Look who’s (not) talking

Since we had switched to a new doctor, I was able to see the notes that Nathan's previous doctors had written. One of them read, "Nathan's father is a large man." Supposedly, this was to account for Nathan's size, but really, it makes me look like I married Shrek.

The new doctor was very patient and ran through the requisite questions about diet and motor skills. Physically, he is on track. He can perform all the skills that toddlers at 18 months should be able to do.

Except talking.

Though he babbles all the time, but Nathan has only two real words: mama and dada.

The doctor referred us to an audiologist to find out if Nathan's hearing is affecting his vocabulary. "Maybe he's not hearing the whole word," he said. "That could affect his speech." If his vocabulary hasn't grown in three to four months, we might try speech therapy.

When we left, my heart sank. My whole life as a mother had been flung down a greased spiral, heading down into neuroses and shoulda woulda couldas. I've left every other appointment with a proud sense of accomplishment. Nathan has always been in the high 90+ percentiles for weight, height and head size, especially head. That huge head has to be filled with brain, right?

He'll meet the audiologist soon. I'm reading The Late Talker and everything else Amalah has written on this.

I know, boys develop slower than girls. I know, so-and-so didn't talk until he was four. So-and-so couldn't stop talking once she did, don't worry Mona.

It is easier for me to share that Nathan will eat a pound of spinach. That he laughs constantly. That he is bubbly and smiley. His body is solid and healthy.

But these other truths are lodged in my throat.

It is difficult to admit that he cannot say anything more than “mama” and “dada.” Sometimes he will hold the phone to his shoulder and say, “Hey Jew,” but that’s only when he’s hitting up his honey at the yeshiva. It’s hard to tell others, especially mothers with children who are geniuses, who can sign and point and write sonnets in crayon.

I want the space and freedom to freak out. I want to have the ability to tell someone there’s something wrong but we’re working on it.

I've been thinking about what Nathan has inherited. Mike has a story that when he was little, he talked so much that his mother paid him a dollar to shut up for an afternoon. This was a monumental event because in the early 60s, a dollar could get you hundred candy bars or a model T. And Mike's mother basked in that silent house, free from young Mike's constant inquiry.

I have faith in my son. I believe that he is learning at his own pace. He has my brain and Mike's and yet, a brain wired uniquely just for him. I believe that eventually the right synapses in his brain will fire off so rapidly that there will be many words and I won't have enough money to stop it.

Halloween: 1, Mona: 0

Last year we skipped Halloween festivities because Nathan was sick. This year, we headed out to nearby shopping center called Westwood Village with our friends Lisa, Branan and Cooper. We weaved through the crowds and followed the throngs of ninjas, robots, pumpkins and spidermen. There were kids there, too, but I couldn't see them, except for the ones who yelled, "CAN WE GO TO THE RICH NEIGHBORHOOD NOW?"



It was kind of awkward because Nathan was in his stroller the whole time and could not care less that we ferried him from store to store. On top of his obvious ennui, I had to hold the bag out while employees dropped in one dum dum. Then to prove that the candy wasn't really for me, I would shake the bag at Nathan, yelling, "Yay! You got candy, Nathan! Yay!" But Nathan could see right through this charade because dum dums are the cheapest candy around and every time they'd drop one of these pathetic little sticks, he'd look at me like, "You gotta be kidding me with that crap! They charge how much for a cardigan sweater set and they're giving us this?"



We walked through Sleep Country and Mike yelled out, "Free futon with all candy!" and the employee retorted, "Free futon with every $500 candy purchase!"



When we waded through Dress Barn, Mike stopped by the mirror to tell Nathan, "Just so you know, your mother did this to you."

--

This is my first post as part of NaBloPoMo. I can never spell that correctly. I want to put Mofo somewhere, because in my world, you can expect a mofo around, right?

I think I need mouth to mouth and other inappropriate things I did not say at my son's check-up

This afternoon was Nathan's last appointment at the clinic he's been to since he was three days old. Mike and I decided to move him to a children's clinic closer to our house, one that doesn't involve destroying our brakes by jerking through downtown traffic or for the sake of my son's innocent and budding vocabulary, require that I replace my normal slew of road rage swear words for phrases like, "CHEESE AND RICE!" and "HOLY HARRY POTTER!"

