Happy Holidays

Shane put the finishing touches on Hunter’s Christmas presents. He spent the latter part of the evening assembling our little boy’s present a kitchen set that came with two hundred and fifty pieces for assembling. The last three hours he fiddled with instructions, screw drivers, and a hammer. I showed my support by watching The Christmas Story on the couch. It was a little before two o’clock as we blew out the candles and turned off the lights except for the tree. We stood there in the dark with the tree illuminated in the silence of the darkness, reminding us of our own childhood on Christmas Eve. Here we were with our new family. Creating new memories with our son and others to follow. That emotion in the pit of my soul grew strong and clear, no gift was more endearing.

We headed upstairs to our bedroom. A brief storm was at hand as the wind and the rain blew hard, but from our bedroom window I saw through the trees and the lights that reflected off the bay, a silence, peace was at hand. The first year, for me, I learned the true value of Christmas. I am content. I have a wonderful husband, a beautiful son, in a wonderful home, and a miracle that was growing in belly. My world is complete.

This is Shellie Merry Christmas to me back to you Bob at the studio!

12 Days of Carbohydrates

On the _________ day of Carbohydrates my true love gave to me...

12. Twelve Mission tamales
11. Eleven bites of pork pupusas
10. Ten golden french fries
9. Nine scoops of egg nog ice cream
8. Eight types of Holiday baked cookies
7. Seven sips of blue bottle cappucinno
6. Six pieces of chocolate
5. Five slices of sausage pizza
4. Four Rechutti vanilla bean marshmallows
3. Three glasses of champagne
2. Two servings of greek yogurt granola parfait
1. One warm bowl of spaghetti with wild boar ragu

The Carborator

Once again, my pregnancy harbors an insulin dysfunction. My pancreas is slow on the draw with the insulin. That’s right gestational diabetes. I said it. Gasp, I said the word. Once again, I’m locked in to a food journal to meticulously count carbohydrates. I, food nerd, have succumbed to becoming a nutritional label whore and weighing all products on my electronic scale. My doom has settled fresh in the belly of my mind as everything I adore is a carbohydrate like yogurt, fruit, vegetables, breads, pastas, rice, sweets, and dairy. It's always the case, once I'm restricted than my urges become irrational like suddenly a late night bowl of ice cream oozing in warm caramel is a delicious idea. In actuality, it would send my blood sugar in fits and tizzys.

It would be simple enough to omit carbohydrates from my diet, but not that simple as it would jeopardize my baby’s health as well. It’s an even keel of keeping that fireplace burning at a moderate flame. Without it I could flop into a serious seizure and too much of it would 'cause my baby's pancrease to work overtime.

Every two weeks, I meet with the dietician and nurse to assure my figures are within controlled limits. Approximately in the second and third trimester, the disease becomes aggressive, thus I must counteract it with pre-meal insulin via needle to the belly. To make matters worse, I am required to check my blood sugar 5 times a day by finger pricking.

The attention to detail to this disease seems overwhelming, but like my dietician says, “it’s all in the good of the baby.” My thoughts instantly damn the baby, but than I quickly digress from my self centered galaxy. As I’ve strategized preventional tactics (gym and cardio) to prevent the disease from rearing it’s ugly head, I’m predestined into damnation. The bright side being, at least I’m not porking down on bon bons and greasy fries. I’ve a head start on cinching my waistline as soon as I spit out the second child, my circuit training body better be fit enough to kick ass.

I’m a little under 30 weeks, and am ready to come out insulin a blazin’. My first pregnancy seemed traumatic with the strict diet restrictions, injections, and finger pricking. This time around the trauma is lulled to sleep. Like the doctors say, it’s all for the success of a healthy baby. As Hunter was only 6 pounds and 11 ounces, I am hoping the gods will humbly look down on me once again.

This is Shellie enjoying a delicious carrot stick and a spoonful of cottage cheese back to you Bob at the studio!

Dont' Worry Be Happy

In the past year, a baby explosion went off like Hiroshima. A mass of friends tossled into the birth canal of new parents. The parental fellowship grows. Meanwhile months, upon months, upon many months have gone by where I've missed the opportunity to make my stop for well wishes. As I'm deterred by my motivation or lackthereof, my emergency brake is replaced with a warp speed button.

As my intentions are good, my time managing skills have gone down the toilet. Between work and family, I’m wedged in a tight spot. Conceptually, it seems possible, but my days jumpstart the moment Hunter awakes to nine o’clock in the evening. Until I find myself in the divine grace of my couch, unfolding into delicious relaxation, my mind is ablur. Currently, my days consist of sprinting in a circle of days, gradually into weeks, plowing into months and here I am at the end of the year scratching my head. Perhaps, if I wasn’t a working mom it wouldn’t seem so far away, but it’s hard to deny a nice salary and benefits. Thus, reality seeps in.

As I beat myself constantly for being a deadbeat in the schedule department, my husband put a fresh spin on my dilemma, “They didn’t come to see you after Hunter was born? So stop trippin'” He was right? This coming from the man that taught me that turning the other cheek is best, “…just because they’re jerks doesn’t mean you have to treat them the same way…” Was he contradicting himself? Ironically, my husband’s childhood friend had a second child and we pounced with a gourmet dinner in tow three weeks after their baby’s birth. Hence, this is cold hard evidence that I am utterly useless as a fly on an elephant's ass. My pregnancy and Hunter as an excuse would only be a juvenile cop out.

I’m not alone in this vast vacuum of a world. I’m certain there are others with home made dishes suffering freezer burn or beautifully wrapped newborn gifts that are most likely outgrown. I have succumbed to the mere childish fact that I absolutely suck. Shrug. If I’m lucky, these new parents will understand as they’re suddenly pummeled with new responsibilities to notice my trivial lullaby. Thus, I have another one on the way and the last thing on my mind are visitors or well wishers, maybe that's just me...

This is Shellie making a mountain out of a mole hill back to you Bob at the studio.

Center of Goodness

I’ve always heard the nagging woes from young parents, “You don’t know what it’s like to have kids.” Now I do and I really don’t understand what the whopping “woe is me” deal is. I enjoy it. It is so much fun! If I could do a triple sommersault and circle the moon and back, I would.

I’m an advocate for spontaneity. Since Hunter, life’s been a wonderful adventure of uncertainty. Needless to say, sleeps not abundant. Hunter's impeccable listening skills and obedience needs some tweaking like when he climbs the coffee table and spin on the table top until he’s dizzy. Perhaps, it’s his stunt devil side that runs back and forth across the couch with his arms up mere inches away from the corner’s edge of the brick fireplace. Maybe it’s his way of communicating when he yells and throws objects across the room to get his point across. In all the fantastic insanity, he keeps me on my toes. As mom has always advised me, life is what you make it.

Certainly, my lifestyle shifted. We have date nights, where friends and family watch the little monster while Shane and I rekindle our romance over dinner and a movie. This is very important as one can drown in the love of their child meanwhile putting a lid on marriage. Although the girlfriend arena is distant and less of a priority, it would be more successful if my girls weren’t so flighty. It’s a balancing act. If parent(s) refrain to roll with the changes, that’s when life becomes a tall mountain to climb.

I must boast, motherhood is heavenly! I heart my husband over diamonds, but Hunter has brought so much joy to my life, enriching my soul with delight. Every day is a new day. In that new day, a discovery is uncovered such as a new word, a new skill, a new phrase, a new love. It’s phenomenal. I never expected it to be so fulfilling. The best thing about the whole scheme is that my husband and best friend for life shares the same sentiments. That, my friends, doesn’t get better than that.

This is Shellie buckling her seat belt for the ride of her life back to you Bob at the Studio.

Word'em Up

In my current pregnant state, I’ve been immersed in my family life. Although I'm on the verge of becoming a waddling mess, I've managed to keep up with my son. Hunter brings new meaning to the word fun. He never ceases to amaze me. As he is gradually weened off the binky, his vocabulary slowly increases. It’s cold hard fact that females are privy to conversation and vocabulary at this age than their very simple counterpart. Introducing Hunter’s new words:

1. Buh = Bus
2. Cuh = Car
3. Truuh = Truck
4. Nigh = No
5. Dog = Dog
6. Ugg = Come here
7. Mama = Mom
8. Pop uh = Dad
9. Vroo = Vroom
10. Sit = Shit
11. Oh Sit = Oh Shit

When my fire ball of energy isn’t darting every which way, but still, or climbing on precarious objects known to set my body on instant cardiac arrest, or sticking his hand in the toilet, he’s browsing through his books. He plops on his big red pillow and peruses through his favorite books usually illustrating automobiles. Despite the “read to your child for 20 minutes daily” deal, I’ll settle for his self educating prowess as he’s never sat still for me for any book. Besides reading and torturing the dog’s, my newfound penis enthusiast entertains himself during his diaper change. Such is the world of males...

