Holymosesmotherofgod. First day of pre-school. The preparation for it like getting into a Pac-10 college or interviewing for a kickass job. The nerves (mine of course) and the waiting. It started with a bustling pre-school fair. Full of talking heads, flyers, Annie’s fruit packets and sales pitches. They told me of co-op schools, ones with organic gardens, cultural diversity and non-violent communication.

And what I learned I wanted was normalcy. Get your hands dirty, real-life hard knocks and the nearby loving arms of a teacher. And most of all creative play. Where his imagination can run wild with no limits.

For this is a boy that opens every cupboard door, studies every facial tic, sings soulfully with eyes closed, leaps into every puddle as if it’s the last, and runs like the wind. There’s no holding him back.

He’s on his way.

The three nights leading up to this first day, I cried in my sleep, dreamt I was an FBI agent staking out teachers. I interviewed other kids with inkblot diagrams, set verbal booby traps and felt every emotion that Milo could possibly feel course thru my veins.

So on this real first day, we were timid and thrilled. He tugged on my dress, then lifted it like a cotton tent and hid between my knees. Everyone learned my name and underwear color at once. To avoid more embarrassment, I sat on the floor holding my dress to the ground…so one-by-one the kids could insert tiny rubber snakes in my hair. Their slithering bodies inevitably getting stuck in my hair-sprayed ‘work’ curls. And of course Milo found this to be incredibly hilarious. YEAH, that’s my mom ‘Medusa’! The crazy, hormonal exhibitionist!

But my little buddy’s transformation this last week-and-a-half has been remarkable. For starters, he told me we have a lion in our home that sleeps, eats and hides. Shhhh! We can only search for him on all fours. Also, everything must be counted. He sees “2 garbage trucks” on the road, “3 strahbeyees” on his plate, and “2 dog poops” on the ground. (The fascination with poop is endless.) After a day at school, he names EVERYTHING he sees: kitty, leaf, spiderweb, trash, man, street, bird, plane, icecream, bug, bag, window, wheel, flower, balloon, squirrel, bike, helmet…rapid-fire, until my own brain is bursting in images and color.

We build block towers “to the sky” and “Milo is hungry,” “Milo gets owee,” “Milo goes fastest,” on his scooter, and “Milo wash hands myself.” Dad says he hopes he never stops talking in 3rd person. Like George Costanza.

But I’ll leave you Milo with this…

No matter how independent you strive to be, where your active mind flies and how fast your little Quicksilver feet may carry you…always know there are more enchanted worlds to explore…

And despite what scary, unfamiliar things are around the bend, your mom is always here to pick you up and hug you real tight…

With open arms…

Medusa

I dropped off – went M.I.A for awhile (not to be confused with AWOL, but I wouldn’t blame you.) I’ve been buried at work, treading water with the sheer volume of projects. It’s been late nights till 11 or midnight, writing, writing. Still pregnant. Slapping myself above the ear to push to the end, just get it done – despite the sleepy hormones.

So when the opportunity came to go off the radar for a few days, I jumped at it. My parents came down from Seattle and stayed at our house with Milo – while mi esposo (D), my recently estranged partner in crime, and I jetted off to a sweltering hot aeropuerto.

We stepped into an open air fortress:

And checked into our 3rd room floor at the Hyatt in Cabo overlooking the Sea of Cortez:

We waded through the water to the swim-up bar and ordered mango-ritas (mine virgin).

The next day, I ducked under a fedora, batted my eyes behind giant shades and welcomed a new horizon.

20 weeks pregnant

I brought along a good read by a writer Robert Galbraith (aka JK Rowling) who’s also been hiding) while dipping her pen in the genre of crime.

J.K. Rowling’s new bestseller…brilliant

And then on this beach–despite weeks and months of domestic routine, it finally touched down on me, a hot sticky blanket of memory.

Medano Beach outside downtown Cabo

I remembered who I once was…a girl with open-ended dreams, countless hours to hold a pen, infinite cocktails to consume. I always believed I’d figure out a way to have it all. And in so many regards I have. But in the younger years with a child, there are so many one-sided, non-sensical conversations, ushering of little limbs, tantrums, and disasters to avoid. And you forget to count the time you’ve been on autopilot, sometimes in survival mode, for the two of you. Then when you finally stop, you see time slipped between your fingers like granules of sand.

(or in his case WATER)

So we’re back now, and it’s over. As quick as the curtain’s dropped after an act. Suddenly we’re back to our lives…with crazy deadlines and deals to close. And I’m back in the arms of Milo, and I can’t wait to show him the rest of the world.

