“It’s about the kid.” Shane insisted as I placed the wig on my head. I was Amy Winehouse. If anyone needed rehab, it was me. Hunter was dressed in his skunk outfit. I had just rushed home from work and was getting ready for the kid parade on 18th Street. Oddly enough, the neighborhood kids didn’t make it to 20th Street. Our block is completely bypassed, hence we do not get to pass out any treats. What a trick!
It seems Potrero Hill is very parade friendly. In fact, the past Saturday they had a halloween pet parade. Festive freaks. This year non of our friends hosted a halloween party and so I was going through a bit of a withdrawal. The parade started at five thirty, and we – or I- was running late. Shane, on the otherhand, kept reminding me that it was about Hunter. My husband, the sourpuss, was not in costume. He was going as himself for Halloween. He was as bland as table salt. Even more uneventful he wanted to post up at Rube Wine. I reminded him that it was about Hunter.
We ventured down the hill as I had to adapt to my depth perception of my billowing hair. My hair kept entangling itself in the tree branches. Chloe kept trying to outwit her leash in her pirate costume. Shane pushed the stroller. 18th street was a madhouse! We weaved through waves of families dressed in their favorite characters. It was great to be among such a live community. Hunter was oblivious of the buzz in the air. For the most part, my costume was unknown, except for the usual parent or teenager that would rave with delight. Otherwise, I could have been Marge Simpson for all they care.
After the parade, I would have been content plopping on the couch with a comforting meal watching a scary movie, but it was Felix’s birthday. So we made our way to the hip part of the Mission at Medjool. First of all, we had Hunter the skunk with us. I absolutely love being a mother, but dragging Hunter to a roof top bar is tasteless. I’m that person. I’m that parent. I felt slightly foolish for bringing him as Halloween in San Francisco is a drunker’s delight. Originally, we were just dropping in for a drink and making our way to a restaurant. So why am I sitting here tending to Hunter three drinks later? My drinking days are on “pause”. For Shane, it’s a reason for him to mingle with his friends. Ah the fun tryst of parenthood. As I don’t find any tingling sensation when urinating on his fun, we were heeding ten o’clock with an empty stomach. There goes our dinner plans, hello burrito!
In most cases, to be a parent means to be flexible. In my case, to be a wife meant to be patient.
Mantra: Marriage is priority. Kid comes second.
So why do I feel so slighted tonight? Shane never coerced me into it. For some death defying reason, I am not allowing motherhood to slow me down. It shouldn’t! At the same time, I don’t want to be that loser at the roof bar with the my son again. I need to start being a mom to my son. Ding! There’s an idea! So I shed the cool skin? I gain myself a sweet skunk.
This is Shellie having a treat of a time back to you Bob at the studio!
Angela and I browsed through Diane von Frankenstein’s collection, chuckling at the sale prices, “This is crazy!” Angela bushy tail and bright eye to the fashion world, “who buys this sheeyat?” She pulled a polka dot tunic from the rack, “My grandma has shit like this. This is three hundred sixty eight dollars? Gimme a fucken break!” Meanwhile, I fell into the gaping dark hole of seventies groovy vintage by See by Chloé my absolute. I loved anything obscenely colorful. Shrug, I’m Filipino it’s in my hemoglobin.
There in the right corner of the show room, hung this exquisite coat. A Nairobi snake print coat that lured me in to its lair. This trench was sleek silk with a cinched and buckled wide waistband and cuffs. With great haste, I placed my bag on the floor gently tried it on and, “whoa!” Cavalli you bastard! “Holy shit that looks awesome on you!” Angela boisterously spoke the truth, “That is fucking awesome! How much is it?” She grabbed the tag, “You’ve gotta be shittin’ me? Twenty nine hundred dollars? Why don’t they just call it an even three grand, shit after flippin’ taxes!” I didn’t care about the price, this piece was slick! It was beyond slick. It was orgasmic. It handled my body like Lamborghini on wheels. I slowly removed the article from my body and returned it to its rightful owner.
We traipsed a few other collections, “Angela check this out.” I handed her a Valentino bold garden print dress Italian silk that gathered at the side waist, “Dude it’s like two grand!” “Who cares, just try it on!” “Oh, alright.” That dress was gorgeous on her frame. We both admired the dress. She twirled and circled in the mirror like a little girl at a royal tea party. She was gorgeous as usual. There was nothing in this store that our bank account could handle. We shamelessly made our way to Forever21 where the dollar is king. We perused through the blouses, slacks, sweaters, and coats only to be disappointed. The pieces were pretty, but like Angela observed, “There is something to be said about designer clothing. They’re made better. Fit better and feel is better.” She was right we had been defeated by the designers’ precision in quality. Yet the styles of both stores were dead similar, Forever21’s quality was offensively brash. Lesson for today: window shopping is fun when you have a best friend to share it with.
************************ (This is dedicated to Minitti – fashion guru yoga meister) **********
A dear friend of mine, I’ll call her Minitti, resides in Costa Rica. Formerly, the dean for the fashion program at CCAC. Prior, she worked on the designing team for Donna Karen. Now that you have her credentials, she was just here for a visit. I was never one with the fashion phenomena, thus she taught me a lot about the art and industry. I “love” clothes as much as the next girl, but I have a lot to learn. I am always awe inspired by the European women as they are so sophisticatedly simple and classic. I’m as trendy as a rainbow print tube top on a roller rink. I’m a fadster.
Three years ago, a bunch of girls sat around the living room and Karen, modest, “I’m going jean shopping tomorrow can you girls tell me where to go?”
“Oh my god!” Minitti turns to Karen arms speaking in tongue, “ you definitely need to get a pair of True Religions! They’re stitching is wonderful!” Mind you this was when True Religions wasn’t as common as Kraft cheese. “Let’s see what else…oh! Imitation of Christ that’s not a bad one. Habituals they’re decent. There’s Citizens of Humanity, Chip & Pepper, Joe’s Jeans, Paper Denim. Yeh man! For sure!” She crinkled her nose and clapped her hands together.
By this point, she had thrown us sub humans in a whirl wind of obscurity. The roomful of girls sat there flabbergasted. It was comical as no one really had the guts to interject. She lost me at Imitation of Christ, I couldn’t believe the branding genius behind that one. She was an evangelist. She gave a thirty minute lecture on jeans! Is she for real? Personally, I bought my jeans at Ross Dress for Less with labels that read Paris Blues and Rampage.
Jeans have come a long way. Now they cost more than a liver transplant. What gives? They’re just jeans? Well, I’d bet Minitti would have a rebuttal for my question. “It’s all about pieces.” She reminds me, “you don’t need a lot of clothes in your wardrobe.” She says things like, “I almost have it to where my wardrobe is almost complete," she spoke like it was a long running project to world domination. Unlike my closet that’s full of clutter that is so out of fashion that it’s back in. There’s a lot of pressure to keep up with the Miu Miu, Chloe, Valentino, Carolina Herrera and the likes. Besides pressure, who has the cash?