This afternoon was the first time for me to experience the magic that is the Hot Doctor. Internet readers, not one of you said, Mona, you should go find a hot doctor. That will make fighting rush hour traffic worth it. I'd be willing to be dropped in a pit of Tae Bo trained monkeys that I'd have to battle before getting to Hot Doctor. Bring it!

I shook his hand and introduced myself, thinking "WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY SON'S LIFE?" But once I stopped acting like Robert Deniro in Awakenings and wiped the drool from my hanging mouth, we had the most in-depth discussion about Nathan's habits and health. I didn't have to fire off my requisite check-up questions because he was in a hurry. Hot Doctor patiently played with Nathan, called him "pumpkin" and nodded at all my concerns about his weight. (Nathan weighed in at 30.5 lbs. Someone do the math and tell me how many meerkats that is, por favor.)

"Oh, he's growing perfectly. He's perfect for his height. He's just big!" Hot Doctor laughed. (That's what I've been saying all along...but about myself. I'm just big-boned, especially around my butt.)

I lied to Hot Doctor when he asked me if we spoke another language at home. I said, "Yes, we do! I speak Chamorro to him!" This is only slightly true. In the rare moments when Nathan still needs to be breastfed, I'll repeat loudly as I unfurl my sweater puppy, "Susu! Susu! Susu!" Basically, I'm yelling to my son, "BOOB! BOOB! BOOB!"

There were many things I wanted to ask Hot Doctor, like how I want to teach Nathan math and number sequences, so hey, what's your phone number? Or even more blunt inquires such as, "Baby, why you so fine?"

As incredibly good-looking as Hot Doctor was, I still had to submit the paperwork to transfer Nathan's files. If Nathan's next appointment is not as satisfying, I'll have the memory of Hot Doctor and some of his DNA on my skin because I am never washing my hand again.

Sticking his thumb in my nose and other effective techniques to wake up Mommy

This was Nathan last year as the most adorable lion ever. This year, I bought a chicken costume in hopes that we can replicate the ease and enjoyment of exploiting utilizing my son to represent the animal kingdom. But shortly after I shimmied his squiggly body into the soft fuzzy chicken suit complete with hooded chicken head, he let out a terrible squeal to warn everyone on our block that his parents were committing something as egregious as forced poultry wear.

And this is the disconnect we've had lately. When I want him to enjoy something as much as I do, I am faced with a, "What kind of sick tradition is this holiday you call 'Halloween,' woman?" attitude. When we went to the pumpkin patch the other week, there were bales of hay that other children were climbing on and thorougly enjoying and when I plopped him in and urged him to play, he looked at me with utter confusion like, "WHY ARE YOU DUMPING ME IN HERE WITH ALL THESE WHITE KIDS?"



My son is now 17 months and while putting on his diaper is like diapering a break-dancing pig, I love this stage. When he wants to wake me up, he'll stick a finger in my nose, press his face close to mine or pull at my pajama sleeve. He's just as intent on expressing his happiness. At the Children's Museum this weekend, he was so elated to be in a space where I wasn't hollering, "ROCKS ARE NOT FOOD, CHILD," that he kept running into my lap, giggling wildly. I want to bottle those moments up and smash them open during the times I cannot breathe because there is a thumb lodged in my nostril.



Even though I haven't been able to teach him how to kiss Mommy, the Children's Museum's Global Village Room offered us the important lesson that everyone in the Philippines has rattan furniture.

sniffing and spiderman

One thing I loved about my mother watching Nathan is that he was always clean when I picked him up. Bathtime fit in the schedule right after "HUGS!" (she really wrote out the schedule with frequent slots reserved for "HUGS!") and before Curious George. And after my mom buzzed me in, she would let Nathan out into the hallway, where I would find him in a fresh outfit, a sweet baby shampoo smell wafting from his head. I loved the moment when he realized that it was his mother at the other end of the hall, and he would run, only to find that damn, what is this? The 5K? I'm tired. Why don't you meet me at my end, good woman?

And this week has been a particularly hard transition for Nathan. Granted, we are very happy with our choice and the daycare provider is a sweet woman. Nathan roams through her enormous backyard and wallows in the dirt and grass. And this is obvious when we arrive at the door, and take our son home, harboring a foreign house smell with us. But if this is our only concern and it's a very small one at that, we're doing okay so far, right?