Despite the hours and minutes that fly by each day, and how far we may drift apart due to circumstance, it’s nice to know for 72 hours we had Cabo. The quiet salty air and the constant blaze of sun. Paradiso.

And with these new flitting limbs inside me, it means a new beginning, almost in the middle of another story. It’s more hours to cram thru the hourglass. But as they say in Spanish…

“Todo saldrá bien.”

Translation: Everything will be alright.

Besos,

M

It could look like a lot of Krispy Kreme donuts and daquiris behind my belt, but this is happening right now.

Only this picture was taken at 13 weeks, and I’m now 18 weeks along.

It’s weird, I should have more words to say. They should be cascading out of me, spilling onto the keyboard…like a dictionary held to a flame. But I am still in awe and I can’t believe it’s happening…even though my stomach is getting bigger. Even though I was a dizzy miserable mute for 10 weeks. Waking up like I’d pounded 6 well margaritas the night before. Yet I partied with H2O and crackers.

When I hit 14 weeks, it was magic. The nausea left my stomach and brain. I put on heels and lipstick, and smiled because I could.

14 WEEKS

18 WEEKS

So here I am…with the incredibly/or subtly expanding stomach, I don’t know which. The evolution of Baby Z2 has begun.

I am incredibly fortunate because it took so much to get here. SO MUCH. (Money. Needles. Pills. Patches. Prayers)

I’m sure in the weeks to come I’ll fill my posts with sentimental odes, lofty dreams and general weirdness, but for now – I’m just coming out of the baby closet and it feels nice.

Also, really nice to say, NO folks I’m NOT FAT!

I once loved Taco Bell, but right now I’m packing away produce. A baby the size of a turnip one week, an avocado the next and now a bell pepper. I am a walking breathing Farmer’s Market and I’m happily coming to terms with it (between waves of panic).

xo,

Mama Boo (x2)

Hey. Hey. Hey. Memorial Day. We drove into the deep dense woods of Arnold, CA – said “adios” to the chulos, the city grit and land of no parking. Buenos Dios to gold mining country.

Yep, we sucked in the mossy alpine air, poked fuzzy caterpillars and spotted deer bounding along on their spindly legs.

Calaveras Big Trees State Park (our first stop) with sequoias so tall, it was like standing among giants. We had to step back straining our necks to see their leafy heads of hair. Luckily these Goliaths were gentle.
… “C’mon, dude this way. I thwear I thaw a puthy cat….or maybe it was a SKUNK (?!)”Milo and his main man Iz, taking on the boundless tunnels, passages and secret hideaways of a real life Potter world. Luckily, those are crispy pea snacks going into his mouth not little green worms. “Do your dance, do your dance for me…mama, c’mon baby tell me what’s the word…oh word up!”  Just sawin’ logs.

We had to rush out for nap time, but before leaving the Park, I made a pit stop the use the bathroom behind a bear statue. Luckily it did have plumbing, but also fresh urine sprayed over the seat by a giant man dressed in Amish/Quaker clothing. You can bet he got the evil stink-eye outside. And then into swim clothes. Milo made 100+ trips into the lake to fill his bucket and pour water into the sand tributary daddy and friends dug up. Which makes me think he’d be a good farmer. That Midwest blood! And which also led to dad’s DIY scurfing veture… He’s always one leg up.

I can only hope to fall as gracefully, as famously as this. And come up for air with a huge smile on my face. See, I turned another year older on this trip. And there is more life change ahead. For awhile, it’ll be sink-or-swim, and it’s something I’m dealing with quietly. Then again, I habitually over think every minute detail. And worry. But worry is just a wasted emotion.

And I still want to master the Butterfly stroke.

Stay tuned. Stay dry.

xo,

Little Guppie in a Big Fresh Pond

Sometimes I can really convince myself that I’m a boss. Like just the other day when I bopped around town in my ivy cap and Chuck Taylors…6 errands in 25 min. Booyah! I’m blonde, light-footed lightning, baby. A real Linda Carter in star-spangled panties. I’m home in time for the after-nap diaper change, the obnoxious washing machine bleet bleet, I can pre-heat the oven, build “towahs” from blocks, return 2 emails, concept 3 headlines for a morning meeting, and make Skype at 7 with my parents (Milo immobilized in a sudsy tub).