I’m glad to have a Minitti in my life. Everyone needs a Minitti in their life. She is fascinating and passionate about design and fashion unlike us mere mortals. She can whip up a dissertation on a Peugeot pepper grinder in two seconds flat. She can deconstruct a piece of garment while maintaining vrischika-asana. It’s amazing. That’s just on fashion and design, you should see her “spit” on gastronomy!
This is Shellie putting someone else in the spotlight back to you Bob at the studio!
As a kid on blistering days, one of my favorite things to do was to soak in a refreshing bath and watch the wind frolic with the curtain to and fro. I would sink slowly under water to dull the noise. Upon coming up for air, the sound of the neighborhood kids playing completed the silence. Besides, it was a relief away from the harassment of my nine older siblings. I relished my time alone. Silence. The occasional pound on the bathroom door phased me as much as the dust on the shelf.
As I rinse my hair, I notice an unusual amount of hair at my feet. I didn’t think anything of it, until I began to notice it was everywhere! On the couch, the kitchen floor, the bedroom floor, the bathroom floor, the bed, on Chloe, in my under wear. My hair had covered the entire surface of the globe! The final straw was finding Hunter chocking on a strand! What the fu_ _? Gross!
Till this point, I hadn’t read up on post partum. Who had the time? I’d rather sleep. I recalled, my sister mentioning hair loss subsequent to giving birth. Was it time? I trust it must have some relation to my hormone upheaval. I was losing hair by the handfuls! Heck, I could make a throw rug. Eek! After a quick internet research, I realized that it’s normal. Women shed, some more than others, hair. Thus, they forget to mention the hazard to a child. It was that point that I realized that we, women, tolerate a lot of crap like tampons (sanitary pads for you special creatures), waxing, males, estrogen, emotions, aging, peers, and designer shoes. We’re tangled in our own web. What next? Eve just had to take a bite out of that apple. Cursed.
It’s natural for me to be negative. It's difficult not to take it personally. That's when mom's voice pops in my head reminding me to, "stop wasting my time on things you can't change." She was right? My stress is some one else’s joy. Truly, being a woman is a gift (specifically, a woman in America).
As I soak my blessings in my tub full of steaming bubbles, I remind myself to embrace my womanhood: tampons (sanitary napkins for you other creatures), estrogen, waxing (plucking for you prehistoric mammals), cramps, menopause, boys (men, if you won the lottery), stretch marks, shedding, gravity, and aging. I immerse myself under the warm bubbles. Silence. Let my hair fall where it wants to.
This is Shellie from the roots of her scalp back to you Bob at the studio!
I plopped myself in front of the fifty inch plasma television in the conference room. It was that time again. I placed the breast shield on my rightie and hit the switch. The slow woosh of the pump whisked me away to boredom. Darn it! I forgot to grab my meaningless literature, celebrity gossip smut. I guess I was better off staring at the white walls. Pumping, now there was a challenge. I was as luscious as the Mohave dessert. Ahem, I was not as fortunate as the others. It took me over twenty minutes to get a couple ounces, if I was lucky. Alcohol, on the other hand, was magic.
Honestly, I was racing against time. Hunter had become accustomed to the bottle and the flavor of formula (blah-yuck). His time with my boob was dwindling, since I started work. If I could provide more nutrients and antibodies for an additional couple months, I would be pleased. Besides, what mother can resist the weight loss via breast feeding. Duh, it’s a no brainer. As I was against formula originally, it has allowed me a bit of freedom. I was hoping to continue, but the gods have other plans for me. It’s called shrivel and dry. I can hear the deep “gasp and whispers” of the “pseudo neurotic hyper pyschotic” mom militia. I’m all about having an opinion, like body odor, keep it to yourself, sister.
The sun was on it’s way down as my left shoulder ached from dragging the beast aka breast pump from work only to produce a measly ounce and a half. Ugh. I’m also struggling to balance my maroon hobo purse that could be mistaken for a garbage bag up the gradual incline in Potrero Hill. Well, my four inch heels isn’t helping any. Fashion, I am such a sucker. Five foot two and ten pounds overweight, I was a hobbling mess. I couldn’t wait to get home. My heart raced and my stride quickened. I had two monstrous hills to conquer before I was homeward bound. The longer the walk the heavier the beast got.
I ran up the stairs and swung the front door open. Momma’s home now! There he was in the arms of Shane. His big brown eyes widened and his lips curled to show a smile full of gums. I whisked him from my husband’s arms into mine. I held him close and tight as he squirmed. I slowly set him down to my chest so he could nosh on his afternoon delight. Some need a glass of wine. Others need a pint of ice cream. Meanwhile, some may need a cigarette. He was my chocolate lava cake; sweet and petite.
This is Shellie savoring each second before he dumps me for the bottle back to you Bob at the studio!
In highschool, I was never that girl that could pass for an eighteen year old. I was a slim jim. A stick. A duffle of bones. A slender fragile fire cracker that barely slipped into a pair of size zeros. My seven brothers called me rat salad, why my inability to gain weight had any relation with a rodent, just proves that my brothers were complete idiots. I embraced my slender being with the usual insecurities of a teenager. How I enjoyed being a squeamish teen. Needless to say, I was never that teenager blessed with the opulence of beauty and body.
As a teenager in angst, I didn't have anything in common with my childhood girlfriends. They smoked menthol cigarettes hoping to capture maturity. Meanwhile, lapped on goops of gob on their eyes and held spell binding conversations that encompassed popularity, boys, and cars in that order. They were always in a hurry to find love, get hitched, and have babies, usually not in that order. As most females were in a rush to grow up, I strayed in a different direction. Me, I was the runt of the group, sure I had the usual crush, but I wasn't boy crazy. I had a flare for fashion, I sewed all my clothes. I was a half pipe skater loaded and sponsored with a fury for punk rock and new wave. Mostly, I adored poetry and literature. I was a whopping nerd. Certainly, I day dreamed of being legally eighteen and how divine it would be to be free from the nagging rules of my parents, but other than that, I was in no haste.
A whole decade has swooshed by and I’ve experienced the good, the bad, and the ugly. My seven brothers still call me rat salad, but that’s because they’re still idiots. I can’t really tell you what happened to my girlfriends back in Hawaii. Sometimes -upon visit- their names are woven in small town gossip. For the most part, I am still the same person. Not so slim. I am still that firecracker, thus I haven’t seen a size zero in ages. A victim to fashion, no time to sew. I have no guts for skating and no ear for punk rock. Although, I am poetry and my experience is literature.
