ShareThis
So
um
I used to write poetry.
And tonight I came across some.
And i want to post it.
sort of.
because i think it will help me grow as a writer.
since sharing my writing is super hard for me sometimes.
because it is my passion. my art. my comfort zone. but only in private.
so *deep breath*
here goes.
If you hate it, don't tell me.
If you love it, please do.
Do you remember
those
reckless times
You and I were born
on a night
that was
limitless
Bad bantering
I still think
I was right
Your perfect smile,
daring me to take a shot
And you caught
Me
During a random riot
Big pitchers
Weren’t big enough
So we ordered two
Walking with you
Seemed too natural
for my own good
Warm hand
Someone who
Might
finally
Understand
Mmmmm, I remember
a computer screen
Perfect song on repeat
I wish I could say
I don’t miss
The Mystery
You made me believe in me
staring briefly into peace
shared sympathy
I knew we’d wage war
on pain
on fear
on empty tears
and now
you stand tall and
I struggle with today
And I hate what you’re gonna say the next day
And your face
Bears strain
Babies cry
But I cry harder
And we hold hands in the dark
Lips pursed in protest
I love you doesn’t lift the stain
Crazy fool
Hanging on
To repeated
I love you’s
I know you’re bruised
Im sorry the exit door
Is stuck
closed
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Things That Go Fssssssssst in the Night
9:00 pm. “fssssssst” “fssssst” “fsssst” Husband spraying upper body with Solarcaine, after broiling his skin during a day of fishing.
9:15 pm.: In a whisper more akin to a horse than a human…"Mama….? Mama…….MAMA! I’m hungry!”
9:20 p.m: “mnia mnia mnia” Superman smacking his mouth while chewing his banana.
11:00 p.m: “fsssssst.” “fssssssst” “fssssst.” Mean thoughts go through my head.
12:30 a.m.: “Wall-E! beeeeeeep, blrrrrrrrp, Wall-E!” Monchichi’s Eva robot is ready to rock n roll. So is Monchichi.
1:45 am.: “ooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwww……..fsssssssssssssssssst” I am trying really hard to feel sorry for the husband right now. Really. Really. Hard.
3:15 a.m.: “Ah! AAAAAAAAAH! EEEEEEEEEH! Eh! AH!” Monchichi is awake and cares very little about the volume of his voice. Or the brightness of the light bulbs. Damn it.
5:00 a.m: shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, “crap!”………..Me, trying to make it to the bathroom, almost tripping over Monchichi, curled up and snoring on the floor next to my bed, with Eva by his side.
5:00 a.m. galunkgalunkgalunkgalunkgalunk……Nola, our cat, racing up and down the hall as soon as she sees I’m awake……PETA would not like what I am thinking right now.
6:00 a.m. “fssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssst.”
6:03: The best sound of all: my coffee machine brewing the elixir that will keep me awake, after a night filled with sounds only a loving mom and wife could tolerate.
9:15 pm.: In a whisper more akin to a horse than a human…"Mama….? Mama…….MAMA! I’m hungry!”
9:20 p.m: “mnia mnia mnia” Superman smacking his mouth while chewing his banana.
11:00 p.m: “fsssssst.” “fssssssst” “fssssst.” Mean thoughts go through my head.
12:30 a.m.: “Wall-E! beeeeeeep, blrrrrrrrp, Wall-E!” Monchichi’s Eva robot is ready to rock n roll. So is Monchichi.
1:45 am.: “ooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwww……..fsssssssssssssssssst” I am trying really hard to feel sorry for the husband right now. Really. Really. Hard.
3:15 a.m.: “Ah! AAAAAAAAAH! EEEEEEEEEH! Eh! AH!” Monchichi is awake and cares very little about the volume of his voice. Or the brightness of the light bulbs. Damn it.
5:00 a.m: shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, “crap!”………..Me, trying to make it to the bathroom, almost tripping over Monchichi, curled up and snoring on the floor next to my bed, with Eva by his side.
5:00 a.m. galunkgalunkgalunkgalunkgalunk……Nola, our cat, racing up and down the hall as soon as she sees I’m awake……PETA would not like what I am thinking right now.
6:00 a.m. “fssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssst.”
6:03: The best sound of all: my coffee machine brewing the elixir that will keep me awake, after a night filled with sounds only a loving mom and wife could tolerate.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
If Only it Were Possible: A Letter From the Future
Dearest Me:
I am writing to you today, in the hopes that I can spare you some of the unnecessary grief and anguish you are about to endure during your tumultuous years as a teen and young adult. I can only wish that this type of hindsight were possible, a gift from the older version of you, a chance to live a life free of the kind of mistakes only the reckless young can make.
So here goes.
He doesn’t love you. And neither will he. You are worth more than scattered phone calls and promises made in the dark. Your heart already belongs to the one you won’t meet until God is good and ready to bring you two together. And that is who will catch you when you fall, accept your flaws and failures, celebrate the talents you keep so secret. In short, keep your skirt on.
There will be a day, junior year, when your cheer practice will be cancelled. Don’t get in the car with those two troublemakers, and better yet, don’t drink the Gin in the kitchen. You will come back to school, get sick in computer class, make a fool of yourself, and end up in the emergency room. Your parents will cry and ground you and you will be suspended. This is not a good way to get popular. This is a good way to get a bad reputation.
Math is not the class you should be ditching, because, quiet frankly, you stink at it. You need all the help you can get. In fact, getting in your friend’s trunk (a friend you shouldn’t have in the first place because she’s a bad influence) is a horrible idea. There are so many things that can go wrong, namely, the trunk won’t open back up. Hello! Anybody in there??!
Cigarettes. Are you INSANE?
Stop hanging out at that coffee shop. It’s a serious waste of time. And money. And your mom knows where to find you when you don’t come home on time.
