Thursday, April 29, 2010

Day 5: Second Base

My son likes to cop a feel. As in the kid digs boobies. As in, you may be holding him thinking, "Aaaaaw. What a sweet boy," when all of the sudden, "Aaaah! Wha! Hey!" as you get first-hand how a toddler can take the term "fun bags" to new heights.

Groped the babysitter. Fondled his aunt. Tickled Grandma. You name it, he's felt it.

I guess the whole fascination with breastesses starts at birth?

At any rate, for a mommy who has no boobies (or very small ones if you're being kind and, please, be kind), this poses some real frustration for said toddler.

The other day, we were in the kitchen. I was making his PBJ sandwich before an excursion outside when...I felt it. Those little, boob-crazy hands. But, not on my boobs (because as I mentioned before, it's hard to locate them these days), but on the part of my body that feels most like boobs -- my midsection.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, my mammary-obsessed toddler felt up my spare tire. Giggling away. As if the whole squeezing of the excess skin in that area wasn't humiliating enough, I had to have him laughing in my face.

Going to do some sit-ups now. That is all.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Day 4: Mary Kay, I Ain't Mad Atcha

I was out walking with my kid today (the smaller one). We strolled down to the creek near our house to engage in some serious pebble skipping. After our outing, we headed back to the house, ready for some lunch.

We stopped to cross the two-way street just as an older lady walked up with her dog. Walking toward her, we caught eyes. I smiled, she smiled. At that moment, a pink cadillac drove past us.

"There goes that Mary Kay bitch," she muttered.

Huh? Did she just call someone a "Mary Kay bitch?" Before I even had a chance to digest and recover from the profanities lobbed at some poor, innocent cosmetic-selling haus frau who'd sold her heart out enough to win a pink cadillac...

"Don't expect me to buy any of your makeup shit either!"

Whoa. Seriously. What just happened? What was this woman's major malfunction? What beef could she possibly have with the Mary Kay lady? She's driving around in a pink car for Christ's sake. Had she been sold defective moisturizer? Or was she morally against pyramid schemes? Does she hate pink? Pink cadillacs? Maybe she's just jealous and wishes she had a pink cadillac?

Or was there something even more sinister behind the "Mary Kay bitch" comment? Had there been in-fighting within the neighborhood's Mary Kay contingent? Maybe a power struggle that ended in bloodshed? Territorial wars? Makeup parties fractured by corruption?

My 3-foot tall sidekick and I could only wonder and speculate as we headed back to the house for a bowl of mac 'n cheese.

Serious suburban angst. You can't make this shit up.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Day 3: You Know You're in an Ethnic House When...

When I was a kid, my mom would attempt every trick in the book to get me in the kitchen. Asked nicely. No thanks. Offered tastes. Nah. Bribed with promises of handsome rewards afterwards. Eh. Finally, after all else failed, there was, "Get your ass in the kitchen because I said so." Ok, my mom would never say that, but you get the picture.

And so, I spent many a Saturday afternoon learning the tricks of the Thai cooking trade. Now I'd like to say once I got in the kitchen it was this harmonious passing of knowledge from one generation to the next: "Fry the garlic only until crispy. Be careful not to turn the heat too high because it will burn." What really happened was more like this, though:

"Use the side of the mortar when smashing the garlic."

"I know mom."

Dirty side glance from mom.


Little did I know that those afternoons spent in the kitchen would pay off. It would be a while before I saw the benefits, though. Aside from once cooking a grilled cheese in a wok during my grad school years, I steered pretty clear of the kitchen.

Today is a much different story. Not to say I am this culinary wizard or even love the process of cooking all that much. But, there is something about when I make a Thai dish -- particularly if it's Thai comfort food -- that feels like she's sitting right next to me. With my mother so far away and so different from the woman that raised me, memories can fade pretty quickly. It's hard sometimes to conjure up all those moments that made my mother such a

But, then I get in the kitchen, chop up some garlic, fry it for Thai chicken-rice soup and it all comes back.

I made this before going out to the library with the kids yesterday. As we re-entered the house, that oh-so-familiar, pungent, not-for-white-people garlic/fish sauce smell greeted us at the door. And I smiled.