--

Nathan has a Spiderman-themed birthday party to attend tomorrow and so what's the limit on gifts? I don't want to look like a cheapskate, showing up with Spiderman pillow cases when everyone else brings offerings from the higher echelon of Spiderman-paraphernalia. I want to make a good impression, especially since I really like this family, so I'm aiming for a gift that falls between Spiderman tic-tacs and hiring Toby Macguire for the day, because I'm sure he has other things to do like perfecting his lame acting career.

farm tots

Last Saturday, we headed down to the South 47 Farms. South 47 sounds like a gang. Maybe a gang of white organic Eastside farmers that aggressively battle the chemical crew who come in yelling, "Pesticiiide!"

I didn't see any Pacific islanders there, but that's no surprise. I can spot Pacific islanders if I'm actively looking and by actively looking, I mean, turning on A&E and watching Dog the Bounty Hunter. Because that show accurately portrays how Pacific islanders always smoke meth and jump bail. You won't see me on that show. I always pay my bondsman IN FULL.



They offered hayrides for a dollar and it would have been more fun if Nathan hadn't tried to jump off the wagon or laugh maniacally at strangers. I had to sit on the wagon bed, (HA! No cushiony hay bale for you, mother!) to keep Nathan from exiting. When I stood up, my pants were dirty and hay covered.

All of a sudden, an old woman swept off the hay and dirt bits from my pants and I jumped. She said, "Oh, I'm not getting fresh with you dear."

Okay, so two things: 1) how cute is that? Who says "getting fresh" anymore? and 2) Doesn't touching a stranger's butt fall under the definition of "getting fresh"?

I know I attract older people, but geez. This is a stretch.

And speaking of older people, I offered my husband this comedic gem this morning:

Me: So, when was the first time you saw Billy Joel in concert?

Mike: 1971.

Me: Was he calling himself William then?

Enjoy!

sometimes I use Nathan's head as a trombone

little games

Lately, Nathan will only fall asleep if he’s holding onto me. He pulls my body next to him, drapes his arm over my shoulder and one leg over my hip. At first I was touched that he clung onto his mommy like this but now it’s like, come on child, I’ve seen a double helix with more breathing room.



He’s also very fond of the game “Horsey.” I thought I lost all sense of dignity when I said, “Fine, Nathan. Throw up on mommy. At least it’s not the carpet.” But no. Bumbling on all fours with a gigantic toddler on my back sucked whatever shred of adulthood I had left. And it’s especially fun that whenever I’m sitting down, he tries to push me over even though I insist, I AM YOUR MOTHER NOT A FARM ANIMAL.



And the game he prefers to play instead of Kiss Mommy?



Feed Mommy.

stick a fork in me, I'm a mom.

I want to carry a card that says I am no longer allowed to share my birth story especially when I am around people who love to share their own. Granted, I am not against other people telling their very unique tales of birthing beautiful babies, but I am done. I am done.

Couldn't I have one of those punch cards you get that give you a free cup of coffee on your 10th purchase, but only this one will say, "Hey Mona? Is this the tenth time you've told people that your mother insisted on counting during your contractions only she wasn't in synch? Guess what? You are out of turns for this vaginal yarn!" I almost wrote vayarn just now and that just sounds like a bad babywearing product. Like, "I love my vayarn, but geez, I can't walk with my baby up in my lady business!"

Like Izzymom, I want to date other mothers, too, but I need to find my own tribe. Often times, the only thing I have in common with other mothers I meet is that we gave birth. And that's where the similarities end. Of course, we made babies the same way, but no one talks about those fun times or the "honey, I'm watching the game," position.

I need a mother who still has stories about debauchery and no-gag reflex victories and geez, would they get off Britney's back already? I want a mother who'll say, "Mona, let's meet at the park. I'll bring the flask." I want to confess dark tales and not feel like later on, it will be replayed to her husband with an added, "Can you believe what's happening to Mona? I am SOOO happy we are not that [insert my self-induced crisis here]! High-five for us!"

I want to say, "Nathan spent the entire evening spinning around in circles. He was turning left the whole time!" I don't want to hear, "Wow, that's great, Mona. I wish I had more time to talk, but I just bought these Latin flash cards, so uhh, good luck with that spinning around thing Nathan does."

