Ikea and the interNOT

This weekend, Mike and I spent a lot of money at Ikea, convinced that the particleboard we were bringing into our house was an investment. We say, "investment," like we actually believe that the Hemnes Chest will increase the property value, when it'll only increase the chance of any potential buyer surveying our bedroom and pondering, "How much do you want to bet I can punch through this cheap nightstand?"

The thing about Ikea is that it's only as good as the person putting it together. The queen bedframe Mike brought into our first apartment was damaged by the movers and so to keep the boxspring from falling through the newly-curved slats and one of us waking up screaming, "What in the holy Christmas!?!" we had to get halved 2x4's (wouldn't that be 1x2's?) to suffice as a ghetto bed slat.

But I did put the dresser together even though the directions called for something else:



A white man. Actually, I needed to be a white man and have the assistance of my Anglo brethren to complete it. Come on Ikea, pony up for the ink and get some of my Pacific Islander brothers and sisters featured.

--

There is no internet or television yet. The cable guy was ready to hook it up on Sunday, but the "smart box" in our closet that houses the cable and outlet whoosie-whatsies could not be pried open, so we'll need to call the developer to fix it while Mike and I fill in the TV void playing a rousing game of, "Why are you hitting yourself?"

--



I was not able to install the baby gates I spent $168 on. I did manage to drill vampire bites instead of secure spots for the gates so my son will not fall to his death. Until I get someone with more know-how, or any know-how, we'll just have to depend on my yelling, "NATHAN GET AWAY FROM THERE!"

We can use that all day for free!

--



Nathan's picked up speed since his first steps a few weeks ago, and now leads with his belly. The kid is fast and determined to walk into anything: the cats, curb, oncoming traffic. I want to get a leash, but only because I plan to teach those fat toddler feet how to walk on my back. If I could only harness that energy into creating the world's perfect back massager.

It's worth the investment.

why I never work out

I know Mike prefers Frampton Comes Alive to Fergie. But I can't see how you wouldn't opt for anything over Fergie. Are you kidding me with that keeping-it-real schitck, lady? Picking up your chalupa at the Taco Bell drive-thru hardly qualifies you as "raw as hell." It just makes you fat as hell, not to mention, gassy. Fat and gassy: does that sound glamorous to you, Stacy Ferguson?

What was that? Get back to talking about your grandpa/husband, Mona? Okay! I'm used to the onslaught of classic rock filling the interior of our car rides--Jethro Tull and that stupid flute solo and various guitar solos that abuse the whammy bar--and references to Jimmy Carter and Angie Dickinson, but during the move I discovered something that shocked me to the core:



A thigh-master. Do you remember these things? I found this and felt like someone had thrown me into Antiques Roadshow: Workout Fads Edition. How much could you get for something the worst cast member of Three's Company demonstrated between her legs? Could I get at least reparations for the damage caused by those relentless infomercials?

Mike alleges that it's for working his arms, but I'm not too young to fall for that.

If it were for the arms, it would be called Arm Master, not the Device Suzanne Sommers Modeled Near Her No-Nos.

After watching a riveting episode of Cheaters

Me: I could never cheat on you, honey. I'm afraid of disease!

Mike: ...

Me: Oh. And I love you?

Mike: Well, I'm glad your love for me falls second to your fear of the clap.

I tried to go to boobie rehab, but Nathan said, "No, no, no."

Nathan had his first-year appointment yesterday. He weighs 28 pounds and ferries a head 19.5 inches around. He is 30 inches long and his vertical leap is only as much as our couch cushions allow.



You wanna know how big Nathan is? Well, that onesie he's wearing isn't even a onesie. It's a bodysuit I wore in '96. When his hair is long enough, I'm going to secure it with a ruffled scrunchy and we'll start singing long ballads from Wilson Phillips.



He was very happy to hear that we get $75 back for buying an HE washer.



But he was upset when I told him we could only use HE detergent.



And when I told him that *this time* I'm really done with breast-feeding, he said his first phrase: "That's what you think."

