in Seattle

Whaddya mean you've never seen a truckful of Seahawks-garb-donning men toss out the flaming contents of their truck bed onto rush hour traffic and then proceed toward the game?

some things I did before I knew better

Before Nathan was born, I handwashed all of his clothing in baby detergent. I had heard horror stories about flame retardant and had to prevent MAH BABAY from burning. I saved all the newborn tags and stored them in a box, where they will continue to be a fire hazard until I get a scrapbook together. (HA! also read: double HA!) Nathan's lucky to have anything separated from the "dirty" and "really dirty" piles I chuck into the HE washer.

When I had to buy formula for the first time, I looked at the 12 dollar Target can and the 30 dollar Enfamil can and inner-monologued this regrettable line, "I may be cheap, but I am not cheap with my son." Oh Mona. You were so young, grasshopper, especially since your pockets were still lined with baby-shower gift cards. Also, you might have had traces of epidural still juicing your bloodstream because, lady, the Target brand has the exact same ingredients as Enfamil and costs half the price.

Maybe it's the first child syndrome that has spurred the chronic fear that I am just not doing it correctly and unlike Miss Teen South Carolina, I won't get to redo these past 15-months of mistakes on the Today Show. And I am speaking as a mother who still gives her child a bottle, dresses him as Juan Mayer, and exposes him to the addictive horror that is Teletubby Land.

Last night, I fed Nathan some of my popcorn and instead of normally breaking it off into non-chokable pieces, I gave it to him whole. And you know what? He didn't choke. And he signed "more" which isn't so much of a sign as it is a high-pitched squawk that translates as "INTO MY MOUTH NOW GOOD WOMAN!"

Why can't we just congratulate ourselves more on making this far? And what about my hideous body, marred by pregnancy and breastfeeding and all this sitting down time? No cookie for that?



But the biggest question is: Does Nathan look like a girl in this outfit? (And tangentially, why do adults need to wear unitards? Who needs to tuck in their shirt that tightly?) Mike contests that I have feminized our son and if so, whatever! I'm so tired of blue outfits saying "I love Daddy" and pink outfits saying "I love Mommy" when really there should be some gender neutral ensembles embroidered with, "I love both my parents equally but really more so my mother because last night I cried so loud she could not understand what was happening on Last Comic Standing."

dinner time

This is my son feeding me a maraschino cherry. Please note that he had sucked and chewed it into red bits, rubbed it into the dishrag-swabbed table and *then* fed it to his mother.

And this game never gets old.

mr. bean promotes violence (in my mother)

Last night my mother and I went to see Mr. Bean's Holiday and I returned home with several bruises.

My mother is a Mr. Bean fanatic. And fanatic isn't even the right word to describe the devotion she has for this Brit. There's something about Rowan Atkinson's execution of slapstick physical comedy that sends my mother into a high-pitched laugh.

When she laughs that intensely, she feels the need to slap, hit or shake the person next to her. It's like she really meant to give me a high-five but instead went in for a sucker punch. And between her sidearm hits, she would exclaim, "Mona! That's how it is in Europe!"

"I know that's how it is in Europe, Mom. Where do you think they filmed the movie?"

And despite laughter-induced matri-violence, I enjoyed watching some classic Bean moves. Next time I'm sitting out of my mother's reach, maybe another row or better yet, another theater.

pick me up

pick me up mamamama
Originally uploaded by hello insomnia.

One of the moments when Nathan wants to be held, but not held, but still held all at the same time.

more reasons why I love my new camera

Nathan has to be around 27 pounds right now, which makes it hard to get a real airborne shot. It's easy to get a workout this way, especially if you use cannonballs in your weight training.

What do you mean I can't just run away from you?

Originally uploaded by hello insomnia.

let's pronounce "buffet" correctly, okay?

Yesterday, my brother and I took our families to Salty's on Alki to meet our cousin John. We have not seen him in 20 years. And what better way to reunite families than visit the best brunch buffet in West Seattle?

