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)