This is Shellie stating boys will be boys back to you Bob at the studio!

Shit

Between my many prenatal visits and my newfound gestational diabetes, I thought I’d let Shane take Hunter to the doctor today. As Dr. Treece is a decent pediatrician, I made the decision to transfer Hunter into a new practice. I felt that he required more attention than his current St. Luke’s pediatrician. It would only seem fit that my husband shares the parental responsibility. I had faith in my husband even though he wasn’t privy to the doctor’s office.


No sooner than I walked into my office, my phone rang.“Hey it’s me.”
“What’s up?”
“I’m filling out all these forms and I don’t know who to put down for emergency?”
“Put Laurie down she’s very accessible.”
“What about Jill?”
“Yes, but she never answers her phone when she’s working. I put Laurie down for everything.”
“Alright, I’ll put Jill on here.”
“Why did you call me, if you’ve made up your mind?” I was perturbed that he was unable to make a decision without jabbing me with the irritation serum.
“You don’t understand. I have like a million forms to fill out.” He was flabbergasted.
“Um yeh, so what? It takes like two seconds. I do it every time I go to my doctor’s visits.”
“Well I don’t fill them out as fast as you do.”
“Shane it is not a quiz or a test, just fill it out. I gotta go.”


My confidence in my husband’s self – efficiency began to droll. No sooner than a pigeon could crap on a bald head, the phone rang again. “Hey I have the doctor here with me, can I put her on the phone?”
“Sure.” I could’ve pricked his scrotum with a thousand needles as I was taken away from my project.
“Hi Shellie, it’s Dr. Moore and I’m here with Hunter and your husband. He was uncertain as to a few questions so I hope it’s an okay time to talk.” Her voice pleasant and calm, “How many words does Hunter know?”
“About seven.” Side swiped by the inquiry, Dr. Treece was never this interested.
“Alright. How often does he drink from a bottle?”
“He drinks three bottles of formula at night.”
“Oh we need to get him off the milk and formula.” She was appalled. “He should’ve been off of the bottle and milk at one year old.”
“Alright doctor.” I quickly felt inept and in the dark.
“What’s his eating habits like?”
“Well, I only see him total three hours a day. As far as I know his daycare says he eats a lot, but he never really eats dinner nor breakfast with us. Otherwise, I’m not sure what his day eating habits are as I’m not there.”
“Alright. We need to move him off the bottle and on to a sippy cup. He needs to drink more water. This in exchange will increase his eating habits. The more milk he drinks the more it stunts his hunger. Also we need to wean him off the pacifier to prevent his teeth from getting well…you know.”
“Alright doctor, we’ll try our best.” I kicked myself for not being one of those edgy and uptight mothers that lived by the word according to Dr. Sears. Today, I felt like a donkeys behind.


Later that evening, I inquired about his weight and height. My husband shrugged. I was upset that he didn’t take interest. Husband was upset that I didn’t understand that he had to get Hunter undressed to put him on the scale and dressed again. Case in point, he was too busy dressing Hunter to take note. I wondered if all fathers uninterested, or just mine. My hormones were clawing for an argument; instead I counted my blessings and told my hormones to calm the heck down. In a quick reassessment, my husband has acted on his own accord in more ways than I can count. I found no reason to persecute him? I buried the hatchet for there was no need for the inquisition this evening.



“C’mon Hunter let’s go.” Shane hustled Hunter out the front door.
“Shit!” I dropped my mascara on the bathroom floor. “I’ll meet you in the car in a second.” The door closed behind Shane. I gathered my things and headed down the stairs. “You just taught your son a new word.” Shane laughed, “s-h-i-t.”
“No.” I stammered.
“Oh yeh, he said it like eight times walking down the front steps.” Shane chuckled at my parenting skills.
“No, are you serious?” Is it that time? Is he my precious sopping sponge of knowledge? Could it be?
“Oh yes, mommy just taught Hunter a new word right?” Shane reversed the car out of the driveway.
“Sit, sit, sit.” Hunter repeated in his car seat waving to the invisible circus outside of his passenger window.
“Dude, he’s saying sit, not s-h-i-t.” I fumbled around in my head grasping the last word my precious sweet baby overheard before being whisked away by his father. He was right I did just add another new word to his list of vocabulary.


“I will let Dr. Moore know that he knows eight words now.” My husband so glad that I was too was human. We both chortled. Hunter repeated the mildest of cuss words. If we didn’t curb our swearing ways, Hunter’s vocabulary was about to take a toll for the interesting.


This is Shellie relieved that the world is a better place, because it feels so natural to go against the grain back to you Bob at the studio!

Self Taught

The weekends are always blocked out for Hunter. As the first rain poured, I decided to make use of my Recess Urban Recreation membership and show up for once. As my husband’s useless nagging to cancel our membership is drilled into my head, I decided to ignore it today. I made a call to a friend who I haven’t seen in ages and is also a member. The parking lot was full. Strange, all the cubby holes were occupied with diaper bags, shoes, and jackets. It was a packed house today. Like rats in a sewer, the rain brought in a slew of tots.

I made a stop at the coffee shop for two cups of decaf latte, but with the energy level whirling around like a herd of Tasmanian devils. I should have settled for a caffeinated beverage. To my amazement kids of all shapes, sizes, ages, genders ran the place amuck. I left my cozy home for this war zone of screaming and crying children fighting, pushing, and shoving. I was fifty kids deep into trouble.

As a working parent, I am a stranger to the world of play group, play dates, and most of all full time moms. I am that loner parent amongst the fellowship of moms. Although Hunter has his day care cronies, I am partially a part-time parent. I am there when he gets up and I am there when he sleeps. As it kills me to not be spending ample time, with great delusion, I believe in quality over quantity. I would probably claw at the walls of my brain, if I was sentenced to twenty-four hours a day with my child. I go through a mild withdrawal on Monday, but by the end of the day I am back.

Hunter has always been independent; in his own world. He made way to the train table stocked with train tracks and trains. Kids circled the table learning how to share or lack thereof. A blonde, two and a half, with bowl haircut, stirred havoc by pushing and shoving the others. He snags Hunter’s train for his own. Hunter, unfazed, moves to another activity.

“There are never this many kids here!” I say to my friend.
“Really?”
“Oh yeh, this is insane! There are usually no more than five kids when I’m here.”
“Probably the rain.” She replies with more sense than I can piece together. Her coffee was effective.

Needless to say, my friend and I were too busy keeping an eye out for the safety of our personal wonderment that catching up was as likely as a snail playing the fiddle. Hunter – with fierce determination – bolts in any and all direction for anything with wheels. Her son, a mere fourteen months, hovered over my eighteen month old who is in the low percentile. Our intentions were to get the kids together and bond. Yet kids, as parents are blind, have their own agenda. Hunter pushed anything on wheels around the room through the mayhem of parents and kids. I ate my low bran pumpkin muffin with latte on hand. I occasionally scanned to make sure he wasn’t climbing the stairway to the slide or to ensure he wasn’t sobbing of displacement.

He made a detour back to the train station. Two feet away a group of siblings pushed, screamed, wrestled as their parents attempted to cease the madness. I watched intently as the parents, ignored the fist punching and slapping and pretended the world was flat, “Alright boys now are you going to behave?”
“Shut up and go away dad, we hate you?” They punched their dad with rhythm and heat.
“Alright now.” The gentle parenting was effective as the kids continued their fist tirade.

I was fearful of the future. Is that what the future had in store? Wild and untamed beast of a boy? The gods had it in for me; I will be tested up and down and sideways to hell and back. One is a product of their environment; perhaps I offer a healthy environment that is conducive to my son. Perhaps, kids are just born that way. On the other hand, he’s a Taurus well known for being stubborn with a weakness for accepting less than he can achieve. Sigh.

I moved Hunter to the infant area so he could get to know Colton. Instead, Hunter dashed to a walking toy and made his way around the crowd. I waited for him to come around. After a few minutes, my eyes scurried the room, but I didn’t see him. My heart panicked which quickly switched to anxiety. He wasn’t here! I walked the room a few more times, my gut twisted and turned, he was no where. He wasn’t here! My mind swarmed with news flashes, “Negligent parent. Sipping Coffee. Not watching her child. Shane’s going to fucking hang me! Amber alert!” Breathe. As I made my way back to the infant area, he sat hidden in a little one foot spread fiddling with a steering wheel toy. I scooped him up and held him in my arms as he pushed me away.

As autumn quickly fades into winter, I am reluctant to cancel my membership. It was a convenient fifty bucks a month especially in the cold and rain. It was a cool space for Hunter to be anti social and bond with himself which in time I hope will extend into a healthy interpersonal platform. Until then, I look forward to more non-play dates, panic attacks, and motherly drones.

This is Shellie exclaiming, “Weekends are made for fun back” to you bob at the Studio!

