Quattro

It was mid eighties in the East end of Kauai as the sun in all it’s array lit up the ocean blue sky, the schlack of foundation gradually melting off my face. It was just as I pictured it, ocean front the serene sound of the gentle waves caressing the golden shore, champagne, and most importantly family and friends. The acoustic band played Israel’s version of Some where over the Rainbow as I walked up the aisle arm in arm with dad. There he stood waiting for me in white linen. Eyes rimmed with tears, dad hugged me one last time and handed me over to the man, in a few moments, that I would call husband. Shane mutters through his smile, “is that fake eyelashes?”


Along with the push up bra, he absolutely despises cosmetics. Every night before I went to bed he dreamily says, "your so beautiful why do you put all the crap on your face?" I am greeted more aggresively in the morning as I slap on the makeup, "I don't know why you put that shit on, you don't need it!" Little did he know that I've been hiding underneath all the makeup, as a shield from insecurity since highschool. Although he could just be saying that, to reduce the hours it took me to get ready. There I stood in the midst of paradise as my soon to be husband is fixated on my fake eyelashes and the schlack of foundation on my face. He was so astonished he forgot to point out my half-witted debacle of walking in sand in four inch heels.


Girls get whisked away in their wedding delusions of grandeur, stuck in the details like dresses, bridesmaids, flowers, photographers, and caterers. Consequently, after the five hours of celebration and a bank account with non-existent funds, one is stuck with that dude of a husband. If a female can see beyond the diamond ring, white wedding, and the house with the white picket fence, than your disappointment factor is marginal. Like a goody bag, you never know what you’ll get. Shane and I, never fought not even a whisper during our four years prior to marriage. I retract that statement, I nailed his manhood to his brain cell, once when I exploded from an unforeseen nicotine fit. Six years later and one cold turkey later, nicotine fit be gone! We have yet to have a shouting match of absurd proportions. Most definitely, that's the sound of me knocking on wood.


He’s the only man that I saw fit for forever. We were cohesive, confident in ourselves from the very beginning. We were smitten. We were tight as possums. He withstood the others by the true fact that he was a very candid person sometimes to a fault. He addressed issues that men in the pass feared to tread. He trekked the new frontier with great maturity. Bonus points, he was equipped with a sense of humor. He didn't have me at hello, but he had me soon after that. New York always grows them correct: witty, blunt, chivalrous, and far from a sucker. Besides his obsessive compulsive disorder, and his need to aggrandize everything, he was “issue” free.

A very wise person once told me, "all the things that you are so fond of, will -in turn- become an irritation."

Indeed a bold statement, but I can see how that could come to fruition. Forever is a “long” ass time! Thank god this padded cell is comfortable and cozy!

We have a lot to show for four years. Mainly, a boy and a girl. Like a stick in a spoke, riding this bike took more practice. We’ve stumbled along the way and we have scars to prove it. The kids are endless treasures, but they’ve been known to terrorize. A moment in particular, Stevie Day belted a striking sound to murder from her bassinet and Hunter chimed in with his toddler melt down. My thoughts were deafened. I look to Shane and both his hands are up like a conductor at a symphony. We burst into laughter. As we chuckled, it was that defining moment that I knew it would be okay.


On occassion, I am false eyelash friendly. He still tells me I’m beautiful at night and yells at me in the morning when I'm enhancing, he calls it tinting. All the same, we’re still happy as clams in a bucket of sand. As far as I can see, forever is not a problem. Again, the sound of my knocking wood. We’re stuck together through vows, kids, and debt. I accept it. Everyday, I’m thankful for all the beauty and goodness that surrounds us and for that I love him more. Happy four years!!!


This is Shellie waiving the white flag back to you Bob at the studio!

Girlesque

Little Stevie was a mover and a kicker. In my belly, she voraciously thrust her fists and feet every which way, but still. The ultrasound technicians went berzerk attempting to capture an image, she always hid behind her appendages, "nope that's her hand, there's her feet..silence...that's her other hand...longer silence....that's her thigh..." I wondered if my future Pisces would be a future recluse as well. Let's just say I never had a cute picture of Stevie as she took my body hostage for nine months. Just like Hunter, the gender was unknown, but my female intuition yielded a girl. Why? Well first of all my emotional instability was a dead give away.