Respect your parents. They know what the hell they are talking about. Your dad is a tired workaholic who wants only the best for his family. Your mom wears her heart on her sleeve and wants acceptance and friendship. Ostracizing them may feel like the thing to do now, but when you hear the news that will devastate you and leave you shattered, they will offer you the things that only parents can.
Stop planning for a girl. You will have boys. Two of them. And they will teach you the reason for living. And give you purpose. And hope. Which reminds me. Stop staying out so late. You need your sleep now because once they’re in the picture, you can forget about “sleeping in” or “catching a nap.” Don’t be an idiot. Go to bed!
Diet pills made you tiny. And sick. Plus, you will gain so much weight when you have the babies, there’s no point in taking them really. And your future husband loves you anyway. So flush them down the toilet and go eat something already.
You will become a teacher. I know! So be nice to the ones you have now. They work really hard and get paid very little and someday you will reflect on them and what they did for you.
Your firstborn will be disabled; You will fall apart and God, your family, and friends will help pick up the pieces. You are stronger than you think you are. I wish you could see that now and embrace it.
Time flies by so quickly. Enjoy each day. The tears you shed now will seem meaningless later. So save yourself the drama.
Spend more time with your grandmother.
Love your Polish roots.
You are not the only one with OCD.
Apologize to people first. Even if you aren’t at fault.
Forgive faster.
Hug longer.
You will still drive a Volvo at 31.
Don’t take your sister’s money. She counts it all.
For the love of God, wear your retainer.
Pay your credit card bills on time. Better yet, don't get that student visa. At All.
Don't do that to your hair. You will burn the pictures later.
Polyester went out of style for a reason. Stop trying to ressurect it.
Your senior prom date will end up gay (NOT your fault).
Relax and give it to God.
Now go back to class and raise some hell.
(In a nice, polite, society-approved way, of course.)
I am writing to you today, in the hopes that I can spare you some of the unnecessary grief and anguish you are about to endure during your tumultuous years as a teen and young adult. I can only wish that this type of hindsight were possible, a gift from the older version of you, a chance to live a life free of the kind of mistakes only the reckless young can make.
So here goes.
He doesn’t love you. And neither will he. You are worth more than scattered phone calls and promises made in the dark. Your heart already belongs to the one you won’t meet until God is good and ready to bring you two together. And that is who will catch you when you fall, accept your flaws and failures, celebrate the talents you keep so secret. In short, keep your skirt on.
There will be a day, junior year, when your cheer practice will be cancelled. Don’t get in the car with those two troublemakers, and better yet, don’t drink the Gin in the kitchen. You will come back to school, get sick in computer class, make a fool of yourself, and end up in the emergency room. Your parents will cry and ground you and you will be suspended. This is not a good way to get popular. This is a good way to get a bad reputation.
Math is not the class you should be ditching, because, quiet frankly, you stink at it. You need all the help you can get. In fact, getting in your friend’s trunk (a friend you shouldn’t have in the first place because she’s a bad influence) is a horrible idea. There are so many things that can go wrong, namely, the trunk won’t open back up. Hello! Anybody in there??!
Cigarettes. Are you INSANE?
Stop hanging out at that coffee shop. It’s a serious waste of time. And money. And your mom knows where to find you when you don’t come home on time.
Respect your parents. They know what the hell they are talking about. Your dad is a tired workaholic who wants only the best for his family. Your mom wears her heart on her sleeve and wants acceptance and friendship. Ostracizing them may feel like the thing to do now, but when you hear the news that will devastate you and leave you shattered, they will offer you the things that only parents can.
Stop planning for a girl. You will have boys. Two of them. And they will teach you the reason for living. And give you purpose. And hope. Which reminds me. Stop staying out so late. You need your sleep now because once they’re in the picture, you can forget about “sleeping in” or “catching a nap.” Don’t be an idiot. Go to bed!
Diet pills made you tiny. And sick. Plus, you will gain so much weight when you have the babies, there’s no point in taking them really. And your future husband loves you anyway. So flush them down the toilet and go eat something already.
You will become a teacher. I know! So be nice to the ones you have now. They work really hard and get paid very little and someday you will reflect on them and what they did for you.
Your firstborn will be disabled; You will fall apart and God, your family, and friends will help pick up the pieces. You are stronger than you think you are. I wish you could see that now and embrace it.
Time flies by so quickly. Enjoy each day. The tears you shed now will seem meaningless later. So save yourself the drama.
Spend more time with your grandmother.
Love your Polish roots.
You are not the only one with OCD.
Apologize to people first. Even if you aren’t at fault.
Forgive faster.
Hug longer.
You will still drive a Volvo at 31.
Don’t take your sister’s money. She counts it all.
For the love of God, wear your retainer.
Pay your credit card bills on time. Better yet, don't get that student visa. At All.
Don't do that to your hair. You will burn the pictures later.
Polyester went out of style for a reason. Stop trying to ressurect it.
Your senior prom date will end up gay (NOT your fault).
Relax and give it to God.
Now go back to class and raise some hell.
(In a nice, polite, society-approved way, of course.)
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Overheard.....
8:07 a.m.
Thursday morning:
Superman reading a Clone Wars book out loud, ignoring the cartoon on the tv behind him.
As his mom, I couldn't be more proud.
As his kindergarten teacher, I take full credit.
Thursday morning:
Superman reading a Clone Wars book out loud, ignoring the cartoon on the tv behind him.
As his mom, I couldn't be more proud.
As his kindergarten teacher, I take full credit.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Everyone Needs A Wife
She dated my ex-boyfriend not long after we had broken up.
I hated her guts for it.
He bought me loads of clothes at Wet Seal.
He took HER to Hawaii.
Long over the awkward boy that made me weep, chop off my hair and dye it burgundy, I still felt a sense of ownership and couldn’t stand that he had moved on with this tiny blonde.
She was MINE.
I tortured her in the hallways, I in my size nine Doc Marten boots.
She in her size 4 sandals.
I called her names when she walked by and if you’ve every rhymed with your child, you may already be familiar with some of these names.