Bloodline

He had a heavy hand and along with that his words slashed deeper than bone. She was nobody special just like the other nine siblings. His fits of fists never showed mercy, he was blinded by blackness unknown to anyone. Despite his disease, his calloused ways molded her gentle soul into cheap leather. Each day, she grew to fear him, but it made her stronger.

Her childhood came in different colors and bruises. She was filtered through an old world generation where obedience was the word according to god. Her father, a soldier for the militia of Catholicism, instilled a vengeance for pain and suffering. In time, her sadness was comforted with the open arms of hate. As a child, like the roots of a banyan, she grew exactly where she was planted.

“One can spend a life time spindling thread, but never make fabric.”

She sat on the Bay Area Rapid Transit among the cart of stoic faces, she stared down at her growing belly that bore hostage the innocence of pure love. She had reached the 20 week mark. The halfway point. The movements of life fluttered her insides like wild african butterflies on a sweltering spring day. She harbored only good intentions for the future. Her father had withered in age, and his violent grip is a five o’clock shadow of yesterday. It was a long time ago, when that chapter in her life had been auctioned off to the highest bidder in trade for forgiveness. She closed her eyes and made silent promises that life is cruel, but beautiful. He was her father and the grandfather of her offspring. She settled into the grave that blood was blood, but her blood wasn’t poison. In her belly only love was being resurrected from a heart with too much soul.

This is Shellie living life according to her own bible back to you Bob at the studio.

Splendor

She woke up to the gentle alarm of Hunter’s morning musements. If her calculations were precise, it was about seven fifteen in the morning. It took a couple lung heavy wails before proceeding downstairs, but judging by the transition into a blood curdling scream his toy courting was disrupted by his dirty diaper. On weekdays, they alternated the morning depending on whether or not Hunter slept through the nightt.

She had a good nights rest and found it in the goodness of her heart to let her better half sleep this Saturday morning. She made her way downstairs not without Chloe and Oliver scurrying past her practically tripping her down the narrow flight of stairs. Like sunshine parting the sky of gray he stood teeth beaming through his big smile. “Hi loves,” she scooped him out of his crib and threw him up in the air and held him snug in her arms. The offensive odor of his diaper shifted the mood to the changing table. “Note to self, changing tables are useless after infants have full control of their body movements,” as she hastily flipped him over and popped his binky in his mouth. Lightning pace, she changed his diaper like it was Nascar, the smallest delay could cost the race.

The morning sun broke through the living room window bright and warm. She opened the back door to let the dogs out for their morning business. In the meantime, Hunter pawed at her pleading to be picked up. She went on ignoring his pawing as she tried to prepare his breakfast of neatly sliced bananas and strawberries. Finally, she picked him up and placed him in his high chair, although not without struggle. “Got ya.” She latched him in with the proper restraints and planted a kiss on his nose. She placed the fruits in front of him. She let out a sigh of sweet relief, as he fed himself fruit to mouth. He participated in the occasional free hand fruit toss to the floor, but he wouldn’t be a toddler otherwise. She turned up the sweet sax of Charlie Parker on the speaker. She walked over to the front window and the city sky was crystal blue, not a drop of cloud in sight. By the looks of it, today was going to be a beautiful day.


They rode along the coast with dogs and toddler in tow. It was a little before nine o’clock and Ocean Beach was infested with surfers. Unlike Hawaii, the smell of the ocean did not permeate the air. Nonetheless, the gods have blessed them with lacquer of warmth. Hunter, like most babies, fell asleep in the car. It was a crime to wake him from deep slumber, but the sand and water demanded play. Shane plucked him from his car seat as he molded to his dad’s chest and shoulders. Hunter was a good sport about his parent’s liberal decision.

The dogs, on the other hand, could care less about the sleeping toddler. They yelped, barked, scratched like they were being released from solitary confinement. Alas, they were relinquished from their leashes and both canines bolted for freedom in the sun and sand. Oliver’s freedom did not absolve him from urinating on anything dead and alive with his male utensil.

The shores were crowded with families and dog walkers. A few feet to the left a chocolate toy poodle the size of Oliver’s male utensil chased after a ball and returned it to it’s master. Now why is it that her dogs could not perform such simple feat? The toy poodle the size of Oliver’s male utensil’s master said, “Actually, it’s the ball? I have the same ball in blue and she couldn’t be bothered with it.” She couldn’t help but wonder how many balls she would have to go through before she found the right one? It was such a trivial concoction that she tossed it directly into her garbage disposal that sat conveniently in the outskirt of her mind.

Shane had manned the situation by shadowing Hunter’s stroll which headed straight into the water break. It was all a bit much for her to envelope. Hunter’s independence struck her hard. He walked waist deep in the water as he refused to hold on to Shane’s hand. Hunter delightfully smiled at the rise and fall of the foaming water. He was fearless. He wanted more.

She sat on the shore witnessing his love for the water that brought her childhood to the forefront. She could not help but wonder that Hunter inherited her love for the ocean as well. As a child, one would violently have to break her arm and legs to get her to come out of the water. Otherwise, she spent hours in the ocean life pretending to be one with the never ending waves.

Summer was long over due in San Francisco. No matter, it was here now. She sat in the belly of the sun as her son took to adoration of the great ocean. He laughed, smiled, and played in the waves that welcomed his presence. Today was her summer, and she could not wait to share this beauty with the love that increased in her own belly as she absorbed the love that is her family in the sun, sand, ocean.

This is Shellie singing, "La La La Love Life!" Back to you Bob at the studio!

Countdown

I'm 19 weeks and counting. For you humans, that’s a week shy of five months. Last week, I went in for my 18 week ultrasound. That’s right the appointment that determines the gender. Gasp. Like my last pregnancy, we enter the world of the gender unknown. People always wonder how I am not curious. It’s all about the surprise. For instance, I don’t unwrap my Christmas gifts until late afternoon like three o’clock. I’m the kid that ate the entire contents of Cracker Jack, set the secret surprise on my dresser and waited a couple hours to see what was inside. It’s the result of coming from a large family. I relish every second of goodness, before it subsides.

“Are you finding out the gender today?” The technician turning on the machine.
“No.” My husband answered for the both of us.
“So this is your second.” She rubbed my belly with warm jelly. “What did you guys have before?” There was a gentle motherly sense about her.
“A boy.” Husband short and sweet.
“Alright close your eyes, we wouldn’t want you to see the surprise!” She held the secret to the unknown.

After a few seconds, she instructed that we were free to view the monitor. My husband with an attention span of a flea, kept fidgeting and pouncing out of his chair every time the roaring engines of the blue angels shot by. During his down time, Shane held my hand sweetly. She rubbed the device on my stomach trying to get every view of the baby and entered the data into the system. There it was little Kitchen deuce, my adorable angel draining my energy vortex. According to the technician it's approximately 7 inches long and 6.6 oz. Kitchen moved at every opportunity making it interesting for the technician. It was camera shy as we hoped it would flip over on it’s back, it either shunned us or curled on it's stomach. Sigh.

The technician turned the volume up so we could witness the fast pace of it’s heart, “Wuuu, wu, wuu, wu, wuu, wu.”
“That's as normal as a heart beat gets.” Shane squeezed my hand to convey his elation. We were so excited. The creation of life inside of me, flourishing, growing, existing. Even though it’s my second, the thrill isn't faded. I am glowing with delight.

I'm half way through the pregnancy. Twenty weeks to go and with the holidays at the bend, March will be here in no time. Whatever the outcome, my wish is for a healthy baby with five fingers, five toes, and normal body function. Girl or boy, I will accept him or her with open loving arms.

This is Shellie anxiously awaiting the second coming back to you Bob at the studio.

The View

Besides my constant self consumption of bloating and pregnancy, I understand that there’s an axe battle of politics at hand. I keep politics to myself just for the sake of avoiding a debate with a cantankerous dimwit. Besides, I am not one to preach - gross. I reserve the right, hence our votes are cast privately. Why shouldn’t I uphold the same right when it comes to my political views? Politicans are selected accordingly to ones’ interests like religion, tax bracket, privacy, and –most popular- idiocy. I am bewildered that it’s a close presidential race. I don’t understand. Perhaps, I give Americans more credit than they deserve.

On a recent trip back to San Francisco, I boarded a plane and was held hostage by a conversation that confirmed the bleak outlook of America’s future. “Your not voting?”
“Nah dude, like it’s all bullshit dude.”
“I can’t believe your not voting?”
“Like why would I vote? There all crooks and criminals, but if I did, I probably vote for McCain. He’s the liberal one.” The people in line gasped. “I mean he’s old and shit and probably will kick the bucket. Dude, but Obama is a good speaker and all dude for sure. Like, I’ll giv’em that. But, I’m down with McCain dude. Dude Obama says he’s pulling out of Iraq right away, McCain is going to continue the fight. I don’t want the troops pulled out dude, I mean like we just got there! We can’t like just show up and pull out dude. It’s all about the fight. So man, when we land, can I come over and play Halo?”

