44:00.000-07:00

My neighbor, who is Mormon, invited me to join a group of stay-at-homes from her church who meet at the playground at 4 every Wednesday afternoon. After about 2 months of excuses, I finally showed up with Eli yesterday. The playground was a sea of flaxen-haired children belonging to maybe three mothers. After saying my "hello's", I settled in with a group of three Latina nannies and their blonde charges at the sandbox. I had found my group of women-those with darker hair.

We introduced ourselves and our "kids". I quickly learned that one woman, Wendi, actually has four kids of her own ranging from 14 to 3 years of age. The little boy she takes care of is 2 years old. Naturally I asked her about how she manages her own children. She explained that while her older children live with her and go to school here, her younger ones are still in Mexico with her mother. I wondered how she felt about raising a stranger's child while allowing her mother to raise her own children.

This got me thinking about that old adage, you know the one that starts "it takes a village..." to raise children (or raise a barn). I guess there's some new truth to that old saying. It certainly DOES take a village...somewhere in Mexico!

AMAZING!

2009-05-10T08:58:00.000-07:00

Hi there! Mr. LBCF here.. In case you wondered what I am doing I have hijacked my wife’s Blog for Mother’s Day. Over the past few months I have appeared in this Blog several times and not always in a positive light! But I am not here to rebut or defend myself. My purpose here today is to state publicly and unequivocally for the record that my wife AMAZES me. Not in everything she does for she has some faults (leaving drawers and cupboards open, not putting keys in the key pot, telling me what to do, telling me what NOT to do.. you get the picture) but as a Mother I find my wife AMAZING.

Let me give you an example. When it is time to feed Eli I am very able. I feed him the food he needs efficiently and effectively. Spoon, food, mouth. Spoon, food, mouth. Spoon food mouth…. Eli is nourished! However when Isabella feeds him not only does she nourish him but she also makes it fun by entertaining him with games and she educates him by teaching him new skills. With Isabella he gets nourished, entertained and educated. With me a one dimensional child is formed, with Isabella a multidimensional child.

Another example: this morning Isabella needed to hand Eli off to me but instead of merely passing him over she made it a game, swinging back and forth and twenty seconds later he was laughing hysterically and in my arms. If the tables were turned it would have happened it two seconds but not been nearly as much fun.

Not only does Isabella do these things so well but she does them day in and day out. For me after 2 hours of flying solo I have used all my material and Eli is starting to get bored and restless. We find ourselves pacing in front of the window looking for the Rav4 to pull into the drive way. Mummy’s Home!

Don’t get me wrong. Eli LOVES his Dad but when the sh*t hits the fan in his 10month old world it’s Mummy he always wants. For these and many other reasons my wife, Eli’s Mother, AMAZES me.

So on this Mother's Day I wanted to take the opportunity to say to all you Mothers out there, to my Mother but most of all to Eli’s Mother THANK YOU for everything you do every day. You are AMAZING!!

Diagram This!

2009-05-05T10:43:00.001-07:00

For about 2 months now, I've been tutoring a 5th grader on Tuesday evenings. Boyd goes to a French school and needs additional support writing in English. Neither parent claims French as a first language, but due to Boyd's early affinity for language, they sent him to French school in hopes that he could be fluent in a second language. He is, for the most part, in French, but he has great difficulty with the English language.

That's where I come in. For 2 hours every week, Boyd and I work on English grammar and the application of this grammar to writing. Boyd is a terrifically creative child who has story ideas I could sell to Disney. However, his sentences almost always lacks either a subject or a predicate. Sometimes these stories are full of adjectives and adverbs flying off the page without adequate sentence structures to tie them down. Basically, this kid's writing is a mess.

To help him understand the parts of a sentence and because Boyd is a visual learner, I've resorted to the now-bygone practice of diagramming sentences. I am relearning what I hated learning in the eighth, ninth and tenth grades. Strangely, through adult eyes, sentence diagramming is Fantastic! (note the capital "F"..it's THAT good). It's actually helping me make better sense of English grammar (that is, the parts that make sense). Suddenly, when I see sentences, I see diagrams. I actually sat down and diagrammed the first two sentences of the Pledge of Allegiance (it is only three sentences long) for fun! I'm sure there are better things for me to do with my time, but I've found that diagramming sentences give me equivalent pleasure as having clean floors.

I think this is because diagramming sentences is a challenge that can be accomplished in one sitting with a visible end-product (a beautiful branching piece of paper...colorful if you use more than one color). I can post these on my walls and show off my accomplishments! I can continue finding ever more difficult documents to diagram (the Preamble of the Constitution, for example).

Motherhood is not that way. Often, I'm not sure what I've accomplished. I sometimes feel as if I'm working towards an end-product that keeps moving forward while I take one step forward and two steps back. And I haven't even started toilet training!

Perhaps what I ought to do is tack Eli up on the wall in the middle of a sentence diagram. Right now, Eli could act as a noun, a verb (don't Eli me!), an adjective (this is very Eli-like), an adverb (done in an Elijahly manner) or an interjection (Elijah!). So, basically, he could go anywhere.

Ah, problem solved...now if I could only find a large enough tack.

Today is...

2009-04-30T13:45:00.000-07:00

the 150th anniversary of the first installment of Charles Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities. Apparently, he wrote this novel in weekly installments in a literary periodical starting on April 30, 1859. Random factoid, but it was on NPR and I cared enough to remember it.

The first year of a child's life is filled with firsts. Elijah is almost 10 months old; 10 whole months of firsts. I have been the world's worst chronicler of Eli's "firsts". All I remember is the day of his first breath (hm, I think I even remember the time), the day of his first smile (August 28th), the day he first started crawling (March 12th). I figure that if I keep these dates as major markers, the rest can fall somewhere in between them. So, if Eli ever asks when he first started rolling over, I can answer, "Sometime between July 4, 2008 and March 12, 2009. Isn't that good enough?

Why are mothers so obsessed (I'm not finger pointing here) about keeping track of their child's firsts? What about a mother's own firsts? The first time we couldn't fit into our normal clothing after childbirth? The first time our breasts leaked milk in public? The first time we got baby poop all over our pants? For some strange reason, we mothers tend to mark the first year of motherhood with "lasts". The last time we went out on a date. The last time we ate dairy because our babies can't digest it. The last time we wore a bathing suit without grimacing.

I'm suggesting that we celebrate our "firsts" instead of grieving our "lasts". Just like we chronicle our baby's firsts (for the sake of fond memories), we ought to chronicle our firsts. For the first time since Eli, I put on certain pair of jeans. Today was the first day I let Eli play by himself for 20 minutes while I read my book.

Now, since I suck at chronicling Elijah's firsts, I am probably going to stink at celebrating my own (or even being aware of them). This can, however, be the FIRST step I take towards it!

...and We're Back! [insert scream here]

2009-04-29T07:15:00.000-07:00

If you ever find yourself doubting the quality of your neighborhood or state of residence, take my advice and spend a week in Houston. No offense to those of you who claim Houston as your childhood residence, but from an outsider's point of view, there are few redeeming characteristics of this large, sprawling Texan city paved with concrete as far as the eye can see.

The unrelenting downpour of rain, the humidity, the bad road conditions may cause one stay indoors all the time...or at least scream one's head off...which happens to be the new "skill" Elijah mastered during our stay in Houston.

Lovely. I now have a baby who loves to hear the sound of his own screams. The screaming has replaced his now-passe, pursed lip coo. So, now when he's hungry, bored, tired, excited, or content, he screams. Loudly. Continuously. With gusto. This screaming even occurs in his sleep.

Oh, to have the freedom to scream at one's leisure. Just how much emotional agony we'd all be spared if we could just allow ourselves to scream when the need arises. No more uncomfortable conversations with people we've offended. No longer the need for deep breathing through frustrating experiences. No more overly polite refusals [scream], responses to negative criticism [scream], and requests for rude behaviors to stop [scream]. How much more emotionally stable we all could be!

How do I know? Well, I tried for an entire half day. Every time I saw something that pleased me, came across a situation that frustrated me, or was met with something that angered me...like Elijah, I screamed. In fact, I screamed when Eli screamed. We had a downright loud screamfest. Whatever caused the scream resulted in laughter. Eli thought I was funny. I'm probably encouraging his screaming. But, it sure was empowering in the moment.

So, I challenge you...for one situation today, just scream. Take note of how you feel. You might find yourself screaming again and again.

Someone Build Me an Ark

2009-04-18T13:39:00.000-07:00

"Wet" doesn't even begin to describe the weather here in Houston. This torrential downpour started at 9am and hasn't started to let up. There is enough water running off the edge of my parents' house that our entire family (plus the dog) could easily shower outside. If not for the thunder and lightning, I'd take Eli outside naked to dance in the rain!

Needless to say, I'm bored to death. My parents have taken to spending the day eating snacks in front of Chinese soap operas. They have a spread of cake, candied walnuts, pumpkin seeds and pickled garlic (for the immune system) laid out. No wonder I'm sitting here in the other room blogging. I've not been THIS lazy since...the last time I was here and it was raining outside.

Eli has taken the easy route out of all this. He has not succumed to cabin fever because he's spent most of today sleeping his little eyes out. For the first time, I'm complaining about all this sleep. At least with Eli awake, I'd not be tempted to sit in front of the television eating pickled garlic. The poor guy is probably bored of playing with pots, pans and the ocassional spoon. Maybe he's just tired of being asked to "watch the lights!" by his grandma.

So, with the thunder rumbling, I'm wishing I had a good book to read. I've already vacuumed the house, scrubbed the floors, cleaned the fridge, wiped the counters, swept the porch, refolded Eli's clothes, and cleaned the computer keyboard. Now I'm out of ideas on how to spend my time since I've now finished blogging.

Gone Away for a Trip

2009-04-16T08:56:00.000-07:00

Eli and I are leaving in about 3 hours to visit my parents in Houston. I'm excited but mostly apprehensive. My parents have the baby-unfriendliest house. My mom doesn't clean her floors. Her dog drools excessively and leaves tracks everywhere. There are sharp corners and expensive porcelain vases everywhere. When I brought this issue up with my mom, her response was, "Well, just keep him upstairs."

