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.

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."

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.

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!"

a cheap, dirty mess

Not everyone was happy that I got pregnant.

A few weeks after Mike and I found out we were having a baby, I agreed to go to brunch with my former co-workers and ex-boss. One of them noticed I was wearing a wedding band and asked if I had gotten married to which I said yes and added, "And I'm having a baby!"

Even though these women were phenomenal at transforming communities and helping immigrant families, they wallowed in the requisite office gossip, especially when it was aimed at me. Take for example the Christmas party when Mike and I arrived late and left early. They took this to mean that Mike and I were in an abusive relationship because all older man/younger woman relationships are abusive! Women in their 20s don't have minds of their own; they don't gain wisdom until menopause! And when another one told me that my "lack of typing" was a sign of Mike controlling me, well, chalk that up to domestic violence, not employee boredom!

And upon my sharing that I was with child, they said they would rather throw themselves down the stairs multiple times than be pregnant. Well, only one woman said that, but it was the general consensus that I was doing a pretty stupid thing by becoming pregnant so young. But there wasn't anyone at that table who said congratulations or mazel tov, and I was pretty pissed at the memory of their frowning, barren faces.

And now, over a year later, Nathan's awesomeness (and my new job's completely career-nurturing, family-friendly environment) has dissipated whatever disdain I had for those women. And even though I'm sure there was much fanfare over how big of a mistake I was making and how my stint at motherhood would be disastrous, I'm probably just as bad as they were since this is just my side of a dirty mess.

I'm going to a baby shower today where there will be a sure sighting of my ex-boss. But I'm not worried about seeing her since there's no better way to play oneupmanship than having youth, an Elton-John singing son and a sweet life. What has furrowed my brow is that the gal having the baby shower has told me that she does not want to have a "Target baby," because Target is cheap. Well, someone file that under "o" for OBVIOUS. Of course, Target's cheap. That's why I shop there.

Worse than that, this negates the parenting/consumer philosophy I was going to scrawl in the card, "Get it for free, buy it used, or buy it at Target."

I'll guess I'll have to go with the wise unsolicited advice I received at the grocery store, "Watch your baby."

Resolved: Double strollers are cool and baby number 2 may be evil

Here's a debate that goes through my head:
I want another baby.

No, Mona, you don't want another baby.

I'm still young and full of life! I can handle another child!

Give me a break. You're so tired when you come home from work, you can't even make it through an episode of LOST.

Well, that's because they switched the time to 10 o'clock! If they had kept it at 9, I would know what's going on! And why aren't people hairier? They are very smooth and attractive for not having shaving equipment around! And where's Walt? And why hasn't Hurley lost any weight?

What if the next child turns out to be like one of The Others or worse, Damien?

Then Nathan will have to enter the priesthood at 18 months so he can perform the exorcism. We'll have to keep it in the family. Maybe then he can tell me what those polar bears were doing on an island.

Be honest, why do you really want to have another child?

Well, double strollers are kind of cool.

I don't want another baby. But I want another baby. And this is how I'm flip-flopping in my mind. Chances are, we'll be able to plan the next one, but Mike and I aren't sure when that'll be. Some days, we look at our slobbering child with Gerber puffs stuck to his face, who squeals and bah-bah-bahs at us and think, maybe we're okay with just one. Nathan is so full of awesome and (generally) good health that the odds might not be in our favor in having another baby who loves cats (and their respective food) as well as his parents.

But the real issue here is that during a lunch-break stroll through Pottery Barn Kids at the U-Village, I was disgusted by their "Sail Away" room set. Obviously, no Pacific Islander was consulted when the design-for-the-rich team came together with a $2,695 Speed Boat Bed and Trundle. Why would I shell out almost 3K for a bed that looks like a boat. Why not buy a boat that could be used as a bed? Then when your child grows out of it, you can use it as a boat! And why are convertible cribs only used for beds afterwards? Why couldn't you convert a crib into, say, a gazebo? An island kitchen? A complete set of the 1978 World Book Encyclopedia? My Nintendo GameBoy from 1988 with super high Tetris scores?

But no one asked me, which is why I return to the inner dialogue with my voice of reason, one who doesn't think that double strollers are reason enough for another baby.

Real moms...

Real moms grin stupidly so they can feed their children before they're allowed to enjoy their vegan seitan sandwich. Just so you know, "seitan" sounds very much like "satan" and for most of the meal, I thought I was eating a sandwich influenced by the dark prince.



Real moms also take whatever kind of kiss they can get, even if it's a chomp on the nose.



Real moms also seek revenge by dressing their sons up in uber-preppy vests and berets. If you can't use your words, you can't complain. Actually, you can, but I can't find "WAAAAH!" in my Nathan-to-English dictionary.

(thanks Odawni for the photos!)

Let's try "head" for a title

I know Dave Lieberman and I would get along well, and by get along well, I mean, if ever we met and Mike said, "It's okay honey, you already told me that he's on your list," and then Dave agreed to meet me at room 121 at the Marco Polo Inn on Aurora Avenue (classy!), let's just say I'll give him a good deal. Wow, that didn't take long for me to get all hookerfied.