"The fool in a crowded room is the one that thinks he knows everything.”

My bowel movement had more smarts than the yokel behind me. My husband, who is as political as a boot strap, was baffled by this oaf. It all came together as to my unending question, “Why was the race close?” He was just once voice representing a young generation of blockheads. Should I be relieved that people like that aren’t voting? Or should I be livid that they’re wasting they’re right to vote? I’m not sure how I feel about it.

We are a different breed. A generation of reality television. An America brought up by Jerry Springer. A country that doesn’t find texting an anti-social epidemic. We are a stoic society that doesn’t forfeit their seat to the elderly on a crowded train. The civil rights movement wasn’t that long ago, a time when Americans fought for the right to be who they are. Today, the same fight prevails; proposition 8 the crux of all Christians and self righteous groups.

I feel betrayed by my fellowship. I am disappointed at the ignorance. Our defiled Government -that assumes the population is completely brainless- needs to know who wears the flag in this relationship. Which brings me to the million dollar question, "Why is it a close race?" As a female and a daughter of immigrants, many have fought for my right as a female to vote. I will vote. It’s just the idea of a country that is forward-thinking and progressive, it seems we as a country and as a people are stuck.

This is Shellie saying vote smart you dumb ass back to you Bob at the studio!

Balance

As I’m en route to hibernation aka Hermitville, I thought it would only be fit that I shake the couch and go out for some fresh air. Perhaps, immerse myself in the self engrossed city of wi-fi and texting enthusiasts. Choke. I unglued myself from the couch to finally make time for my girlfriends. Since Shane refused to go to Santogold with me at the Fillmore, I decided to take the only person that I knew would get off on Ms. Santogold as much as I would. “What happens, if you get smoked out?” Said husband cautious of my lung damage.
“What do you mean?”
“Well they’ll be smokin’ out in the audience?” This coming from the same person that never struck any chord of concern at Reggae on the River where plumes upon plumes of pot smoke bellowed in my face.
“I’ll be fine.” I reassured him by rolling my eyes.

Normally I am not embarrassed to shine my baby bump, this was one occasion where I didn’t feel so hip. Like the time I blurted I was twenty seven during a particular smoke break on my culinary stint. I was thirty two at the time, but among green thumb minion twensies, I felt the pressure to deny my real age. Case in point, I scheme to hide the lady hump that wasn’t so lovely by dressing like a teenager, a charcoal top and black pleather tights. I prayed I didn’t look like those cougars that couldn’t shake their stiffed and teased bangs from the eighties.

"Vanity does not discriminate against insecurity."

Next on the agenda, protecting the baby from flailing arms dancing to the ripe beat of Santo. Two hours and three opening bands later, the Fillmore was packed with hipsters anxiously wait for the stage to light up. I was even more excited for Vanessa to witness the funky groove that was part of the Brooklyn music explosion. The room grew loud with applause and beats. There she was in her glory with high waist canary yellow jeans and a short crop jacket. She was accompanied by two back up singers/dancers resembling the female version of Devo’s “Whip It Good” video. Her music a clear influence of Missing Persons with a splash of dub and reggae electrified the room. “She is so fucken fresh!” Vanessa became an instant disciple. Word. She is fresh as a can of beans! As soon as the show started it was over and pass my bed time.

To continue on my social escapade, I was committed to a movie date with fellow culprits the subsequent night. I haven’t been to the movies since sanitary napkins were invented. There’s a magic that I love about a good film, like a good book, whisks me away into an alternate universe. Needless to say, I laughed, I related, I could’ve sobbed if my hormone level was paramount. I had a fantastic time.

I had dinner the next night with a dear friend who lives just a few blocks away, like a bad astrology sign it seems we can never get our schedules align. The past two evenings had me yearning for relaxation, stat! I felt horrible for rescheduling, but I would be an oblivious mess at dinner.

In my few days away, Hunter had grown a beautiful liking to Shane. My absence allowed them to cohesive relationship. Although it was only two days, I was quickly blasted an outcast. It was a treat as Shane experienced first hand the undying need of Hunter’s wrath.

As his duties as a father came to a head, Shane used my few days gallivanting as leverage. He exercised the right for boys night out, unfortunately there were no boys to embellish in his plans, this coming from the man that is fortunate, over lucky, to golf once every weekend for the past year. I highlighted his fair fortune of his manly duties of socializing via drinking, slurring, and stumbling were never ceased by his wife.

In the end, my antithesis of my slothfulness is a success. Perhaps, I stagger my girlish fun instead of an action packed week to prevent burning out. Otherwise, I am fighting the good fight in hopes to not become an appendage to my ever luring couch

This is Shellie trying to wedge her fat ass through the doorway back to you Bob at the studio!

Clash of the Titans

As I leave the office building, the aggressive scent of McDonald’s french fries manage a ruthless air raid resulting in my taking cover for safety. As I have to pass three McDevil’s to get to my destination, I brace myself to get to my healthy destination of organic greens. Suddenly I’m grappled by the idea of two cheeseburgers along with a petite french fry. “Why not?” I lay out the pros and cons, “I’m pregnant. The baby wants it. I’m hungry. Live a little!” The opposing tirade takes front and center, “It’s unhealthy! It’s greasy. Definitely not great for your complexion! Think of your waistline. Mon dieu! (I am clueless as to why my thoughts blurt a little French.) Scientists labor in labs creating flavors addicting to the customer. Not a good idea. Refrain. The power of Christ compels you!” I continue my journey to Sellers Market, but am quickly dissuaded by the cost of my organic salad. “Ten bucks for a salad. Really? You can make that at home for free? Get a cheeseburger, you only live once.”

“Stuffing your face with cheetos, grape nuts, and cheese pizza doesn’t constitute one to be a vegetarian nor healthy. It’s just vulgar.”

My mind entangled in a war with my mischievous hunger. I was in the bunker strategizing with my thoughts. I could always starve a little longer and head to Loehman’s where my Iisli coat waited for my purchase. Better, I could head to Loehman’s shoes where my Italian hand made leather boots wept impatiently for a good home. At this point, anything was possible starvation for shoes or transfat over organic. I haven’t had anything to eat since eight o’clock this morning and it was almost one. The heady thing to do was eat. I was never my best when my blood sugar plummeted into the abyss of my irrational being. I could throw my heels across Market Street in hopes to hit Mr. Chu, the man that waives that gibberish sign, “12 Galaxies. Tetrafluoride.” Grrrr.

I made the fine decision to stick to my gut and get a salad. Not just any salad, a cobb salad, chockfull of avocados, tomatoes, hold the bacon, free range chicken breast, hard boiled egg, and cucumbers. Perhaps, it’s not worth $9.95. Perhaps, the two McDevil’s cheeseburgers still plague my mind as I chomp on spoonfuls of organic greens. Perhaps, my thoughts still wrestle in regret on the decision. Fact still stands, fetus Kitchen is being fed and I’ve made it through one more day closer to my due date (March 13, 2009).

This is Shellie dissing fast food, but would totally destroy a big mac if given the opportunity back to you Bob at the studio!

Grand

I grew up with my Lola (grandma). She was my surrogate mom when mom charged family responsibilities like restoring unity within the household and my nine siblings. As I always fought for mom’s attention, she was grossly engaged with limitless duties. Thus, afternoon naps with Lola was always my favorite time of day. I’d lay in bed as she stroked my hair and spoke in her native tongue something about good behavior and heaven. As one of the youngest siblings, attention was as common as monkeys flying out of a buffalo's butt. Lola was an angel, because she knew how to make me feel special like I was the only one, and for a child that was attention deficient it was a dancing monkey on a stick. Although what made her the best Lola was that she did that for all my siblings.

Today, it's rare to find a Lola within arms reach much less the same hemisphere. Unfortunately, Hunter is conveniently part of this population. I've mentioned to mom that she had an open ended invitation to our home as she has the availability to travel anywhere in the world for free, thanks to my brother who is an engineer for United. Nonetheless, her life is in Hawaii with her children and grand children. Alternately, we could always relocate to Hawaii the sun, sand, and family. (It would be part of my aforementioned "change" program.)

Recently, Grandma Kitchen made a surprise visit from New York so Shane could whisk me away for my birthday. She embellished Hunter with attention and love just like Lola did when I was a child. As Hunter can run the mightiest man down to the ground with his undying energy, she did her best to keep up. What a treat! By the time we returned from our trip, Grandma Kitchen had enriched Hunter's life. A connection had been established, and I couldn't be more thrilled.

It reminded of the importance of family and the cohesiveness that binds us. Lola has long passed, but I know for the short time she spent with me, I carry her in my locket of a heart. For as important it is to be raised by both parents, the same applies for Lolas. More than ever, I can preface the fortune of my siblings in Hawaii is no less than golden and no more than priceless. Bastards.