The second time around was like sipping a flute of Veuve Clicquot. Besides my induction, my labor took no more than eight pushes and out she came. Look out world make room, because Stevie Day has arrived! There she was six pounds nine ounces and nineteen inches long of love wrapped in my arms. Little Stevie’s almost six months, that’s half a year, approximately 26 weeks, or six hundred twenty four hours. I can’t help but notice how time is whizzing by. She went from a docile little newborn to flipping over like a fish on land. She once slept so cozily in her bassinet and now she occupies the crib in Hunter's room.

She is mild natured baby with a voracious appetite. She enjoys being held, but what can I say except, “um yeh, she’s a girl!” All her little quirks and personality traits are apparent like the way she likes to ham it up, smiling and batting her eyes which, to me, sounds like trouble.

It's been a joyful journey with the second child in tow. It took getting accustomed to the high balance beam act, but the circus act must go on. Besides, the Kitchens are a team to be wreckoned with so get the hell out of the way. Besides, my honorable respect for the single parent, I have a newfound respect for parents of twins and beyond, "What the hell were you thinking!!! You crazy?"

Whatever the future holds, I look forward to watching her grow and flourish. I’m even more excited to watch both of them grow together, expecting the fantastic and the terrible. Certainly sleep has it's perks and being coherent 24/7 twenty is overated. Simply put it, I'm happy. If my day ever goes awry, all I have to do is reach into my heart and hold on to the two jewels that are Stevie and Hunter.

This is Shellie is numero tres my lucky number? Back to you Bob at the studio!

"Two. Terrible. Tantrum"

As Hunter has made great strides into the underbelly of the terrible twos, he has also discovered the power to publically humiliate his parents route screaming. As his tantrums never work at home, he can kick and scream until the takeover of interplanetary aliens, we never cave in. The public forum, on the other hand, was it’s own circus act. He has been known to throw objects across the room, if his requests aren’t met like ice cream for breakfast. After throwing, he would follow with hitting and his new phrase, “but I want it,” or “but I don’t want it” which ever was appropriate at the time. I’m unimpressed of his familiarity with all the letters of the alphabet, but I find it diabolical that he’s able to play the public factor to perfection.

As our bank reflects the current financial climate, babysitters are allocated for special occasions like anniversaries or birthdays. As for friends and family, that it didn't apply for last minute events unless his godmother pulled her last minute hook and ladder play. This only leaves us with the option of a) stay home like normal parents or b) double dog dare to bring Hunter.



We attended an Augtoberfest that expected a hundred plus guests. As Shane and I share a brain cell, we took Hunter with us provided the circumstances that he was functioning on the idea of sleep. At this point, we were mocking the gods. The beer festival was on with German music, steins, lederhosens, sausages, and kraut. Shane did his best to be a great dad and a supportive husband, but the keg lured it’s sexy tap far and away from his family. Hunter was Hiroshima just waiting to explode. I cradled Stevie against my chest in the bjorn as I tried to keep an eye on the H-bomb. I look over and Hunter's sucking on an electric blue lollipop! No sooner than I could pluck that from his grasp, the sugar touched down in his blood stream and the screaming ensued. Through the crowd of german wear and sour cabbage, he plopped himself in the middle of the party and self-orchestrated his kick and scream symphony. Shane, oblivious to his son’s screeching, drank from the traditional German drinking boot as the party cheered him on. It had gone awry and the slippery slope was a steep one.



Flashback to our pre-family days, Shane and I prefaced that the kids wouldn’t impose on our lifestyle, but the shrill from Hunter's tiny two year old lungs, I discovered that we were naïve in our assessment. Hunter wasn’t a helpless dolllike infant anymore. He had opinions. He had choices. He had a scream that could deafen dogs at a thirty mile radius. Finally, he wasn’t at home. Right then and there, I could just bury my head in a paper bag of sharp shattered glass. As he kicked and wailed and dozens upon dozens of eyes looked on, I was officially mortified. Shane was useless as the alcohol had swooped him away from the responsible role. I was on my own. Shit. Why I thought this was a good idea was far from my perception. I didn’t even drink beer! I loath the foaming mess. Five hours and thirty Hunter tantrums later, I threw in the towel.

Before I could sneak out, Shane swayed and slurred something about going home as well. I was responsbile for three kids. I knew as soon as I stepped on the gas pedal, that much needed sleep would fall on my once little sweet Hunter. In the meantime, I mistakenly gave a drunk person a ride home only to find that she removed Stevie from the car seat on a busy Guerrero Street on a hectic Saturday night, because she was incessantly crying. As I would’ve loved to violently boot her into fast oncoming traffic for being a complete and affable idiot, I knew this was just another test of patience before I cashed in the day.