But because every high feeling eventually gets a surprise kick in the rear, my ‘boss’ status has been taken down a few notches. In fact, it’s been taken down so low, these past few days that when I should be feeling like a multi-tasking boss, a badass CEO at nap time, I am really losing my marbles. Because Milo will NOT STAY IN HIS TODDLER BED. Again!

Yes, we are back to that. He’s either ally-ooping over tall backs of chairs OR giving me the Hulk Hogan “clothesline” when my body acts as a barrier at the edge of his bed. Then my 27 threats from the kitchen “get iN BEDDDDD” – “GET IN BBBBEDDDD!!!” as he bursts out of his room, then hobbles quickly down the hall. A mini diapered neanderthal…those high-pitched, hysterical shrills trailing behind him. And as a mad cavewoman, I lose my wits – toss composure aside and fall in step behind him.

It’s been suggested I reinvest in a larger sleep sack, or move the lock on his door to the outside (all good ideas) – I just haven’t gotten around to it yet.

I was thinking in order to stand up a little straighter, give myself a real hard look in the eye (albeit a mirror), I may need an identity boost. A new internal monologue. A different tune to step to and embrace. Hell, even a new alias.

These names…

– Notorious B.I.G.
– Puff Daddy
– Soulja Boy
– Really Doe

What kid would want to f’ with a mom named “Really Doe”?

So I’ve been tinkering with the idea of an alter rap ego. So I plugged my first name into rapstarname.com and my alias is “Monika Thang”. But wait, is it pronounced “Monica”, like my 2 white friend’s named Monica (which happens to mean ‘Advisor’…okay, not bad!) – or is it “Moneeka” or “Monikuh” or more like the word Moniker, which is exactly the purpose of this. Whatever! I’m putting my own stamp on it, and rolling with “Miz Moneeka Thang”. That’s right, shorty.

So in about 30 minutes, when Milo wakes from this prolonged nap and pads down the hall like baby Godzilla, I’ll meet him head-on with a hard folded-arm pose, maybe even a wutang move (if I can cue up a beat in the background), and then he’ll meet the austere Miz Moneeka Thang. Sure to have him trembling down to his li’l striped socks (or giggling, that’s more realistic).

Peace out. I’ll keep you muthas posted.

xoxo,

The Boss

Yesterday morning while I was waiting for my train to pull in, I saw a car catch fire on the side of 580. First it started with plumes of smoke rising from the hood, light grey then deep charcoal, taller and faster. A small fire under the car on the pavement, and in a few more minutes the plumes raged overhead shifting to a dirty rust color as they fattened, eventually filling the freeway. I don’t know much about car mechanics or science but I could tell something was going to happen.

The people around me took out their camera phones and hesitated to get on the train–they wanted to linger and witness the detonation. It made me feel sick in a way, imagining their morning Instagram pictures. Their stupid caption, “really sucks to be this guy” [hashtag] #toughmorningcommute.

No shit, asshole! Their crappy car was probably all they had.

Anyways, I jumped on the train, and didn’t look back. I hoped the best for the driver, never having seen one, and wished everyone safe.

And really wished I’d seen something like this in place of it all:

(I do live in Oakland, so you never know.)

In fact, on Thursday in SF, the door to my train never opened underground so we were forced to run quickly to the next car. Once over the Bay in a scary part of Oakland, a gang jumped on with flashy gold necklaces, hardened faces and bandanas. They walked with malevolence. The leader yelled for our attention, and my pulse quickened. Any second they’d pull their guns. This was it.

“Ladies and gentleman,” he said, as the crew spread out in their posts.

Will I see Milo again? His face flashed in front of me.

“May I have your attention? Stay in your seats and don’t move. We are the Bay Area Street Dancers. About to bring you something positive.” One of them flipped on the ghettoblaster and another one began to pop-and-lock, using the overhead handles in his routine.

Thank my lucky f*cking stars. For everything. It took a couple of minutes for my heart to slow down. To realize I was safe. Then I was the one whipping out my camera phone, catching it all on video.

I guess the point of this is, the tables could be flipped at any time. We could be the ones in the hot seat. Or behind sliding doors. Any given day, it could all be taken from us. We should look out for one another, show a little respect, quit rubbernecking and recording it in vain. We should never take any moment for granted because at any second we could get jumped or jacked. It could be taken as easily as it was given.

And those are deep thoughts from a white suburban-esque mom in a gentrified hood.