This is Shellie claiming Grandma’s rule the world back to you Bob at the studio.

Shoot. Shoot. Bang. Bang.

I’m an advocate of change. Change is fantastic. If you ask me why I’ve lived in San Francisco since I was seventeen, my response is always the same, “piss off.” Like most females, I’m impulsive. With the increase of hormones coursing through me, my hair’s been growing like a compost soiled weed. I saw the opportunity to chop my hair. Of course, I would never trust my current stylist as he was an advocate of innovative design and creation. My stylist with his Manchester accent, is not one for long hair and I would somehow find myself with a short do that was individualistic for my ever growing plump face. Besides, others would stray from a salon named Mr. Pink Whistle, but I was a curious as a black cat.

I was on a star search for a new scissor hands. Jeeun recommended I take her boyfriends appointment slot as he couldn’t justify a hundred fifty for a men’s cut. Her stylist wasn’t accepting new clients, so I was in luck. It was settled except the appointment wasn’t till mid November. My dilemma was that my weed of a head was growing at an alarming rate and it hadn’t been cut in twelve months. It needed a little fixing.

I phoned the usual big names, Vidal had a one thirty appointment with their senior stylist and DiPietro had a four o’clock with a senior stylist. I opted for the latter as most of my previous stylists were Vidal alumni, switch up. As I strutted Post street, my intentions were to just get a trim. A little snip and call it a day.

I plopped into the chair. “What can I do for you today?” Regina’s head toppled with beautiful curls that would best be described as a weave.
“Bangs.” What was I saying? I continued, “Chinese bangs, straight across.” My heart raced with excitement.
“What about the ends?” She held up the aftermath of my former stylists sharp razor tips now jagged. “I mean really?” She was appaulled. Little did she know my last cut was a year ago and above the shoulder.
“Cut it off.” I was spontaneous and going with the flow. “I'm pregnant so it'll grow back in no time.”
“This much?” Her estimate was about three inches.
“Sure go for it.” I was giving this stranger full control of my mane.
“Layers? You need layers.” She was a car sales man hooking me up with options.
“No.” I stammered as the word “layers” is so 2005. “Just a trim.” I put my foot down. Regina’s eyes burned as she yearned to snip all my hair into a contemporary layer filled cluster. Besides, I had to leave a decent canvas for the real stylist in November.

Following a crap job of a shampoo absent of a scalp massage, I made way to the snipping chair. She combed my hair in front of my face. “Ready?” Regina leering a smile. “I’m scared.” I said it aloud.
“Don’t be scared honey.” She was warm and motherly. “Here we go.” She ran the scissors across my forehead. I could feel the steel softly run across and saw the fall of the royal length hit the floor.

A male customer flew in from Seattle also sought change. He initially flew in for the Folsom Street Fair, a gay and lesbian leather sexual extravaganza. The stylist amputated his blond ponytail that ranged approximately eight inches long. “Oh my god!” The gay man shrieked at the sight of his dead weight. Oh my god was right, as it wouldn’t be his new locks that would be the focal point at the leather affair.

Meanwhile, Regina quietly snipped refining the lay of the land that was my hair. I always treated my hair cuts like a massage, with silence. If I wanted to discuss current events, I’d plop myself at a coffee shop in the outskirts of the Mission. I liked what I saw in the mirror. It was exactly what I wanted straight thick bangs just like when I was five years old. It was hot! I absolutely loved it!

As the Girlfriend’s Guide to Pregnancy warns one of the major rules of pregnancy is to not get a major hair cut. When gaining weight, I am one of those unlucky people that gains in the face. As I am gradually ripening with pregnancy, I assume that my face will follow suit. Instead of stuffing my face with egg mcmuffins, I thought squaring my face off with bangs might assist in slimming my cheek bones.

In the changing room, my face speckled with tiny chards of hair, I cursed the pedestrian service as Simon, former stylist, usually dusts me off like a dirty floor. Otherwise, I rejoiced in the haircut. My heart performed back flips in tune to my excitement. It was simple. It was clean. It was fabulous. I walked down the street with a bounce in my step and a different head on my shoulders.

This is Shellie stressing live life don’t let life live you back to you Bob at the studio.

Brilliance

I guess it was time that I stop ignoring my readers and start writing again. I left you with a big pow! Pregnancy. Again. Wow. My mission to exceed China’s population was a complete flop, but sex is god! After a month of a wonderful anniversary and a year of celebrating aging, I’m back to embrace my reality. My simple “reality” that is the couch, my sweet Hunter, and husband extraordinaire. As zebras are not painted horses, this pregnancy is much different than the last. It’s calm, but the undertow of Hades is just a few levels hormone deep. I barely made it through the last 16 weeks calm, having to talk down my emotions down from jumping into the fire by isolation.

“Anger is an indulgence that requires careful forethought.”

Shane is clueless as to how close he got to perhaps getting both his achilles sliced lengthwise. Instead, I removed myself from short ended situations and made way to my bedroom until the emotional tsunami passed.

In the meantime, Shane has been fending for himself in the dining arena as my appetite has dwindled to fast food or nothing. There’s been nights he’d make a run for Pizza Hut for a personal pan super supreme. “Gasp!!!” Went the die hard foodies elitists, that’s right I said it. I am certain he didn't do it for me, but for the benefit of that special someone that takes my body hostage. In good time, my appetite returned to its five senses. Shane has been my little apprentice in the kitchen. As I carefully guide him into the gentle ways of cooking, he has come to appreciate my hard work in the kitchen. After a long day of work, handling Hunter, and slaving in the kitchen to sit down to a three course meal at eight o’clock, he is exhausted. Little does he know, I am preparing him for the arrival of the second Kitchstar.

As I found my way out of the lethargic fog in my first pregnancy, I found rest to be luxuriously effective in my current. Enter stage right, bedroom. I have officially become a professional at siestas. There’s nothing better than a good snooze. Awaking to feeling refreshed and renewed enough to instant reposition my head and repeat the luxury. As for my gym life, it requires a bit of resuscitation. Alright I did one day of circuit training in my 14 week, but no more nor less. Tsk. Tsk.

As I reflect on my first pregnancy, I am quickly reminded that I was in an entire different era. Pregnancy was a romantic notion. Diet and exercise was on the absolute forefront. Finally, I was not a parent. Today, I manage a household and family. Working full time and a part time mother and wife, leaves no room for anything else. Pregnancy remains a romantic notion, yet the glamour and glitz has worn off. As I would love to work out and be healthy, this pregnancy steers me different. Do not fret, as I am sure like everything else, I will find the magic that weaves refinement back into my game. Until than, life is beautiful in all it’s glory. As my belly begins it’s up rise, I am reminded of the innocent goodness that is blooming in my own being.

This is Shellie staring straight into the sun back to you Bob at the studio.

May the Force be with You!

Mood: Radiant
Song: “Bicycle Race” by Queen

Children. Some want them. Others can’t stand them. While others can’t get enough of them. Me, I want a gaggle of kids driving me up the wall with sheer insanity in a home where wooden spoons are a means of discipline. I couldn’t imagine my life otherwise. According to my nausea and waistline, I’m on my way to increasing the Kitchen herd. “Mooooo-ve over weight loss something meaty this way comes! It’s been an interesting first trimester. As they say, each pregnancy is different and I can vouch for it. This pregnancy couldn’t be any different from Hunter, "I second that emotion!”

Something exciting is brewing in my belly pot!
Recently, my cravings have geared towards fast food like a swarm of flies to an Ethiopian village. On the double edged sword, my appetite has been nill. Furthermore, my tongue shrivels at the sight of fruits, vegetables, or the term organic and seasonal of the sort. This second coming, is determined to give me an ulcer. Like a mental patient refusing to take her meds, I forcefeed myself to eat fruits, vegetables that are of the term organic or seasonal. Although it taste like radiator vomit, I know I am doing the nation of Shellie a world of good.

In other sorted events, Nausea -my number one enemy- turns it’s gentle serrated edges into my gut letting me know who is Queen of this Kingdom. I haven’t had the courtesy of barfing (knock on wood), but the belly of the beast can always make it’s way to the surface. I beseech you oh Nausea to let me be. Meanwhile in the Northern Hemisphere, Sleep troops have taken the city of Consciousness by storm! Violently accosting the town with demands of rest and relaxation.

In relative news, deep in the jungle my emotions have beat me into submission. Sobbing has become my new pass time. Like a leaky faucet, I sob in tiny doses. When the surge of irrational current begins its up rise, I take a deep breath and lock myself in a padded room. Alright my bedroom is not padded, but my bed is soft enough to embrace the turbulence. Besides, Shane nor Hunter need not be an innocent bystander. Sometimes a nice bubble bath, jazz, and a novel are also good medicine.