Aaaaah, home...

Monday, April 26, 2010

Day 2: Rain, Rain, Go Away...

Today was one of those overcast, rainy spring days that make you feel gypped because you sat through months and months of what seemed like an endless winter (and trust me, this winter in the D.C. area was endless) only to get thrust back inside. I know it's not rational to expect every spring day to be perfect, but I still do.

So, in an effort to shake off the rainy day blues, I'm posting some pics from last week, which was, in fact, perfect.

At least some of the pollen will get washed away...

Sunday, April 25, 2010

Day 1: Girls Gone Not So Wild

I remember thinking that getting older and having kids meant it was time to hang up your dancing shoes. Like the fun ones you wear when you want to go out and get really crazy. And, oh the horror of that thought. Getting old.

Last weekend, I left my kids and husband for the first time in about four years. I packed up my hottest heels, brushed the crumbs out of my purse and set off for a weekend of debauchery. Or at least something in the neighborhood of debauchery.

Met two of my BFFs in NOLA for the weekend. These are two girls I lived with during my stint in Colorado (grad school, work, etc.) and have remained friends with over the last 10 years. (Wow. Ok, I just bugged myself out with that last 10-year sentence.) We all live in different parts of the country, but have been in each other's weddings and continue to have this bond based in large part on...farts. As in 11-year-old-boy-humor farts. And poop. I'm not kidding. Thirty-something-year-old women who e-mail, call, text, etc. each other about farts.

At any rate, I was ready. Ready for some serious eating, serious farting, serious partying and serious female bonding.

Sometimes in my day-to-day life as Rosana, The Wife and Mom, it's easy to forget. I'm busy caring for other smaller (and sometimes larger) creatures in my life and without meaning to, I forget that fun-seeking, hard-partying, fart-loving girl from days of yore.

And so I set off in search of her. We shopped, we laughed, we ate, we talked, we analyzed, we joked, we reminisced...I know what you're thinking now. "She rediscovered that long-lost young woman that has been pushed aside by family and motherhood."


Bitch is gone. Ok. correction. She is still there, but not in the same way. Didn't even make it past midnight on either night. There was lots of eating and then back to hotel to sleep. Then up early to walk around the city. Then more eating. Then more sleeping. That hard-partying girl who used to run around mooning people after leaving the bar at 3 a.m.? She done packed up her shit and left the premises. Not that I really expected to moon anyone in New Orleans, but I did think I'd possibly get a little more raucous without niblets around.

But, I surprised myself. Even without the kids right there in my face...I'm still a mom. And older. It's a funny thing when you get older. It's quieter. Not like in a boring way either. Just in a more peaceful way.

I had one of the best times of the past year on this trip, and there were no crazy stories to bring home (beyond a naughty trip to a lingerie store and, hello, we were buying stuff to wear for the guys we married. Ooooooh, soooooo crazy).

I didn't come home hungover with some insane confession to make to my husband about showing my tits in the streets of New Orleans. Instead, I came home well-rested, reinvigorated and...happy. I had a couple mornings of sleeping in, ate meals without getting up to cut someone's meat or refill milk, and engaged in adult conversation minus that oh-so-familiar tugging, poking, pulling sensation, which, if ignored, can devolve into full-on screeching.

Moral of the story? Getting older, having a family, etc. does mean changes. The surprise for me is that not only am I ok with those changes, but I'm pretty amped about them. So, am I Mother Theresa now? Not quite.

Would Mother Theresa wear these shoes?


Friday, April 23, 2010

I Have a Ton to Say...

But no time to say it! Or rather, I making it too much work to say it. Bottom line, I miss my blog family. Plus, blog family aside, this was all supposed to be an exercise in memorializing motherhood...for me. And them.

So, inspired by my good friend Sarah who also blogs about her two gorgeous girls, Grace and Maddie, I am going to do a post a day for a month. I'm not going to put pressure on myself to always have to write something funny or meaningful or clever or sad or happy or whatever. I'm just going to see what comes. It may be a picture. It may be a sentence. It may be 15 paragraphs. Who knows. We'll see what happens. Stay tuned...