– M (alive, sane [somewhat] and certainly grateful)

Lately I’ve been marveling at the passage of time. Remembering when I used to eat NERDS candy, spin jelly bracelets over my wrist, smack gum and make mix tapes. Now I listen to jazz, dab cream under my tired eyes and count the wrinkles in my forehead.

It’s strange because in my twenties, I really believed that girl in the mirror would never get old. If I did, it’d be in a Grace Kelly sort of way. My cheekbones would become more pronounced and my eyes shinier and wiser. I remember so many careless nights…dusting my lids with glitter, wearing heels and dancing till the break-a-dawn. And now my version of the twilight boom is Milo’s feet crashing down on the hardwoods at 2 in the morning, a furious stampede to our bedroom hoping it’s time for Curious George and waffles.

He’s also sporting a little red shiner over his eye these days. In an area where there were no lashes or brows at birth. That little red shiner, where he fell and caught the edge on our nightstand. It’s tucked under a hairline that once was receding. For so long, after he was born I swore he had the head of Victor Frankenstein attached to a baby’s body. And then of course there was the pasty vernix bodysuit.

But he cleaned up nicely…

And today, today he is a 2-year old marvel. A jr. Bay Area tech wiz. He’s mastered the remote control, iPad and YouTube app. Every day he defies gravity on his green scooter, smashes garbage trucks into the wall, hugs me and head butts me simultaneously, then studies me with those deep quixotic blue eyes…will she let me watch Toy Story for the 26th time? And then he looks away…what’s my angle?

And then there is this Dutch photographer, a guy who totally gets it all. He had a master plan from the beginning, to catch his daughter’s first days on video, and then every week thereafter until she turned 14. He used the same backdrop every week (her baby blanket). He caught her face changing, all her natural shades of hair, the haircuts, barrettes, glasses, braces, babbling and laughing. Fourteen years in 4 minutes!

Have a look:

Kinda warms your heart and breaks it all at once, right?

M

Enough with blood and dark superstitions, I want to focus on the possibility of things. Because I walk down Bush St in San Francisco with the sun set at 70, and there are spring hues popping off A-line dresses. I see peep toe shoes, and brightly painted toenails that punctuate long, alabaster white legs. (SF girls don’t let lack of pigmentation stop them, and I like that.)

But I’m merely an observer because my wardrobe is soooo blah right now. Sooo four years ago. Most of my purchases have been for a bouncy baby boy turned fashionable toddler. The mini male extension of myself.

But no matter how frumpy and tired I feel some days, I’ve realized that simple shots of color are an instant pick-me-up. Marigold yellow, tangerine tango, cobalt blue…don’t mind if I do. They add pop to my basic blacks and grays.

Right now, I’m loving Radiant Orchid. Call it a conspiracy , but if you follow fashion–you know it’s the Pantone Color of the Year. Sounds gimmicky, right? I really did not know this was a real thing until I started working in beauty. But alas, the powers that be deliberate in secret meetings twice a year somewhere in Europe, and discuss the current social climate and the mood-enhancing powers of particular shades, and then they miraculously land on Pantone XX-XXXX almost a year in advance.

So let me enlighten you to the powers of Radiant Orchid:

It intrigues the eye and sparks the imagination, while instilling confidence and magical warmth. It’s an expressive, creative and embracing purple—one that draws you in with its beguiling charm. Radiant Orchid emanates great joy, love and health.

So I’m embracing you, wrapping my arms around you Radiant Orchid, especially since purple is the universal color of creativity. And I’m finally hitting my stride this year.

Pump me up, purple

Cool weekend kicks

I’ve also gotten into wearing orange makeup as of late, or peachy shades. Since my sun-worshipping days are over and my once gold-tinted olive complexion is now white as paper, peach shades help me look a smidge healthier. It’s a good substitute for bronzer which can sometimes look like dirt streaks, and a muddy tint is only appealing to vittle toddler boys.

If interested, here are some nice pointers on how to apply orange makeup at Into the Gloss.

I’d throw in a third color to make this a nicely rounded set of 3, but I’d have to scour the Internet, and the dishwasher needs unloading for the umpteenth time.

So let me ask you, which color turns you on most?

[click image below to read larger type]

Borrowed from Paper Source

And there you have it. A fluffy beauty post. No life or death, grim or glory. Some days a girl just needs to look good to feel good.