Butter face

Have you ever heard that phrase? Butter face? Like in, "Everything about her was fine but-her-face?" I couldn't get that out of my head when I met super soaker's mother last night. She was a tall woman with heavily streaked blond hair and a face that would have looked great if it didn't have the surface texture of a raisin. That's pretty mean to say about someone who had just heard about her son and his friend dousing our bed with water and didn't retort with, "Nah, my baby would *never* do that."

I introduced myself with Nathan on my hip and explained what her son had done. The boy was standing about two feet behind her and before I could get to part where they soaked our bed, he said, "Yeah, I just told her," like how serendipitous my arrival at their doorstep was since he had just confessed the same moment I rang the doorbell. Guess the mean old lady next door can just go home now!

She said that she was new there as well and apologized, adding that he should know better and that she's told him not to "follow his friends." She then turned to him and said, "Did you apologize to the lady?"

He muttered a "sorry," and I ended it there, saying that I would appreciate it if it didn't happen again. I also told her that I didn't think her son was a bad kid, even though that was a bold faced lie. I could have also told her that I love cilantro and Katie Couric since I was also well into a fib. But what do you say to a woman who forced an apology out of her son to save face? (And what do you say about a woman blogging about that saved face looking like crumpled wax paper?)

And as much as I'd like to believe that her soft chastising would be enough to rectify the situation and permanently cease any boyhood antics, I'm hoping the security system we've ordered also has some rapscallion sensor included.

I suppose if we had paid movers to schlep our boxes from our hovel to the new place, we would have reason to complain about the various causalities our home has suffered in the moving process.  We were surprised to find our staircase was so narrow and by surprised I mean yelling "PIVOT! PIVOT! PIVOT!" like Ross did in Friends all while heaving two sofas (two! dos! ni! whatever the number 2 is in German, add an exclamation point here!) up a flight of stairs. And if we weren't so tired, we would have probably fought to the death about the cracked light switch plate, the scuffs on the staircase wall, and the top floor's bathroom having NO WATER PRESSURE.  Do you know how great a bath would feel after 12+ hours of moving?  If so, please tell me because all I got was a dribble.  I had to drive back to the hovel because I was as clean as a leper. 

But we didn't fight.  Instead, we shrugged everything off maybe because of delirium or fatigue and the overwhelming drive to get it the hell over with.  Our headboard cracked?  Some glue and nails should do it!  Our cherry wood dining table now has divots because someone didn't hear me when I said, "WAIT!"  A table cloth will do the trick!  No husband-wife murder needed when there's duct tape! 

I did want to kill the two kids who climbed into our U-Haul and used their super-soakers to douse our mattress and box spring.  If using caps lock would convey how I felt walking into that cab and finding our belongings damaged, then I should tell you that I was FILLED WITH MURDEROUS RAGE.  I had seen them running around, squirting each other and and taking peeks into our yard, but I never once thought that they would purposefully violate someone else's bed.  But when we got there and found our beds wet, I called out to the one kid who didn't run.

"HEY!  Get over here!"  I pointed at him.

"I didn't do it!  My friend did!"  He cowered.

"I saw you with that water gun."

"Sorry!"

"What's your name?"

"Z." 

"Where do you live?" I asked. 

He pointed to a tiny brown house about five hundred feet away. 

"Let's go have a talk with your mother."

"She's not home."

"Fine.  When is she going to be home?"

"I don't know."

"Then tell your mother that the lady whose bed you ruined will be back later."

He shuffled into his house and shut the door behind him and if I could have struck him down just with dirty looks alone, he wouldn't have made it to the porch. 

I was fuming.  Fuming!  Like those cartoons when steam comes out of the ears, only it wasn't steam but a flurry of curse words.  I was glad that his mother wasn't there, and even if she had been there and he was just lying, I was grateful all the same because it gave me some time to think and not just yell at another mother.  It was the first time I've ever had to deal negatively with other people's kids and I felt I was tossed into delicate situation.  What if the mother didn't care?  Granted kids will be kid and it was just water, but it was our bed!  Our bed that we couldn't sleep on because it was wet!  Actually, we weren't going to sleep on it anyway because this was going to be the guest bed but still!  And with summer looming, those bored kids could retaliate!  I have enough trouble with people writing "WASH ME PLEASE" on my car, but what if they took it up another notch and their graffiti wasn't so nice? 

