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!