Dave Lieberman shares the last name with the anesthesiologist who injected that sweet love juice epidural into my veins, made me forget about the Pitocin-induced belly trauma and did it all in 12 minutes. Few men have made that kind of lasting impression on me in such record time (unless you're the fang-toothed kid I was stuck with during Seven Minutes in Heaven. *shudder*) And Dave only takes 30 minutes to share in my love of good deals. He's one of the few on the Food Network I hope never catches a bullet with his teeth. He never says "yum-o," or "sammiches," or "My name is Rachel Ray and my breasts look like I'm smuggling peas in my shirt." And he's a Lieberman, too! That's a good sign, right? Aren't all Liebermans related?

--

I've been seeing a lot of new mothers at Target recently, the ones who ferry their hand-sized infants in monstrous travel systems. It feels like I'm looking at myself a few months ago, when I took three-day-old Nathan to Target for the first time in his own monster-stroller. Everytime I took him out, I could hear a voice in my head go, "Sunday-Sunday-Sunday!"

I can tell they are new moms not from the solar eclipse caused by their gigundo stroller combos or the dark circles under their eyes, but because most of them spend thirty goddamn minutes comparing the Target brand of lavender baby wash to the Gerber lavender baby wash. I haven't had that kind of furrowed brow since I took the SAT or since I was 18 and had to buy ground beef for the first time and realized I didn't know how to buy red meat (it doesn't just appear in my freezer like it did at home? Say what?) Can I tell you new moms right now to get the Target brand because they're the same effing deal and Target costs a dollar less?

That whole post-partum idealistic, "I may be cheap, but I won't be cheap for my son!" mantra I held steadfast didn't last very long and I'm a sliver away from scrounging through the Goodwill donation bin for clothes to shimmy over my son whose protruding belly does not fit the 6-12 month clothing even though he is NOT 12 MONTHS YET. WTF, Carters? Why can't you use a small, medium, large, very large (that's me! ding ding!) system instead of something as deceptive as, "Here is a jumper that fits infants who are less than a year old," because those clothes do not fit my child's Sputnik head or his body that weighs about 1/4th of an elderly Chinese woman.

--

When Mike and I went to dinner the other night, I spotted a new mother and father hurriedly eating their food and checking their baby. The infant seat was faced away from me and I just had to see the mysterious squirmy baby, like it was the glowing briefcase in Pulp Fiction. As we headed out, I stopped by their table.

"You have a new baby!" I said. They nodded in appreciation and I took this as a signal that it was okay to look inside.

To say the newborn was squishy looking would be a very kind statement about a baby who really looked like an old Mexican man had been shrunk down to baby-size and shoved into a pink dress. I know this sounds horrible for a mother to say about someone else's baby, because all babies are beautiful, right? But not this one. That's not to say that she'll never grow out of it and be doomed to a life of Cheech and Chong references. But still. That face was almost haunting.

"Your baby's so... alert!" Good save, Mona. Smooth move there with the general statement about babies. Of course she was alert. Her eyes were open. Now that I think about it, that's what a lot of people said about Nathan when he was a newborn, but as squishy and scrunched up as he was, he did not look like Cheech Marin in a dress.

So you better treat (me) right

Until I took my maternity leave last April, which turned out to be the day I maternity left, I had been working consistently since I was 19. I've been a front desk manager, grassroots organizer, small newspaper editor, etc. I've been thinking a lot about the almost-jobs I've had, too, the places where I had been hired but had to politely (and sometimes not so politely) refuse.

There's a scene in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid when right before a gun battle, Butch admits that he's never shot anyone and Sundance instructs him to "aim for the middle 'cause you're bound to hit something." That line sums up how I've applied for jobs, especially when I don't have a job and need that crazy thing called money.

There was a dry-cleaning place run by an attractive Asian woman (Asians and dry cleaners? Surely you jest!) and right after the interview she said, "I just want you to take this IQ test, here's some scratch paper." I had never heard of a dry cleaner wanting an applicant to figure out if John and Matt carpooled and Matt lived thirty minutes away from John at what speed would a train from Topeka have to be to reach Kansas City at five o'clock. I thought I would just be estimating how much it would cost to get raspberries stains out of ascots, not balancing equations. But for fifteen minutes, I was a math genius and the chemicals inside the building uncovered the seventh grade algebra lessons lodged in the bowels of my brain.

When I received the voicemail asking when I would start, I had to tell her no, I had already accepted a job elsewhere even thought that was a lie, I didn't want to smell like I had been huffing aerosol cans all day and I don't like doing laundry. (Tangent: And speaking of smells, I am utterly disgusted by Febreeze commercials. I mean, instead of washing and disinfecting your nasty, bacteria-laden sweaty sports gear, why not spritz it with some chemicals? That's nastier than wearing Bea Arthur's underwear as a face mask. Whenever I get a whiff of Febreeze, I think, "Something nearby must be really dirty.")