I peeled with laughter when their prom pictures came in, laughing at the chopsticks in her hair, their height difference, her dress.
I was out for vengeance.
Eventually they broke up.
And suddenly I stopped caring about either one of them.
It was over a homecoming game, I, a cheerleader from the previous year, she a cheerleader in that one. My left arm was velcroed to my chest ( that’s a different post all together), and I was unable to wear my uniform, let alone cheer that night. She took a risk and invited me onto her cheer podium, and I took a risk and accepted. I cheered alongside her that night, pom pom in one hand, two senior girls united by a common foe.
A stupid boy.
We became inseparable after that night. Our friendship was fast, fun, furious. We ditched buses on the way to senior events, riding instead in her red Mazda, Madonna cranked up, screaming lyrics on the freeways of sunny southern California. We were wild and she was dating a 20-something who gave her a key to his Huntington Beach apartment. We had the world in the palm of our hand.
College came and she moved away. I would go visit her up North, always coming home with a headache and fuzzy memories. We did our best to survive but life threw bad choices and mistakes, distance and heartbreak our way and soon we hadn’t talked in a very long time.
But God has a way of bringing people together.
Especially those that deserve a second chance.
And a third.
My second born and her first are three months apart. If possible, they are closer than her and I.
She is generous in her compliments, but break her heart and you pay the price.
She treats my babies like they are her own.
I know where she keeps the extra toilet paper and her bathroom scale is set 1.5 pounds higher than mine.
She has repainted the inside of her house no less than ten times.
She can bake chocolate chip cookies. Without flour. Or chocolate chips.
She asks tough questions and accepts the answers. Without judgment.
She provokes thought and change and she inspired me to teach (among other things).
She doesn’t giver herself enough credit and always gives me too much.
She was in the ER when Monchichi had Kawasaki Syndrome, or suffered a round of non-stop seizures, bringing tacos, magazines, and mismatched jammies in giant duffle bags.
She is honest, sometimes painfully so, but it has only served to make me a better person.
She loves my family because it is her family too.
On Wednesday, she dropped off enough fruits and veggies to feed the greater part of downtown LA. She demanded I go to urgent care and drove my sniffling, sweaty, fatigued butt down there herself, filling out my medical forms and forging my signature while she asked for a private room “because things aren’t looking too good right now.”
We take turns you know.
She has a bad week, I take over.
I have a bad month, and suddenly she’s back in charge.
She is more than my best friend.
She’s my wife.
And every woman should have one.
As long as you leave MINE alone.
*Love you Ethel.
I hated her guts for it.
He bought me loads of clothes at Wet Seal.
He took HER to Hawaii.
Long over the awkward boy that made me weep, chop off my hair and dye it burgundy, I still felt a sense of ownership and couldn’t stand that he had moved on with this tiny blonde.
She was MINE.
I tortured her in the hallways, I in my size nine Doc Marten boots.
She in her size 4 sandals.
I called her names when she walked by and if you’ve every rhymed with your child, you may already be familiar with some of these names.
I peeled with laughter when their prom pictures came in, laughing at the chopsticks in her hair, their height difference, her dress.
I was out for vengeance.
Eventually they broke up.
And suddenly I stopped caring about either one of them.
It was over a homecoming game, I, a cheerleader from the previous year, she a cheerleader in that one. My left arm was velcroed to my chest ( that’s a different post all together), and I was unable to wear my uniform, let alone cheer that night. She took a risk and invited me onto her cheer podium, and I took a risk and accepted. I cheered alongside her that night, pom pom in one hand, two senior girls united by a common foe.
A stupid boy.
We became inseparable after that night. Our friendship was fast, fun, furious. We ditched buses on the way to senior events, riding instead in her red Mazda, Madonna cranked up, screaming lyrics on the freeways of sunny southern California. We were wild and she was dating a 20-something who gave her a key to his Huntington Beach apartment. We had the world in the palm of our hand.
College came and she moved away. I would go visit her up North, always coming home with a headache and fuzzy memories. We did our best to survive but life threw bad choices and mistakes, distance and heartbreak our way and soon we hadn’t talked in a very long time.
But God has a way of bringing people together.
Especially those that deserve a second chance.
And a third.
My second born and her first are three months apart. If possible, they are closer than her and I.
She is generous in her compliments, but break her heart and you pay the price.
She treats my babies like they are her own.
I know where she keeps the extra toilet paper and her bathroom scale is set 1.5 pounds higher than mine.
She has repainted the inside of her house no less than ten times.
She can bake chocolate chip cookies. Without flour. Or chocolate chips.
She asks tough questions and accepts the answers. Without judgment.
She provokes thought and change and she inspired me to teach (among other things).
She doesn’t giver herself enough credit and always gives me too much.
She was in the ER when Monchichi had Kawasaki Syndrome, or suffered a round of non-stop seizures, bringing tacos, magazines, and mismatched jammies in giant duffle bags.
She is honest, sometimes painfully so, but it has only served to make me a better person.
She loves my family because it is her family too.
On Wednesday, she dropped off enough fruits and veggies to feed the greater part of downtown LA. She demanded I go to urgent care and drove my sniffling, sweaty, fatigued butt down there herself, filling out my medical forms and forging my signature while she asked for a private room “because things aren’t looking too good right now.”
We take turns you know.
She has a bad week, I take over.
I have a bad month, and suddenly she’s back in charge.
She is more than my best friend.
She’s my wife.
And every woman should have one.
As long as you leave MINE alone.
*Love you Ethel.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
This Just In.......
I am not good at being sick.
In fact, I stink at it.
I don't know how to lay down, or not do the dishes, or not fold the laundry, or not cook dinner, or not prepare the kiddos' lunch boxes for the next day. I keep looking around my germ-ridden bedroom, wanting to vaccum, and organize and finally finish painting that one little corner on the ceiling that needs a major touch-up.