Why does it feel like sixth grade all over again? Only now, the stakes are higher. Instead of our friendships hinging on whether or not I returned the Lisa Frank stickers, I am dismissed because I haven't introduced Nathan to Gymboree. And are you kidding me with that price? There's a park down the street and that's Gymbo-free.

How did it get so difficult to find an ideal mom buddy, someone who'd say, "Mona? You've had a hard day at work? There, there now. Here's a tequila shooter to make it better."

working 8:30 to 5, so shut it.

As a working mother, I field this question often: "Who watches Nathan while you're at work?"

What? You mean, I have to have an actual person to care for my child? What about the wonderful people on Sesame Street! Or the people in those Teletubby costumes? Do they count?!?

Like any other pleasantry, it's meant to illicit a positive response. No one wants to hear how it really is, how exhausting it has been to find reliable and affordable childcare. They want me to empty warm Hallmark Channel tales into the tight whorls of their ears. Even if I said, "Well, sometimes I drop him off at the taco truck on the corner," they'd say, "Oh that's great. He'll be able to order burritos in Spanish! HOLLA! I mean, HOLA!"

Because I had not planned on returning to work as soon as I did, I didn't make the deadline for any of the daycares in my neighborhood or around my work, or in the greater Seattle area for that matter. The daycare near my work said I'd be on their waiting list for FIVE YEARS. Another daycare said they could take Nathan, but they'd charge $85 A DAY.

I knew I wanted to work, but I cringed at the idea of signing a large part of my paycheck over to my child's caregiver. Why does it have to be so expensive? At the fancy daycare, where they served organic food and sang songs in French, I wanted to cut a deal, maybe bring out some preservative-laden foods and sing songs in English (or no songs at all! He'll be on the no-song plan!) for a cheaper rate.

It was sheer luck that my neighbor at the time was staying at home and offered to take care of Nathan. She had a daughter about a year older than Nathan who ended up falling in love with my little boy. My neighbor told me that every morning she would ask, "Where's Ne Ne?" And that "Ne Ne" was the only name she would ever say. Then the fit started to hit the shan, if you know what I mean.

She started having financial problems and wanted an advance. And then another one. She and her husband were fighting.

His last day there was the day that he came home with a forehead bump so big that I swore he had brain damage. It was somewhere between goose egg and conjoined twin. I was in tears and phoned the pediatrician on call who asked me what my son was doing. "He's singing right now. And dancing."

So there was no reason to bring a laughing child into the ER because all children will look like that scene in Alien where the alien busts out of that guy's chest only, it's out of an enormous head protrusion. But I couldn't bring him back there.

My mother's been watching him this summer, but it's been taxing on her body to lift up my hulking child. Especially when she's also watching my nephew Alejandro, who can be lifted with one hand. And who never bodyslams people.

We finally found a daycare run by a nice woman who lives ON THIS STREET! No more 80-mile commutes! And though we really want Nathan to be in the daycare at Mike's work, we won't know if they have room until the end of this month. So another change, another uneasy answer for those wanting to know where I drop off my child.

But what I want is that feeling I had at my neighbor's during the first months. When that sweet little girl would extend her arms and hug Nathan and when I shut the door, I could hear the two of them laughing behind me. I'd pay anything for that.

howdy neighbor

We had a playdate yesterday afternoon with our neighbor and her son. He and Nathan were soon caught up in a zebra vs. radio flyer drag race.



Nathan's quick lead was only made possible by his aerodynamic mouth.

kiss mommy

working on my fitness

Nathan is a really sweet boy. He likes to take inventory of all our cooking utencils by removing them from drawers and cabinets and spreading them out on the floor. Instant obstacle course, yo! And how did he know that the best place to find a baking sheet is under the couch? How considerate! I can't even tell you how many times I've sprawled across the couch, rubbed my beached-whale belly and thought, "Now would be a good time for cookies."

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

in which Nathan gets all Lionel Richie on me

Thanks to a fever, Nathan cried and moaned ALL NIGHT LONG. His fever reached 101.3 and only baby Tylenol and Teletubbies could soothe him. And who knew that such a stupid show could have shaman-like healing properties? Sometimes I want to tell Nathan that if you've seen one Teletubbies episode, you've seen them all.