Shane's boisterous snore rose up from the couch downstairs. Hunter sweet snore from his bed. A sleeping Stevie cuddled in my arms. I decompressed the mild events of the day in my bed like a zombie in my cotton pajamas with a nice mug of chamomile, and a movie. Hunter’s tantrums seem distant in the silence. He was finally home. Asleep.

This is Shellie trying to wrap her head around everything responsible back to you Bob at the studio!

The G Unit

Shane’s dad or as everyone calls him the Duke landed in San Francisco for a visit with the kids. It was his first time meeting Stevie Day.

In usual Hunter fashion, he didn’t warm up to Grandpa Duke immediately. The last time they met, Hunter was eight pounds and a mere two months old. Hunter circled his grandpa like a vulture, playing with his train set. I handed Stevie over to the Duke, “Hi Stevie Day.” Cool Hand Duke held his granddaughter for the first time. Hunter discovering his replacement, ran over to his grandpa faster than the idea of a gallon of chocolate covered ice cream. The wheels to sibling rivalry reared it’s ugly head, the game was on. Grandpa Duke, the coolest in town, hugged both kids equally. He had that grandparent glow that grinned from ear to ear.

Like everything fantastic, Grandpa Duke’s visit was a short one. He made enough of an impact, that he's got Hunter marching around the house repeating, “granpa, granpa, granpa, granpa.” He left this morning back to New York, but on the drive to preschool Hunter muttered, “Granpa. Where’s granpa? Granpa? Mom, where’s Granpa.” Just when the kid had grown to love his grandpa, he was gone. I guess Grandpa Duke’s job here is done.

Unfortunately all grandparents live nowhere close to home, but we’ll take what we can get. It is imperitive that the kids have a connection to the royalty that is their grandparents. They should always know where they came from. They should be proud of who they are. Unfortunately I didn’t have the luxury of meeting both of my grandfathers, thus this visit was a mine of gold.

This is Shellie G Unit representing back to you Bob at the studio!

Domesticated

Dratz! The children did it to us this time. Docile like camels beaten in the dessert sun, we were officially domesticated.

As sleeping in on the weekends has become just a phantom of my immature adolescent angst, weekends have become the equivalent of weeding the backyard; a cruel must. It takes a healthy good hour to get the family out the door, which essentially means nagging Hunter to “please” finish his breakfast followed with a mild case of power struggle when brushing his teeth, than onward to peeing in the potty. Meanwhile, Stevie’s screeching her sweet little lungs out, because she’s on her stomach and she’s not down with tummy time. Essentially, she's not down with receiving the short end of the stick. In the back end of the house, Shane’s wrestling with his obsessive compulsive disorder and ruthlessly losing to the mess in the kitchen. I have been accused of dabbling in the dawdle of my wardrobe cohesiveness, thus my circus juggling act ensue.

Fifty five minutes in and a few toddler melt downs later, we were on our way to Sunday Streets, a safe, fun, car-free place for people to get out and get active in San Francisco neighborhoods. We jumped on 280 South and were well on our way. Too add more noise to the raucous, Chloe and Oliver, our two dogs yelped as they were detained for the journey. Shane dearest father and husband boasts “equality,” thought it was unfair to abandon the dogs at home. We had a truck load of love transported for the weekly Kitchen family day. Ambitious.



The Great Highway was blocked off from Sloat onward, I strolled Stevie and Shane rode his bike with Hunter as tote. The air was warm and delightful. A cluster of kids whizzed by with the fury of their training wheels as their parents faint voices begged them to slow down. The sun gradually burned off the fog and all was good in the world as Stevie looked back at me. Bonding has it's rewards.




At the Lincoln intersection, the sight and sounds of children were apparent. We had arrived at what's was essentially the "kid zone." The man with the monkey and organ grinder entertained the children. Hunter immediately wanted off of the bike to meddle in the playware provided by the YMCA. We parked ourselves in the median and joined in the festivities. Hunter mingled and meshed with everything plastic. Shane and I exchanged smiles as my heart glopped with goodness and my insides were aflutter with butterflies.