But I am sick enough that I am even postponing going pee as long as I can because there is an entire marching band made up of tone deaf trumpet players playing a crappy rendition of "Louie Louie" in my head every time I stand up.
Man I wish I had a bigger bladder.
But I am also a total control freak who cannot stand it when my loving husband doesn't do something the way I would do it and so this is just God's little way of showing me that I am not the one in charge and to sit my ass down already and let someone else run the show for a change.
And guess what? The kids have been fed. All three days! I know!
And no one went to school naked!
And I think teeth were brushed, and hair was combed, and I even heard toilets flushing!
And someone subbed for my kindergarten class and there have been no reports of children flunking out or fires being started or classwork being done upside down.
Could I have been wrong all this time?
Maybe it's okay if I step aside sometimes and let others make the decisions and organize the events and make the preparations.
Who am I kidding. That is so not gonna happen.
It's called OCD people!
Anyway
I made an Irish dinner in the crockpot today because that was all i could muster but i can't taste or smell anything...... the husband is eating it and hasn't gagged once......which means it must be okay.......
Did I mention yet how boring being sick is???????????????????
k.
im done.
In fact, I stink at it.
I don't know how to lay down, or not do the dishes, or not fold the laundry, or not cook dinner, or not prepare the kiddos' lunch boxes for the next day. I keep looking around my germ-ridden bedroom, wanting to vaccum, and organize and finally finish painting that one little corner on the ceiling that needs a major touch-up.
But I am sick enough that I am even postponing going pee as long as I can because there is an entire marching band made up of tone deaf trumpet players playing a crappy rendition of "Louie Louie" in my head every time I stand up.
Man I wish I had a bigger bladder.
But I am also a total control freak who cannot stand it when my loving husband doesn't do something the way I would do it and so this is just God's little way of showing me that I am not the one in charge and to sit my ass down already and let someone else run the show for a change.
And guess what? The kids have been fed. All three days! I know!
And no one went to school naked!
And I think teeth were brushed, and hair was combed, and I even heard toilets flushing!
And someone subbed for my kindergarten class and there have been no reports of children flunking out or fires being started or classwork being done upside down.
Could I have been wrong all this time?
Maybe it's okay if I step aside sometimes and let others make the decisions and organize the events and make the preparations.
Who am I kidding. That is so not gonna happen.
It's called OCD people!
Anyway
I made an Irish dinner in the crockpot today because that was all i could muster but i can't taste or smell anything...... the husband is eating it and hasn't gagged once......which means it must be okay.......
Did I mention yet how boring being sick is???????????????????
k.
im done.
Monday, March 16, 2009
There Are Some Things Money Can't Buy
A successful bowling birthday party is not one of them.
Number of invitees: 25
Number that attended: 17
Age of Birthday Boy: 7
Number of Strikes: 12 *
Number of Gutter Balls: 200*
Pizza consumed (in boxes) 7
Pitchers of Lemonade: 3
Hours of Bowling: 1.5
Number of times Mommy cried: 1
Pictures taken: 124
Game Tokens Per Guest: 8
Money Spent on Party: $$$$$$$$$$$$
Seeing our son respond to his birthday and guests like never before, making it the most successful party we’ve ever thrown for our firstborn: Priceless.
*Totally made up figures, since I didn't actually sit and count all of the strikes and gutter balls being thrown by 17 children over five lanes.* Duh.
Number of invitees: 25
Number that attended: 17
Age of Birthday Boy: 7
Number of Strikes: 12 *
Number of Gutter Balls: 200*
Pizza consumed (in boxes) 7
Pitchers of Lemonade: 3
Hours of Bowling: 1.5
Number of times Mommy cried: 1
Pictures taken: 124
Game Tokens Per Guest: 8
Money Spent on Party: $$$$$$$$$$$$
Seeing our son respond to his birthday and guests like never before, making it the most successful party we’ve ever thrown for our firstborn: Priceless.
*Totally made up figures, since I didn't actually sit and count all of the strikes and gutter balls being thrown by 17 children over five lanes.* Duh.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Seven Years in the Making
I don’t remember the day of the week.
I remember that I was starving, and your daddy promised me a giant veggie burrito from El Taco. I doubled over at the local gas station, and it never occurred to me that I might be going into labor. I had no idea what it would feel like; I was just so scared that something was wrong.
We drove to the hospital, and decided to get dinner on the way home. When they gently informed me that I was in the first stages of labor and that I was going to be admitted, all I could think about was that I wouldn’t be getting my burrito after all. Hours later, when I complained first about the hunger, secondly about the pain, the nurse brought in a small cup of jello and ice chips. Buffet maternity ward style.
Your daddy tried to be brave, but as my contractions got worse, his face got paler. We called home and it was the middle of the night. The nurse assured us that we had PLENTY of time before our arrival and to try and get some rest. (Why they even bother to say that to a woman in labor I will never know).
You entered the world at 11:29 a.m, and I felt a mixture of emotions that cannot be described in human terms. Love at first sight isn’t even strong enough. You were so tiny and I was so tired and daddy looked at me and said “No matter what wrongs you may cause me in the future, you are forgiven, because of this moment.” Or something like that. Remember daddy?
We took you home days later, and when we placed you in the crib you looked like a cabbage patch doll. I didn’t know human beings came so small! I didn’t know something so small could be so powerful.
I didn’t know many things.
You and I.
We have been seven years in the making.
You made me a mother.
And I still have no idea what I’m doing.
But you forgive me and remind me of what is important.
You have taught me patience, pain, tolerance, compassion, forgiveness, protection, jealousy, joy, resolve, resilience, an all-encompassing love that somehow manages to grow each day, surpassing all logical limits, giving me a inner-strength and courage I never knew I possessed.
You have done more for me son, then I could ever do for you.
You are nothing short of a miracle.
You have no judgments.
You wake up each day, a smile on your face, ready to love and create and laugh.
Despite the obstacles that you are challenged with, you love life.