Sometimes they eat tubby custard in the beginning (and there are no spoons! How do you eat a squishy substance without utencils!) or sometimes they'll eat tubby custard after they've broadcasted a preschool scene from their stomaches.

If you've never watched this show, this makes absolutely no sense and even if you've watched the show, it makes no sense that I've actually analyzed the shot sequences or the editing and music choices.

But I am glad that he's taken to Teletubbies. I've heard so much about different parenting styles like attachment parenting and now I have a style of my own: absentee parenting. Absentee parents say hey! Sometimes I'll tell Nathan, "You put that book down right now and WATCH TELEVISION!" No son of mine is going to read at a first-grade level, unless of course, he's 18.

stay gold, ponyboy

Here is Nathan clearly excited to attend the White Center Jubilee Days with his family. And that bruise is a new one. He had meant to shape it into a Harry Potter lightning bolt but instead he just looks like he went to Ash Wednesday mass. Not as cool.



I should have known to head home for a nap when he was only mildly interested in the magic show. If they had hired a breast-feeding demonstrator instead of someone who did a fancy trick with a coloring book, he might have perked up.



If looks could kill, specifically, kill and turn animals into glue, then I'm sure that's what stirring in Nathan's head. Either that or my son's taking a dump and he's staring at the pony to focus.

Whatever works, right?

He has my eyes, but my husband's brain

Who needs sippy cups when you have little shot glasses?

Happy Indepants Day!

For the first time since giving birth, I worked out in the morning. And though, strapping Nathan into a jogging stroller and walking the handful of blocks from our house to the park doesn't constitute aerobic exercise, it did require movement. And there was a hill! And not once did I stop at the McDonald's along the way, or head back to the sanctity of my fridge (oh how you understand my needs, Frigidaire).

If I had spent money on the jogging stroller, I might be more motivated to use it. But it didn't cost me a penny to pick it up off the internet or to fill up the tires at Aaron's Bicycle Repair, the best bike shop in West Seattle.

I am paying for that sloppy haircut, however, since Mike vehemently detests how I ruined the perfect cut Lisa styled when I pulled Nathan's bangs together and chopped them off with a pair of blunt scissors. Mike says Nathan looks like Nero but I think he resembles Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber. I don't know which is worse: a haircut mirroring the persecution of early Christians or one of the stupidest movies known to man.

We did manage to successfully host the "First Annual Hickey Hoe Down," which Mike wanted to change to the "First Annual Hickey Hoes Go Down" and I in turn suggested it be called, "Not With That Name Or It'll Be The Last Time I Ever Drive to Safeway Because You Can't Remember That We Need Plastic Forks."

There were burgers and babies, two sets of Lisa's and a small pool that entertained easily-distracted toddlers. I would have taken more pictures, but Nathan dropped the camera and now the battery compartment flap does not stay shut. I did get this shot of Nathan clearly proving that you do not need to be in the water to get wet:

trip the light fantastic

For about thirty minutes every morning, light ricochets through the fish tank and flashes a patch rainbow patch on our couch.



Am I the only parent who still gives her son a bottle? Nathan will not take a sippy cup and I've bought all kinds and colors. Our pediatrician suggested forcing him to use it by removing the bottle all together, and either, I'm too weak or Nathan doesn't latch onto anything not resembling a boob, but it hasn't worked. And why is it with this transition that I feel a tinge of guilt and shame that I haven't moved my kid into the sippy cup pack when it seems like every other child has had it so easy? I hardly felt any remorse for formula or going back to work, but when we're in public and I pull out an avent bottle, I swear I feel those eyes darting at me! But he'll move on, right? I won't have to send him care packages when he's at college and wants to drink beer out of a bottle you can sterilize in the microwave. Right?

But moving on--this is also an excellent photo to share Nathan's important discovery last week: his penis. Now whenever the kid is stripped down, he tugs at his cash and prizes and looks at me with a grateful grin, as if his wang had been made by Fisher Price and I attached it to his body for his enjoyment. I can just imagine sharing with my moms group how I had paced the toy aisle at Target, and how it was between the penis and the Sit-to-Stand Giraffe and as you can see, the wang definitely won out.