I am not a casual buffet diner, especially when it's 30 bucks a head. All this week, I have been in buffet-training mode, meaning every day I have worked to expand my stomach so I could fill it up properly with seafood goodness. When I wasn't gorging on day-old bread (which, I'm not sure if it's a competitive eating tactic, but hell, it's cheaper than made-on-this-day bread), I was emptying packets of Fleischmann's Yeast into my belly. And right before we headed over to Salty's, I swallowed a balloon.

I am also very strategic with my buffet choices. I do not eat foods that I could make, microwave or toast at home. Forget waffles, biscuits, and scones with your deceptive carbohydrates, I'm all about the smoked salmon, shrimp ceviche, and chocolate fountain. I almost wrote chocolate foundation and if you have built your house on chocolate, I'm headed over right now, my new BFF.

But I couldn't execute all my buffet plans because Nathan would not remain seated in the highchair. Lately, he begins his descent into toddler hell by screaming, "THEY'RE KIDNAPPING ME!" whenever one of us holds him. And suddenly, taking my son outside turns me into one of those kung-fu movie kidnappers with everyone watching me snatch a Caucasian child from his real parents.

But the best part about paying $306 for brunch was that it afforded us an empty parking lot for Nathan. And even though every tenth step he ate the pavement, he continued to run, unfettered and free.

mr. and mrs.

what if everything turned out okay in Donnie Darko?

what if everything turned out okay in Donnie Darko?
Originally uploaded by hello insomnia.

mommy dearest

On the weekends, we have custody of my mother. This means that every Friday, I drive twenty miles and pick her up from my brother's place. And on Friday, all her pent-up energy from the week suddenly explodes into a two-day reconnaissance mission to seize the last remaining pairs of gaucho pants from every Dress Barn in western Washington. Or to visit all the Safeway supermarkets to determine if that's the place where she bought udon noodles because it may or may not be in the same place where the vegetables are and we MUST drive there to solve this woeful dillema.

And while I have become a part-time chauffeur, I am still a a full-time mother to one boy and one husband. I can understand when Nathan's hysterically crying because he has tripped again over his own body, but my husband? The published poet with fancy degrees? The one whose perfect credit score bought our house? I came home to him furrowing his brow at our bathtub refusing to drain properly, a problem he blamed on me and my endlessly-shedding hair (whatever dude, my jungle hair and I are a package deal. Cry me a river! But not in the tub, por favor). And only after I ran downstairs to the kitchen to get the kettle boiling to dissolve the clog and had lugged up scalding hot water back to the bathroom did I discover the problem: the drain lever was flipped up.

And I wish I had reserved some of that boiling water to retaliate, but it was already funnelling down the drain in a smooth circular motion as a frazzled woman stared into it, wondering what more of her life would follow into that unclogged tube.

goats and diction

I should stop using the word, "totally" and instead use "all encompassingly."

Because my picture of the goat family is over at Metroblogging Seattle today and that is all encompassingly awesome.

I love goats

I love goats
Originally uploaded by hello insomnia.

let's paint a happy cloud

I feel like my last couple of posts have ranked high on the negativity meter and I haven't shared the amazing things that have also been happening. I don't consider myself a negative person, sarcastic maybe (O RLY, Mona? We couldn't tell! You are not at all transparent!), but not a person whose number on your caller ID would warrant a immediate caller block. Not that I've ever done that. Recently.

I need to take a class on how to use my camera. When it comes to technical how-to's, I'd consider myself pretty handy, but that's only because I mostly compare myself to my husband--a grown man who still needs printed instructions on how to cut and paste. After years of being with a point-and-shoot camera, moving into the fancy realm of ISO's and aperture settings, I admit, I am lost. That is a difficult confession to make because I pride myself on being a smarty pants and that gets me into trouble (remember the cloth diaper endeavour? Anyone wants about ten yards of polar fleece?). If you have any camera tips, please share with this humble grasshopper.