It’s a few minutes till midnight and I’ll be a year older; thirty six to be precise. I sit up in bed and to my left Shane snores a chainsaw symphony. At the foot of the bed, Chloe is curled up in a snow colored shag. In the corner of the room, Hunter’s softly rests in his little cove. Our bedroom opens into a vast view of the bay which is well lit by the moon and the city lights. A brew of emotions bubbles and it will take an army and the marines to hold back this bliss. Me, I’ve never been so rich in love. I’ve a beautiful family. A wonderful home. It looks like I’ve finally landed! Anchors down! Now I understand what all the rush was all about. Sigh.
This is Shellie sipping champagne and noshing on caviar dreams back to you Bob at the studio!
I kissed him goodbye and closed the front door that read Hang Loose. My emotions cloaked slightly with numbness, a natural reaction when my heart is plucked quickly from my chest. In the meantime, I held my head high and my shoulders back and sought through my paper sack of a soul for a positive reason for my decision. The morning sun was brisk as I walked down the hill to Third Street. My charcoal Armani slacks swooshed with each stride over the I280 overpass. I took a breath in full and told myself it was going to be okay. There was singe of sadness in my electricity of a new day.
I stood at the Third Street platform waiting for the train to arrive. On the outside, I was prim and fine hoping to lose myself into my headphones that softly played “Happiness is a Warm Gun” by the Beatles. I got on the train and held on tight. The words, “Someday, not for long,” from the gentle lips of my husband echoed in my buzzing brain. I recalled that he held me in his arms in bed trying to alleviate my worries. What does “someday” mean? Someday, I could win the lotto? Someday, I could learn to tap dance in a tutu. Someday, a purple flying elephant could take a big turd on my head. Someday. Humph, that’s like saying, “Hey, where’s the house keys?” “I don’t know, it’s somewhere.” The cart was a load full of rigid blank faces except for this infant that beamed from ear to ear. It was that very second and that very breath that grounded me here to this train, grasping tight to this pole. A smile from that little angel was all it took to ease the pain.
I took the elevator to the 19th floor. I opened the door to suite 1975 and a tall dark haired woman greeted me, “Are you Shellie?” I forced my winning smile, “Yes, I am.” “So nice to finally meet you!” She finished with a hug.
I was going to be okay. Styles is fine. He was at home with Mary, the poster nanny. Life as a freelance writer is bliss, but a ball of laundry lint makes more than I do. Life remains vast and great. Privilege comes with a stay at home mom and I just didn’t have privilege right now. Someday.
This is Shellie trying to strike a deal with the devil back to you bob at the studio!
September is upon my heels, and there’s so much that’s happened. What can I say except that I’m a lousy blogger. No I take that back, I am not lousy just lazy. To keep you up to date, I can say that Styles has been smiling, speaking baby in his gurgling ways. It's, how can I say, magical! Magical! Besides, trying to fit into my deep abyss of pre-pregnancy wardrobe, is a big to do! And I thought I was chunky before the pregnancy. Chuckle. These days I'd be lucky, if I can get my pants past my knees. (A mild exaggeration...a little higher in the thigh region.)
I’ve been driving across town to the Marina to cinch my ever growing waistline at the Dailey Method or as a friend would like to call it the Jane Fonda work out. It’s an hour of great music and women determined to hold on to their youth with me included. Big plus, they have childcare! Sigh. Yes, and I even gave in to purchasing lullulemon gear. Hell, Jill the owner, is practically the spokesperson. I fell into the peer pressure. I just wanted to fit in.
Some mother's are lucky, they push their baby out and "whap" just like that, they're abs are back in play! I, on the otherhand, am slightly cursed. I'm not fat, but I'm not skinny. I'm a marsupial. I have a fanny pack. A pouch. A pooch. A bulge of fun. If I could lose ten pounds, I would be good. If I could lose twenty, I would be perfect! Problem is, losing two pounds is like a prayer to god. So I ask myself, "I say self? What can I change? Increase cardio? Take up jumping rope perhaps? Sprinting? Weights? Diet?"
I've been bashing my head trying to figure out my error in ways. I think it''s my diet. I love food. I'm a foodie! A former chef (when I say chef I mean a line cook) what can I say, I live in one of the best culinary cities. I’m taking three hour lunches at my favorite haunts like Bar Bambino, Boulettes Larder, Delfina Pizzeria, Salthouse polishing off a couple glasses of roset only to follow up with a nice kid portion of malt ice cream at Bi-Rite creamery the best homemade organic ice cream this side of the Mission. By then, I’ve put back the calories I attempted to ditch that very morning so I do a couple laps around Dolores Park.
As we are planning on our second sometime soon, I want to make sure my body is a slender machine. Studies have shown that gestational diabetes will not occur in women that is slightly under weight. Hence, my want to lose my fanny pack. My pouch. My pooch. My bulge of fun. I enjoyed my last pregnancy, but I didn't enjoy the gestational diabetes aspect not one tidbit.
I realize that I am different. I am not that woman with a resilient abs of steel. I have to work harder. I have to watch what I eat. Or eat less. Or eat more often, but in small portions. All the same, I heart food. So I say, "Self? You must increase the cardio" So when Styles recognizes my voice when I call his name and his eyes light up and his mouth curls into a super smile. My heart does a triple axel somersault. My eyes brighten. I am awe inspired. I want to carry him in my arms and fly to the moon and back. I say to myself, "Self, I’ve got it damn good!" Sigh. I love being a mom! I have absolutely no agenda except to spend precious time with Hunter. I couldn’t ask for anything more. Sure I could lose some weight, but my weight has taught me to be patient. Besides, the flattest abs will never make me feel as golden as when my son smiles.
This is Shellie's heart skipping a beat back to you Bob at the studio.
We had no more family coming to visit. It was a relief. We survived the onslaught of relatives. It was a last minute decision, as I skirted the issue unable to commit. Would Styles have an allergic reaction to the north woods? Lately, I’ve managed a daily routine that included Styles and Hunter. I am confident that Styles was ready for his first camping trip! The yuppie wagon was stuffed with camping gear, mostly food and spirits and my usual impractical outfits. Hunter was accompanied by his backseat buddies Cliff and Chloe. Hendrix played in the CD, “Dewd, where’s the reggae?” Cliff starting on his jabs early. “Aw crap! I forgot it.” Most of the time, I had to pick up my short term memory off the floor. Otherwise, I was too busy trying to make sure all essentials were packed for Styles. “C’mon mann it’s Reggae Rising!” Cliff with a quick jab and a clue. It was dusk on Thursday and the traffic was mild, yet not mild enough to get out of the city quick enough. We were on our way to Reggae Rising formerly Reggae on the River which took place four hours North in Piercy. I have a deep fervor for the Redwoods and the Eel river. Styles awoke on the last leg of the trip and sang Cliff a loud lung song. “Oh my god, did you just turn the music louder?” Cliff chuckled in amusement, “He’s been going for about thirty minutes. He should be stopping anytime now.” “I know, I think he’s losing his voice.” I turned Mos Def up a couple decibels to drown out my son’s wails. My selective hearing was paramount.