– Pantone Peggy

You’ve heard the term bad things happen in threes, but have you ever heard the term three on a match? During the Crimean War, there was supposedly a superstition among soldiers that if three soldiers lit their cigarette from the same match one of them would die, or the last to light the match would be shot. The belief was that when the first solider lit his cigarette, the enemy would see the light; when the second soldier lit his cigarette, the enemy would take aim. When the third soldier lit his cigarette from the same match, the enemy would fire. Since then the superstition has been coined ‘three on a match’ or ‘unlucky third light’.

I also realize that the number three (tres, trois, dreis) can signify worldly phenomena. Like:

• 3 stars in Orion’s belt
• 3 parts to the personality: Id, ego, and super-ego
• 3 parts to the atom: protons, neutrons, and electrons
• 3 great pyramids at Giza
• 3 trimesters in a pregnancy

My trifecta of recent events, that all happened within three hours, would not make the cover of TIME. It most certainly would not be discussed among war veterans (well maybe if act 2 took a violent turn), but it is…certifiably bizarre. And I mean bizarre like the language Gwyneth Paltrow used to announce her “conscious uncoupling” from Chris Marten.

So I’ll take a cue from you Gwynnie, here is how the shit went down.

ACT 1 – Thursday, 2:45pm

I arrived at Quest Labs in downtown SF, and was told by a medical student that she would be drawing my blood and sending the HCG level results to my fertility clinic. Yes, it was all riding on this. She selected a vein that was barely visible, and because I hate, hate, hate needles  (even after two rounds of IVF) – I made a fist and looked away. After she swabbed my skin, I told myself ‘it won’t hurt’, ‘it won’t hurt’. I felt the initial pinch (when you should be home free) then the most gawdawful, holymotherofjoseph, limb-incinerating pain deep in my arm. Then her voice filling the room, “OHMYGOD, the needle popped out!! You pulled back!” She yelled again toward the hallway that “I pulled back”. Which was nearly impossible given the angle as she drove the needle in fishing for a vein. Then she ran out of the room for help while my blood pooled out over the armrest.

But it was not my fault.

ACT II – Thursday, approx. 3:20pm

“Hey lady, spare some change?” I am asked this all the time walking in San Francisco. Maybe it’s the blonde hair, my odd empathetic people-pleasing vibe I give off when I’m not consciously hiding it under my gruff ex-New Yorker face. I have no idea why this bum at this time, on this day, chose to hit me up for money. Because after the bloodbath, I wasn’t quite wearing the look of sunshine and charity. I looked at the ground as I passed him, said “sorry”, and it struck a chord so deep, he reached out and smacked me in the arm. In my same heavily bandaged arm.

And my reaction looked a bit like this:

ACT III – Thursday, 4:08pm

I needed an upswing. A moodlift. So I ordered a smoothie and boarded the 4:10 bus. I was literally going to leave this gruesome day behind me. I took a seat smack dab in the middle by the window with my book, and out of nowhere came muffled screams and commotion overhead. People ducking. Intense flapping. I looked up to see the tack-sharp talons of a pigeon splayed out over my head. This couldn’t be real. But the full-throttle flapping of the wings, like a furious helicopter descending down, down, into my hair. I was Fabio on a roller coaster with an urban bird going ballistic in my well-conditioned hair.

I instinctively ducked my head, and buried it into the muscle guy next to me. The bird fell into my computer bag, and then I dumped it on my feet. With no assailant in sight, everyone fanned their faces and used their hands to smooth over the wrinkles in their clothing, until I yelled, “the bird is under the seat.”

Terror struck again, and people ducked as if it were flying into their hair suddenly. Then the muscle guy stood up, opened the side door of the bus, and shooed the thing out.

I looked up at the side windows, just slightly cracked at the top. A total mystery where the bird entered in from or where it had been hiding.

As we rode across the East Bay Bridge, the top of my hair in tangled knots, I began laughing hysterically. I laughed so hard under my tossed mop that I started crying. Tears of wacky laughter. I’d become delirious after the head raping. Because the odds. THE ODDS! What are the chances of a bird attack INSIDE a bus? It had to be lower than 30%. And that was the percentage the hospital quoted for a successful IVF.

Of all the times I could have been assaulted by a homeless guy, of all the times a pigeon could have attacked my hair…yes, both these things happened back-to-back.

But then again, maybe it’s not a weird omen or dark plague. Not like blood on doorposts, the Spanish Flu or an owl hooting 3 times. Maybe it’s the opposite. In a twisted metropolitan way.

I know the big guy upstairs always looks out for me. Maybe he’s shifting the odds in our favor.

If not this time, then sometime down the road.

– Amen