When I returned later that night, with my baby in tow, an older boy answered the door.  He swept his shaggy hair to the side.

I introduced myself politely and told him that we just moved in next door.  I asked if his mother was home and he said that she was out getting his brother a tetanus shot.  At night.   I asked him if Z. was his brother and he said yes.  I asked if Z. had told him what had happened earlier that day with the super soaker-bed fiasco.  He shook his head and apologized profusely.  He said that he would let his mother know and that "he won't be beaten or anything, maybe just given a talking to and grounded."  I left it at that and continued the long move. 

Question is: should I still talk to his mother?  I'm thinking yes, only because I would appreciate it if someone told me what Nathan had done.  Right now, all he does is put food in his mouth, pull it out of his mouth, examine it, and then put it back in.  (Also, reports from Lisa, Branan, and Cooper state that yesterday Nathan ate crackers, applies and curry and cried whenever Lisa left the room.  I would be remiss if I didn't say how thankful I am to the LBC camp for watching Nathan and how integral those hours were to completing our hovel-to-house transformation.  I'm emailing this post in, but in the meantime copy and paste this into your browser: http://lisa-branan.com/). 

I'm just trying to make a living, raise my son and wake up every day without "GHOST WUZ HEA" on my fence.  Surely another mother would appreciate that?  Right?

What next, charades?

I've been on the phone all morning opening and closing accounts and moving services. The biggest snag has been the cable service, which won't be able to connect our cable and internet until the 27th.

No TV or internet for more than a week? What are we going to now? Talk to each other?

soon he'll ask for the car keys

Though I still miss my baby Nathan, I'm really digging the little boy who's emerged.

We'll have to Mona-proof next

So can I tell you something I did in my new home and you, my internet peeps, in turn tell me that I'm not a complete idiot even though after you read this you will harr-harr at the computer screen at what a big floppy cheap idiot I am?

Deal? Good. That's why I love you, internet peeps.

Before we closed, the developer walked through the property with us and showed us the inner workings of our new home like where the water main was, the gas line, the extra paint cans for touch-ups, etc. He also showed us how to work the gas fireplace and from that five-minute how-to, I felt pretty damn comfortable that on first day of home ownership, I turned off the pilot light. My reasoning: 1) that must be a lot of money to run that little blue flame, 2) I do not want to pay for that little blue flame, 3) I was in the Gifted & Talented Class in the third grade, of course I can totally handle this! Also somewhere in there, I could only think of the eternal flame at the Kennedy Memorial. I respect you, JFK, but I wouldn't want that gas bill. If I were in charge of that, I'd have one of those guards hold out a Bic lighter and maybe sing a few bars from Pink Floyds' "Wish You Were Here."

But back to my idiocy--sure enough, it was easy to remove the plate protecting the fireplaces various wires and tubes from clueless people (read: me!). And when I turned the knob from PILOT to OFF, the blue flame went poof! And I congratulated myself of being handy and frugal. Now we can throw that $3 in gas savings toward the mortgage! You're a genius, Mona!

And while the voices in my head were ensconced in a self-congratulatory circle jerk, Mike squashed the hoopla when he said, "Uh, I don't think you're supposed to turn it off. Can you turn it back on?"

In the same I'm-so-smart-gusto, I kneeled down, lifted the plate off, pressed the knob down and clicked. And clicked. And clicked. Nothing. No blue flame poof.

"Just give me a minute!" I snapped as Mike raised his brow. More clickety-clicking.

"You know, honey, maybe you should consult me the next time you're going to do something to the house we haven't even owned for 24 HOURS yet!"

And after an embarrassing call to our agent who called the developer, we'll I'll get another lesson in how to properly handle little things like a gas line, open flame, and potential explosions.

yo mompliments

In the spirit of mother's day, I'd like to point you over to one of my favorite comedians Sean Conroy and the list of nice things to say about your mother. My favorite: "Yo Momma has such a good credit history that she could easily negotiate a loan at very favorable rates just to buy a Sea Doo for weekend use."