We arrived at the camp sight around eleven o’clock. The silence was wonderful. Joel sat at the camp fire as the logs crackled. Ruby, president of Styles fan club and potential baby sitter, crept out of her tent, “Is Hunter up?” “He is, but he needs to eat then he’s going to bed.” “Is that why he’s crying?” Ruby’s observation sharp as a knife. “Yes. You can hang out with him tomorrow.” “Okay.” Ruby smiled and returned to her tent.
Joel poured me a glass of white and offered the men a tug off of the bottle labeled Knob Creek. Let the decompression begin! We retired to bed. The sky jeweled with stars, I lay my head on the down pillow with Styles peacefully resting Shane kissed me good night.
I was awoken by the feeling that we were being watched. A light rustling came from outside the tent. There they stood Ruby and Simon, another disciple of Styles fan club and future baby sitter, peered into the tent with no sense of privacy. “Can I hold him now?” Ruby smiled with all her adorable charm. “Girl he is still sleeping.” I yawned. “Wake him up?” The dictator of fan club insisted. “Hey did you hear that? I think your dad’s calling you?” I tried to dissuade them from waking up the kid. “No he’s not.” Dictator Simon was on to me, “no one’s calling us.” “Yes, do you hear that?” I conjured their imagination. “No, I don’t hear anything” The dictator sneered. “Simon and Ruby get away from there let them sleep.” Maxine, mother of disrupters, whipped them into shape.
I was tempted to go back to sleep, but the morning light dusted the top of our tent. It was hard to get back to sleep especially when most of the air in the mattress had escaped. I got dressed and left Styles to continue resting. I craved a full flavored mug of decaf coffee and a cup of Wullaby yogurt. Traci and crew gathered at our site, thus she began organizing the breakfast menu. The sweltry air made my skin sticky. I couldn’t wait to get to the watering hole.
It was a divine day as we headed down the watering hole with our coolers stuffed with alcoholic beverages, water and snacks. We were welcomed with cheer and delight. Jill and Greg were accessorized with a bottle of beer waist high in the water. Randall and Gabby boasted their fancy water furniture. Lorelei, old roommate, whom I haven’t seen in over five years waded in the water. It was a reunion of sorts. Besides all the positivity, we were all equipped with ice cold beverages.
Baby rested in his bassinet on shore, he was sealed in protective sun block. My heart went pitter patter as his chest rise and fell from his deep sleep. I couldn’t wait to introduce him to the water. In the meantime, Chloe was sopping wet, resembling a wet rat. Soon enough, Styles was awaken by the tempered heat. I removed his diaper and held him to my sticky skin. It was evident that he was irritable and hot. I handed him off to Shane for quick cool quenching. I scrambled around for my camera. This was huge! Photos were in order! Everyone watched with a curious eye. Shane held him at his chest and not a whimper. Ha! He was my kid! He enjoyed the water. Within five minutes Styles closed his eyes to return to his rest. Meanwhile, Chloe on her own accord adventured into the water. It was a joyous day.
The night was all about Reggae. A group of us got on the shuttle and made way to the music grounds. Ticket prices were ridiculous, but we knew there was a group discount to be had. I felt like we were on the hunt for drugs as we nonchalantly inquired about tickets. For the three nights of Reggae, Styles slumbered in the bjorn, but he was among thousands. The highlight of the weekend next to the watering hole was the Marley brothers. Hubba Hubba. It felt great to be admired by many for introducing the culture at such an early age. It was love!
It’s so easy to get sucked into the day to day of living in the city. It is ridiculous to get sucked into the blackhole called drama. It isn’t hard to get drawn into the undertow of surviving. Reggae Rising was a privledge. It was the perfect prescription. A big dose of redwoods and friends. It brought Shane and I closer, as well as our friends. We can't wait to next year where we’ll hopefully thicken our love for nature and reggae. I can not preface enough how important it is to slow down. Life is roots. Without roots we have no life. We would like to send our appreciation out to the Blescakecs for showing us the light.
This is Shellie "I swear I did not inhale" back to you Bob at the studio.
A stay at home mom has special priviledges like not working. Me, I manage through the day drabbly dressed on six hours, if I'm lucky, of snooze. Despite the lack of sleep, I feel invincible. Besides, I enjoy every second with Hunter. That said, my heart goes out to all the working moms.
I absolutely love Potrero Hill, the warmest part of the city, but on a hearth of a day like today, I make my way to the North end of town. I load Hunter and Chloe into the X5 -the yuppie wagon- and pop in the Ethiopians CD. I roll the windows down and slide the moon roof ajar. The temperature gauge reads eighty four degrees. Yay! It's days like this that I wish I lived in Hawaii again. Nonetheless, a late morning departure usually makes for a ten minute drive to Crissy Fields. I turn into the parking lot as Chloe begins to scramble in the backseat like it was raining dog jerky. "Get off of him!" Styles caught in Chloe's trample of excitement. I pop the trunk to get out the kicks aka bugaboo - yuppie stroller. I plop Hunter's car seat in the stroller, grab Chloe's leash and we're ready to go!
The shore dense with families, canines, and the ocassional sun chaser. I quicky released the Bichon and away she went into dog euphoria. She was adored by all as she kicked up dust during her circular spazz attacks. I briskly walked trying to make good time towards the base of Golden Gate bridge. I smiled and proudly walked tall and nodded to my fellow mothers and dog walkers. Up ahead strollers were parked in a long row, "ten more seconds!" The militant instructor screamed at the group of women in their snug lullulemons holding their squats in hopes to lose their baby gut. I, too, was on the same mission to lose my jiggle! Up ahead Chloe was roused by a a pair of maltese. They each sniffed in a circle. Their noses muffed in their back ends, licking, and pawing. What is it with dogs and butts? Manners need not apply. If only humans were that simple. Hunter was down for the count. His eyelids were gentle and his lips part. A quick flashback of my birth played in my head. Motherhood is beyond cool! Part Shane and me, he was an absolute bundle of love. Double sigh.
In haste, I pick up the pace trying to pump some life into my aorta. The go getters, joggers, effortlessly pass me in light foot fashion. A herd of grustling German tourists in their dark denim pencil jeans rustle by on their bicycles. A pretty brunette in a vintage summer dress sit nestled in the arms of young man. As I got closer, "Please yew tek a photo?" The tall and handsome spoke in the language that made me knees give in. I quickly took a picture of the darling couple. The french woman melted at the sight of Hunter. I melted in the presence of Frenchman. No sooner than I could say, "Hubba Hubba," Chloe, in her speedy demon ways, picked up some heat and was a goner. I bid them adieu, and continued on my way.