Finally another menacing birthday is around the corner, I’m sprinting against time. I refuse to be a useless senior citizen when my children turn eighteen. The thought of being threatened by fall, resulting in breaking a hip is cruel. Suddenly, this whole teenage pregnancy hullabaloo is genius! A mother of an eighteen year old at age 33 is sexy! What was I thinking with college and traveling! Also, irrelevancy has become part of my morse.

Thankfully, I’m in my second trimester!

Release the shackles and let the slave graze the earth.
I’m still enchanted by this miracle. The creation of life is the shit! I can't believe my mom went through it ten times! I can’t wait to do it again. I am fortunate to be so lucky in this lifetime. In the meantime, goodness is growing in my belly!

This is Shellie exlaiming, "Something joyous this way comes!" Back to you Bob at the studio!

Tres

After a succession of dating men and relationships for decades, she concocted a list that would be full proof Trifecta. First and foremost, male can not be a product of divorce. Her former boyfriends were all products of divorce and the repercussions were too much of a mind fuck. The issues were far and beyond light, space, and meaning. Secondly, must have a job. It seems so basic, but her last six boys were unemployed musicians. Could she find a mother effer with an effen job? She thought of crossing off musicians, but that would be uninteresting. She was distraught of paying the rent, bar bills, and meals. Finally and fundamentally, he must be equipped with a sense of humor. A man without a sense of humor is a man with a shriveled heart.

She wasn’t in the market for neither love nor boyfriend of the sort. Perhaps a good lay would be interesting. Until that menacing cupid decides to go on a rampage and shoot an arrow through your jugular. She occupied her nights at bars with girlfriends and stumbled home. Her usual stragglers placed their after hour phone calls, as she strummed her guitar and chain smoked her American spirits. She picked up the phone, “yep the doors unlocked.” It was him. As she balanced a few guys, she realized how he had become a regular late night and the other three were slowly being cut. It started to become a ritual. We would reconvene at the chime of a closing bar and depart at sunrise. As he constantly professed that he didn’t want to be in a relationship, he sure called her an awful lot. Word about town, was that he had never had a girlfriend ever! He was not the settling down type. She, on the other hand, was steadfast on the single track. She was a chronic relationshipaholic and was on a mission for independence. This was a perfect situation. Never once, did she call him. By the wise word of her mom, “never chase men! A woman should never resort to such desperation, let them chase you.” So by mom’s wisdom, she never phoned this late night regular. Nor did she question the intentions.

Three months later he asked her to be his girlfriend and to move in. There was calm about the whirlwind situation. I was not reluctant. Sure, I had to pick between him and another guy. Her Trifecta Theory quickly debunked. He was a product of divorce, but his parents divorced when he was twenty. She hadn’t been with a construction worker before (blush)! He was so hilarious he could make a dead man laugh. He was golden.

They’ve been together over seven years and married for three. In a world where getting a divorce is shorter than a lifespan of a fly, they hoped their promise is bound forever. Today they celebrate their three year anniversary. The Kitchens with their delightful little fifteen month boy in tow are excited to announce that there’s a little bun roasting in her oven expected next spring! In honor of her parents who have been happily married for fifty one years, she can only hope to follow in they’re footsteps.

This is Shellie always in love back to you Bob at the studio!

Kindred Roots

Her dad said it best. She was seventeen and leaving for the airport for the big move off the little rock. He said, “You’ll be back.” Her father’s words reinforced this teenager’s plight to cut the umbilical cord to sheer independence. Deep inside he knew the determination that burned in her dark brown eyes, that his daughter was gone. She smiled, “right,” she softly closed the screen door behind her. With just one thousand dollars, she saved over a year’s time of work, in her pocket she left all that was home for California. On that departing flight, she promised herself she would never rely on her parents for anything. She was certain her future and her fate stood in her hands.

Her first few years in the city, she put herself through college while working full time, oblivious to what a keg stand was. The value of money quickly slapped her into a field of somber, especially when rent was due. Her meals consisted of a healthy diet of ramen, Kraft cheese and macaroni, burritos, or quesadillas. She discovered that best friends and buds were simply acquaintances and thugs. She fell flawlessly face in the mud until she could distinguish the difference between sex and love. She grew up fast at seventeen. Like molded clay that’s been in the kiln for too long, she became hardened by life.

Pensively analyzing through trial and error, she had it good at home. She was provided with free room and board, enriched with no responsibility to pay for bills. Although never once in the fifteen years, has she regretted her decision to leave. Pulling her weight is self rewarding. It was freedom. No late night phone calls to mom on how she spent her last paycheck on clothes and booze. She was her dad’s daughter, her pride and promise dictated to move forward. She would pick up a part-time job to supplement her social habits.

She would not exchange her life experiences and the souls that have embraced and shattered her. Falling has been the golden gift, humbling to the touch; it helped her realize that imperfections are what made her authentic. On this arduous journey, she looks forward to embracing future failures, from the words of her nine siblings, “…nobody’s perfect. You’re not perfect. Failure is the perfect way to learn to love yourself, the ones that don’t learn well there just stupid.…” Her siblings the back bone to her “no guts-no glory” philosophy. Her siblings had taught her tough love, speaking the truth absent of smoke and mirrors.

She credits her siblings and the hawaiian way of life for her courage and compassion. If it weren't for them, she would be lifeless, gutless, and cold. As her heart still pines for her family, the warm Hawaiian ocean and the way of life that is Aloha and kindness, she knows one day she’ll return with a family of her own to plant her own seed to instill roots and like her, it can never be uprooted.

This is Shellie in third person back to you Bob at the studio!

Taste Test

In usual Kitchen fashion, we found a reason to eat out, “let’s celebrate the signing of your contract!” I was the culprit. Besides, I needed a break from the kitchen. We headed to Slow Club where we were guaranteed a delicious dinner. We were immediately seated with high chair in tact.

“How old is he,” inquired the blonde hipster server with big hoop bakelite earrings.
“15 months on the ninth.” I was proud to not be at home like most parents enslaved to their child’s schedule.
“I have two myself,” the female server topped me one better.
“Cool!” I must admit she looked fantastic for two kids. I can only wish the same for myself.

The server brought over two ice waters and placed a paper cup with a straw for Hunter, “here you go,” like a natural mom, she knew what was up. Although she was unaware that Hunter was not privy to the straw, but he went for it anyway. He bit on the straw, but the concept to suck went straight out the window. Shane and I giggled, yet irritation brewed when we moved his cup to the end of the table. As his high chair’s safety belt was suspiciously broken, he wiggled his way out and began crying. No sooner than I could say, “crap on a shingle,” the bus boy placed a plate of bread and olive oil on the table. “Thank god,” I thought, “he loves bread!” I tore the bread into pieces and placed it in front of him. He took a handful and threw it against the wall. My sigh of relief quickly skipped to humiliation. Shane and I exchanged looks that translated to possibly leaving to an unpalatable destination like Chevys.

I personally wanted to bury my head in the sand. Horrid. I quickly questioned my humiliation. There were other things that would have my head in a tizzy. My Hawaiian upbringing simply told me to "relax"; thus stop trying to keep up appearances. That quickly put me in check.

Shane and I laughed it off and proceeded to finish our wonderful meal by switching off. "Oh my god, you've gotta try this," Shane fed me forkfuls of his blue corn grits and roasted pork loin as I fed Hunter his bottle. Subsequently, he would relieve me so I could finish my black bean soup which wasn't share worthy.

In the grand scheme of things, we adapted to the downshift. It was a gentle whirlwind of eating. We enjoyed our dinner at a fine, but slow pace. We embraced the fact that this would be our last dining experience as a family. Before leaving our table, I made sure we picked up the garbage dump that Hunter created amiss the floor. It would be a few years before we skim the fine dining rim again. Although we’ll make the best of it, here’s to more romantic dinners with my husband. Perhaps this is a prelude to date night!

This is Shellie ruling, “not all good things come to an end, it just takes time to refine” back to you Bob at the studio!

One Step Towards Mankind

It is official! At 15 months, Hunter has taken his first steps. Sigh. Walking is such an enormous feat. I should be calendaring his surging developments, but I haven’t been doing such a good job. It happened so fast! I feel victimized by time. Although he’s only a year and some months, time is swift. His birth vivid in my mind, thus photos of his infancy remind me -like all of us- we are just game to the master “time.” I am a fool as a slight err of somber hinders my celebration. Nonetheless, his adorable triumph to travel around on his new found legs has my heart whipped up in all kinds of inspiration.

More and more, I discover that the miracle of life is amazing. In retrospect, I can conclude that motherhood, and being a wife, kicks ass! It is so fantastic! I am going to explode in sheer delight! Not even his wild and crazy toddler antics can dissuade me from this unselfish bliss. It may all seem silly to the non-parent, but my soul has never brewed such wild adoration for such magnificence. Perhaps, when he’s sixteen and he tells me that I’m ridiculous and to stick it where the sun don’t shine! I’ll have great memories that will subdue me from possibly choking him into submission.

