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.