And in writing that last euphemistic sentence, I know that I'll have to teach him the proper names for genitalia or else I'm going to get a teacher's note saying, "Let's schedule a Parent-Teacher conference about Nathan referring to his penis as the 'downtown bonanza.'"

the distended truth

Nathan's feet aren't that big. I had to buy him size 7 shoes so he could see his feet over that protruding belly.

hair apparent

In today's stupid confessions: I was afraid of Nathan's first haircut. After months of male infantile baldness, his head sprouted thick, luscious locks. I was afraid that cutting his hair would revert him back to that baby face, the one we had lost along with the infant car seat and size 3 diapers.

But when Mike and I started receiving comments from passerbys about how cute our *little girl* was, something needed to be done.

I had seen a kid's store with a salon inside at the upscale shopping mall near my work. I had an idea that it would be pricey but when the hairstylist said, "All kids cuts start at $25," Mike and I said, "Okay, we'll be back." The "we'll be back" really means, "We'll never be back unless we wake up from a drug-induced coma and in that medicated haze believe that $25 PLUS TIP is a reasonable price for four snips." But that last sentence takes a lot of time to spew out especially when you're trying to keep a 13-month-old from eating white bits off the carpet.

What I really wanted to tell the stylist was that for the last two years, I've had my hair cut at a Vietnamese woman's small dimly-lit shop and even though I only understand every other sentence, it costs me twelve dollars. She asked me once, "So, do you WAWK?" And I said yes because I wasn't sure if she had asked me if I walk or if I work because yes, I work and to get to my work, I call upon my mobility.

Last weekend, Lisa and Branan solved our hair woes by inviting us over to their compound for a barbecue/haircut and not only did it not cost us anything, they grilled a delectable pepper-crusted pork tenderloin from a recipe! I had forgotten that people still refer to books of these instructable gems. None of the steps asked them to take the food out of the microwave half-way and stir! And even more shocking, none of the ingredients included KC Masterpiece!

And we ended the night by transforming my son from a fair-feathered little girl into a shaggy-headed boy.





And here would be the perfect place to insert an "after" photo, but unfortunately, all I have to offer you is a shot of Nathan performing that weird-suspended-in-air feat from Smooth Criminal.



Or how about this one of Nathan showing absolutely no fear as we flung him down a plastic slide?

next he'll ask who ordered the chicken parm

To celebrate the Sopranos season finale, I taped napkins to the side of Nathan's head so he could be Paulie Walnuts.





I think it goes really well with the Aloha shirt and COWBOY pants Mike dressed him in.

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."

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.

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.

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.

My Friday question

Since Nathan started walking, he has suffered two bumps on the head. So let me ask this, how long will it take before Nathan starts to look like that guy in the movie Mask, not the one with Jim Carrey, the one with Cher?



There goes our spot in MENSA.

we're all bi-pedal up in here

You're going to have to forgive me on this because the video looks way better on my screen than it does here.



I used a Zippo for lighting, so no wonder it was so dark! But did you catch that? The MOBILITY! The WALKING and the falling, but more importantly THE WALKING!

I got a few comments about Nathan's Rice-a-roni endorsement in which people asked why there was an iron in the background. Uhhh... Because I don't like wrinkly clothing? And I need it in close proximity to the kitchen so I can get my grilled cheese on. Durr.

So if you're trying to dissect frame by frame what is in this hovel shot, let me explain.

Is that a green-and-white bath mat? Yes, it's a green-and-white bath mat from Target used to prevent two autistic cats from scratching up the carpet.

Is that really a box fan? Yes, that's what Mike uses as white noise when he sleeps and to make his voice sound weird when he talks into it.

Are those Mike's swim shorts hanging on the doorknob? Noooo... that's my underwear hanging on the doorknob. My butt's so big, you'd think it was a small country's flag. I haven't learned to be strict with it yet.

feety-feet, don't fail me now

Sometimes when I'm walking alone, I'll repeat some of the nonsensical bits I say to Nathan, particularly this line: "I like to bite the feety-feet."



I know the babystink that lingers in his toes is fleeting and will soon be replaced by repulsive boystink and mutant teenstink. While we were visiting my in-laws in St. Louis, my 13-year-old nephew took his shoes off and the toxic fumes were so foul, it sank into the carpet fibers and the smell stayed even after he left. So I'm trying to get in all the babystink before his toes morph into something ugly.