My parents don't always have tact. They don't always know what NOT to say out loud. I attribute this mostly to the fact that they're Chinese. The Chinese aren't very good at distinguishing public information from private information...especially when it's family. Whenever I visit my relatives in Taiwan, their first comments upon seeing me are usually about my skin and weight. Too pimply, too skinny, too pudgy, too scaly. Gotta love family.

This might be why I married a Brit. The Brits keep everything to themselves. They hardly speak about personal matters...well maybe about their prized tomatoes and the bugs blighting their potatoes. Strangely, I find them a bit stuffy. Apparently, I'm not the only one who thinks this.

My hope, therefore, is that by having a Chinese mother and a British father, Eli will land somewhere in the middle. He will have more tact and be okay with feelings. Hopefully.

So, I'm mentally preparing myself for verbal arrows. It probably won't be as bad as I have it in my head. Thank goodness I'll have Eli to diffuse the situation. They can comment on his weight and skin all they want...he doesn't care. Yet.

See you guys in a couple of weeks!

Too Much Ham

2009-04-13T10:57:00.000-07:00

Eli's first Easter is over. The only remnant is the half-eaten ham sitting in our refrigerator. Yesterday, I was really excited about all the leftover pork butt but today, I'm wondering what I'm going to do with all this ham. Maybe sandwiches to distribute in downtown Palo Alto? I could always freeze some for later. Ham bone soup?

There is too much of a good thing. Sometimes even with the best intentions of doing what's "right" and "good", your efforts end up being thrown in your face. Literally.

I've been trying to make Eli's food. This intent changes week to week depending on personal motivation and creativity. This week, with all the ham, I decided to create interesting, nutritious dishes to compliment ham. With quinoa and bulgar wheat cooking, I chopped up some avocado and stewed apples. Equipped with my Cuisinart hand blender, I whipped the ingredients together and added some flaxseed oil. I hummed with pride. I would be feeding my baby powerful amino acids, good fats, good fiber and a strong dose of Omega-3s. So, the consistency, smell and color were far from appealing, but it was sure to taste good right?

Well, it was edible...but I wouldn't eat a bowl of it. Eli wouldn't know the difference right? He hasn't had highly-seasoned foods and probably wouldn't be able to distinguish "normal" food colors from abnormal ones.

With the kitchen a mess, I sat Eli down with some ham shreds and a bowl of "Goodness". He loved the ham. Ate it by the fistfuls. I then found the opportunity to shove a spoonful of "Goodness" into his mouth. He stopped chewing. He looked at me, looked at the bowl then....slammed his fists down onto his table throwing remnants of ham onto the floor. With a loud grunt, he spat out the entire mouthful of "Goodness" into his bib. The spoon was not going anywhere near him again.

Another great effort gone to waste. I was left with a carnivorous baby, a messy kitchen...and a very healthy dog.

'Tis the Season

2009-04-11T11:03:00.000-07:00

It's April. Nowhere near Christmas, I know. But, I started thinking this morning about how so many things in life are seasonal. I'm usually reminded of this when my allergies start bothering me. Between sneezes and wheezes I think...thank goodness this is only seasonal! Does this mean I stop complaining about my hyperreactive histamines? No. But at least I know that there's a light at the end of the tunnel (which sometimes involves a bright yellow asthma inhaler).

Lately I've been somewhat bothered by my new "reality" that is Motherhood. Needless to say, there's the physical...my body no longer looks or feels like the one I've known. But, on a deeper, less evident level, there's the social-emotional. Getting time alone to decompress or use the toilet is no longer a luxury I have. Shaking the responsibility of motherhood is unthinkable. Even if I do get a couple hours "off", I still have to come home and feed a hungry baby. Even though I have a partner in this child-rearing thing, I often feel like I'm carrying the weight alone.

There are days when I feel socially awkward. I often wonder whether or not I will completely become unsociable (NOT asocial) because I've chosen not to work thereby cutting off workplace relationships (consistency, low-maintenance). It's not that I haven't tried to connect with other moms, it's just that I haven't found my niche. Women who want to talk about their babies all day annoy me. Women who are too girly annoy me. Women who complain about their husbands annoy me. Women who have a nanny but call themselves "stay-at-homes" are big, fat liars.

So, where do I belong? Again, I think it's helpful here to think of seasons. I am currently in a season where I don't have a "social" group perse, but have folks I love around me. This is also a season of low-impact exercise, pants that don't quite fit right and loose flesh. This is a season that may or may not pass quickly, but I know that there's always hope for the next season.

That is, if I don't experience personal climate change.

Babies...woof!

2009-04-10T08:30:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I've heard it before: babies are like dogs. Thanks to my friend Marlies, I am reminded of this FACT every time I see her. Now, I'm not sure what Sherlock thinks about this. He might take offense knowing that his 9.5 years of dog wisdom is being compared to that of a 9-month old human being.

I recently bought Sherlock a 24-inch rawhide bone. Eli insisted on holding it all the way home. No sooner had Sherlock dragged it onto the carpet, Eli had his grubby fingers on one end and his mouth over the knot. Sherlock on one end...Eli on the other.

When Eli first started to crawl, his biggest motivation was none other than Sherlock's water bowl. Much to my disgust, it wasn't long before Eli was washing his hands AND drinking out of the dog's bowl. Sharing is lovely.

Sherlock is a great vacuum cleaner. He likes to sniff out food dropping around the kitchen as well as under the dining table. Basically, anything that looks, smells or feels like food ends up in his mouth (except for mushrooms and citrus). Eli really is not much different. He likes to pick up anything on the floor and...in it goes...into the mouth!

Sherlock gets a bath, oh, once every four months. Eli gets a bath every other day. In between baths, my dog grooms himself-lick, lick, lick...here, there, everywhere. The same goes for Eli. In between baths, he likes to suck on his toes, his fingers, and any other part he can access. Thank goodness for diapers.

Now that Eli can crawl, he can take his toys with him. Usually, he uses his mouth. Sherlock also seems to use his mouth as a transport device. Sometimes they even share toys.

Spend a day with me and you'll soon see that Sherlock and Eli understand the same basic commands (except the dog can't clap his paws). This does make me wonder a bit: does Eli think he's a dog? Maybe Sherlock thinks he's human. Sherlock certainly thinks Eli is a bit of a nuisance.

My Footprint

2009-04-09T13:48:00.001-07:00

Yesterday, I read a National Geographic article about a family's month-long experiment to lessen its carbon footprint. Out of curiosity, Brian and I went online, found a carbon-footprint calculator ( http://www.nature.org/initiatives/climatechange/calculator/) and calculated our carbon output. As a household, we produce about 32 tons of CO2 a year, lower than the national average of 80 tons/year! What's surprising is that the world's average is a lowly 17 tons/year. This shows that, as a nation, we MUST do something about our role in climate change.

Of course, I reacted emotionally at first. What kind of Earth will Eli inherit? Will he be deprived of clean water, and air? Will Eli miss out on the many species of plants and animals that will go extinct before he grows up? Will he have to pay the price for what my generation has done to the world's climate?

Brian, on the other hand, reacted logically (a very Brian thing to do). He immediately asked the question "What can we do?". He also reminded me that being angry and emotional doesn't help (which made me even more angry). I retorted that all historic Shakers and Movers started with an emotional response of some sort and that he belongs in the category Stationary and Slow. So, in my emotional state, I rattled off the ways in which we are at fault:

1. His large bus of a car
2. Our uninsulated house which is too cold in the winter and too hot in the summer.
3. Our dog...who emits CO2 like a cow.
4. Brian's love of red meat.
5. Brian's yearly need to fly to Alaska, catch fish on gas-guzzling boats, then fly back home with too many pounds of frozen fish that we need to keep cold in
6. Our free-standing freezer
7. Our non-Energy Star refrigerator and dishwasher
8. Brian's family which requires us to cross the Atlantic Ocean at least once/year.
9. Brian's belief that car tune-ups are actually a waste of money.
10. Brian's need to have his cell phone charger plugged in at all times.

Okay, so maybe these are only ways that Brian is at fault. Hm. Interesting. The point is...we're all at fault. So, Brian and I have decided that we will try gradually cutting meat out of our diet starting with beef. We have also lowered our thermostat setting. I also think it's time for me to get a bike. What about you? What can YOU do?

Je Me STEP

2009-04-01T12:26:00.000-07:00

This morning, I almost witnessed a Canadian goose faceplant. No joke. In the middle of our run, a gaggle of about 12 geese blocked our path. Much to Eli's amusement, we stopped to observe the loud honking mass. I have never stopped to watch geese let alone do so for 15 minutes. Canadian geese are amazingly beautiful birds. They appear to be dressed for some formal dinner-all jazzed up in their black-grey-white-striped suits. However beautiful, they are rather awkward. It has to be difficult balancing a lopsided body on chopstick-like legs and floppy feet. There is a reason why they waddle.

What I noticed was that each bird waddles with a slightly different gait. Some members of the gaggle are definitely more agile than others. It took no time before the most clumsy member of the group caught my eye. This poor goose kept stepping on his own feet. Every single step required the manuevering of one foot from underneath the other. Basically, this goose was pigeon-toed. It didn't take long before Clumsy shifted his body forward before his feet could untangle themselves. The goose leaned forward, wings flew outwards...and he caught himself before he fell flat on his beak.

As I marveled at how poorly-coordinated this already-awkward creature was, I couldn't help but think of instances in which I am the clumsy goose. How many times in my life have I, in essence, stepped on myself? How many times have I cut corners only to be left patching things up? I honestly have NO right laughing at Mr. Clumsy. Just because I can type doesn't mean I'm no different from a goose.

Honk! Honk!

My Tummy Jiggles when I Nod (and other things that ought not to happen)

2009-03-30T20:19:00.000-07:00

I know it's been one too many days of "no new blog" so here I am...back! Hooray! Clap your hands!

So, it happened tonight. I nodded my head (albeit a bit exaggeratedly) and my tummy jiggled. To add insult to injury, so did my arms. Yes, it was a big nod. And boy...did that one nod drag my morale down to my boots. I don't even remember what I was agreeing so whole-heartedly to. This was truly the chocolate sprinkles on top of an afternoon passed to the tune of "my head hurts from the ends of my hairs to the nape of my neck". Lovely.