There it stood tall and majestic, the base of Golden Gate bridge. We made it! I placed my hands in the palm marker and Chloe placed her paws on the dog marker as european tourists looked on at the silly Americans. I continued to push the stroller in hopes of making good time. I strolled upon a playful group of Jack Russells trying to get their yayas on Chloe. I chuckled at the dog walker and was miffed at how they managed to keep the leashes untangled. I was slowly coming towards the end of my walk and realized the boot camp mamas were done. Hunter remained in his sweet slumber as my work out was almost at it's end. "Sexy back. You mother effers don't know how to ack..." The gaggle of latina teenagers sang and chuckled and weaved through the human traffic on tourist bikes.
I made it back in under thirty minutes! I improved my time. I unlocked the tanker to let some cool air in. I unlatched the car seat and dropped him into the booster. Chloe followed my lead. I poured her a bowl of water, but she was too pooped to lap it up. In usual fashion, I let all the windows down and let the sun shine through the moon roof and turned up the rocksteady. I returned to Potrero Hill with the Golden Gate bridge behind me, I thanked the blue skies. Some women are hardened by being at home with their child. Some women rejoice in the rewards of spending all of their time with their child. I am exulted. Honestly. Today is a good day. Ah, this is the life! I am living. I am alive.
This is Shellie swimming in the womb of life back to you Bob at the studio!
I lathered little Styles with sunblock, slipped on his swimming trunks, topped him off with a sun hat, and made a run for the North. During my family’s recent visit, I wanted to share with them a place where the air is warm and the water is cool. Where else, but Glen Ellen! I know what your thinking, but they're from Hawaii! Different. The current heat wave had me dreaming of the pool.
My friendly gesture did not go over very well with my parents. As we drove over the Golden Gate bridge, which any normal person would oogle in awe, they were both slighted. My catholic kicked in and I felt guilty for uprooting them from the house. “Huh, it’s sunny here,” mom steadfast with her small conversation. I felt like I had performed a big fat juicy mortal sin. I wanted to please my parents. You know, be a lovely daughter for once. Besides they haven't been anywhere past Sausalito. I thought a nice drive and sightseeing would be harmless. Dad broke his silence and uttered, “The pastures’s brown here? Not enough water here? Where’s the cows?” Ugh, now I had to pull a cow out of my hat? I reminded them that there should be cows, I don’t know when, but they should appear soon.
We were twenty minutes into the drive when mom started to lose it, “Oh my god! It is so far away?” I thought her hair caught fire. “Daughter this is far,” dad was not entertained. “You said forty five minutes.” Mom vexed with apprehension. “It’s only been twenty minutes mom. Sheesh, I’m not driving to China or anything. Just chill.” I was plagued with questions. Sigh. My shoulders began to tighten. I pointed out the endless acres of grapes that shadowed our drive. “Grapes?” Mom was curious, “why so many grapes?” I reminded her that wine came from grapes and we were driving in a region that was world famous. “Oh yeh?” Dad scuffed, “Hmph. Wine? That's crazy.” He found it absurd and ridiculous. Mom was unimpressed. I dismissed the fact that my parents are very simple people. The only wine my parents sipped is the communion wine. Christ on a cross, why in the hell was I dragging them to Sonoma? If the gods are on my side, maybe they’ll fall in love with Glen Ellen too.
What started as a wonderful 45 minute drive, transformed into a bottomless pit of agony. On and on, I was battered with questions. Dad continued to moan about the length of the drive. They were two fishes on land. Flopping! How a glass of roset would alleviate this scene. Poof! I wished Shane was here to muddle the situation, but wishing’s for suckers. I’ll just have to deal. As I am finessed in the art of lethargy, my parents were proficient in the litany of labor. By mile 30, the thought of why I moved hundres of miles away became apparently clear. Although Hawaii is a paradise, it is still a rock. The locals can only handle no more than a twenty minute drive, anything beyond that is considered obscene.
Destination Glen Ellen. I grabbed Hunter and made a bee line for the pool. The rest of my family should be arriving soon. Things turned for the worse for mom as she paced with her arms crossed and was all sorts of odd quiet. If I had a valume, I would’ve slipped it in her water. You can quote me on that.
Finally, the rest of my family arrived! In the sky, I swear to virgin mary and all her cronies, a rainbow appeared across the sky! It was a sign! Phew! The kids tussled in the water. Dad waded in the deep end. Chloe did a little doggy paddle of her own. We cheered little Hunter as Shane dipped him in the crisp cool water. Another first! Yet, Mom sat under the umbrella arms crossed worried about dinner and who was going to cook.
Despite the squabbing and the mechanics of my infinite family dysfunction, I am lucky that we are together. The beutiful sunshine coating my brown skin with warmth as I dangle my feet in the water, I sip from the glass of roset, and Hunter is cozy in my lap. Relax. All is good in the world.
This is Shellie having a splash of a time back to you Bob at the studio!
During Grandma Colleen’s visit my San Francisco perception broadened. The mere introduction to Stow Lake and the Arboretum (fancy word for botanical garden) added spark to my day. My walks mostly entailed Crissy Fields, Fort Funston, or Land's End. Change is always good! Aunt Nyra is a total walkaholic and privy to San Francisco strolling spots. She swore me to secrecy when she permitted the concealed parking spot to the lake. All secrets at my disposal, I felt dangerous, yet special. Smile.
We - Grandma Colleen, Jill, Aunt Nyra and Hunter- strolled a couple laps around the manmade lake. It was my first step to shaking this heavy thing called weight. It felt great to take in the fresh morning air amongst the fellow strollers. An onlooker was shaken up by a defenseless baby duck that was ravaged by a seagull. Honestly, I was more befuddled by the seagull being in Golden Gate park. Aunt Nyra in all her blessed sensitivity dismissed it as nature than later regretted her frank, but honest remark. If you had seen the cute ducklings innocently scaling the serene lake you too would sling shot the next seagull that crossed your path.
Aunt Nyra proceeded to navigate the group to the short cut that led to a flight of stairs and gradually opened to a path, leading to the DeYoung Museum as well as the botanical gardens. We had lunch at the museum and than ventured into the wild gardens. As small as it seems from the outside, the Arboretum is grand. I was never big into gardens until today. Wowza! It is an agricultural nerds wet dream! If not educational, certainly stunning! Paths cross into different areas that represent a region of the world’s and it’s indigenous plants. Aunt Nyra was in desperate search for the varietals of succulence, instead we dodged sprinklers like land mines. We opted to return back to the lake for more ass whipping workout.