Oh snap!

--

Last Mother's Day, Nathan was less than a week old and I didn't really feel like I had been a mother long enough to enjoy that day. Sure, I had changed diapers, suffered bleeding nipples, and pushed a 8 lb 4.8 oz baby out the chute. But I didn't feel I owned the holiday. Also, it didn't help that we had celebrated by going to brunch at DENNY'S.

Now, I'm not above a grand slam breakfast, but on Mother's Day, the bar wasn't set very high with the forcefully coaxing line, "Honey, order anything you want. Shall I direct your attention to the country-fried steak and eggs? Comes with two sides!"

--

After we had signed the 20,000 escrow papers, Mike and I celebrated by eating at a teriyaki place. I ordered and paid for the food while Mike went to the restroom. When he returned, I warned him, "Don't finish your drink quickly because I didn't pay for the refillable cup, just the one time deal."

"How much would it have been for to include refills?"

"Ten cents."

"I just bought you a house and you can't shell out the TEN CENTS for a refill?!?!"

--

I have a feeling like this house will take the place of actual gifts Mike and I will give each other. On Christmas, when I ask, "What did you get me, honey," he'll probably respond, "Last month's mortgage payment." Or I'll say, "I paid for the Tivo this month. Happy birthday!"

So this morning, I'll inevitably be dining over the Meat Lover's Special when I unwrap my mother's day gift: a garage door opener.

Have a Happy Mother's Day everyone!

She does not have a flat head, either

our house

is a very very very fine house which, yesterday morning, we didn't think would ever close.

Yesterday, the escrow company called to tell me that we needed to sign more documents and the earnest money I put down could not be used because it was in my name and not my husband's. I should tell you that my husband's name is on the loan, but my name is on the title. In essence, I own the house but my husband is paying for it. Happy Mother's Day to me!

It was particularly frustrating because we had just spent the afternoon before signing 20,000 escrow documents and they could have told us THEN. But no, that would be far too easy. Someone didn't tell the other person who didn't tell us until the morning of closing when we found out that we needed to get another million-dollar cashier's check and signed documents to the escrow office by noon. NOON! I had less than two hours to get my husband to sign the papers, get *another* cashier's check and turn it into those incompetent escrow people. With my husband and I working on opposite sides of town, our real estate office being in Burien and the escrow office in Northgate, we would have had better luck getting to Hong Kong in time.

I'm trying to think of a witty name to call the escrow idiots. Es-hoes? Doesn't work. That sounds like I'm dissing some latinas. Break out the cervezas 'cause es hoes esta aqui! Note to self: must hone biting comments, need not be bilingual.

But finally it worked and it only happened because my agent worked with my broker and my broker drove from Burien to Mike's work to my work to the escrow office and all before the noon deadline.

So if you're in Seattle and need a real estate agent and a mortgage broker, I have some recommendations.

I think the person who is happiest about the house is Nathan:



I never realized he could walk that far without falling because he's always falling into stuff and no wonder, in this hovel, there is stuff everywhere. Sharp bruise-producing angles and edges. And I'm not even talking about the barbed wire we're using as baby gates.

And in our new house, Nathan laughed as walked the floor. He didn't even care that there wasn't any cat food in the hall to help tide him over as he made it from room to room!

But I'm just amazed that this has fallen into place and that for the first time, we'll have two bathrooms.



Ladies, are you with me on this?

aftermath

aftermath
Originally uploaded by hello insomnia.

he is no longer 0 years old

My son is a year old today.

Does that mean I am no longer a "new" parent? Am I a seasoned veteran now that I've made it a year with no SIDS? (Yay for me!) Yesterday at my sister's house, Nathan interrupted a string of gah-gah-gahs with a very clear and enunciated, "FUH-KAH!" Everyone turned to me as if this outburst was evidence that I had traded his Baby Einstein CD's with the last few albums put out by Bone-Thugs-N-Harmony.