As much as I would like to believe it was my imagination, it wasn't. My tummy is officially jello. Which led me to think about other things that I would like to believe are in my imagination but aren't (that was a bad sentence...sorry). So, here goes...another list!

1. The 4:45am brightly displayed on the clock when Eli wakes. Nope, not my imagination. It's really not fun waking to the sound of a baby dinosaur before dawn cracks.
2. The fact that I actually have to reach for my glasses before I read the clock which often leads to them falling on the floor which leads to me getting out of bed, onto all fours and reaching my hand under my bedside table (eeewww...dirt!) to find them. All this before I even read the 4:45 am on the clock.
3. Oh, did I mention that I sometimes have to climb over Brian to read the clock since it's on his side of the bed?
4. Last week, I unintentionally went for 2 days (yes! 2 days) without a shower. The worse part of it all was I didn't realize this until my head started to itch leading me to wonder about fleas on the dog. I did learn, however, that nothing beats a good scratch on a very itchy head.
5. I had an enjoyable conversation today about the consistency, color and odor of baby poop. I almost commented on the culinary aspects of baby poo, but held back. Didn't think that would have been appropriate.
6. With the vacuum, I sucked up the remains of 9 flies, 3 spiders and a handful of gnat-like winged insects off our bedroom window ledge. Why I bothered to count, I don't know. Welcome to the insect graveyard!
7. There's nothing like taking your shirt off at the end of the day and realizing that you have spent the day showcasing your baby's breakfast on your shoulder.

I could go on and on really...but I will end on an upnote. I was feeling pretty sorry for myself until Brian, full of witticism as he is, exclaimed, "You really should add your farts onto that list."

My tummy also jiggles when I laugh.

My Stinky Blankey

2009-03-26T20:16:00.000-07:00

Elijah has two security cloths. They're not exactly blankets. The best way to describe them is to quote Brian: "Those floppy furry things with heads." Technically, these cloths are called "Loveys", the capital "L" denoting their importance in the life of a baby. Elijah has a giraffe-headed one and a dog-headed one (I hate the word 'lovey'...that's the last time you'll see it in this blog) and his love for them surpasses that for his parents. He actually SMILES for them!

At first, I thought his fondness for these floppy furry things was cute and useful since they made bedtime much less stressful. However, as time wore on and his fondness grew, the giraffe and dog became more and more odiferous. What began as a benign "sweet baby" smell soured into a "stale spit" scent with "sweaty armpit" overtones in the overall bouquet. Basically, his security blankets turned STINKY. The smell in Elijah's room became synonymous with that of a goat pen.

Then I started to notice that Elijah became one with his blankets, at least in terms of scent. I was sure I would soon find mushrooms sprouting from his nostrils and ears. My 8-month old baby was struck down with a bad case of body odor; his blankets were definitely mildewy.

That's when the washings began. First it was once a week. Still stinky. Then twice a week. Still stinky. Borax. Still stinky. Oxyclean. Still stinky. Hot water. Stinky. Sanitize cycle. Stinky still. This week, I raised my white flag of surrender: the stink is here to stay.

So I started to wonder: we all have security "blankets" that become stinky over time, right? Be it chocolate, be it wine, be it exercise, be it nose-picking (I'm not confessing here, by the way), if we cling too closely to any item of comfort, we might find ourselves in quite a stinky situation. Right?

The funny thing is that once I stopped fighting the stink, I'm starting to find comfort in the smell of his stinky blankeys. What was once considered 'stench' is now the smell of Elijah's breath, of his sleep, of the places he's been, of his existence. I find myself sneaking whiffs of his blankets-burying my nose into his floppy giraffe with my eyes closed and actually smiling. I can see why he loves his blankets...it reminds him of who he is.

Find your stink...then rejoice.

Capiche?

2009-03-22T18:55:00.000-07:00

Pigs in this country go "oink, oink" but they only "naf, naf" in France. Dogs can "woof, woof" or "arf, arf" or "roof, roof", except for certain parts of Asia where they say, "Hold the ketchup!". "Chui, chui" says the bird in Beijing but they "chirp, chirp" in Palo Alto. The cow seems to be the only animal that speaks a universally-understood language.

How is one to keep up with the different animal dialects of the world? I am trying to raise Elijah bilingual (Brian insists that it's actually trilingual since "English" is different from "American") which means that when I translate Chinese books into English, I also have to translate the sounds an animal makes. This could possibly cause confusion when my Chinese relatives wonder why Eli "neighs" when Chinese horses "hongs".

Added to this confusion is a conviction many mothers have to equip their babies with a means to communicate: sign language. Now, I actually think teaching babies to sign is a terrific idea especially since a baby waving frantic signs is much preferred over a baby throwing a frantic tantrum. However, doesn't this just add to the confusion? So now not does a dog "woof!" and "wah!" but is also identified with the snapping of two fingers by my knee. It is indeed amazing that babies somehow learn to sort all this out!

So, I continue to expand my own education. I am now learning what dogs, cats, cows and pigs say in Iran and Afghanistan just in case. You never know, this knowledge could one day prove to be useful-could possibly mean the difference between an acceptance or a denial to a certain Ivy League University. It could also come in handy if Elijah ever decides to work for the State Department.

No, I'm NOT walking!

2009-03-20T11:42:00.000-07:00

Eli has a cold. He now has drool and snot dripping out his mouth and onto my floors. My sick baby didn't sleep too well so after a fitful night's rest, I decided that what he needed was some fresh air. I bundled him up and out we went for a run.

On some runs, we see our neighbors and stop to chat briefly. On other runs, we come across animals-squirrels, cats, dogs, birds-and stop to watch them go about their business. But today on our run, we were "cheered" on by not one, not two, but THREE random strangers!

The first encounter involved a bearded man on a bicycle wearing a bright orange helmet. He started ringing his bell from at least 300 meters away. Elijah obviously noticed since the bicyclist deliberately slowed down, leaned over and gave Eli a big smile. As a grand finale, he worked his bell...ring, ding-a-ling, ring, ding-a-ling. I found myself wishing I could run faster.

Our next encounter came from behind the tinted window of a station wagon. The beetle green Subaru Outback was parked with the engine running. Two school-aged children sat in the backseat. They might have been waiting for the third kid in their carpool. We ran by and the kids cheered. Maybe they were cheering for someone else. Maybe they were actually laughing and not cheering at all. I smiled into the dark window as I ran by.

As we approached the scene of our last encounter, I heard a screen door slam. From out of a lime-green home scooted an elderly gentleman wearing a purple baseball hat. He was using a walker. He made it down his driveway and glanced in our direction-fixing his gaze on the stroller. Lifting his right hand in an exaggerated wave, he shouted to Elijah, "Are you enjoying your walk with Mommy?" Maybe he was short of sight, maybe he was confused. I WAS RUNNING NOT WALKING! Instead of answering, "No, because Mommy's running.", I smiled and waved back.

Now I get it. These kind-hearted strangers were actually cheering me on (maybe in pity). Aww...look...that mom's trying really hard to run but it's not working. I guess we'll cheer her on to make her feel better.

Baring it All

2009-03-19T21:32:00.001-07:00

Eli goes swimming every Thursday morning. My purpose during these 30 minute classes is to be his life preserver (someone has to hold him up in the water), his song-singer (he can't yet sing), his jet propeller (since if I let him go, he'd drown), and his cheerleader (since sometimes water gets up the nose). Eli has such a great time so I actually don't mind being in the over-chlorinated, pee-infused pool.

When I initially signed Eli up, I was anxious. The last thing I wanted was to be in a pool IN A SWIMSUIT showing off my newly-acquired pooch and jiggly nether regions. However, I figured that the other mothers would probably be just as anxious so we could all be poochy and jiggly together, right?

Wrong. As it turns out, I am the poochiest in our class (you check other women out too!). In order for me to get over my secret envy (and slight hatred) of these still-beautifully-fit new mothers, I have gone out-of-my-usual-way to get to know each one just to see them for more than their bodies. In our group, there is a neuroscientist, a bartender/waitress, an ex-electrical engineer, an ex-college professor, a kindergarten teacher and one more woman who just joined so I haven't yet had a chance to invade her personal space. What surprises me is that my own insecurity has turned me into a social butterfly! I initiate conversations, I initiate possible playdates, I even give advice! Am I compensating for what I don't have (a cute little butt)?

Well, all this body-envy ended yesterday. I put on my turquoise colored swimsuit 15 minutes before we had to leave and realized that, for some strange reason, the color had faded in very inconvenient areas. Round patches of white outlined my boobs, a sliver of white traced my butt crack, and a white doughnut circled my belly button accentuating my pooch.

My first reaction was to bail. No more swimming. EVER. But it was too late to call in sick. Eli looked up from where he was on my bed and smiled. Was he laughing at me? Was he thinking what I was thinking?

We went to swim class anyways. I couldn't let Eli down because of my own insecurities. It's not his fault after all. So, there we were: happy baby...and poochy mom...with all my "problem" areas highlighted for the all world to see.

Testosterone

2009-03-18T12:33:00.000-07:00

Last night, PBS aired an interesting program on the differences between the male and female brains. We unfortunately missed the first 30 minutes because Brian was watching a Sharks game on his computer with the television tuned to NCIS. It is challenging for Brian to cook and carry on a conversation simultaneously so I have no idea how he managed to watch both game and show. The part of the program we caught focused on testosterone and how the hormone affects "brain sex"-how male or female a brain is. Brain sex translates into the behaviors and abilities of a person. Basically, testosterone messes with the brain.

In the womb, the production of testosterone not only affects the development of the brain but also influences the growth of fingers-in particular the index and the ring fingers. Apparently, the greater the difference in length between the two fingers, the more "male" a brain is. So, the more competitive, the more aggressive, the more logical, the less emotional and empathetic a person is as a result. This information set me comparing fingers: mine, Brian's and Eli's (Sherlock was left out of this 'study'). The verdict? My brain out-males the rest of the Hills!