I don't know what it is about having a baby that makes me pervert the English language. Ever since Nathan arrived, I've had to say things like feety-feet, call my son a "bunny," and worse, make a scene over the butty-butt. I love the butty-butt and its two handfuls of globular fat that force me to grab and squeeze and repeat, "I love to bite the butty-butt."

And sometimes Mike and I will talk to each other the way we talk to Nathan. We have this bit where Mike and I will frown at Nathan and pretend to be angry with him and we'll demand information by saying, "Nathan, your mother and I are very upset with you because you haven't answered our question: How big is Nathan?" Then we'll grab his hands and go through the varying, "Is he this big? No! Is he this big? No," until we reach the grand finale when we'll wave his arms at his side and squeal, "He's thiiis big!"

This is probably what people did before they had television.



Next month is Nathan's 1st birthday, when he'll officially no longer be a baby. But ever since he started fitting into 18-24 month pants, I've been losing the baby in him. Even this picture looks like I've taken a two-year-old and diapered him in a frenzied attempt to turn him back into an infant.

But until I stop playing the "What is that you're eating?!?" or requesting that Nathan stop crying so I can hear what Kendra's saying on Girls Next Door, he'll still be a baby, feety-feet and all.

the beat goes on

The baby shower was much less painful than I thought it would be. For one, only my boss and former co-worker were there, and of the two, my boss was the one to acknowledge my and Nathan's presence. She was actually nice to me, but that's not saying much. I've seen her applaud some executive director's work and then when the ED was out of earshot, she added, "I can't believe she's taking so long to finish that project. I would have never hired her."

And when she asked, "So you quit school spring semester, right," I knew after that dreadful breakfast, she was probably running her mouth with, "Well, you know Mona got knocked up and had to quit school," even though I did graduate early (and with honors, yo!) and walked at my departmental ceremony just four weeks after having Nathan.

But instead of firing off my oh-no-you-didn't hand wave, I replied, "No. I didn't have to take any classes during the Spring because I had finished. Early."

It would be pointless to prove myself to someone who cherry-picks flaws and feeds on low points. I want to say that I had no intention of showing Nathan off to these women, but that's about as true as my undying love for cilantro. But having my pastel-dressed, beret donning son there provided me with physical proof that my life is good.

And tangentially speaking, if you're thinking about having a baby and need another item for the "pros" column, think of this: you'll never be alone at a party. I didn't speak Arabic (my pregnant friend is from Baghdad) and I didn't want to rehash the few good times with ye colleagues of olde (because that conversation wouldn't last long). Also, you don't have to clean up the party because your hands are full of baby, giving you a very unselfish yet totally selfish way to say, "I would help, but you know, the baby."

So Nathan and I babbled to each other while the Arab women belly-danced in a circle, moving to the music and a clap-driven beat. They danced in pairs; they danced alone. The women who had sat quietly, picking at their tabbouleh and hummus were called to life on the dance floor, their hips moving and jerking, arms and hands gracefully securing spots in the air around them. Unfettered by scarves and coverings their hair spilled down their backs and reached further when they arched their bodies.

When I was pulled in, I moved to the middle, taking Nathan as my dance partner. I shook my hips as much as I could while toting a 26-lb baby, and performed varying speeds of the "mommy-side-to-side-sway." I lowered Nathan down and then quickly lifted him up in a grand, sweeping motion and my son's laughing mouth said much better than I ever could, "Here I am, in yo' face, ladies!"

mommy magic

The above magic show is featured over at Blogging Baby Parent Dish.

I should have called it, "From one 'O' face to another."

--

Nathan can say three things now. When he looks at me, he says, "Maaa-maaa." When he looks at Mike, he says, "Daaaah-daaah." When he looks at our cat Charlie, he says, "You are my brother, you are older than me..."

He's so smart. Not even a year old yet and already he's singing Elton John!

--

Mike's and Nathan's birthdays are two days apart. Mike decided that from this year on, he's not having a birthday. This is fine for me because I don't think I could match last year's festivities, when I let a penis-wearing woman kiss my husband. Now, if a woman wearing those bachelorette-party-penis-necklaces wanted to kiss Nathan, I would have a problem with that, since Nathan would want to put it in his mouth and haven't I traumatized my son enough?