As we are open neglectors, we took the whole family (Hunter, Chloe, and Oliver) to Ocean Beach yesterday. The dogs dashed like demon fire in circles and crazy eights around Hunter. My son continued his tender walking balance, oblivious to the canine chaos that had passers by ogling. He continued un-phased by his environment and took the next step without caution. He walked ahead fearless as the gentle breeze sweeps in our direction, Shane looks over, "life is good."

This is Shellie taking the gold medal in the sappy mom race back to you Bob at the studio!

Miseducated

Oh my god! Oh the aching of my head. One word, preschool. Everyone’s making a fuss about it. Shane’s more concerned about the tuition than the curriculum. Curriculum! I know the kids three years old, what curriculum is considered standard at that age, “make sure to color within the lines.” Seriously, preschool should be an introduction to social interaction than academics. My brain is on the verge of busting! Advil por favor. Waiting list. Tuition. Waiting list. Gender balance. Waiting list. The crux to my dilemma.

Speaking of crux, a Marin Day school is two blocks from my office. Convenience, besides he would riding the train into the city. How tres’ chic! I discovered the tuition was $18,500 a year; not convenient. My Spanish speaking nanny cost more dough and she didn’t speak English, I’m tired of constant bum violations. Painful. In fact, the Lycée Français La Pérouse is only $14,000! I can dig that! I’m on the waiting list for the Chinese American, Japanese immersion, Italian immersion, Spanish immersion. I’ve got an interview with Temple Emmanuel. Yes, Jewish why not we’re in San Francisco? Diversity, I’m from Hawaii I can handle it. I’m in a whirlwind of open houses, tours, and applications. There’s one particular preschool that has a stellar reputation among the community that runs $7,600 a year! It would only be in good taste that there be a waiting list the size of Noah's Ark and Hunter is on that list. The big kick in the shin is his acceptance is based on gender balance. That’s right, the strict balance of gender in that particular class enrolled. Suddenly, the room is shrinking and getting smaller. My chest is tight and heavy…can’t breath….must…make way to bed…to…lie down.

My sister soon brought me down to earth, “we didn’t go to preschool? So what’s all the fuss?” The fuss is I wish I did. In true parent fashion, I want the best for my son. It does not mean that he should be enrolled in the top preschool. Will he benefit from being bilingual? Is yoga an integral growth into his spiritual being? Education augmented by theories and challenging philosophies stem at such an early age in San Francisco, I can see why parents are psychotic babbling neurotic freaks about the entire ordeal. Whatever happened to enhancing the simple social interaction of a three year old child? Go climb a tree! Learn to share. Sit in a circle and sing. Finally, what ever happened to simply laugh induced playing? I patiently await the phone call, in the meantime I go about my business. It all filters down to one laughable, but important factor, it’s only preschool.

This is Shellie popping my colorful meds back to you Bob at the studio.

Soul to Sole

It is no top secret that I am a victim to shopping. Online or on site, I am whole heartedly addicted. My husband likes to refer to my condition as impulsive compulsive, but I feel, like all females, we are equipped with the shopping disease. As a new parent, I have learned to curb my vice by displaced addiction. That’s right. I have found a justified reason to increase my son’s wardrobe. Guilt free.

It was on that suspicious day; I forgot my gym bag and was tussled into the peril of the internet on my lunch. “Hmmm,” I thought, “Heels.com, Piperlime.com, Zappos.com,” I found myself endlessly skimming the sales for last seasons pairs as the day before my new puppy Oliver had gotten his pesky little jaws on six pairs of my shoes including three designer pair. Sob. Than I remembered that Shane wanted to purchase a special “phat” pair of sneakers for Hunter. I thought it would be nice of me to make that purchase on his behalf.

I was on a mission. I had a task to complete. One pair for Hunter coming up! I was aware of my husband’s selective nature. He absolutely loathed crocs and anything of the sort and as his wife, I second that motion. A couple clicks, double clicks, I found perfection. There it was just like I imagined the Adidas III. True precision for a toddler. This multi colored toddler size kicks were equipped with velcro straps. As it wouldn’t be considered shopping if I stopped now, I pursued additional pairs for shop’s sake.

My purchases were completely justified, regardless of the price. It was an essential. I felt exhumed with bliss. It felt good to give. Since the birth of my son on May 9, 2007, I can honestly say I have put my son and husband before myself. As the ninth child of ten siblings, I have played the role of spoiled brat to the tenth power. Was it my destiny to be generous of heart? Not if I had any say. Here I am a mother, a parent, and a wife. Happiness couldn’t come at a better time.

This is Shellie sole searching back to you Bob at the studio!

Smart Wheels

Diddle, daddle, dawdle, that’s me in a fiddle! Well, not so much so as my former life as a singleton, but I remain true to my craft. For a year I’ve been meaning to sale my X5 to the next sucker. I take that back, I have traipsed into the craigslist world, but that has proven to be the most unreliable source known to the galaxy. Twelve months and $4.95 a gallon later, and my monster automobile remains parked in the driveway. Sigh. The hike in gas prices has put a little spin on my perspective. I’m that obnoxious three headed snake driving in the suv as hybrid owners zoom by with looks of displeasure and disgust. I’m not proud to be contributing to the global warming effect. Alright you temperamental NPR subscriber and earth crisis activists gently put the rotten tomatoes down. Besides, I keep my driving to a minimum. In the meantime, I make up for my excessive carbon footprint by composting and recycling, but that’s for another entry. Why did I purchase it in the first place you ask? One word “Tahoe.” Second word, “Snowboarding!” Since my purchase, I have been to Tahoe a total of three times. Thus, I am an idiot.

As I fall in the pit of fads, I’m humiliated by my yuppie gas extravaganza. I’ve got a fever for a Smartcar. They whiz by and I’m so apt to jump on the bandwagon. Sure, it’s a hyped up goal cart, but who cares. It’s urban! It’s hip. Speaking of hip, the Vespa is congesting the San Francisco streets! I heart Vespa. Its gas usage is heaven on wheels. If I sell my car, I can get both! In addition, I could get a Honda Element! Parking would be a breeze! The ideas clash, turning wheels in my noggin like rubber cement on the verge of drying. “Three vehicles? Why do you need three vehicles in the city? Where would Hunter’s car seat go? Where would I sit!” Shane bursting my day dream bubble, “oh yeh.” I chuckled as Hunter crawled like an arachnid across the wooden floor, “oops.” I smiled with my light disregard for my family.

If I ever have the energy to breath, I will exert some strength into ridding my fuel inefficient vehicle. Until than, hybrids, Vespas, and Smartcars continue to taunt me at every four way stop. I am a mother and as a mother, I should see to it that I make a better world for my sweet Hunter Styles and others to come. That’s where daydreams come in handy.

This is Shellie reassessing my lifestyle for a better quality of life back to you Bob at the studio!

smitten

Mom always told me that marriage always came first. Otherwise, a family would give into a weak foundation. In honor of mom’s advice and their fifty one years of blissful marriage, Shane and I left Hunter with Auntie Vanessa and painted the town romantic. We intend to do this at least once a month, but babysitters in this town come at a lofty price. Thank god for friends and relatives.

We drove along King Street as we embarked on the romantic view of the Bay Bridge. We silently took in the scene of the lit cityscape as the full moon kissed the bay. We were headed to destination unknown, “Where do you wanna go? We could do dinner or we could do a movie?” Shane was always open for anything. My hunger made an abrupt decision for dinner. As we are creatures of the (easily mistaken) pretentious food phenomena, we thought we’d through caution to the wind and head for North Beach.

The Parking Fairy obliged us with a rock star parking spot. We walked hand in hand past Saint Peters and Paul church with the full moon lighting our path. The cold wind whipped my hair in different directions as my outfit was best suited for summer. We perused the menus on Stockton Street, but twenty four dollars for spaghetti and meatballs only victimized the European visitors who could afford such leisure and lack of quality in food.

We turned the corner of Stockton and Columbus and there it sat Café DeLucchi. As I recall, the home made pasta here reminded me of my time spent in Florence. Shane flitted for the wine list as my thirst yearned for mineral water. The menu, just as I imagined, was traditionally simple, good, and cheap. Shane reminded me that he wasn’t famished, but ordered skirt steak and gnocchi, one of the lighter fares on the menu. As my mind lectured my body that a salad and soup would benefit from my vigorous workout at the gym, I went face first for the Caesar salad with white anchovies and the lasagna. Our dishes were light and delicious just as expected. Shane’s gnocchi were pillows of clouds; delectably fluffy. We headed next door for dessert gelato.