Also, Mike and I are celebrating our official two-wedding anniversary next month, but I am plumb out of ideas. The traditional gift is "cotton," to which you might jokingly suggest, "Hey Mona, how about some tube socks?" and I'd say, "Tube socks!?! What?!? Am I made out of money? Q-Tips are the way to go, besides, they're useful!"

How do you celebrate your anniversary?

I'll just try to put on my happy face and that's a gift that keeps on giving.

I wish I had a better title, but all I can think is, "UGH!"

This is my passenger side blinker. As you can see, there is a gaping hole where there should be a continuous, unshattered piece of plastic. I wouldn't have noticed it if I hadn't popped the trunk to look for the body my gym bag.

I have concluded that this likely happened in Federal Way when I was visiting my brother and his family. That was the last time I ever looked at the trunk. I didn't hit anything. I didn't back into anything. I didn't press my mammoth body into the side until I could hear it crack under the pressure.

Granted, it could be worse, like graffitti that looks like butts or a mattress super-soaked by meddling kids. The blinker and brake light still function so this is really a cosmetic problem.

And I'm sure the bill I'll receive to get this fixed won't be pretty, either.

this pretty much sums up our CEC experience

this pretty much sums up our CEC experience
Originally uploaded by hello insomnia.

This is the time in Sprockets when we eat waffles and dance

This is the time in Sprockets when we eat waffles and dance
Originally uploaded by hello insomnia.

small correspondence

Dear Woman Who Snapped At The Chuck E. Cheese Employees,

True, there were no tongs to scoop up your precious crutons, but did you have to bellow, “YOU DON’T EXPECT US TO USE OUR HANDS?!?! I HOPE NOT!” If I had been that seventeen-year-old you yapped at, I would have happily obliged with your request by supplying you with a feed bag. Also, I hope my son never berates hard-working customer service employees that way or says the word, “Hella,” because he would be grounded for life.

best,
Mona

"They drew first blood, not me..."

I was feeling really good about my new haircut until I suddenly realized that I had seen it before:



Thanks a lot, John Rambo, for forever ruining layered hair for the world.

At least my mom can stop saying that my hair makes me look like I'm still in labor.

my boys.

tool time

I need a camera bag, but I've been very disappointed with the color schemes available. Most of the offerings I've seen come in black or gray. I need something more fun but still stealth, one that does not give off "Hello, Expensive Camera Inside!!!" vibe. So I didn't want to put it in my trunk or my scratchy bag, so I hung it around my neck and entered Target. I felt like such a tool with this heavy digital pendant, like I was the photographer version of FLAVA-FLAV! And if I wanted to feel like a tool, I wouldn't need to drain my bank account, I could just borrow my brother's flea market shirt that says "FBI" on the front and "Female Body Inspector" on the back.

--

My work held a "pirate-themed" function in which all participants wore name tags accompanied with pirate names. I accidentally rolled up the name tag and stuck it in my bag and subsequently, it stuck to my camera's instruction manual. Now I can't take it off without ripping off the cover. I guess it's not so bad to be constantly reminded that I'm "One-Eyed Helga." Where all my Cyclops girls at?!?

it's really exhausting being a toddler

hmm.

The camera is amazing. Now you can get detailed photos of my son's own sign language. This is the sign for "AHHHHHHH!"



I present to you the world's largest bamboo-shaped sippy cup, which also doubles as a fountain you can buy at Lowe's for 147 dollars.

And can someone please explain why he's not going for the water spilling out three inches from his mouth?

my desk

my desk
Originally uploaded by hello insomnia.

My Canon EOS 30D came in today.

This is my first shot.

I might explode soon, but first, I have some instruction manual reading to do.

remembrance

When I was 13, I committed the requisite teen errors in judgment such as the time I decided to show off the new dance move I learned from MTV's The Grind which in retrospect, should have been called, "The Slutty Limbo."