Which makes NO sense. I know that I am a competitive person (more to come on that topic) but aggressive? Logical? Less emotional and empathetic? I think not. Personally, I think my "male" fingers are the direct result of many, many years of piano scales, arpeggios and Hanon drills. Besides, if my brain really is quite "male" on the female scale, then I should better understand my husband, right? Believe me, I still don't quite understand how he ticks.

So...thanks to testosterone, I will probably never understand Elijah fully. For now, I'm just glad that we speak the same language. Kind of.

Foreign Body

2009-03-12T20:09:00.000-07:00

Since September, when the newness of having a new baby wore off, many of my days have been one giant out-of-body experience. Usually those days also come with a nice giant dose of self pity, in which I wallow like a pig in a mudbath. From the moment I awake (to the crying of a baby at 4am), to the moment I collapse into bed (and all the other moments in between), I struggle with the love/hate relationship I have with my body.

Yes, I know...without my amazing body, Elijah would not exist. Yes, I know...the female form is beautiful when curvy. Yes, I know...it doesn't matter WHAT my body looks like since now I have a beautiful baby boy to make up for the fact that I am squishy all over. Yes, I know...the ability to run without a constant stream of urine soaking my underpants pales in comparison to the absolute joy and delight Elijah brings into my life. Yes, I KNOW all that, but you know what?!

THE REALITY THAT MY BODY WILL NEVER, EVER BE THE SAME AGAIN SUCKS!

Ah, I feel a bit better now that I got that off my chest (don't let me start on my chest...)

I wear stretchy sweatpants every day since my old pants no longer fit me right. I hate the way my butt jiggles when I walk. I also have considered naming my new pooch (no, we didn't replace Sherlock...I'm talking about the permanent pooch cushioning my belly button). I have mornings when getting dressed causes me much grief. Out of an entire closet of clothing, I rotate through a total of four outfits (I mix and match...so, I guess it's more like 16?).

It also stinks when the activity that gave me most pleasure now only frustrates and discourages. With a steady stream of urine for every single step I run, it's no wonder that even in my dreams (seriously), I run wearing a pair of yet-to-be-invented super absorbent running shorts. I find myself wishing for the pouring rain so that I can run without wearing an adult diaper. Last Friday I wondered whether or not it's worth it for me to just quit exercising. Give in to the jiggle. Give in to the massive butt that is my inheritance. Give in to my foreign body.

But no. I continue on. Maybe I'm vain. Maybe I'm self-centered. Maybe I'm just a girl who wants too much. I don't know.

What I DO know is that I will keep on keeping on. I will continue running with pee dripping down my legs. I will learn to wear sweatpants and rejoice in being comfortable. I will find contentment in knowing my tummy makes a nice cushion. I will love the "shadow" my butt now has. I will rejoice in having 4 outfits to mix and match.

I promise to be nicer to myself and stop fighting against my foreign body. In fact, I think I will go straight into the bathroom, strip down to my birthday suit, look directly into the mirror and...

LAUGH.

Rebel

2009-03-10T13:25:00.000-07:00

I have a parasitic twin named Guilt. Guilt and I go WAY back. Sometimes Guilt is my best friend-like a security blanket with fangs. Sometimes Guilt hangs in the air like the smell of a wet dog. Recently, Guilt has earned a new nickname: BM (not that BM, but "Bad Mom"). These are some of the all time worst BM moments (it's another list!!!):

1. Leaving Eli on the changing table unsupervised
2. Allowing Eli to sit on the kitchen counter with his fingers IN my Kitchen Aid mixer (see picture on previous post) while it is running.
3. Giving Eli implements with long sticks attached (wooden spoons, drumsticks, toy hammers) and letting him scoot around on his tummy with them in his mouth.
4. Not fully securing Eli into the jogging stroller due to an impatient baby (and impatient mother).
5. Feeding him wheat products (when all the books tell you not to).
6. Feeding him strawberries, raspberries and blackberries not knowing that the books tell you not to.
7. Consuming peanut products and strawberries, alcoholic beverages and Splenda while still nursing when it is recommended that nursing mothers NOT consume these things.
8. Sitting Eli on our concrete doorstep while I sweep the driveway (out of my range of vision too).
9. Leaving Eli alone with the dog while I load and unload the laundry.
10. Letting Eli play with the vacuum while it is on.
11. Drinking hot beverages while holding Eli in the other arm.
12. Giving Eli paper to chew on when he's fussy out in public.
13. Allowing the dog to clean off his high chair and forgetting to wipe it off before the next feeding.
14. Forgetting to change Eli's diaper leaving him to nap with poop on his bottom.
15. Dumping him into his crib (sometimes unintentionally) for a nap.

I will stop here before I officially declare myself unfit to raise a child. If you're a mom, I'm sure you either feel better about yourself OR you feel the urge to "one up" me.

The strange thing is, I'm a rule follower and here I am, breaking all the "rules" of motherhood (and feeling guilty for doing so). But I never did rebel. Perhaps this is my time...

Clarity

2009-03-08T20:25:00.000-07:00

I haven't written in a week. I didn't mean to not write, it just happened. Between reading books, playing with and feeding Eli, housework and sleep, there really just wasn't much time for me to sit, think and write.

What a sorry excuse. The truth is more like this: I was lazy and didn't feel like writing.

But, I'm back. (I think I hear a bit of cheering...)

This past week, I've had a few short moments of deep clarity. Here I will share them with you:

1. Life is much more fun when you don't worry about what other people think. On Tuesday, I strapped Elijah up in the jogging stroller and headed out for a run. What I thought was a break in the rainstorm only lasted about 5 minutes. Concerned about my neighbors thinking of me as a BAD mother, I headed home. However, I was already soaked. Elijah was comfy as a clam under his "weathershield". And so, the moment of clarity hit me: keep running because the rain is coming down so hard others probably won't see you anyways! I had a GREAT run!

2. Joy is in the little things. Take a small handful of rice puff cereal. Place it in one pile on the table or floor. Blow. Listen to the baby giggle. Repeat several times over. Happy baby, happy dog, happy mommy.

3. I can still... Last week when I officially quit my job, I experienced the sinking sadness of finality. I know that being full-time mom is what I want to do, but there is a large part of me that believes I've given up on my own ambitions. Then, while driving home by myself one day with the music blaring, I experienced a moment of clarity. My job right now (which is quite challenging for me) is to be passionate about being mom; to be fully invested in even the mundane and be glad for what I have. I certainly still have ambitions...they are not dead.

Holes

2009-03-02T08:23:00.000-08:00

Brian is at it again. He has just cut another hole into our wall in the name of "remodeling". The grand plan is to make our semi-finished garage into a more usable space by installing sensible storage options (right now, our stuff is just one large pile). However, it seems that to accomplish this, I must live with the cutting of holes into our walls (which leaves white stuff everywhere!) Often, my handman (a.k.a. Husband Dear), has no real idea how long things will take since his Home Depot Do It Yourself guide doesn't actually give an estimated time of completion.

And, Yes, he plans to remodel our garage by using a book with step-by-step colored photographs and instructions even an Asian woman can follow!

Patience, my dear Isabella, patience.

So, Brian spent a bit of the weekend patching up the hole he made in the wall. He also spent much of the day yesterday sullen about the reality that he will always have more to do than time allows. Between spending time with me and with Eli, he must balance the garden (I don't do decomposing dog poop or trimming the palms or bougainvillea) with day-to-day chores (the bills) with this massive "remodeling" project. This really makes me feel like I sit around on my bum and play peek-a-boo all day long.

Which I know (and Brian keeps telling me) is NOT the case. I am raising a quality human being and cleaning the floors, tidying the house, doing the laundry, buying the groceries, cooking the meals, walking the dog, making the baby food, running the errands, taking out the garbage...I'll stop here.

I like tasks that have a beginning and an end (or maybe I just like immediate gratification). This is why the "remodeling" is so frustrating (the holes in the wall don't help matters). I know what I need to do is smile and remember that there is spackle and paint right around the corner.

In a funny way, the "remodeling" is like raising Eli. Even with the best information, the best materials, the best intentions, all the time in the world, and hard work, there will always be holes in the walls that need patching. Got spackle????

Doh! I did it AGAIN!

2009-02-26T15:55:00.000-08:00

Today, I nearly burned down my house. Another bad case of MBS (Mommy Brain Syndrome). If the house had gone down, it was for a good cause: I was making applesauce for Elijah. Charcoal anyone?

Due to a mild-t0-severe case of MBS, many of my good intentions end up biting me in the rear end. Last week, I took both dog and fussy baby for a walk. I left both the back door and the back gate open: welcome robbers! I think it might have been that same day when I sat down at my computer (after putting Eli down for a nap) when I saw my dog across the street marking the neighbor's tree. Doh! I forgot to latch the back gate! Then, there are the multiple invitations for random people to steal our Rav4 when I leave my car keys (with house keys attached) hanging from our front door knob for hours. Oops.

Sometimes, MBS has a way of forcing me to laugh at myself and my mistakes. On a trip to Trader Joe's with baby in tow, I stocked my cart, waited in the checkout line, checked out...only to realize I had left the house without my purse. Oops. This morning, I let the jogging stroller (with Elijah strapped in) roll into the middle of the road because I forgot to put on the "parking" brake when I stopped to stretch. Lovely. Where's my purse? Where's my cell phone? Did I turn the oven off? Did I lock the front door?

I hear that it only gets worse. I suppose there will come a day when I leave the house without my pants on. I've nearly done it already without my shoes. The good news is that by then, Eli will be at an age when he can actually tell me what I've forgotten...that is, if I don't forget him somewhere first.

M.O.M. (Monoappendage Operational Mutant)

2009-02-25T07:32:00.001-08:00

I might as well have just one arm. I could probably tie my left arm behind my back all day and still be quite functional. My friends who have young children can probably all agree: there may one day arise a genetic mutation in women which causes the over-development of one arm while the other becomes fused with one's body to form a built-in baby carrier.