How can that be?
You are pure and we are blessed in your presence.
You are Seven years in the making.
Just getting started.
Leading us on a journey we never could have predicted.
And we are so in love.
Happy Birthday Monchichi.
We drove to the hospital, and decided to get dinner on the way home. When they gently informed me that I was in the first stages of labor and that I was going to be admitted, all I could think about was that I wouldn’t be getting my burrito after all. Hours later, when I complained first about the hunger, secondly about the pain, the nurse brought in a small cup of jello and ice chips. Buffet maternity ward style.
Your daddy tried to be brave, but as my contractions got worse, his face got paler. We called home and it was the middle of the night. The nurse assured us that we had PLENTY of time before our arrival and to try and get some rest. (Why they even bother to say that to a woman in labor I will never know).
You entered the world at 11:29 a.m, and I felt a mixture of emotions that cannot be described in human terms. Love at first sight isn’t even strong enough. You were so tiny and I was so tired and daddy looked at me and said “No matter what wrongs you may cause me in the future, you are forgiven, because of this moment.” Or something like that. Remember daddy?
We took you home days later, and when we placed you in the crib you looked like a cabbage patch doll. I didn’t know human beings came so small! I didn’t know something so small could be so powerful.
I didn’t know many things.
You and I.
We have been seven years in the making.
You made me a mother.
And I still have no idea what I’m doing.
But you forgive me and remind me of what is important.
You have taught me patience, pain, tolerance, compassion, forgiveness, protection, jealousy, joy, resolve, resilience, an all-encompassing love that somehow manages to grow each day, surpassing all logical limits, giving me a inner-strength and courage I never knew I possessed.
You have done more for me son, then I could ever do for you.
You are nothing short of a miracle.
You have no judgments.
You wake up each day, a smile on your face, ready to love and create and laugh.
Despite the obstacles that you are challenged with, you love life.
How can that be?
You are pure and we are blessed in your presence.
You are Seven years in the making.
Just getting started.
Leading us on a journey we never could have predicted.
And we are so in love.
Happy Birthday Monchichi.
Sweet, Strong, Brilliant YOU.
Sto Lat.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Beware of the Ryhming Game
Just another Tuesday night.....
"Okay Superman. I'm going to say a word, and then you come up with a word that rhymes with it."
"Okay Mommy!"
"Dog"
"Fog"
"Cat"
"Bat"
"Here"
"Ear"
"Book"
"Look"
"Face"
"Race"
"Door"
"Whore"
*silence*
"um, floor"
"WHORE! I said it mommy! WHORE rhymes with Door and Floor. WHORE!"
Shouldn't I have forseen this?
*sigh*
"Okay Superman. I'm going to say a word, and then you come up with a word that rhymes with it."
"Okay Mommy!"
"Dog"
"Fog"
"Cat"
"Bat"
"Here"
"Ear"
"Book"
"Look"
"Face"
"Race"
"Door"
"Whore"
*silence*
"um, floor"
"WHORE! I said it mommy! WHORE rhymes with Door and Floor. WHORE!"
Shouldn't I have forseen this?
*sigh*
Monday, March 9, 2009
Love Shouldn't Be Old Fashioned
My cousin came down from Vegas this weekend, wanting to spend as much time with our grandmother as is humanly possible.
Because things don’t get better when you are 84 and post-stroke.
Friday night grandma woke the house up at 3:00 a.m, standing at the bottom of the stairs, wearing all of her necklaces, a night my cousin dubbed “Mardi Gras.”
It felt good to laugh about it.
Because most of the time it’s so damn sad. Watching someone so pivotal in your life, someone who used to be able to out-walk you on the nearby trail, someone who you have on audio tape yelling at you that you were going to get “as fat as that mail lady in Chicago” if you didn’t stop eating bowls of neopolitan ice cream as an 8 year old, someone who cured your son from a horrible cough by covering him in mashed potatoes, slowly fade away into someone you can barely recognize.
It felt so good to laugh.
On Saturday we took our beloved Babcia to Crab Cooker, a local seafood eatery you should be jealous isn’t in your neighborhood. We sat down, my sister, my cousin, my Babcia and I, and we placed our orders. Suddenly my cousin asked “Babcia, did you bring your teeth?” Babcia was clearly without her chompers and nodded no. I don’t remember the last time I laughed so hard. Here we are, trying to take her on a nice luncheon with her granddaughters, and she leaves her teeth behind at home.
We had to pace her throughout the meal; she stores her food like a chipmunk sometimes. We laughed with her, and at her and we teased and hugged and loved her. It was no different than at home. It was a natural exchange of love and patience and respect.
And when I got up to go to the bathroom, the lady dining alone at the table in front of us stopped me and placed her hand on mine.
“Is that your grandmother?” she asked.
“Yes. She’s our grandma.” I replied.
“I can’t tell you how beautiful it has been to watch you girls interact with her. You must love her so much. You just don’t see that kind of love anymore, not from young people. You have made my day. She is a lucky woman.”
I held back tears and thanked her for the compliment.
I felt a little taller coming back to our table, and shared the conversation with my cousins.
Love shouldn’t be old fashioned.
Go hug your grandma.
Go help someone elderly cross the street.
Go show our senior citizens that we are not hopeless or careless or too busy to love and respect one another.
“See how lucky you are grandma?!” we teased.
Knowing full well that we were the lucky ones.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Your Trash is My Treasure
When my parents first immigrated to America with two kids, they left behind almost all of their belongings. Upon arriving in Houston, Texas, where our family was being hosted by sponsors, my mom began the daunting task of acquiring “stuff.” Stuff we wanted, stuff we needed, stuff we could afford.
And that was the hard part.
Because we wanted A LOT.
We needed A LOT.
We could afford very LITTLE.
Until one day my mom was introduced to Garage Sales.
She was never the same again.
For our family this was the miracle she had been searching for.
Clothes for nickels, toys for pennies, lamps and vases and frames for mere dollars.