Today, I am inspired. I was struck by the tranquility of the trees and the lake. I was overwhelmed by the animal life like the tiny turtles that nonchalantly sunbathed on the lonely log and the ducklings that waddled behind momma duck. I was amazed by the stoic crane that majestically stood alone in nature. I chuckled at the families that exhaustingly paddled the boats with no end in sight. Mostly, I was consumed by the joy that it was Hunter’s first time in Golden Gate park. A big shout out to my Aunt Nyra, Jill, and Grandma Colleen, "Thanks for a wonderful day!"
This is Shellie with not one dull moment to my name back to you Bob at the studio.
My side of the family is just as sweet as an insane asylum. We function in dysfunction, it makes my life fun and interesting! I love them to death! That's why I moved hundreds of miles away! Chuckle. My blood pressure took a staggering leap as the days came closer to their arrival. It just so happens the Cadelinia's visit intersected with my nephews high school graduation. Double duper. I am over the moon to see mom. She's been driving a nail through me for decades when it comes to children. She persisted, knowing I had no potential candidates as a husband at the time. Albeit, I want her all to myself. I can't wait for her to traipse in with her sweet filipino jubilee goodness gop! I miss her! I shall have her all to myself. Ahem, I mean my son will.
My parents arrived around ten o’clock pm. Mom was even keel on the drive from the airport. She diligently inquired about Hunter and his behavior. Dad, in usual dad fashion, kept to himself. So far, so good.
Mom and Dad knocked on the door as we prepared for bed, "This is for Hunter. Put it in his savings." They both stood above him smiling. Dad caressed his cheeks and bid us good night. It was a hundred dollar bill. Shit on a shingle! They've figured out a way to get me all choked up! A hundred dollar bill from my parent's equates to a herd of cows, three dozen chickens, and twenty pigs in the days of old. Wow! Dad was a field laborer for the sugar plantation for decades bringing in an estimated $200 a month to support a family of ten. They sold produce at the farmers market and raised live stock to prevent us from starving. Powdered milk and a block of welfare cheese anyone? Being in their presence is always humbling. I don't how they did it! Heck mom can lasso a miracle when it comes to saving money. She always has money. Note to self, must be more like mom.
The next morning I was awaken by the curious sound of light paper shredding. I turned over and returned to sleep. I sat up in bed, an hour later, as Hunter snoozed next to me, there at the end of the bed sat a piece of B. Franklin's receding hairline. Gasp, Chloe had gotten her scrappy paws on the bill that was on the nightstand! Before my brain could scrape a bit of understanding of the situation, as much as I would have liked to splat her against the wall, I swiftly whapped that Bichon! Meanwhile, mom and dad peeked in their smiles and delight transformed to emotional arsenal, "What happened!" She was distraught, "Is that the money we gave Hunter?" I sullenly nodded. Dad continued in his silent bout, but his eyes said it all, he would rather had thrown Chloe against the wall and kicked her down the flight of stairs. I quickly scrambled to gather the pieces. To think, last night I boasted on how well behaved this white mop was.
I distracted them by handing Hunter over, "Here momma." Mom knew my tactic. I had to do something before it snowballed. Crap, all of the labor and work that went into that money. There was a gloom about the air, "You should give that dog away." Mom sliced through the awkward silence with her sensibilities, "What?" She shrugged her shoulders as she gently rubbed Hunter's back. It was the word according to mom. Dad remained statuesque enthralled by The Price is Right. The hellfire in his eyes had died down. If this had happened in the Cadelinia home, it would be fire and brimstone. Chloe would be first grade pâte.
Beside the money snafu, my siblings and their families were here! Yay! Our reunions revolved around feasting layered with laughter and idle gossip which entailed our brushes with childhood. A good time was to be had by all. Hunter was passed around the room with comparisons to his fellow cousins. Everyone clucking on his looks, "He looked a little like Robert when he was a baby." Chris, eldest, found the resemblance remarkable. "Nah, he looks like Zashtani." Darrell chimed in. "I think he looks like Uncle Shane! He's soo cute!" Little Alyssa jumped in unafraid to slug it with the adults. "He is so adorable." Sydney agreeed wholeheartedly with her little sister. In the corner of my eye, mom sat enjoying her room full of loved ones. Dad sat slouched with arms crossed resting his eyes.
I am super charged that Hunter is privileged to be part of the Cadelinia experience. As hectic as the Cadelinia's reunions can be and as crazy as we are, I embrace each sparse visit like catching a falling star. Family is vital. It is my heritage. It is who I am. Now I have one of my own. It's about time.
This is Shellie basking in the milky way of life back to you Bob at the studio!
We gave ourselves a few weeks before we allowed any family to arrive. We wanted to make sure we had a rhythm to this new two step blitz, if that was even possible. Hunter, thus far, has been simply fantastic! I endured the spurts of feeding sessions throughout the night like a champion. I tolerate my husband's "I'm so tired" bit instead of going at him with a dull axe. The guy whines for getting six hours of sleep a night. He mocks me with his snoring as my eyes are peeled open to nurse at 3 o'clock in the morning. Can I get a "God Your Such a Dick" trophy for my loving husband? I could always use some extra help. What's a girl to do. Thank goodness for eager Grandmothers.
Grandmother Colleen was on her way from New York. Alas, a helping hand. Gramma Colleen couldn't wait to get here. She's been calling night and day and day and night and every where in between on the happenings of Hunter. What's he wearing? How many hats does he have? What kind of books does he have? How many times has he slept today? Has he pooped? How many hours have I slept? The questions just kept rolling off her tongue. Yikes! Easy there first time Grandmother your scaring the child.
Gramma Colleen arrived with a vengeance. Hunter is her first, but not last, grandchild. She was off her rocker absolutely thrilled with the boy that I thought her head was going to burst. She went papparazzi on Hunter, taking pictures of him like it was pay day, "Smile!" Her visit consisted of many poses and candids. It was pretty insane. She's been waiting a long time to meet the sweet angel.
Needless to say, Grandma Colleen had a great visit. She was ecstatic! She was at Hunter's side every nanosecond, but isn't that what grandmother's do? Styles is lucky to have a grandmother that adores him. She is all love. She is a wonderful mother full of good intentions. That's why she is such a perfect grandmother. In this day and age, it's a rarity. I couldn't ask for anything more.
This is Shellie pocketing her lucky stars back to you Bob at the studio.
Hunter slumbered in his stroller as the parade flamboyantly marched by. It's May 26, 2007, and it's Hunter's first Carnaval celebration. We cheered with each passing float, enjoying the flashy costumes and dance. I was overjoyed to immerse Hunter in one of my favorite San Francisco events. I was enthralled by the brazilian music and dance. We were in the Mission! The main artery of the city. I love the Mission! I adore everything about it. It's versatility, the swarm of co-existence of all differences come to settle in refinement.