Here is an incomplete list of one-arm/hand tasks I have perfected as a result of Mommyhood (keep in mind that in my other arm rests a 20-pound wiggly weight):

1. Washing dishes with a dish sponge and dish soap
2. Unloading the dishwasher (no broken dishes yet)
3. Vaccuming my house (using both arms takes half the time, however)
4. Driving (with the other hand reaching for the baby toy under the seat)
5. Putting on my tennis shoes (the laces proved problematic)
6. Going to the bathroom (write me an email if you want specifics)
7. Loading a bulky, heavy B.O.B. jogging stroller (although I haven't learned how to collapse or open it with one hand yet)
8. Preparing and eating meals (be very careful when using a knife)
9. Typing (with my inner editor turned 'off')
10. Loading/unloading the washer and dryer (sometimes leading to more laundry)
11. Brushing my teeth and my hair (which explains why I look the way I do)

I now suffer from lower back pain, constant aching knees and a sore left shoulder. If you find yourself in my same boat, let me extend you an one-armed hug. If you've never had to function with just one arm, here, hold Elijah for me while I tie my shoes.

I am indeed M.O.M...a Monoappendage Operational Mutant.

The Death of Spontaneity

2009-02-24T09:04:00.000-08:00

Today, I tried to be spontaneous. After baby laptime at the library, I tried going to lunch with my girlfriends and their babies. In my head, the plan was to go to the library, come home, feed Eli and then nap him (since it would have been "perfectly" three hours since his last meal and nap). In my head, that plan would have meant that my baby would not become overtired and that I would not have to spend any money on lunch. Things did not go according to plan...

because I REALLY WANTED TO GO OUT TO LUNCH WITH MY FRIENDS and not be a slave to Elijah's schedule. More than that, I wanted to prove to myself that I could still be spontaneous and THAT I AM STILL FUN!

I failed.

Eli and I managed to get ourselves to lunch. We even managed to buy lunch. We DID NOT even come close to manage eating that lunch WITH my friends. Instead, we set off on our way home. Eli succumed to sleep after about five minutes of wailing, but I...well, this was what went through my head (a simplified version):

MOM ME: Ugh. I should have just come home in the first place. Why couldn't I have stood up for myself and what I knew was right for my child and my pocketbook? These girls are my good friends and wouldn't have held it against me if I needed to do what Elijah needed.

ME: But I'm hungry and the Italian deli sounds so good and it'll be nice to have some time with my friends and Eli might have fun with his baby friends too!

FRUGAL ME: Yeah, but you have ingredients for lunch at home. Why spend money you don't have to?

ME: I shouldn't let Elijah control my life!! Like that one woman at Starbucks said to me...your baby should "do" your schedule otherwise, he will control your life and learn to be manipulative!

MOM ME: Eli's tired. I know he's tired. I should just call them and go home.

ME: Oh, but if you do that, you're not fun anymore and your friends may not like you.

MOM ME: Maybe doing what Eli needs will be doing me and him a disservice. I don't want him to think that he can control me! I should just go meet my friends.

...which is what I did (I was in control of that decision)
...which caused Elijah to fuss (he was out-of-control)
...which led to an executive decision to leave (I was reacting to Eli)
...which led to a bit of crying and fussing (out-of-control)
...which led to a nap (Eli was under control)
...which led to a quiet lunch by myself (I was hungry but an emotional wreck)
...which led to this blog entry (getting myself under control)
...which led me to wondering if spontaneity in my life is indeed DEAD.

perhaps. Perhaps I am no fun anymore. Perhaps I am letting Eli control my life and schedule. But, hey...that's all over now. I shall try to do better tomorrow.

The Pluot, the Prius and the Skort

2009-02-22T19:54:00.000-08:00

A pluot is the tradename for a half apricot, half plum hybrid fruit varietal developed in the late 20th century. The Prius runs on electricity and gasoline, making it a hybrid. The skort is both shorts and skirt which means it too is a hybrid. I could go on and on with things that we humans have hybridized in order to make life better (the sofabed, the California roll, the Blackberry, etc.), but I will only name one more: Elijah Hill-hybrid baby boy.

First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes...well, we all know what comes next right? It is what my parents have bugged me about since the day after Brian and I got married. Three years later, they got what they wished for...well, kind of. Upon hearing that they would soon become grandparents, my parents reacted with relief - that I was fertile and that Brian was not too old to provide the necessary flagellated cell. As "D-Day" approached, my mother's enthusiasm seemed to wane. Suddenly, the welfare of her dog (whom she would have to leave behind) won out over the welfare of her daughter and FIRST grandchild. Instead of begging to attend Eli's birth, she asked to not be included. Instead of asking to stay for weeks and weeks, she decided that she would only visit for 2 weeks IF her dog could come along. I started to wonder if she really cared.

The truth came out when I overheard a conversation she had on the telephone with her friend in Taiwan. "No" she said, "I don't think I'll miss him since he doesn't even look Chinese!" So, that was it...Elijah was not Chinese enough (either that or she was referring to Brian). I was struck by how much I was hurt-how much it mattered to me that my parents accept my child-their grandchild. I had disappointed them-in a deep, genomic manner.

I think that Elijah's still growing on them (they still say things like, "oh, he looks Chinese this week, but last week...". To an extent, I believe my parents are sad that from here on out their Chinese genes will be forever be diluted. My hope is that one day (hopefully in the near future), they will love the hybrid who is their grandson. Hopefully it'll be sooner than they love the pluot (eating fruit that is human-hybridized is against the Bible), the Prius (too expensive-not worth the money) or the skort (I hate shorts and skirts-why would I wear both?)!

Bad Hair Life

2009-02-20T18:41:00.000-08:00

The plan was for me to get a nice haircut before Elijah was born. Well, I procrastinate. I now need a haircut so badly that I have decided to wait a bit longer so that I can donate my hair to charity-they need at least 10 inches. I figure this will give me one more reason to procrastinate.

I do not enjoy getting my hair cut. The main reason why? I have to sit in front of a large mirror and stare at myself for what seems like an eternity. The entire experience forces me to confront what makes me extremely uncomfortable: my own reflection. If I placed my face amidst a display of pomelos (granted with my head shaved), no one would be able to tell me apart-my pores are so big. My mother always said that my nose is shaped like a giant pear and that my face is shaped like a large mooncake. I was also christened by fellow middle schoolers as Dame Pepperoni Pizza Face. Maybe I was meant to be food instead of human.

So, with the encouragement of one "friend" who said, "You know, Isabella, you're not ugly, but you have to work at it.", I succumed to the world of zit creams, super thick liquid foundation and bubble-gum scented hair products. Strangely enough, they did absolutely nothing to make standing in front of the mirror a better experience. Ironically, I wanted to avoid mirrors all the more.

That was then. Now, due to a lack of time, energy and necessity, I am lucky if I spend five minutes combing my hair and putting a bit of powder on my face (and I don't care much about zits anymore). I recently discovered that Elijah actually LOVES watching me do both and he claps with glee each time my hair or powder brush emerges. Now, I have an audience...from someone who doesn't care what I look like! To him, it's just lots of fun to watch.

I haven't given up entirely on my appearance. I think I've simply come to peace with the fact that I am who I am-bad skin, neglected hair and all. Elijah has inspired me to go back to basics: brush my teeth, wash my face, wash my hands, make funny faces in the mirror throughout the entire process and laugh at myself...a lot. From his perspective, it must really be funny that I use a wooden stick with nobbly bits at the end to straighten my hair, a plastic stick with bristly bits at the end to clean my teeth and a metal stick with nylon "hair" at the end to powder my skin.

Tomorrow, I shall go get my hair cut and I shall make faces at myself throughout the entire process.

When I Grow Up...

2009-02-19T19:57:00.000-08:00

When asked what he wanted to be when he grows up, a kindergartener once replied, "When I grow up, I want to be a firetruck!". I don't know how I answered that question when I was five, but I have wanted to be many things when I grow up: a veterinarian (until I had to clean up cat puke), a geologist (until I started to hate dirt), a marine biologist (until I smelled rotting fish), a doctor (until I nearly flunked chemistry), a writer (until...well...). And then there were the things I never wanted to be: a teacher, a wife, a mother.

I honestly think people should stop asking children what they want to be when they grow up because...what do they know?!

I'm 31 years old (I counted on my fingers) and I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. To be quite honest, I don't know what marks a person's transition into "grown-uphood". At 18 years, you are deemed mature and wise enough to elect officials to public office (except for the 2000 and 2004 presidential elections when three-year-olds were allowed to vote). At 21, you are deemed responsible enough to purchase and consume alcoholic beverages, at least in this country. So, does that mean 'grown-uphood' begins at 21?

Maybe it's not age, but rather life transitions that mark the start of 'grown-uphood'. In my family, you are reserved a place at the "kid's table" until you get married (I was the only one without a booster seat at the table once). Perhaps it's when you become financially-independent (in which case, I still have not grown up). Maybe grown-uphood begins when you have kids of your own (can't be true since I quite enjoy Eli's "Touch and Feel" books and still pee in my pants on occasion). If grown-uphood means being entirely emotionally independent from your parents, I'm still in kindergarten.

All in all, I still don't feel like I've grown up and I still have no clue what I want to be when I do grow up. Maybe what's more important is being content in what I happen to be right now. Right now, I am Mom. I am roving food court. I am diaper genie, puke cloth, kitchen maid, housewench, dog walker, music teacher, Chinese instructor, nature guide, and sometimes a good and loving and caring and supportive and forgiving wife.

Chances are, I'll never know what I want to be when I grow up. Does it really matter?

Who do YOU believe (I am)?

2009-02-17T07:43:00.001-08:00

I have an "inside" self and an "outside" self. My bet is that you do as well. My "outside" self include character traits that others believe I possess: responsible, honest, caring, compassionate, patient, funny, giving, humble, uh...I think I will stop here. However, my "inside" self is pretty ugly. My "inside" self is what I picture my actual insides to look like: slimy, bloody, stinky, messy. It's who I believe I am.

How I came to develop my "outside" self stems from my need to feel accepted and loved. I'm sure my having been taught that "saving face" is more important than brushing your teeth (which is why so many Chinese people have issues with dental hygiene) doesn't help matters. I think that my "outside" self has been so polished and well-aged (like wine) that most people, including close acquaintances, believe it's who I actually am! (Please, this is NOT an open invitation to be encouraging).

This got me thinking...who does Elijah believe his mother to be and who do I want him to believe I am?