So it was no surprise that when we finally moved into our first apartment, our closets were bulging with, you guessed it, stuff.
We grew up on garage sales. And Kmart. (On a side note, it is super hard to be popular and cool when your back-to-school clothes come from Kmart. But she did her best, bless her heart).
As the years passed by and we moved to Southern California, our homes got bigger, our cars were slightly newer and suddenly we were shopping at THE MALL!!!!
But Saturday mornings came and off we went, hitting local garage sales to find happiness in someone else’s belongings.
I would be mortified, embarrassed to no end, always paranoid that we would eventually come across someone from the local school my sister and I attended. It was HORRIBLE.
And then I grew up, wised up, started paying credit card bills, had babies, and man, Garage Sales never looked so good! I remember before Superman was born, I went on a Garage Saleapalooza with my best friend, who was also preggers at the time, and we came back with enough stuff to put Babies R Us out of business. I will never forget turning a hideous yellow dresser that I bought for 25 bucks into a mint green treasure for my second born. I would kneel in the driveway in the high heat of summer, nesting like a mad woman, breathing in paint fumes (which sort of explains a lot….) feeling like I got the deal of the century. That dresser is still with us, tucked away in the kids’ closet, paint peeling and fading, its usefulness still outliving its style.
I definitely have rules for it though.
Books are great.
Furniture with artistic potential is a treasure.
Shoes and undergarments are a big NO NO.
And today I passed down the tradition of going to garage sales to my youngest, when we hopped in the Volvo, armed with one dollar bills, and made our way through our beautiful neighborhood. There was nothing special to buy, except when Superman found some random toys and made his very first garage sale purchase.
“Superman, you have to ask how much it costs,” I told my son. He approached the homeowner and her son and stood there, waiting for me to do it.
“Excuse me, we would like to know how much you would like for these toys?” I asked.
The mom nudged her son, and he began pricing like a true salesman: “Let’s see, the little one is a two dollars and the big one is five.” His mom grinned and adjusted his prices a bit, while Superman took out his five dollar bill. After getting his change, he carefully tucked it into his pocket, turned, looked up at me and said “That was easy mom! Let’s go find another one!”
Apparently he inherited the shopping gene just fine.
And that was the hard part.
Because we wanted A LOT.
We needed A LOT.
We could afford very LITTLE.
Until one day my mom was introduced to Garage Sales.
She was never the same again.
For our family this was the miracle she had been searching for.
Clothes for nickels, toys for pennies, lamps and vases and frames for mere dollars.
So it was no surprise that when we finally moved into our first apartment, our closets were bulging with, you guessed it, stuff.
We grew up on garage sales. And Kmart. (On a side note, it is super hard to be popular and cool when your back-to-school clothes come from Kmart. But she did her best, bless her heart).
As the years passed by and we moved to Southern California, our homes got bigger, our cars were slightly newer and suddenly we were shopping at THE MALL!!!!
But Saturday mornings came and off we went, hitting local garage sales to find happiness in someone else’s belongings.
I would be mortified, embarrassed to no end, always paranoid that we would eventually come across someone from the local school my sister and I attended. It was HORRIBLE.
And then I grew up, wised up, started paying credit card bills, had babies, and man, Garage Sales never looked so good! I remember before Superman was born, I went on a Garage Saleapalooza with my best friend, who was also preggers at the time, and we came back with enough stuff to put Babies R Us out of business. I will never forget turning a hideous yellow dresser that I bought for 25 bucks into a mint green treasure for my second born. I would kneel in the driveway in the high heat of summer, nesting like a mad woman, breathing in paint fumes (which sort of explains a lot….) feeling like I got the deal of the century. That dresser is still with us, tucked away in the kids’ closet, paint peeling and fading, its usefulness still outliving its style.
I definitely have rules for it though.
Books are great.
Furniture with artistic potential is a treasure.
Shoes and undergarments are a big NO NO.
And today I passed down the tradition of going to garage sales to my youngest, when we hopped in the Volvo, armed with one dollar bills, and made our way through our beautiful neighborhood. There was nothing special to buy, except when Superman found some random toys and made his very first garage sale purchase.
“Superman, you have to ask how much it costs,” I told my son. He approached the homeowner and her son and stood there, waiting for me to do it.
“Excuse me, we would like to know how much you would like for these toys?” I asked.
The mom nudged her son, and he began pricing like a true salesman: “Let’s see, the little one is a two dollars and the big one is five.” His mom grinned and adjusted his prices a bit, while Superman took out his five dollar bill. After getting his change, he carefully tucked it into his pocket, turned, looked up at me and said “That was easy mom! Let’s go find another one!”
Apparently he inherited the shopping gene just fine.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Bittersweet Truths
He was born with big blue eyes, a head full of dark hair. He was screaming and wet when they first placed him on my chest and I knew innately, in those first few seconds, that my life would never be the same. And I fell madly in love and cried and stared into a face that belonged to a part of me and I dove into a love that I knew I would never fully comprehend. I promised him the world in those first few seconds and when I finally slept, it was with one eye open.
His sleepy saucer eyes gave me life every morning. He whimpered when he was hungry,;so polite, so careful not to disturb a world that he did not yet comprehend. His tiny feet curled like his daddy’s, and I never loved my life more. He completed a circle I so desperately wanted to belong to. He completed me. He made me laugh and cry and when I held him he made me whole.
He wouldn’t crawl and his arms flapped when music came on the radio. He smiled and giggled and he tried so hard to move a body that wouldn’t listen. He loved lights and Elmo and he hated the thick soup grandma tried to coax into his throat every afternoon. He was so quiet and content and when he smiled I thought I would burst. He loved water and we tried to teach him to swim in the tub. He kicked and shrieked and the minutes ticked by way too fast and when I put him to bed and kissed his damp hair I could feel my heart beating faster and stronger and I knew that I had finally done something right in my life.