Jill and Greg hosted their first Carnival at their home. Their house sat on Bryant street which was a great stretch of the parade. The weather was chilly, and still the women danced in their frilly modest outfits. We followed the parade down to 18th street trying to catch the drum circles and dancers, but the density of the crowd thickened and our attention turned strictly towards alcohol. We made steadfast to Jill and Greg's to get this Carnival started.
I can't wait to the next few years when Hunter will be dancing to the beats of the drum circles. Smiling. Cheering. Laughing. As my husband and fellow male friends gawked on happily and freely at the beautiful backsides of the performers, the baby slept soundlessly in his stroller. It was beautiful to know that he too will experience this great enchantment in years to come.
This is Shellie nay nay on the brazilian ay back to you Bob at the studio!
Most of Hunter's waking moments are spent with my boobs. The boy is eager to eat! I don't know what all the books are saying, but as soon as he cries I feed the little sucker. It works for me. I'm sure it works for him. My constant nursing has me addicted to television with shows such as Top Chef, Hell's Kitchen, Weeds, the L Word and Entourage. My love affair with television is scandalous. My biggest sin is Law & Order SVU. It doesn't help when TNT and FX is broadcasting a Law & Order marathon. I'm hooked! Hiss to all you anti television advocates. What am I supposed to do while nursing? Read a book? Snooze. I love reading, but oddly enough, it's so arduous while Hunter's having his leche feast. Television is just easier to feed to.
You can blame it on my family. We had one television that was shared with seven boys. My television time consisted of sports, sports, and the occasional Benny Hill. I got up at 530am just to catch my Tom and Jerry. Other than that, I was outside playing with the neighbors. So in essence blame my childhood. I never got over it. I'm that kid that wasn't allowed to watch television, look at me now! I can't get enough of it. Word.
So back to the whole nursing gig. Besides having to wrack my brain around a shirt or blouse that allows the prisoners to accessibly bust out, it's entirely a whole new world. Can I just say awkward? Not in a feeding sense, but in a public arena. There's a whole gaggle of people that are against it, but gosh darn it! I'm not here to offend. I just need to feed the kid. It's challenging to keep'em covered. Thankfully, he's little enough that it's inconspicuous, but I've gotten to the point where I just want to whip it out. I've whipped the sucker out at home around close friends and family, I don't care any more. I know it's gross. I'm that big pink elephant in the room. Yowza.
This is Shellie trying to find some law in this disorder back to you Bob at the studio.
Shane's new venture as a business owner required his presence back at work on Tuesday. It's just Hunter and me in this big old house. At first, like all mothers, I didn't know what to expect. As the days passed, I realized that his dailies included lots of eating, sleeping, and diaper changes. He and Chloe had similar lifestyles.
As I have been branded a virgo, such enlightened organized beings. Yes, that's just a nice way of saying anal. I, a rare case, is a disastrously piggish slob. I've gotten a lot better in the past few years, thus I remain a mess. Until now. Maestro, please keep the orchestra down for a second. Suddenly, the thought of being solely responsible for another human being clicked my ass into gear. I am three, four steps ahead of the game when it comes to my son. Hunter's nursery and diaper bag is jam packed full of essentials. I amaze myself. Some would call it a miracle. I prefer to not be that parent that forgot to pack the diapers or a change of clothes. Just as well, I remain a ghastly unorganized lout, but my son, on the otherhand, has gotta it plush.
On my phone conversation with mom, she pleaded that I stay home for at least 30 days. Mom should know best, heck she's had ten kids. At the same time it's hard to turn mom down. I mean she's my mom! But, 30 days? Come on let's get real folks. I might as well preserve myself in a cave. Nonetheless, I gave her my word like the good daughter that I am, knowing deep in my heart that my words were flimsy. I think deep in mom's heart she knew my words were only to silence her worries.
No sooner than a squirrel cracks a nut, my promise to mom faded far and away. Hunter's first week entailed day trips to Target, Ross, Rainbow Grocery, Safeway, and Trader Joes. By the way, let's not forget my first experience with sushi, since Hunter's birth. Jill and Greg took us out on Hunter's first sushi date. Sorry mom.
Meanwhile, our neighbors brought over a bountiful platter of sausage and pasta. Kathy had a smorgasbord of charcuterie, baguette, hummus, and salsa messengered to the house along with gifts for Hunter. Our next door neighbor dropped off a gift certificate to Aperto. My sister dropped off some chicken and green papaya soup. The slew of dishes kept coming and all I had to say was praise the Lord! Are you kidding me? Prepared meals is so rock and roll! I am in debt to you all.
Happy! Happy! Joy! Joy! I can't believe it's been a week. A flippin' week! Time is just whippin' by. I'm still walking on air with every second of every moment, catching my breath has become a common occurence for me. He's a miracle! A week ago he was chillin' in my belly. Today my love for him grows deeper in my heart. Life is divine.
This is Shellie happier than a guppy in a toilet bowl back to you Bob at the studio!
It was early morning and the sunlight burst softly through our orange curtains displaying a beautiful hue on our bed. There she was, Chloe licked Hunter's head. I shook Shane to witness the new phenomena. We were reluctant to have Chloe in bed with us, but we couldn't kick her out of bed. C'mon, we didn't want her to despise Hunter. It was a beautiful moment. It had only been his second day home, he was only five days old, and life was cohesive.
Today is Mothers Day. I recovered from my birth experience pretty swift. Well, to say the least, I could walk. Plus, the swelling downtown was non existent. We were committed to attend Mothers Day over Joel and Maxine's. They were throwing a party to introduce Hunter to our great group of friends. As much as I felt fine when I agreed to attend the party, I could easily retract and spend the day in bed. Any normal new mother would have thrown a fit and chose the latter. I know it is insane to consider attending an event, considering that Hunter's only five days old and we've only been home from the hospital in two days. Besides, I didn't feel pretty nor fit to be seen by friends. I could spit on those female celebrities that make motherhood look so unrealistic with their perfect hair, face, weight, and abdominals. I curse you Brooke Burke most of all. Sorry for the tangent, but I thought I would feel better if I shout it out. Ugh and my legs! Oh the agony, my ankles were swollen. Bloated. Water retention. I had pigs feet!
Thankfully, they lived a block away from home. We strolled over with the new bugaboo. Meow did we feel fancy! Joel and Maxine really know how to throw a bash. I was beside myself. The Bleskacecks (I think I just mangled their name, my apologies) are very generous and warm hearted family. I can say that from the bottom of my heart. Maxine, mother of two, had prepared such a beautiful spread. A gourmet feast! Meanwhile, their kitchen looked like someting out of Martha Stewart magazine. Her dining table was beautifully decorated with several uber-gourmet dishes all home made like her fritatta, cupcakes, garbanzo salad, a barbecue platter that just would not run empty! We were greeted with excited smiles and big hugs from everyone. Hunter was being passed around like a bottle of good wine as I narrarated my birth triumph while sipping an endless glass of roset.