My best friend J. and I decided to push a lit cigarette into our ankles until it was extinguished. If Anne Shirley had smoked in the girl's bathroom, I'm sure she would have done the same with Diana. J. called this a "remembrance," a way to memorialize how we loved and cared for each other by leaving a circled-scar on our skin.

You can barely see it now. It's faded into the rest of my body, and unless I point to you and give you the background that I wasn't very smart in seventh grade and this flesh groove is why, you wouldn't know it's there.

J. and I moved to different to schools and rarely saw each other. The last time we spoke was at church, when she spent the majority of the mass saying, "My GOD Mona, you have become so fat. And I am so skinny." I wish there was nicer way to recap that reunion, but that is what she said. And even though it was true, I had gained weight and she remained in her 25" jeans, I was deflated.

I saw her only once more after that Sunday. My mother was driving past the church and I could see J., only this time, her slender face had bloated, her belly protruding through her paisley dress. We were 16. She was having her first child.

This weekend I attended a party and found out that J. was in Washington. She had two more children. My heart started beating nervously. I knew that she was a mother, but now I was, too. My mind rifled through the times she and I had written bad love poetry about boys who wronged us, how she introduced me to my first boyfriend and of course of the cigarette scar, now hidden by my pant leg.

When J. stepped into the room, I searched her face for some look of welcome, of surprise. She said hi to the room, and my mother and aunt said, "Hey remember Mona! You two were friends!" She looked at me and nodded with the enthusiasm of a comatose patient. She gave me a one-arm hug then shepherded her brood in front of the TV where she only looked up from the Lion King flickering on the screen to answer my question as to how long she'd been in Washington.

"February." Four syllables. No return question.

And this is how I always set myself up for heartache, how my attempt to connect with other mothers chronically fails. But this was not Starbucks, and I wasn't trying to bond with someone over our mirrored orders of tall vanilla lattes.

I've considered the birth of my child as a transforming experience, one that has forced me to redefine my world perspective and view of myself. It has fueled my need to connect with other mothers, other women who know the pangs and pleasure of children. And when J. didn't say anything else to me despite my forced attempts at pleasantries, I sighed. Maybe her account of our friendship is different, more pained or pointless. I tucked our relationship neatly into a file called, "Memories Mona Should Just Keep In 1996."

If we ever see each other, my dear internet friend, would you please say something more than hello? I would appreciate it.

The only reason I keep HBO

If you subscribe to HBO and haven't fallen in love with Flight of the Conchords, I don't know if we can be friends anymore.



And slightly tangential: sometimes I forget that I have HBO Latino and suddenly I'm startled with the question, "I didn't know Bill Paxton speaks Spanish!?!"

more on things that suck my money

About three Christmases ago, Mike bought me my first digital camera: a Minolta Dimage F300. The only research I did was looking through two different store advertisements and randomly picking one. Not exactly the best method, but hey, I applied to Sarah Lawrence because it was mentioned in 10 Things I Hate About You. And even though I tell people I came to Seattle to go to school, it's really thanks to Sleepless in Seattle--my favorite movie featuring Seattle. What other magical city could bring the forces of Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan together? I'm not counting You've Got Mail because 1) that movie was stupid and 2) you can totally tell that Meg already had her lips done. Sleepless in Seattle perfectly captured Meg in her fifth-grade-teacher-looking glory.

Back to my minolta--It's been the only camera I've ever had. Though we've had many fun and awesome shots, I feel like I've pushed this camera to the limit. You can't teach an old camera new tricks, especially since it's bulky as a block of cheese. It's the camera version of my ex: at first I was giddy with excitement over the shiny newness, the sweet romanticism in learning how someone works and three years later, idiosyncrasies have become grating and I'm picking up wadded up, crusted jack-off socks and speaking over the Counter-Strike banter just to inform him know that the microwave just beeped and dinner is ready.