They told us that bright March afternoon. They said we were lucky, he was diagnosed so young. I thought I might throw up on the way home. He looked different in his clothes; they were swallowing him whole. He was so tiny, suddenly so frail.
And everything began to change.
He ran crooked, he took too long to look into my eyes, and sometimes I would scream his name, all alone in the car, and I thought I would crumble from the weight that had made its way into my heart. I filled out forms, trying to explain two years of my little boy’s life into spaces that seemed too small. I shook hands with doctors that weren’t good enough, that smiled too wide and promised nothing, writing unemotional reports with too many technical terms.
Tutors and evaluations and suddenly it was May and he collapsed outside and I felt my stomach turn and nothing else mattered and his eyes were rolling and I caught him on the lawn and when he finally looked at me he smiled, and I realized he didn’t even know that the world was crushing the life right out of me.
Those eyes. They begged for understanding in a world where nothing made sense, and they trusted that I would make sense out of it. I didn’t know how. I tried each day, little steps; he loved his books and so we read, sometimes for hours and he pointed to pictures and I wondered if he understood. He loved chocolate milk and I watched him hold his big boy cup, something that other mothers took for granted, something I waited so long to see. We played in the sand and he crunched it in his hands and when he pointed to a plane I was suddenly aware that I had just witnessed a miracle.
I got mad at parenting magazines and shallow articles about playdates and ball games and summer camps and I cancelled my subscriptions. He learned the sign for want and I had to give him everything he asked for just to reinforce it and sometimes it was ten cookies in a row and I just wanted to put him in time-out with his brother when they fought. We hugged and he kissed with his mouth open, patting the bed and pointing to fans. I fantasized about soccer games and football, girlfriends and late night pizza and I wanted to drive fast in another direction.
My mother had a dream. “The Pope said he would talk”, she told me. I swallowed obscenities and nodded quietly. “I believe you” I told her. He drooled all over his new shirt on the way to speech therapy and the young blonde smiled as he resisted, and I couldn't help hating her and her freedom and her distance and her shining eyes as I left my baby in her hands. She has to fix him I thought. She closed her door as I obsessed about his first word.
We kick our feet on the bed. Andrew and I, we kick and we laugh and he stops, eyes wild with anticipation and I scream, “kick” and we bombard my mattress with heels and squeals and for two perfect minutes the world is right and im where im supposed to be and so is he. There are no words necessary in this dance of love and light and anticipation.
We are giggling and we are loud and we are free and I never want to leave this place. I forget for a moment about preschools and proms and PSAT’s and we kick, and my legs are numb
and we are hugging
and we are a circle,
and I am whole.
His sleepy saucer eyes gave me life every morning. He whimpered when he was hungry,;so polite, so careful not to disturb a world that he did not yet comprehend. His tiny feet curled like his daddy’s, and I never loved my life more. He completed a circle I so desperately wanted to belong to. He completed me. He made me laugh and cry and when I held him he made me whole.
He wouldn’t crawl and his arms flapped when music came on the radio. He smiled and giggled and he tried so hard to move a body that wouldn’t listen. He loved lights and Elmo and he hated the thick soup grandma tried to coax into his throat every afternoon. He was so quiet and content and when he smiled I thought I would burst. He loved water and we tried to teach him to swim in the tub. He kicked and shrieked and the minutes ticked by way too fast and when I put him to bed and kissed his damp hair I could feel my heart beating faster and stronger and I knew that I had finally done something right in my life.
They told us that bright March afternoon. They said we were lucky, he was diagnosed so young. I thought I might throw up on the way home. He looked different in his clothes; they were swallowing him whole. He was so tiny, suddenly so frail.
And everything began to change.
He ran crooked, he took too long to look into my eyes, and sometimes I would scream his name, all alone in the car, and I thought I would crumble from the weight that had made its way into my heart. I filled out forms, trying to explain two years of my little boy’s life into spaces that seemed too small. I shook hands with doctors that weren’t good enough, that smiled too wide and promised nothing, writing unemotional reports with too many technical terms.
Tutors and evaluations and suddenly it was May and he collapsed outside and I felt my stomach turn and nothing else mattered and his eyes were rolling and I caught him on the lawn and when he finally looked at me he smiled, and I realized he didn’t even know that the world was crushing the life right out of me.
Those eyes. They begged for understanding in a world where nothing made sense, and they trusted that I would make sense out of it. I didn’t know how. I tried each day, little steps; he loved his books and so we read, sometimes for hours and he pointed to pictures and I wondered if he understood. He loved chocolate milk and I watched him hold his big boy cup, something that other mothers took for granted, something I waited so long to see. We played in the sand and he crunched it in his hands and when he pointed to a plane I was suddenly aware that I had just witnessed a miracle.
I got mad at parenting magazines and shallow articles about playdates and ball games and summer camps and I cancelled my subscriptions. He learned the sign for want and I had to give him everything he asked for just to reinforce it and sometimes it was ten cookies in a row and I just wanted to put him in time-out with his brother when they fought. We hugged and he kissed with his mouth open, patting the bed and pointing to fans. I fantasized about soccer games and football, girlfriends and late night pizza and I wanted to drive fast in another direction.
My mother had a dream. “The Pope said he would talk”, she told me. I swallowed obscenities and nodded quietly. “I believe you” I told her. He drooled all over his new shirt on the way to speech therapy and the young blonde smiled as he resisted, and I couldn't help hating her and her freedom and her distance and her shining eyes as I left my baby in her hands. She has to fix him I thought. She closed her door as I obsessed about his first word.
We kick our feet on the bed. Andrew and I, we kick and we laugh and he stops, eyes wild with anticipation and I scream, “kick” and we bombard my mattress with heels and squeals and for two perfect minutes the world is right and im where im supposed to be and so is he. There are no words necessary in this dance of love and light and anticipation.