I think at the moment, in Eli's seven-and-a-half-month-old brain, the two are one of the same. I am the one who comforts him when he's upset, I am the one who claps and smiles when he is excited about a new skill (like getting himself stuck under the futon), I am the one who laughs when he laughs, I am the one who puts him down when he's tired, I am the one who feeds him when he's hungry, I am the one who changes his diaper when he's wet (or otherwise), I am the one who tries to protect him from injuries-physical and emotional. I am to Elijah the kind of person I have always wanted to be: someone who LOVES in the face of any other emotion I might be having at the same time (anger, frustration, fatigue).

This has been a pretty serious post (I apologize if you were hoping for something to chuckle about). Over the past two days, I've experienced ways in which my two selves have come into conflict with each other. Usually when this happens, I emotionally shut down. However, because of Elijah, I have had to continue laughing, clapping, feeding, comforting, protecting, smiling. And in doing so, I have had to believe that I actually might be that "outside" self.

Mother and Father and Uncle John

2009-02-13T11:07:00.000-08:00

This past Tuesday night, we took Elijah to our local library's Babies and Books program. Along with 24 other babies (and 34 adults-many of whom mistook the program to mean "Extended Family and Books"), we bounced our babies up and down on our laps while singing songs for 45 minutes. I was on my best behavior with my internal monitor switched off as I TRIED to enjoy the crowded and noisy environment (and the leader's sorry-excuse-for-a-baby teddy bear that she bounced up and down on her lap). Everything was well and fine until this particular tune:

"Mother and father and Uncle John
Went to town one by one.
Mother fell off.
Father fell off.
But Uncle John went on
and on and on and ON!"

The third time through that song and I started to wonder...

Where is the baby (since I'm assuming in order to be considered 'mother' and 'father', you had to have a child)? Who is Uncle John? Why are they going to town separately? Why did they go to town? How come both Mother and Father fell off, but Uncle John kept going? What did they fall off of? A horse? A car? A donkey? Did Uncle John ever make it to town?

after that, I started to wish...

Gee, Uncle John's pretty lucky. I wish I could be Uncle John instead of Mother since he made to town in one piece. Then again, maybe it's a good thing Mother fell off because then Uncle John would be stuck making funeral arrangements for the rest of his family and be responsible for raising his niece/nephew.

then I started to realize...

Gosh, that's a pretty dumb tune. I mean, nothing really happened besides Mother and Father falling off who-knows-what and Uncle John going "ON" to nowhere. Oh my! What is this telling my child??? That it's okay to push Mother and Father off the cart and leave Uncle John on because he's more fun? I don't want my child to recite this and think it's funny that Mother and Father both fell off...

finally, I started to accept...

Okay, it's just another one of those nursery rhyme things. Remember, there once was a goose who wore a bonnet and was given the name "Mother". Besides, if Mother and Father DID fall off and needed mending, all the king's horses and all the king's men are right around the corner! Maybe Uncle John went to town to meet Miss Muffet for some curds and whey...and if that was the case, I'd rather have fallen off!

Leo panthera fakus

2009-02-12T19:28:00.000-08:00

Elijah has many, many toys but there is one that stands heads above the rest (literally). It is a lion made from paper mache whose intended career as a pinata took a sharp turn. He is now the recipient of many coos, many laughs and one too many tugs at his paper mane.

I also like this lion. My only complaint: he doesn't look much like a lion. He is canary yellow with a mane the color of orange Tang powder. His eyes are always open (in fact, they are glued on-the glue shows), his nose is slipping out of place and his mouth is peeling off his face. If you look closely enough, you can see the editorial section through the "hair" on his back. He also has a plastic loop sticking out of the top of his head. Only Elijah thinks he's a lion. To me, he's just a pinata.

This got me looking at the rest of Elijah's "animal" toys. He has a pig with multi-colored pads for feet and a polka-dotted tummy. He has a cat with gray gills sticking out the side of its head and three (yup, I counted) toes sticking out of each bulb (I think they're supposed to be paws). There's a monkey with a butt three sizes too large for its head (I don't think being "pear shaped" is a monkey trait) and pebbles at the end of each appendage. And then there's the bright blue fish (at least, I think it's a fish) with conical spikes up and down its body, large orange lips and a bulbous bright pink tail.

And it's not just anatomically-incorrect plush toys. Pseudo-animals plaster the pages of Eli's board books. Blue and orange striped cats, purple, green and pink dotted fish, elephants with purple and orange ears and red zigzagged zebras.

I guess the reasoning behind all these anatomically-incorrect animals is that their bright colors and tactilely-interesting textures are attractive to babies. However, nothing is more interesting to Elijah than real cats, real dogs, real birds and real fish! My bet is that if toy makers actually market anatomically-correct animal toys, babies will like them just as much, if not even more, than the fake ones that populate the stores.

This is the end of my rant. Thanks for bearing with me. I've read one too many books with blue cats and purple fish. I need to go hug my Leo panthera fakus now.

Four Mercedes(es?)

2009-02-11T08:14:00.000-08:00

I am a Tufts graduate. For those unfamiliar with the school, my dad puts it this way: "I could have purchased four Mercedes(es?) with what I paid for you to go to college!". Personally, I think what I gained from a Tufts education is worth much, much more than four Mercedes(es?) and my dad didn't factor in the cost of maintenance.

This morning, as I folded yet another load of laundry, I asked myself a question that has bugged me since the day I quit my job: "What I'm doing with my very expensive college degree?".

And so the comparisons begin. Out of my five college suitemates from senior year, I am the only one who doesn't have extra abbreviations behind her name. I am the only one who has never had a financially-rewarding career. Now, I am the only one without a job. So, am I the only one who is wasting her college degree???

Well, the fact that I have to fish for something to justify my college education every single day means that I don't have an answer for that question. Upon hearing my decision to stay home, my father exclaimed (in not so few words), "I could have owned two Mercedes Benzes!" (I think he factored in inflation). My mother was no less appalled, "Women should not be educated at all!" (she thinks Hilary Clinton is a man). But, for some strange reason, most of my friends think the decision I've made is not only brave, but GOOD (some are friends who manage to do both: work and be a parent).

Hm...I still don't feel better. Maybe if I find three things to justify a Tufts education right now:

1. Not only can I make baby food, I can correctly name the digestive enzymes and processes needed for Elijah to digest the food. I can also tell you that lactose is a disaccharide-made up of two lactoses and one glucose.

2. I play peek-a-boo and read board books in English, Chinese and French. Experts in language acquisition have found that babies must be exposed to the phonemes of a language by six months of age or else they lose the ability to distinguish the sounds needed to speak certain languages. Use it or lose it.

3. Elijah is going through his first spell of stranger anxiety. This leads to some clingyness to me. Due to his immature understanding of object permanence, he cries each time I leave his sight. This is a time of building trust between parent and child-can he trust that I will come back? Can he trust that I won't abandon him? Hmmm...check out Harlow and his research on rhesus monkeys.

Okay, so I still don't feel better. I could have found all three justifications by conducting a simple Google search. But, just so you know, I didn't. Thanks Tufts.

Talk to Me.

2009-02-10T16:19:00.000-08:00

It's official...talking to your baby helps promote language development. Am I the only one or do you also think it's ridiculous that someone was paid to come up with that conclusion?! You don't have to worry about what you say, it's just that you say something...anything...everything. Babies might not understand words but they DO understand the manner in which something is said.

So, in celebrating "Talk to Your Baby Yet Again Even Though He Can't Understand What You're Actually Saying" Day, here are FIVE things I say to Elijah every single day (always in the nicest manner possible):

1. "Mommy needs to go out for runs and walks and to the grocery store, so you can go ahead and cry all you want, but you are going to have to live with it and learn to like it because mommy is not going to give up running, walking or going to the store anytime soon." (me: wide smile, Eli: can't hear a word because he's so busy screaming his head off).

2. "Okay, I have to go dump your stinky feces into the toilet before I throw your diaper away in the garbage so your room won't smell like poop. Stay on your changing table. Don't try showing off your rolling because no one is here to watch you. Besides, if you do, you'll hurt yourself and it'll all be your fault you have a dent in your head." (me: holding stinky diaper, Eli: kicking his legs wildly as he watches me leave his room).

3. "Good morning! (repeated three times) It's such a beautiful day! The birds in the trees go "chirp, chirp, chirp" and the dog on the grass goes "woof". It's going to be a great day! What a beautiful morning! Yay! Wake up time!" (me: grumpy from a night of broken sleep but trying really hard to smile, Eli: smiling....)

4. "Well, it's your own darn fault you're stuck under the futon again. If you were smart, you would figure out that if you move your knees while on your hands, you could move up forwards instead of backwards. Oh, dear, is Sherlock licking your face again?" (me: grabbing the camera, Eli: wwaaaahhhh)

5. "That's what happens when you play with your food. It's not MY fault that there's food up your nostrils, in your ears, on your hair, and on your neck. You should watch where you put your grubby hands. If you don't want me to clean your nose out with this cloth, then don't play with your food!" (me: wondering if I need to a Q-tip, Eli: wwaaaahhhhh).

So, I'm going to take the opportunity to communicate before Elijah picks up on the fact that my tone doesn't always match my words. Now, if only I could learn to do this with Brian....

Tantrums to Temper

2009-02-06T13:15:00.000-08:00

Last week, I took Elijah to the Mountain View Public Library. I love libraries and figured that it's never too early to expose children to the wonders of "free" books (until you find one in your attic five years after the due date). We ended up with five books for Eli and one titled Positive Discipline The First Three Years for me (no, it was not filed under "Fiction").

As I read, I started wondering whether or not I would be able to pull off using positive discipline with Elijah when the only discipline I grew up with was in the form of a metal coat hanger. It is commonly said that "one parents the way one was parented" so if that's true, I'm really glad Brian has a large pile of wire coat hangers in the garage.

The problem with these books is that with each chapter, you begin to dissect your own upbringing. For me, there was no "positive" in discipline. If I could not meet what was expected of me (behaviorally or otherwise), I was guilted or shamed. Feelings were not to be expressed, but instead, be salted and swallowed.

I conformed. My sister...not so much (her childhood laurels: the "black sheep").

What I want for my son is not what I had as a child. Certainly, we will impose boundaries but I want to acknowledge and celebrate his feelings and help him develop a positive self confidence (versus an "I suck" approach to life) free of guilt...even in his tantrums.