I thanked him for dinner as he, in trade, thanked me for the gelato. We walked arm in arm to the car with the menacing wind cursing our movement. The Madagascar vanilla gelato only contributed to the frigid factor of my outfit best suited for summer time. Shane, usual knack for impulsive urinating, headed for Washington Park and before I could caution him of homeless or ongoing gay activity, he disappeared behind six foot bushes. I sat in the passenger seat as harmful thoughts wildly intruded my head. My heart raced as it would be our luck that he is raped by a big hairy gay man dressed in cheap leather costume or stabbed by a homeless person. My heart faded to normal when his silhouette emerged from the bushes. His mischievous smile struck from ear to ear.
“Were you accosted by a gay man or did you pee on a homeless dude?”
“Before I knew it," He interrupted with a laugh as words seem to choke him, "I was peeing on some homeless dude’s leg!" He paused to laugh again, "All I saw was a pair of Adidas.” His childhood laugh was contagious.
“Did you aim elsewhere?”
“No," He choked and paused and choked, "I couldn’t.” He continued with his infectious chuckle.
“So you just continued to pee on his leg?”
“Pretty much.”
“Geeze.”
We both laughed for a whole five minutes before putting the key in the ignition. Mind you we were still parked three feet away from the suspicious bushes.

Shellie's Mantra: "Young grasshopper must achieve the pinnacle of nirvana with laughter and urination."

The full moon witness to our recent occurrence parallel our drive home bound. The delightful thought of Shane, urinating on a poor homeless person in the bushes of Washington Square Park, was the highlight of our night. For most females they equate flowers or poetry to romance, a good laugh always makes my heart grow fonder.

This is Shellie urinating behind closed doors back to you Bob at the studio!

Sleep Matter

The past six months have been a wet dream when it comes to getting shut eye. There's nothing more fortunate than a good nights rest. It is only a matter of time before the lull breaks.

In the realms of one o'clock in the morning, a wild shriek from the bottom floor disturbs my dream state. Shane and I pretend the sound is just a figment of our imagination. We both are awake, but we refuse to acknowledge reality. The parent stand off begins. I close my eyes tighter in hopes he would retreat back to sleep. Hunter's wails continue on a downward spiral. A few minutes later, "Can you please check on him," I gently knudge my sweet husband. He rolls out of bed and slumps his way downstairs. I wrap myself deeper into my down comforter hoping Shane will manage to silence our son. Instead, Hunter howls increase by the minute. I immediately find a problem in my husband's easing tactic. I come downstairs to find Shane sitting in Hunter's crib. "Dude what in the hell are you doing? Your going to break that thing?" My husband's logic was outrageously ridiculous, when all else fails get in the crib with my son. We get into a mild tiff and I send his useless existence on his way upstairs.

At this point, Hunter is yelling from the top of his lungs like his toes were being plucked with pliars. His nose running, cheeks flushed red, face freshly washed with tears. I realize that his diaper is secreting mustard colored squish. I pick him up to make way to the changing table and his skin is cloaked with a fever that is hot to the touch. How could my dear husband be so blind? Beside the flagrant poop factor, my son was teething on an excruciating level. I dart for the orajel and the homeopathic teething pills that Shane likes labels "baby crack." I follow it up with a hit of tylenol. In a few minutes, Hunter's shrill attack is done.

I give him a fresh bottle of milk and made my way to the couch. In good time, he is snoring and he snores just like his dad. He sleeps with both arms behind his head, he sleeps just like his dad. As my husband is sweet as nectar, I wished on the morning starlight that my son did not inherit his dad's unsound late night practices.

This is Shellie bidding you a good night back to you Bob at the studio!

Centered

I plopped Hunter down on the carpet as Bach chimed in surround sound. The twins stared up at me than returned to their building blocks. I’ve been accustomed to Hunter clinging for the life of abandonment, but today he joined the others in play. He crawled through the pile of building blocks and continued to build. I looked at the teacher and shrugged, “I guess he’s over it.” Naturally, I was sullen as I was quickly put on a mantle. At least, he wasn’t wailing for his mom. I kissed him good bye.

I returned from work and witnessed his long stand off. He stood there hands free next to Taylor. They both stood there amongst a sea of wooden alphabet blocks. He was upright with no apparent knee buckling. He looked over at and gave me one of his smiles, “Oh my god he’s standing!” “I wanted you to see for yourself,” Bernadette smiled under her glasses. “Wow!” I replied to Bernadette. I’ve seen him stand, but not for so long without any thing to catch his fall. It was an adventure with his new tricks. It took a few minutes for him to warm up to me. That was fine, I’m sure the pressure was on with his little daycare cronies. He didn’t want to seem like a mamas boy. Good boy! It’s the end of the second week of Hunter’s new found daycare. Hunter’s adapting pretty nicely.

The coddle one-to-one childcare is faded. I'm over it. It's funny...how reality trumps my expectations! In the back of my mind, I always thought I'd raise my family on the rural outskirts of Oahu where the sugarcane meets the shore. Rural enough for my child to roam the countryside and sea from morning to sunset. Instead, I settled for San Francisco where the rolling hills meet the Pacific bay. This cosmpolitan bubble has it's quirks like aggressive child philosophy pragmatics. I had different expectations in regards to raising my family. It's not so bad. I can deal. All in all, I can't dwell on expectations, but I can make the most of where I am. Today, I am centered, hence content with life; I can live anywhere.

This is Shellie saying, "to play or not to play, that is the question," back to you Bob at the studio.

Nanny No How

It has been a week, since my nanny mishap. I am more productive now that I'm nannyless. Thus, I’m busier, but such is life.

As the sunshine slowly tips it’s toes into our home, the gentle sounds of Hunter playing with his stuffed animals fills the room. Shane makes his way downstairs at the crack of Hunter’s cries which usually involves a diaper fiasco. I follow his lead soon after his reflexes give way to clamorous gagging from Hunter’s innocent excrement. I find a good healthy chuckle in his diaper disposition.

I unlock the back door so Oliver and Chloe can do their doggy duties in their toilet which I recalled used to be our backyard that was free of canine urine and feces. I start the water for our breakfast cereal. Hunter finds the closet door stopper more entertaining than his room full of toys. In the wake of the nanny’s absence, I discover that the kitchen and the floor are not self-cleaning entities. I wash Hunter’s hands and place him in his high chair for his quick breakfast nosh of fresh fruit and fig bars. He dances in his seat to the songs of Jack’s Big Music Show on Noggin. Meanwhile, Shane and I sing a long as we clean the room.

Shane finishes the warm breakfast cereal with honey, almond slivers, and currants. I’m groomed and ready to tackle the big task; outfit. Six changes and 15 minutes later, my outfit a la mode is complete. I not so meticulously make the bed before heading down. The clock ticks eight o’clock and Hunter remains in his pajamas. Shane and I share an understanding when it comes to dressing our son. If I’m running behind, he compensates for my inefficiency. Visa Versa. Today Shane is losing time by dropping science. I put him in shorts and a Marley t-shirt, “Shoes, shoes! What shoes go with this wretched outfit?” I scoured the mountain of heels that is my closet. “You know you should really organize that,” Shane done with his science project thought his two cents would make a difference. Ironically, my red Kenneth Cole sandals were absent from the heel pile. My banal outfit too monotone for words, required a splash of color. Sometimes one must give in to fate, hence I wore black wedges. Pedestrian.

I have Hunter in my left arm. I struggle to untangle the diaper bag strap, hence forgetting I had a gripfull of milk, I spilled it eloquently over my outfit. The breeze blew my hair in a direction that was cumbersome. I entered the daycare to the sound of music. Hunter was on to me as he grasped tight to my calves. His cries become loud and brash. His clingy behavior just came on like a summer fever, I wasn’t sure if it was an age thing or a day care thing. Whatever it was, it was going to make me late. I held him for a few minutes and dashed out the door to the sound of his screams. My heart sunk deep into my chest as I turned the ignition and pressed the gas. I briskly walked to the bart station. Note to self: wedges good for looks, not for walking.


It’s half past five o’clock when I enter the daycare. I observe him playing with his fellow friends. He is up on two legs and pushing a cart while laughing. My soul is rich. He is gentle. He laughs. He smiles. Serenity, that peaceful feeling over came me like when I lay afloat for hours looking up at the blue sky as I was cradled in the warm hawaiian ocean as a child. “He is such a good kid, really well mannered.” Bernadette whispers, “they went to the park today and played for an hour and a half and he took a two hour nap. I’ve watched many kids and he is a fine child.” I am a modest mom. Her compliments ease my heart and silence my guilt.

Today he is fourteen months. Fourteen months, it's not a year and it's not a year and a half. Every day is just as significant as the day he was born. I thank my lucky stars. I thank the karma gods. I am blessed. I scoop him into my arms as he enriches me with a hug and a giggle. We drive back on S280 as Beulah celebrates through the speakers. Through my rear view mirror, he taps his feet to the melody of my heart that is happiness.

This is Shellie bliss rules all back to you Bob at the studio!