We are giggling and we are loud and we are free and I never want to leave this place. I forget for a moment about preschools and proms and PSAT’s and we kick, and my legs are numb
and we are hugging
and we are a circle,
and I am whole.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
What Not To Say.......Part 1*
When you are leaving a restroom after a side by side stall conversation with a coworker:
“Hope everything comes out okay” or “Good Luck” or “I Win!”
When you are handing your kindergarten students back over to their parents:
“Hail Mary, Full of Grace, Lord Have Mercy.” or “ Thank God! It’s about time!”
When your wife is shoving Hershey Kisses down her throat at the approximate speed of light:
“Honey, are you sure you want to eat that?”
When you have to run home because you have Autism Parent Training:
“I have to hurry; my therapist is waiting for me.”
(This is especially true of conversations with the aforementioned families of your students)
When your husband comes home from work:
“Honey, I went to Target today. Do you want to see the receipt?!”
When your son wants to play with a child you don’t approve of:
“No, honey, Billy is a brat and his parents are obviously doing a bad job raising him.” “In fact, I’m pretty sure his mom is a practicing alcoholic and is having an affair with Brad’s dad.”
When you are offered a leadership position on a committee at work:
“Okay!”
*Because I’m pretty sure I will have more examples along the way.........
“Hope everything comes out okay” or “Good Luck” or “I Win!”
When you are handing your kindergarten students back over to their parents:
“Hail Mary, Full of Grace, Lord Have Mercy.” or “ Thank God! It’s about time!”
When your wife is shoving Hershey Kisses down her throat at the approximate speed of light:
“Honey, are you sure you want to eat that?”
When you have to run home because you have Autism Parent Training:
“I have to hurry; my therapist is waiting for me.”
(This is especially true of conversations with the aforementioned families of your students)
When your husband comes home from work:
“Honey, I went to Target today. Do you want to see the receipt?!”
When your son wants to play with a child you don’t approve of:
“No, honey, Billy is a brat and his parents are obviously doing a bad job raising him.” “In fact, I’m pretty sure his mom is a practicing alcoholic and is having an affair with Brad’s dad.”
When you are offered a leadership position on a committee at work:
“Okay!”
*Because I’m pretty sure I will have more examples along the way.........
Monday, March 2, 2009
What Teaching Kindergarten Has Taught Me
Little people have big opinions
Unsupervised glitter is………it’s too ugly to describe. Just believe me when I say that it will make you weep with sorrow and leave you in craft table clean-up hell.
Children hear what their parents talk about. Then they repeat it. At school. To anyone who will listen. I’m just saying……
It takes a five year old merely seconds to permanently lose a glue stick lid ; they may as well sell them that way.
Kindergarten is not an introduction to college prep. My job is to make sure your child falls in love with learning. Let the upper grade teachers be the bad guys. I prefer playdoh to standardized testing. If they don’t know the alphabet by now, choosing the right college is probably not going to be an issue. (KIDDING).
If you send your child to school with any of the following, you better bring a class set:
Balloons
Candy
Bouncing rubber balls
Rubber bands
Paper hats
Glittery pens or pencils
Lint
In other words, anything that is not already part of the classroom.
Otherwise I welcome you to sub for the day.
They show no mercy for the weak. And substitutes.
Five year olds have incredible memories. Nothing gets by them. They’re like miniature PDA’s only they remind you of all of the things you DON’T want to do, like reading David Gets In Trouble for the tenth time.
Kindergarteners do not care what your name is. You must be prepared to answer to “Teacher, Mommy, Grandma, and even Great-Aunt Florence twice removed.”
They have the attention span of five-year olds: NONE.
They have two volumes:
Loud and “Holy Crap!”
Bribery works. Really Well.
Teachers use bribes. A Lot. If your teacher says she doesn’t, she is LYING.
If you want to learn how to forgive and forget, spend ten minutes on the Kindergarten playground. They can feud and be best friends all in the same sentence. It’s bizarre, but maybe they’re onto something.
They are small but mighty and they remind me each day that if Kindergarteners ruled the world, we’d wear capes to work, eat donuts for dinner, and glitter would replace fuel as the hot commodity.
Not a bad place to live if you ask me.
Unsupervised glitter is………it’s too ugly to describe. Just believe me when I say that it will make you weep with sorrow and leave you in craft table clean-up hell.
Children hear what their parents talk about. Then they repeat it. At school. To anyone who will listen. I’m just saying……
It takes a five year old merely seconds to permanently lose a glue stick lid ; they may as well sell them that way.
Kindergarten is not an introduction to college prep. My job is to make sure your child falls in love with learning. Let the upper grade teachers be the bad guys. I prefer playdoh to standardized testing. If they don’t know the alphabet by now, choosing the right college is probably not going to be an issue. (KIDDING).
If you send your child to school with any of the following, you better bring a class set:
Balloons
Candy
Bouncing rubber balls
Rubber bands
Paper hats
Glittery pens or pencils
Lint
In other words, anything that is not already part of the classroom.
Otherwise I welcome you to sub for the day.
They show no mercy for the weak. And substitutes.
Five year olds have incredible memories. Nothing gets by them. They’re like miniature PDA’s only they remind you of all of the things you DON’T want to do, like reading David Gets In Trouble for the tenth time.
Kindergarteners do not care what your name is. You must be prepared to answer to “Teacher, Mommy, Grandma, and even Great-Aunt Florence twice removed.”
They have the attention span of five-year olds: NONE.
They have two volumes:
Loud and “Holy Crap!”
Bribery works. Really Well.
Teachers use bribes. A Lot. If your teacher says she doesn’t, she is LYING.
If you want to learn how to forgive and forget, spend ten minutes on the Kindergarten playground. They can feud and be best friends all in the same sentence. It’s bizarre, but maybe they’re onto something.
They are small but mighty and they remind me each day that if Kindergarteners ruled the world, we’d wear capes to work, eat donuts for dinner, and glitter would replace fuel as the hot commodity.
Not a bad place to live if you ask me.
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