The party finished in the living room as the Golden State Warriors were in the playoffs. The last time they were in the playoffs the Osmonds had a tv show. I wasn't sure. Hunter slept through four quarters of screaming and yelling at mind blowing decibels. It was the first time I witnessed that my son was apt to noise! My plan had worked. During my pregnancy, I deliberately blared music at ear bleeding levels so he would comply to it in the real world. He was lull to noise. I just didn't want to be that mom that always "shussh" and tip toe. That is annoying!
I tucked Hunter in bed. I watched his little chest rise and fall. Shane had also gone to bed. My life was brand new. A second chance. It was fantastic! Like breathing fresh air. Motherhood was a dream. I am in love with Hunter. I am in love with Shane. I am in love with life. Happy Mothers Day to you all.
This is Shellie from the height of my soul back to you Bob at the studio.
We were escorted from the recovery floor down to the car. We were finally released from St. Lukes. Thank god! I couldn’t wait to be home. I haven’t been out, since Monday and to breathe the fresh Cesar Chavez air was a dream! Geeze, I never thought I’d say that in a million years. The car was packed with bouquet of balloons and flowers as we strapped junior in the car seat. I didn’t fret at the new coat of bird droppings on the X5, I was home bound. Hunter began to wail, sounded remarkably like a kitten’s meow, the entire way home.
We entered our driveway as a balloon the size of King Kong’s eyeballs read congratulations was tied to the doorknob. It was from fellow rascal and neighbor Randall. It brought a smile to our face. We’ve lived in Potrero Hill, Mississippi to be exact, for two years and we were treated as lepers. We were shunned with the cold shoulder. Well except for the hip gay guy and the other married couple that lives next door.
Flashback: Next door neighbors Mélange and Helen, yes they’re gay, invited us to their daughter’s (adopted from Guatemala) two year birthday party. We just moved into the neighborhood and thought why not? This was a chance to get to know our neighbors. It was the usual birthday party with a pack of rabid sugar frenzied children scrambling around like they’re brain was on fire. We mingled with the well behaved parents sipping our wine. I made Shane promise that he would not leave my side, but he was swept away by the handsome gay couple.
Alone and scared, a group of parents quickly closed in on me like robots. They dropped with the guillotine of a question, “Do you have kids?” I replied with an understandable, “oh no, but we’re planning to soon.” Smug smirks and sighs, my uncomfortable bones shivered in their dissapointment. Well, that was my queue to let’s get the hell out of this stepford scene. No more than a quick second, Shane upset a mother by exclaiming that her beautiful daughter looked just like our friends daughter, “it was uncanny!” Well, every mother does not want to hear that there’s another kid out there that looks just like her angel!
As I steadily walked up the front steps with stitches in tact, I wondered if the neighbors would finally acknowledge our presence. Would the stepfords come walking out of their doors with fresh baked goods to congratulate the little guy? Would I have to ward them off with garlic and holy water? Who cares! I was home with my family and I couldn’t wait to see how Chloe would behave around the new addition.
This is Shellie from her casa to your casa back to you Bob at the studio!
My chest felt like a race horses galloping to the finish. It is a little after midnight and I can’t wait for the nurse to bring Hunter back into the room. Shane snores like a broken buzz saw on the pull out couch. I, on the other hand, can’t sleep. I anticipate Hunter’s return from the nursery. The nurse finally parks his cart next to my bed. His closed eyelids flutter in dreams. Peaceful. Tears stream down my face. I wonder what he dreams about or does he dream at all? I find it difficult to breath. Effortlessly, I am helpless by his charm.
In a whip and a snap, I was a mother. Heck, it was a mind trip to consider myself a mother. I was having one of those moments. You know one of those pathetically uncontrollable sobby sappy moments. I was highly unqualified and unprepared for this powerfully catastrophic connection. As the television buzz with Law and Order, I am emotionally disordered in awe. I am inspired. I am in love. My eyes explore his gentle existence, his gentle fragile being a mesh of both Shane and me. His chest rise and fall with each inhale. His hands smooth tiny. The stillness of his black hair and his perfectly arched eyebrows, he is adorable. He softly purses his pouty lips, triggering those magical dimples. He is sweetness fortified with heaven and honey butter. Romantic. His presence brings me to my knees. Like magic he brings light to the dark corners of my soul. He softens the jagged edges that life has hardened. I am humble in his existence. He brings rhyme, song, chorus to my life.
This is Shellie trying to get a grip, instead I am a blabbering blub of sap back to you Bob at the studio.
We were wheeled into the recovery room on the fifth floor as the midwife strolled Hunter in his own little glass cart. There he was truth and innocence. So beautiful. Just yesterday he was a big bump in my belly. I couldn’t wait to see him, but my eyes were boulder heavy. I felt like I just returned from a bloody ax battle. My body numb, my head ached, my brain dead. Deliriously content. I looked up at Shane from my wheelchair and smiled. I was ready for bed.
I awoke hours later to flowers, celebrity smut literature, Godiva chocolates. Our cell phones were filled with well wishes and best congrats. Woe is me, a catheter from the epidural protruded from me like a sick joke. It didn’t hurt at all, but that plastic prosthetic device was pretty sci-fi. Gulp, I was scared straight with the thought of going number two. Especially after the stitches, but thank god for stool softeners, ice packets, and ibuprofen.
Gestational diabetes confined us to the hospital another two days. They needed to make sure that the diabetes was under control. In those two days, came a flurry of friends and family to see the heavily anticipated Hunter. I was fine with that except I just wished I was invisible. All the pushing had my face swollen not to mention my legs; I’m surprised my capillaries in my eyeballs didn’t explode. I was Violet Beauregarde from Willy Wonka. Lord almighty. I felt like I could float, float away like a bloating blimp into oblivion. I had to remind myself that it wasn’t about me. Smile.
Vanessa and Anthony, who accidentally found my pregnancy test, has been with us from the very beginning, cheering us on and supporting Hunter with gifts and cards. I mean Vanessa’s been enraptured by the pregnancy, she’s been such a sweetheart. Along with the usual suspects, Angela and KJ, Kurt and Sophia, Alex and Beth, Aunt Nyra, Laurie, Sydney, Alyssa, Shawn, Neil, and Mark. The hospital staff was astounded by the outpour of visitors. I’m thrilled to bits that Hunter is surrounded by positive individuals. He has a lot to look forward to.
This is Shellie awaiting the removal of my catheter back to you Bob at the studio!
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