Just today, he refused to have his pants put on. He wriggled and squirmed, his volume increasing with each wriggle and squirm. So, instead of getting frustrated, I picked him up (pantless) and took him outside...into the pouring rain. What I hoped would shock him, instead showed him that playing out in the rain pantless is a lot of fun. No pants, no tears, and lots of laughter. I guess that's something to celebrate.

Hmm...in twenty years, I could be the mother of a confident, independent, capable young man who likes to dance naked in the pouring rain. For that, I might feel guilty.

Slow Motion

2009-02-05T12:55:00.000-08:00

I hate slow. Call me impatient, but there are few things worse to me than getting stuck behind a few slow walkers (sloggers) who feel the need to walk three-across. I hate slow. If I am paying for wireless internet, I don't want ever want to see that unfortunate yet brightly-colored pinwheel (whose idea was that anyway?!) lest my language suddenly becomes a tint shadier. I hate slow. Whoever designed my washing machine needs to seriously reexamine the meaning of "1 minute remaining". I hate slow.

So...how is it that I spent an entire thirty minutes of my life yesterday watching four (I counted them several times) crows hop back and forth across the blacktop in my neighborhood park? Because apparently, babies love slow.

Efficiency is what we are taught leads to effectiveness. We all want to be effective people, do we not? Brian's company just spent who knows how much money in this poor economy training their workers the seven (yes, just seven) habits of highly effective people. Airplanes have replaced trains, email has replaced snail mail, and the microwave has replaced the stove. People LOVE fast. I LOVE fast.

Until now.

My pace of life has slowed so dramatically that you could probably press the fast-forward button and still be watching me in slow-motion. Why? I'm realizing that if I live too quickly and force efficacy upon Elijah, we miss out. Eli is seeing many things in this world for the first time and, just like the first time I saw maggots, Eli has to STARE and reSTARE. It is so hard to try and see novelty in the mundane (an oatmeal container), but I am realizing that in so doing, I am really learning to SEE!

Did you know, for instance, that crows are highly social birds and will "sing" to signal food sources to other crows? I didn't, until yesterday. Did you know that if you continually rub your index finger across an emory board, sooner or later it no longer feels so rough? I didn't until today when I copied Eli for a good ten minutes. Did you know that you actually have tiny hairs growing out of the follicles in your face? I didn't see them until I copied Eli and pressed my face against the bathroom mirror and stared at myself.

My challenge to you today? Go slowly. Watch the mundane, you might find something new...just make sure you get out of my way on the sidewalk!

Bite Me.

2009-02-02T09:38:00.000-08:00

I had to Google the actual meaning of the slang term "bite me" before I sat down to write this. According to the Online Slang Dictionary, it is a not-too-vulgar way to say "leave me alone". This source, however, does not include how this term came into being (although I'm sure if I do another Google search, I would be enlightened on the matter). I imagine that maybe someone somewhere was bitten once by another someone and it hurt? Well, "bite me" has certainly taken on a new meaning for me now that Elijah has teeth. Ouch.

There are very few people who will repeat behaviors that hurt. I'm not talking about self-destructive behaviors or the stuff that employs therapists. No, I'm talking about sticking your finger repeatedly on a needle, or repeatedly stepping on a tack (which I supposed could become self-destructive, but we won't go there today). Usually, once we learn that something hurts, we won't do it again.

Until...you have a nursing baby with teeth.

Once he got the hang of it, nursing Elijah was wonderful. I was guaranteed at least 15 minutes of peace and quiet and could even sneak in a little catnap at times. That was the case until a few weeks ago when Elijah discovered that I could be used as a teething toy! The first time he bit, I yelled "NO" as loudly as I could which made him cry, hard. The next thing I knew, I was apologizing to him!

The second time he bit me, I reacted by biting the inside of my mouth and switching him over to the other side; an invitation to bite me again. The third time he bit me, I considered weaning. Now nursing comes with a true sense of self sacrifice. I am actually repeating hurtful behavior out of necessity! Where's the common sense in that?!

Motherhood comes with a definite set of "bite me"s: bodily fluids (in unbelievable quantities), disobedience, temper tantrums, college tuition, bad girl/boyfriends...just to name a few. The really crazy thing is that I'll probably do this more than once! OUCH!

The Sky is Purple

2009-01-29T08:31:00.001-08:00

As a teacher, part of my responsibility was to present factual information to my students. Sounds straight-forward, right? The ancient Egyptians built the pyramids. FACT. Nouns are people, places, things and ideas. FACT. Shakespeare wrote Hamlet. FACT. Yes, these are all facts until a research report is assigned. The Internet is a diamond field of anti-facts. Aliens could have built the pyramids, verbs can sometimes act as nouns and well, Shakespeare was actually the village idiot.

That was when I realized the weight of my responsibility. I actually had, within my power, to give my students misinformation! I could tell them that the ancient Greeks invented hair gel or that Julius Caesar lived in Boston or that Prince Charles is a handsome man! Just as well I have a good moral compass (that's NOT a fact, by the way).

This Christmas, we didn't have the wherewithal to get Elijah's first picture with Santa. This was not because we didn't have the time or the resources. Yes, the long lines at the mall were a deterrent, but the main reason is because I want to tell my child that the Abominable Snowman is responsible for his Christmas presents. This is where some of you will start doubting my moral compass.

In my point of view, Santa Claus is just as real as Mr. Abominable who is just as real as the Tooth Fairy Godmother (wait, I just combined a couple of anti-fact people). I am not depriving my child of good childhood memories (as some of you probably think) but rather I am saving him from the realization that Santa Claus is a non-existent foreigner with a weight problem and a fetish for shiny red noses.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I want Elijah's experience of Christmas to be richer than what Hallmark and Hollywood films would have him believe. Christmas trees, Christmas lights, tinsel, jingle bells and yes, Santa Claus can certainly set the scene for the season, but what's more important to me is for Eli to discern the facts from the anti-facts. After all, what's more creative than a picture of Jesus on a sled behind three wise men (one with a red nose) following a star set against a purple sky?

Bacon...I mean, Brian.

2009-01-28T16:30:00.000-08:00

My last name is credited to the man I chose to marry. His name is Brian which means "hill". So, I married "hill Hill". Okay, that's not all there is to him. Brian is from England which means that his upper lip is stiffer than plywood, his wit is sharper than Cheddar and his love of bacon is beyond my understanding. He also happens to be 11 years my senior which just means that he has more white hair; age has nothing to do with emotional maturity.

Brian complements me in many ways. In this blog, I shall count 5 (for now):

1. He is the west to my east: I was born in Taiwan, he in England. He commands a pair of chopsticks better than I do and I have a better command of English spelling. He appreciates my culture (okay..maybe just the food part), and I have always loved Pride and Prejudice.

2. He is the humor to my seriousness: People think I'm funny (that's funny) but my inner state of being is one of seriousness, introspection and self-criticism. Brian finds all three of those characteristics hilarious and never fails to remind me through teasing. Sometimes he makes me laugh, sometimes he makes me cry.

3. I have emotional baggage, he has trunk space: Brian might be the only person on Earth who doesn't understand how baggage can be emotional. Just as well because I have enough for both of us. Brian tries really hard to unpack my baggage, but that just makes me mad. Instead, he's learned that all he has to do is listen. After all, I still have some baggage at baggage claim: around and around they go.

4. He is the freezer, I am microwave: Brian is pretty chill. I am not chill at all. Whenever I get really zapped out (ladies, you know what I mean), he is really patient with me and sometimes even allows me to zap him (and sometimes he deserves it). Brian often reminds me to relax and not take life so seriously. Don't worry, he often says, don't worry...as he puts a metal-rimmed cup into the microwave....

5. He surfs, I swim against the wave: Brian prefers to wait for the waves to come to him and then rides them. On top of the water he can get a good look around, enjoy the excitement and breathe. That's how he lives his life and how he fathers Elijah. Sit Eli on the counter and if he falls flat on his face, well, he'll learn to sit better next time!

Me, I enjoy going against the wave. I enjoy getting saltwater in my eyes and down my throat. I savor the inability to breathe. I like fighting for my life. Hmm...that sounds a bit masochistic doesn't it? When Eli finally sleeps for nine hours straight, I lie awake for four of those nine hours wondering whether or not he's still alive. Brian's response to this: "Well, if he's dead, it's too late now!"

By no means are these the only reasons why I married Hill Hill. Although we disagree on how often our toilets should be cleaned and I still sometimes give him the Silent Treatment, there is no denying our love for each other. Well....on most days, I think he loves me more than bacon.

Mother Superior...Good Heavens!

2009-01-27T14:36:00.000-08:00

The next time you visit an outlet mall or Costco, pay attention to the people around you. What you will probably notice is that many of them are Asian. We Asians will flock to where the bargains are. We will seek out the best quality "stuff" at the lowest prices. We will wait in long lines at the Coach outlet store and proudly sport designer labels on our fronts, backs, behinds, and foreheads. I know I am making a mass generalization, but at the root of all exaggeration lies a grain of truth.

I am not that Asian. I do like nice things preferably at bargain rates, but I do not like to flaunt what I own or what I know. In some ways, exposing up-scale possessions brings a hint of guilt rather than pride for me. But I am not ignorant to designer products. I am not talking handbags and shoes, but rather baby products.

Why anyone would want to own a $900 stroller is beyond me. Like all strollers, it will get peed on, pooped on, and spit up on. Like all strollers, it will help get baby from Point A to Point B. Like all strollers, it will be a pain to transport in a sedan. Like all strollers, you need to push it. But unlike all strollers, pushing it through town will allow others to see where you sit on the socioeconomic scale. Owning that Bugaboo is more about the mother than the baby.

I can now identify "expensive" strollers from across the street. When I see them, I immediately find myself examining the woman (usually) pushing it. I start wondering what brand shoes she is wearing. I start wondering what her husband does for a living. I start assigning attributes to her: whiny, high-maintenance, prissy. Then I start to secretly feel superior to her. I don't need a designer stroller to be a good mother. I don't need a designer stroller to be important. I bet her baby's ugly so she needs a nice stroller to compensate.