The potty mouth? Totally new to me. I mean, we only watch Sopranos sometimes okay? And Cheaters comes on once a week, so I have no idea where that came from.

If someone had told me two years ago, "Mona, don't spend $171 on MAC makeup because you'll need that money for your unborn child," I would have said, "You shut your mouth with that baby talk. They're offering FREE SHIPPING!"

And if that same hypothetical voice of reason had spoken to me last year when I was fretting that since Nathan lost weight in the hospital he would never be any heavier than 8 lbs 4.8 oz, it would say, "Giiirl, you don't know from heavy." I'm hoping that the voice of reason belongs to a gay man with impeccable taste, who will also punctuate juicy gossip tales with, "Naw-what-I'm-sayin!" Thanks hypothetical voice of reason. With a son whose belly arrives five minutes before he does, I definitely naw what you're saying.



Tonight I did not bake a cake. Instead, Mike and I let the folks at Rainforest Cafe concoct Nathan a celebratory dessert called a "Volcano," complete with sparkler and accompanying "Happy Happy Birthday," ditty.



I'm not sure if Nathan was more confused by the fanfare or the fact that we were letting him go to town on ice cream and cake without making a fuss over the food not making it into his mouth.



I understand everything and nothing about this child. I know when he rubs at his eyes, he's tired. I know that when he starts babbling, he's hungry. But when I crawl quickly toward him and taunt, "I'm going to get you!" and he screams and waddles towards my direction, well, you got me there.

And years before this, when I was in a hopeless relationship and living on inflatable furniture, if someone had told me then that every choice and small suffering would eventually lead to a husband, a house, and a happy little boy named Nathan, I might have answered, I hope you're right.

PSL: parenting as a second language

On Tuesday, Nathan will be a year old. "Toddler" sounds like such a foreign word, something so removed from our baby household. I've repeated it like a litany, and begun my pre-mourning, like I've done before when our newborn became a baby and our baby became a pot-bellied kid whose enormous head could not squeeze through a shirt. I didn't really cry as much as Nathan did over the head through the shirt bit, even though I tried to tell him that it wasn't my fault his head was so big, it's his father's. I bet there are people in his family with heads so big, they have trouble walking upright.

I've decided that won't have an actual party until we've completely moved in. There is too much to do and only a fraction of our belongings have been boxed up. But I will bake a cake, sing a song, and take pictures.

I think that's how most children's birthday parties should go. My friend rented out the bottom floor of a very expensive Seattle restaurant for her daughter's first birthday and the whole swank brunch had to be at least forty bucks a head. And though I certainly wasn't complaining while filling up at the chocolate fountain, that party was great for the adults. There wasn't a real place for the kids to play, other than under the tables and in the corner by the stack of gifts.

I would rather have a party in the park, where the kids can have an unfettered reign of the play structures, without a rented pony or fancy tablecloth in sight. There, Nathan can have a swing all to himself and never once ask to stop.

DIY: I think I can, I think I can

My mom's group did a pretty smart thing by suggesting that instead of inviting everyone to each child's individual birthday party, that we would have just one collective party and everyone would bring one gift.

I'm very glad for this because whatever kind of birthday party I would pull together would inevitably one-upped by someone else in the group who put together real goody bags and not the ones I would buy from the Dollar Store, filled with tootsie pops and scratch tickets.

You see, I'm not very good at crafts. Oh, I'm a genius at planning crafts. I can fulfill the "Supplies Needed" check-list, but after that, my brain is a sieve.

When I first fitted Nathan for cloth diapers, I had the very lofty goal of sewing all of them. I used a pattern to cut out the shape on some worn flannel, sewed a straight line and then remembered that I have no craft skills whatsoever. I ended up buying a couple dozen Diaperaps off Craigslist. I have about five yards of awesome polar fleece and a sewing machine that will probably never need to be oiled because I never use it!

And as we're about to move into our new place (we close in SIX DAYS!), I've been flooded with ideas of what I can do myself, but at the same time, I am reminded that I'm very good at step 1 of DIY projects but cannot remember any time I've reached step 2.