I am tired of trying to shoot Nathan running and ending up with blurred edges meanwhile battling excruciating shutter lag. (Not to mention, porta-potties I didn't notice until I had to upload to flickr.) Nathan dropped the camera a few weeks ago and since then, I've had to apply a strip of duct tape to keep the battery compartment shut. It's just my way to stay classy.

I've heavily researched my options this time around and I've settled on the Canon EOS 30D. I like the options Canon offers and even though I won't be needing many of the fancy settings now, I like to know that it's there. And in three years, it'll be the camera version of the best boyfriend ever and I won't be telling it to please listen to Monster Garage at a reasonable volume and hey, by the way, I've circled some job ads in the paper for you.

airborne

airborne
Originally uploaded by hello insomnia.

Bow Down to Washington

Today was Husky Photo Day and the second time our budding family has attended the festivities. Since Mike and I are alums of the University of Washington, we hope to spend the next 18 years teaching Nathan about the fine institution and how we will disown him if he ever heads east to attend a particular university. But hold on Cougs, I'm not saying that WSU is inferior. I'm also not saying that people who attend WSU like to steal. I'm not saying that at all. You can file that into "Things Mona Is Not Saying," where you will find other tidbits like how Mona is not saying that people in Pullman go to the drive-thru but get out of the car to get their food. I'm not saying that either.

Here's two years of linebacker Trenton Tuiasosopo:

..

I'm sure Nathan has his hands up in both pictures because he's deathly afraid of fumbling, you know how linebackers are. At least my kid's consistent.

Nathan also shared his warm personality with the mascot.



He was clearly thrilled to hear us say, "SMILE! WHAT DO YOU HAVE AGAINST FURRIES, NATHAN?" It could have been an amazing photo, but Nathan coug'd it.

what I get for trying

Mike and I have been fighting our Diet Coke addiction this week. In a moment of desperation, I told him that it's been really difficult for me to resist the acidic bubbly goodness.

And last night he came home with his arms full of two cases of Diet Coke.

"This is all your fault," he muttered.

"How, pray tell, is this my fault?"

"You said you wanted Diet Coke."

"Yes, but I didn't mean I wanted you to go and clear out Costco. I thought I was having an honest moment with my husband!"

"Well, don't let it happen again."

Destroying Tokyo and chasing a toddler

Ever since Nathan started to walk, he does everything he can to break free. I tried shopping the other day with him belted into the stroller. When he started to squirm, I rocked the stroller back and forth like I had done so many times before. I caught his eyes in the mirror and he shot me the most condescending glare. Like, come on, Mom. There's all this movement but we're not going anywhere.

This is very disappointing. Now how am I going to trick him into playing my favorite game: "Who Can Keep Still The Longest Wins"?

And when we're in a store and his 28-pound body has become far too heavy for me to schlep any longer, I lower him to the ground and suddenly, he's off. The first few times I did this, I could lure him back by saying, "Okay Nathan, Mommy's going bye-bye. See you later!" And I would duck behind an aisle and peek back at him until I knew he was bumbling my way. Now, that trick no longer works. He's caught on. Now Nathan's like, "Catch ya on the flipside Mom! I'm going to throw expensive stuff on the floor now."

And if I make any move to retrieve him, he flees, laughing hysterically. It's as if he's taken the concept of Godzilla and turned it into a comedy. He becomes one of those scrambling Japanese people running away from the behemoth, only instead of screaming, "Godzirra! Godzirra!" he starts squealing with joy as if he's an extra in "Nathan Vs. Mothra: A Musical of Hope!"



But I can't really blame him. When you're only 30+ inches from the ground, everyone is Godzilla.

up next, the pan flute

up next, the pan flute
Originally uploaded by hello insomnia.

his spitball career isn't going very well

his spitball career isn't going very well
Originally uploaded by hello insomnia.

at least she has priorities

Whenever my mother offers a suggestion, I immediately repeat it in the form of a question. When my mother told me that I should be wearing "briefs" (Hello, 1965 called and they want their lingerie lingo back), I answered, "Yeah Mom! Why am I not wearing briefs?!?! I should definitely be wearing something that fully covers my stomach *and* ladyparts. Let's go right now to the 18-Hour-Bra Outlet, they'd definitely have some girdles there!"