We were a block away from Park Chalet and our thirst required immediate quenching. We parked the stroller with a snoozing Stevie and spread our picnic blanket. I sipped from my glass of Prosecco and snuggled with my sweet husband as we paved our memories of our children brick by brick. In all the warm weathered goodness, the mild ocean breeze, and the crowd of friends and families that surrounded us, I couldn’t help but feel choked up.



This is Shellie, mommyhood now I know what the fuss is about, back to you Bob at the studio!

Potty Down Like It's 2009

It was a Saturday and we were focused on training Hunter to go to the potty based on the 48 hour theory of no diapers. This was on the heels of Hunter’s daycare jacking up the monthly rate to thirteen hundred dollars a month. I still haven’t figured out the care situation for Stevie, but all I knew was that I had two day cares to worry about.

First things first, the pre-k programs were significantly cheaper, if the child was potty trained. Besides, I completed the application claiming that he was potty trained and for six hundred fifty dollars a month, how could I not? At what stage did they have to be potty trained? Is there a class curve? What’s the margin for error? We were up on the waiting list and received the call, I was determined to fulfill the divine prophecy of potty.


Shane and I watched Hunter carefully, we enticed him with delicious wholesome filtered water in which he threw across the room. As soon as he had an urge to urinate, we plopped him on the potty and in the repetitive words of other parents before us, “pee pee in the potty.”

Not clinically proven to be a “control freak,” I possibly nagged my dear husband, with an attention span of a germ, to never turn your back for a second. I had too had to go to the potty.

Upon my return, Hunter, in full monty, urinated on the front window while standing up on his table, on the sofa, and in the kitchen. Hunter shamelessly tinkled as Shane was as effective as a wet mop in a corner. As regularity comes with a schedule, I anticipated Hunter’s droppings estimated time of arrival was anytime now.

In the playroom, Father and son delightfully played with his Thomas the train set. My cerebrum had been dulled down by the constant concentration, as I fought off a nap that weaved an intricate web. It had only been an hour.

Suddenly a shriek from dear husband, “shit, he took a crap!” Once again, dear husband was bedazzled by our son.

“You were playing, what happened?” I was curiously baffled by husband’s lack of awareness.
“Exactly, we were playing and he stood up and there it was.” My dear husband rattled.

There it was in all it’s magnificence, Hunter’s fresh droppings. Dear husband, equipped with a weak stomach, began his rhythmic gagging. Hunter pointed in great amazement, “big poo poo momma, big poo poo.” In silent failure, we threw in the towel.

In the words of other lenient parents before us, “They will let you know when they’re ready, you can’t force it.”

In the past weeks, Hunter has finally taken to the potty and I am beyond thrilled. So we missed the boat on the six hundred fifty dollars pre-k. Hot dog! Hunter can whizz like a mother trucker!

This is Shellie kicking her heels up back to you Bob at the studio!

New Kid on the Block

My first entry for the year 2009.

I've returned from my sabbatical that is motherhood. Rewind to Mar 6, 2009, exactly at 5:27pm I gave birth to a baby girl. It took us a day to come up with her name, but we settled on Stevie Day Kitchen. It took eight contractions of pushing. It was so much of a breeze that another baby didn’t seem so far fetched. Mister Hunter is handling the new addition like a big brother in his twos. I have come to embrace his new behavior as the “menace” henceforth will be known as the menace. We acclimated to Stevie like a hand in glove. She is mild in nature, but unlike Hunter she likes to be held. She is such a girl.

Life, as I have come to know it, is an ever changing animal. Hunter’s in a new pre-school. Stevie is in a separate Spanish immersion family daycare. I returned to work after three months of maternity leave. I can be found at the gym six days a week shedding off the baby weight like a rat does cheese. Perhaps, this may be perceived as mere neglect towards my children, but I’d like to call it “me” time. At the same time, nothings changed I am still a shopaholic, a foodie, a wife (surprisingly), and a social mishap.

Honestly, there is not enough time in a day. From the time the alarm goes off, to the time the kids go to bed, life keeps me on my toes. If I had an au pair, well that would just flip this story a thousand times over. This, on the contrary, is not a complaint. My kids have bestowed upon me a gift of appreciation. I’ve been humbled by it and have kicked myself a hundred times for being such a fool. Thus, I cherish every moment as I am slowly realizing every day that I have yet to live.

This is Shellie advising you to “check yourself” back to you Bob at the studio!

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!