I've been obsessively scouring the Apartment Therapy/Design Mom/Design*Sponge triumvirate, oohing and ahhing over what very smart and handy people do with small spaces. I need to be smart and handy because I want to do this to Nathan's room, but I don't want to spend $400. I like the concept of a tree, but I want to keep with an island theme. My idea is to make Nathan's room a bit more tropical without hearing, "Sha-la-la-la-la-la, go on and kiss the girl," in the background.

Is it possible to make a vintage wall-paper coconut tree by someone whose only experience decorating a wall required only scissors, scotch tape and back issues of Seventeen?

Happy Cuatro de Mayo!

Happy Cuatro de Mayo!
Originally uploaded by hello insomnia.

I'll have the rubber duck with the mango salsa

I'll have the rubber duck with the mango salsa
Originally uploaded by hello insomnia.

The 16th Grade

I was inspired by OTJ's post to tell you about how I once taught first-graders how to tell stories.

I had just given up a competitive internship at a literary agency because my boss, TDV, wouldn't adjust my schedule. My work still allowed enough time for me to take a two-credit elective, teaching writing to "inner-city" kids.

On my first day, the teacher, K., asked me to introduce myself and whispered that I should mention how I went to the big university. So I told them my name's Mona and asked, "What grade are you guys in?"

"First grade!" they chimed back.

"Well, I'm in the 16th grade." Their jaws dropped collectively and I had never seen the inside of so many tiny mouths.

I was very popular with that crowd perhaps because I wasn't the teacher. I didn't have to discipline anyone. I came once a week and stayed long enough before they grew tired of the college student in their midst.

As I was saying goodbye to the class one day, I said to a very striking little girl, "Goodbye Amalita."

"My name's not Amalita."

"Okaaaay...what is your name?"

"My name's Mona."

Soon the other girls were saying, "Wait, my name's Mona, too!"

I had to leave before I started laughing so hard and also so I could write that down. "Okay, fine. Goodbye all you Mona's."

I usually arrived around their storytime, so as they sat "criss-cross applesauce" on the foam mat, many of them beckoned me to sit next to them, especially one girl name J. I helped her write a story on something she knew how to do. She wrote in jerky misspelled words about how to make ramen noodles. The girl ate ramen noodles every day. Now, I've had my share of steaming bowls of soba, but I could tell by how she said it that she consistently ate those cheap blocks of noodles and not much else.

And I don't know why I'm telling you that, but J's the one I'm probably going to google in twelve years, to see where she is, if she's eating more than soup and doing something with her life.

This was my last day there. The hats were for Dr. Seuss, not me.

During last night's episode of LOST

Me: You know, if I had to choose between Jack and Sawyer, I'd definitely go for Sawyer. I mean, Jack's smart and all, but he has way too much baggage. Also, Sawyer would also be a lot more fun. I don't think Jack would be that interesting--

Mike: WHAT IS THIS?!? ARE WE HAVING A SLUMBER PARTY?

Me: I'm just saying that if I had to choose, I would choose Sawyer because he's really hot, and--

Mike: SO YOU WANT ME TO BRAID YOUR HAIR NOW?

I guess this is what they mean when they say there are a lot of boobs in Washington

I'm tired of breastfeeding, but Nathan is not tired of being breastfed. I sent him a memo with "I WANT MY BODY BACK" as the subject, but it's useless because he can't read. And he doesn't get it that when my back is turned, I'm trying to go to sleep and yet, he still tries to mouth my back. Dude, you're better off milking a turnip.

And is it selfish that I really want to stop breastfeeding because I want to loose weight like a normal human being? I tell myself that it's the breastfeeding not the ice cream that has kept those five extra pounds, okay ten pounds, GEEZ! ENOUGH! 20 POUNDS! THERE! HAPPY NOW? Do you want my immortal soul, too!?! That's about six pounds right there.

But more than my fear that I'll never shake what my mama gave me is the nagging question, what if Nathan never stops breastfeeding like that Chinese kid in The Last Emperor? I still shudder at that scene with a 10-year-old and all his teeth, working those double whammies and now when I look at my son I wonder if I could fight off Communism just armed with Cheerios.