And this weekend, I had asked if she wanted to come along to a meeting. It was in a forest near Mt. Rainier, so I proposed that we make it a day trip up to the mountain. And only after we had driven almost two hours to get to the park entrance, my mom huffed out an exasperated plea, "CAN'T WE JUST GO TO THE SUPERMALL NOW?"

"You're right, Mom," I said. "Why are we here on this mountain, surrounded by natural beauty and trees and wildlife when we can be at the Auburn Supermall? A mall that is definitely more super than other malls because there is 'super' in the name."

There was a brief pause then she responded, "I know!"

here comes the son

When I was pregnant, I shared my wish for our unborn child with Mike: "I hope he has your eyes and my brain."

And since Nathan's arrived into the world, he has been the polar opposite of that motherhood idealism. Nathan has my eyes, but Mike's everything else.

Nathan looks and acts like his father. Not a bad thing at all, but I was not prepared for how unlike me Nathan turned out. And as most parents, I have intensely analyzed my son, listing into neat Excel columns what traits he inherited from me and what traits his father passed on. My column pales in comparison to Mike's. My dominant genes knocked out any chance for green eyes. (Take that, EYCL1! I'll get all genetic up in here, up in here!) Nathan has his father's hair color (and receding hairline, heh).

He has Mike's personality. They both love rocks, although Mike grew out of the stuffing-them-in-the-mouth phase (I think). And when they can't open something, they scream with hot, frustrated tears until I come over and point out that when it says, "OPEN THIS SIDE UP," maybe you should...open this side up?

In our parenting classes, Mike was always the oldest and I was always the youngest. But that's what you get when you have a May-December romance, especially if it's May 1956 and December 1983.

During the pregnancy and even during the first bumpy weeks, I wondered how he would Mike would turn out as a father. And almost 15-months into this strange world of parenthood, there's no question: anyone who can soothe a toddler with the "attack of the flying hippo" move definitely knows his stuff.



If you ask Mike how it feels to have become a new dad at the age of 50, when most people drop their children off at dorm rooms, not daycare, he'll say, "I can't believe I almost missed this."

Nude (baby) descending a staircase

This is an homage to Duchamp, perfectly illustrating how Nathan surveys spots my vacuum missed.

how many will fit in my mouth?

can I eat it?
Originally uploaded by hello insomnia.

If I liked my coffee black, I wouldn't have a problem

Piggy-backing on what Tessie's hilarious post mentioned today, I cannot order coffee correctly. I'm one of those people who stares at the overhead menu, eyes glazing over the options and sizes and then when it's my turn, there are many "uhhhs," and "likes" and it's as if I learned how to speak English by reading Sweet Valley High.

And if I pay with cash, I try to balance out my idiocy by making a grand gesture of plopping my quarter into the the tip jar. If the barista's back is turned, I throw it in so that the little clink of my quarter is so audible that everyone in the store knows that I can't be that much of an idiot because LOOK! I am putting money into a money receptacle! I can do that! Even if it takes me three minutes to spit out, "tall white chocolate mocha."

I can't order under pressure. I don't suffer social anxiety so much as after-the-fact anxiety, in which I obsessively analyze the stupidity that just spews from my big bloated mouth. For example, I tried to sound all cool to my rowing enthusiast collegues when I shared that I would have loved to be the "coxswain." You know that little guy/gal who repeats, "Stroke." I'm sure there's a lot more involved than that instruction, but I can't think of another position that would allow me to fake a British accent. And only after my feigned stint in talking up things I have no idea about, I learned that it's not pronounced cox-swain, but more like cox-sin. (See also: the time I pronounced it HIPPO-CRATES) And then they knew I had never really been to a regatta and that the last boat I was on was the one that brought me to America.