This stretch of motherhood has been the longest time I have gone without working for pay and has given me time to think about what ifs. What if I had taken that job at the literary agency? What if I moonlighted as a "phone actress" for guys into shemuscles? What if I did work from 9 to 5 (pm to am) shaking what my mama gave me?

And the point of this boring, what-is-your-point-Mona entry is to say that I am no longer a stay-at-home mom. I got a job! A paying job! With benefits! Break out the exclamation points, who's expressing strong feelings now, playa!

I decided to go back to work for several reasons. It was partly financially motivated because of small things like the car accident last month that didn't magically pay for itself and disappear into the field where bad decisions go to die (RIP stirrup pants). There were other reasons less cogent like, I think I could really lose weight this time because I will not be within seconds of the fridge and the pint of cookies and cream inside. Truth is, I want a career. In twenty years I am supposed to be at my maximum earning potential and that is not going to happen if I continue memorizing lines from Little House on the Prairie (not that that's a bad thing, it's just I can't make a living telling you what Pa Ingalls is going to say next). I want to go to grad school and use what I've learned for something other than owning the Victorian Literature category on Jeopardy.

My friend calls the first months the "cloud of motherhood," that you're stuck in a fog of baby demands and mothering and that's great because it's exactly what your child needs, but when your baby grows and eases up, you start to notice your own needs, too. And as she waxed hippie philosophic about discovering womanhood, wombs and the moon, I should have chimed in with something more eloquent than, "Yah, I'm just looking forward to wearing pants without elastic around the middle."

If you don't stop crying, I'm going to turn this ferry right around

The first time I ever took a ferry was when I was traveling from Saipan to Tinian to visit my friend Val who was staying there that summer. I boarded the ferry home with my newly acquired driver's license and two large watermelons her aunt had given me. I failed Saipan's written test so Val offered her inter-island DMV connections. What's more embarrassing than failing the exam every Harry, Dick and Jane Juan, Jun, and Serafin passed? Failing it at 18 years of age. I drove my golden brown Toyota Previa van illegally and had to go to another island to make it right.

I took a nap on the ferry and woke up to a Filipino man standing over me, saying, "Excuse me, ma'am, but you'll have to leave now." I rubbed my eyes and realized that the ferry was completely empty. I didn't have time to recreate the scene in which everyone walks by my open-mouthed, snoring body, my sister was supposed to pick me up outside and if I didn't get to the dock, I would be all by my lonesome with my fruit to keep me company. I jumped up and over the man, holding my huge watermelons and running as fast I could off the boat. There I was, huffing and holding those jumbo globes just so I could holler at my sister who was already on her way out. I could get a gold medal in the Porn Star Olympics with that stunt, I tell you what.

So when Mike was invited to Peninsula College to read his poetry and talk about writing, our small family took the ferry to Bainbridge Island and proceeded to drive 80 some miles to Port Angeles. Sometimes I forget how big America is. On Saipan, it took me thirty minutes to get from my house to the other end of the island and here, thirty minutes is a good drive time.

When we arrived at the reading, Nathan and I sat in the back of the auditorium while Mike took the stage. I decided to sit close to the exit in case Nathan entered a meltdown. When he did coo or say, "Ba ba ba ba," a woman turned in her seat as if to seek out who the hell brought in a baby, even though Mike was introduced several times as being from Seattle and having brought his wife and baby. I didn't see any other wife and baby pairs so I wasn't sure why this woman was staring me down like I owed her money. When I smiled at her, she rolled her eyes. And that was it. I was like, oh no you didn't woman. I went to the state finals in eye-rolling. I was 13 and my mom told me I couldn't have a birthday party because I was caught smoking in my room, so what did I do? I wielded my up-and-over eye roll, perfecting the international teen symbol for "Whatever!"

I'm no stranger to being openly dissed, but at my husband's poetry reading? I can understand why you wouldn't want a child at a quiet event, but Nathan wasn't going into hysterics, he was heckling his dad. Her frown was enough for me to grab the diaper bag and wait outside. I didn't want to disturb anyone else or risk fending off other eye-rollers because I can't do a leg sweep and push a stroller at the same time.

While Nathan sat patiently and chewed his books, I phoned my sister who offered this: "You're in Port Angeles? Wow, that's the same city in Passions!" I think she confused Port Angeles with Port Charles and Passions with General Hospital. Just a guess.

In 2007, I'll try to toughen up against disses and eye-rolls, though I might take some lessons in nursing with one hand and throwing ninja stars with the other.



--

Ferry travel cost us $30.00 roundtrip, but we did get our money's worth with these shots of the sunset over Alki Beach.

Pain at the pumps

Breastfeedng hurts. It has made my nipples raw and sore. I was really determined to solely breastfeed this child and I had given up all hope when he was losing weight. But yesterday my breastmilk came in and now I can finally live out my dream of winning a wet T-shirt contest without the use of water.

There's something very Pavlovian about how I run to this little one whenever he stirs. Mr. Boob-It-or-Lose-It cries and out comes right baby feeder or left baby feeder. During this morning's feeding, I told Mike, "I'm just Tits McGee to this guy."