Why I feel the need to justify my choice of a crappy stroller by putting another person's choice down is also linked to pride. I am proud that Elijah's room is furnished mostly by Craigslist.com and about that, I have boasted. I am proud that we were able to find quality goods (with a few nicks and scratches) for bargain prices, and I have boasted about that too. Secretly, I am just as guilty of "flaunting my goods" as those women whose babies puke up in $1000 strollers.

At the end of the day, I need to remember that we are all in this together. I need to learn to put judgement aside and see that as mothers we all deal with sleepless nights, colicky babies, poopy diapers and husbands who sometimes "just don't get it" (I promise, husbands will be addressed). We are all Mother Superiors whether we own expensive things for our babies or not.

Good heavens! I guess I AM Asian after all!

BFF

2009-01-23T11:59:00.000-08:00

In elementary school, the letters BFF were commonly understood to mean "Best Friends Forever". These letters were usually found penciled onto Trapper Keepers, emblazoned on the sidewalk with chalk or engraved into bracelets and lockets. I remember buying a pink plastic heart locket with these letters carved crudely in black for my very first BFF. Walking into Claire's with $5.00 (probably equilavent to $10.00 in today's money), I was confident that Natalie Miranda deserved to share these letters with me.

Natalie was my first friend in the United States. She protected me in the first grade from the taunts of David Feldman (there are names you just don't forget-EVER) who thought it was funny to spit in the face of a non-English-speaking Chinese immigrant known to fart during circle time. Natalie didn't mind my farts and invited me to her house even when the only word I could say in English was "[long silence here]". She didn't think my peanut butter and egg sandwiches were weird either. Natalie and I remained good friends until she found a boyfriend in the eighth grade. She moved on and became interested in Guess jeans and eye shadow. I joined the Math Team and Mural Club. Naturally, we were no longer BFFs.

In high school, no one even came close to gaining BFF status. That's what happens when you complete four years at just as many schools. I graduated from College du Leman in Switzerland along with 59 other seniors. Sixty students and my BFF was chocolate. I refer to that period of my life as "The Black Hole".

College and post-college was where I learned to be befriended and to be a friend. This was also when I discovered that friendships can work like therapy bills: on a sliding scale. Someone sharing a test tube of fruit flies with me was my "friend". I also discovered that above the "friend" level exists a "sister" level; I am lucky to have a few women who I consider my "sisters".

Since becoming a mother, my friendships have been tested. I have realized that women embarking on the path of motherhood need to BFF - BRING FORGIVING FRIENDS. I am very blessed to have a handful of FFs now. These are women who might not hear from me in weeks or months but who don't hold my lack of communication or flakiness against me. With these "sisters", I can just "show up" with or without makeup (emotional or physical).

Along the way, those who are not able to understand this have discarded me like old pieces of clothing. But there are those who understand that even with holes in the crotch, there is nothing like the comfort of old clothes.

Thank you to my FFs. You gals are like fleece sweatpants. Comfy and indispensable.

Mother Mutt

2009-01-22T08:23:00.000-08:00

We have a dog of unknown origin. Some say he looks like a Ridgeback, some say he looks like a Great Dane and others simply call him "odd". I passed him off once as an overgrown Chihuahua. What we do know is that he is large (74 pounds), he is somewhere between 7-9 years of age (we adopted him when he was between 4-6 years of age), and that he'd rather spend his life on the futon than guard our house. Sherlock is completely unaware of his own physical parameters. With Elijah, he is a gentle giant which has earned him his new label: Mother Mutt (he is only half male, after all). These are lessons I have learned about mothering from our dog:

1. Watch before you Lick: new mothers are over-cautious. At first whimper, Elijah was in my arms. I prevent falls, face-plants, and messy chins. I react at the first signs of hunger, fatigue, and frustration. I panic when Elijah sleeps too long, eats too little, or poops too much. Sherlock, on the other hand, always observes before he acts. He allows for messy chins (and floors) then cleans up once Eli's done eating. He waits calmly until Eli's whimpers become full-blown cries before reacting, he naps for as long as Eli is asleep and is happy whether or not Eli has pooped. He watches Eli play and licks him after he falls over or bangs his head on the hardwood floor.

2. Lick more, complain less: Elijah often unintentially hurts me. He hits me with his fist while nursing, he pulls at my hair, he tugs at my nose, he scratches my face, he ruins my schedule, he cries when I exercise (I could go on and on, but I will stop here). Sometimes, I grow resentful and angry at him and wish for my pre-baby life. Sherlock, on the other hand, reacts to unintentional abuse with frantic fits of licking. When whacked by a toy, he licks. When his ears are pulled, nose punched, lips tugged, he licks. When his walks are disrupted by a crying baby, he licks. When he misses his walk entirely due to a napping baby, he licks. Lick more, complain less.

3. Sleep when the baby sleeps: uh, need I say more?

4. Relax: I feel the pressure to provide high-quality interaction for Elijah all the time. After all, I am a stay-at-home mom whose job it is to raise a smart, social, well-adjusted and responsible child. I feel guilty when I have to leave him to self-entertain while I eat lunch, go to the bathroom, or fold the laundry. Sherlock, on the other hand, is excellent at resting his weary head while watching Elijah play. He will interact when necessary (if poked, prodded, fallen on or spoken to). Sherlock watches for Eli's cues and then interacts. Relax, let the child lead.

5. Remain hopeful: There was a time when I wondered and sometimes still wonder: when will the crying stop? When will he sleep for more than 3 hours at a stretch, when will he stop wanting to nurse every 2 hours, when will my husband (to appear in a later blog) learn?! I tend to dwell in the hopelessness of any one situation. Not Sherlock. He sits patiently at the kitchen table in hopes that something will fall. He waits patiently for his walks even on days when they come 2 hours late. He is always hoping for something good to come his way even when the trend proves otherwise. I must learn to do the same. The best thing I can do as a mother is to remain hopeful.

Thanks Sherlock for being a great Mother Mutt. You might get lucky today.

To do: Make a List of To Do's...(oops, ran out of time)

2009-01-21T06:57:00.000-08:00

I like to get things done. I like to feel busy and useful. On any given day, I will draft up a mental list of things to accomplish and will often recite it to Elijah at his morning diaper change. Consider it a daily meeting between a manager and her employee, except in our case, I'm not quite sure who holds the reins.

I love lists. In college, I had an entire wall area filled with lists on brightly colored Post-It notes. I had lists within lists (think outline) and even if I couldn't cross anything off, the fact that I had a list felt like an accomplishment. My lists were color-coded: supplies for a biology project on pink, groceries on green, people to call on blue. This obsessive list-making kicked into high gear when I started teaching. I had sticky notes stuck on my computer screen (that is, until I discovered the Post-It application on my Mac). I had lists on and inside of manila file folders, I had lists in my teacher plan book, I even had a list on the dashboard of my car to remind me of what I had to bring home on any given day. I had lists for my students: the daily schedule (in chronological order), how to compose a paragraph (in sequence order), how to edit a composition (in process order), how to complete homework assignments (in order of importance). Looking back, I feel sorry for my students. They were constantly picking my lists off the floor and had to spend a few hours at the end of the school year peeling Post-It notes out of each textbook.

That was in B.E. (Before Elijah). It didn't take long before I realized that making a To Do List with a baby is completely pointless and a complete waste of time. But did I stop making them? NO. My lists changed from "call mom, get groceries, go to the bank, mail package" to "get up, feed baby, burp baby, change diaper, sleep baby, [shower], feed baby, change baby...." Notice the repeated word??

I've since stopped writing lists down because everything I do has become tentative or conditional (totally counter purpose of a list). Instead, I make mental lists so they can change at the cry of the baby. On days that I actually accomplish something on my mental list, I am glad. On days that nothing gets done, I have also learned to be glad. I am learning to live life on the fly. However, for that I DO need a list.

To Do:

Let it go
Be glad
Clean the floor.

The 50th Percentile

2009-01-20T15:48:00.000-08:00

I have always wished I could do one thing really well: be an accomplished pianist, a published author, or a teacher recognized for saving a school full of middle school students from a life of illiteracy. However, I am only a mediocre pianist, at best, I will probably never see my name in print beyond this blog (does my name even appear?), and I have possibly taught my students the difference between a noun and a verb (what's a gerund?). The one thing I could say I did well was clean my floors. With a mop, a broom or a vacuum in my hands, I could save the world (or at least my floors). With my floors clean, I was overwhelmed with a sense of accomplishment and success; everything was under control. That is, until Elijah was born 6 months ago. Now, I feel like I'm back to square one-or maybe square -1.

For 6 months, I lived in the land of mediocrity (at times, even that was good). Showering before 5pm was an accomplishment, getting more than three hours of sleep at one time was success, making sure I didn't throw Elijah out the window deserved a gold medal. Life was being lived at 50% and as much as I was supposed to be "loving each and every moment because he'll only be a baby once", deep down, I was disappointed that my life suddenly became a series of dirty diapers interspersed with feeding a hungry baby. Another thing to add to my list of mediocre abilities: motherhood.

Last week, Elijah had his 6 month appointment. He weighed in at 17.5 pounds and 26 inches in length. His pediatrician, beaming, exclaimed, "Wow, he's perfect! Exactly 50%tile!" Elijah spent the first four months of life straddling the 10th-15th percentiles in both weight and length. From less than perfect to perfect-that's my baby! I wanted to rejoice as well, but instead I found myself wondering if Elijah was also 50%tile in intelligence and development. After all, I am against mediocrity (and a hypocrite).

If being perfect was being in the 50%tile, then using high school logic, I was in some ways "perfect" also. Maybe in striving for more than mediocre, I was missing the point. Maybe I could find contentment and accomplishment in being mediocre-or at least in giving up my mission to not be "just okay". Okayness is perfect in a world where everything around us urges us to be better: be thinner, be smarter, be prettier, be a better mother, be less controlling, be more loving, be more giving, be less selfish..blah, blah, blah. Elijah was just doing his "thing"-being a baby and living life to the best of his abilities-and he ended up "perfect"...in the 50th percentile.

So, let's embrace mediocrity. Celebrate okayness. Life is too short to strive for 100% when 50% is "perfect"!