Perfect Days

There are days when Gia screams during a "timeout," which is actually just a fancy/socially acceptable way of saying "kid, go chill out on your bed where you can bite pillows and not me, and mommy can go cry into a pillow and eat seventy-five mini laffy taffy's and figure out what it is she's supposed to be doing."

....and then there are these days.  

If you notice, there is chalk on her pants, and stamps all over her arms, hands, and face.  There are sugar free popsicle stains under her lip.  She played hard while I was at school and it's literally written all over her body.  The wind tossed our hair around while we sat in the grass and played Don't Get Me!  

I should have been reading the last of my chapter for a test tomorrow.  Should have, but didn't.  Just like I should have finished it in the bath tonight, but I drank coffee and stared at my toes instead.  

The days when I can plop down on the grass with a willing child to play and converse with isn't as common for us as it is for some.  She doesn't always want to do what I want to do, or for that matter, what she wants to do. Some days, I don't know what she wants and we're both frustrated because of that.  Other days she wants things that aren't possible in that exact moment and the worlds fastest meltdown commences.  Not a crying, upset, angry meltdown.  An intense, teethmark-in-your-thigh kind of meltdown.

So today was perfect.  To make room for perfect, I have to give up things like blogging, or returning phone calls, or homework before...11:47 pm.  I have no clue who is on The Voice or American Idol.  In place of necessary work comes laughter and appreciation - a different kind of necessity. My silly girl slid down the slide of her brand new swing set (thanks Pamma and PaPa!), and learned how swing without my help.  We played airplane and giggled when she landed on my chest, and couldn't catch our breath when Dottie began running in circles around us.  

It sounds like wind mama.

Dottie handed us plenty of dog kisses and when she planted one in Gia's ear, she threw her head down and around smacking my lip and hers. Mine split on the right side, hers on the left.  Two bloody lips in a perfect little gross puzzle.  I paused, and she laughed anyway.  

Everything was beautiful today....  

Do you see their paws?  

Gia and Dottie girl.

"ballerina bars"

"are you here mom? are you here?"

               

 

being a part of this is like seeing a double rainbow.  you stop. you watch. you embrace the absolute perfection of something that you don't always see.  you close your eyes and make sure that whatever you do, you don't take for granted the double rainbow you've gotten that day. 

"...be five and have an adventure"

She was born on the morning of April 7, 2007 - on the day before Easter.  She arrived at the perfect time in the morning- not too early, not too late.  My labor wasn't intense, my love for her however, was.  It felt like hours, though it was just moments, before I knew that she, was indeed a she.  After our family and friends were gone and we were all alone for the very first time, I knew that everything would be fine even if it wasn't.  Holding her, simply because I could and not because she needed to be fed or changed, was the first time in my entire life that I felt home in the body I was in.  The moment I was in.   You know those times when you get tangled up in lifes messiness and you go home again so that you can feel content and firmly planted back into reality, even if its just for a few hours/days/week?  Holding her, holding my little family - just the two of us - was the first time I felt that same sense of contentedness right where I was standing (or sitting).  I've never, ever, ever, stopped feeling that way.   She is where my home is. 

Turning one.  The milestone.  The first time I realized my baby wouldn't stay my baby forever.  There would be candles and cakes in her future.  Presents and family and chaos and crying and more milestones.

A few days before she turned three she got her first pair of glasses.  Needless to say that after hearing my four month old was blind, hearing that she needed glasses at age two- however teensy the chance of her getting full or even half use out of them, was the best news thus far.  Two was hopeful in the most unbelievable of ways.

My three year old.  Three was the year she became a water baby.  I had one of the best summers ever, watching her enjoy the sunlight, the splashing. Water.  She welcomed barbies, babies, dolls and stuffed animals into her life-- not to play with, to merely exist beside her.   Three was a very sweet year.

Four little candles before a little girl.  Four months into being four, she started pre-school.  October fourth she was diagnosed with an Autistic Disorder.  (I learned she was blind at four months old.  Four is tricky number).  If I'm honest with you- age four was tricky.  Heartbreaking some days, and amazing the rest.  She wrote her name for the first time.  Found Easter eggs for the first time.  Pointed to colors. Letters. Numbers.  Fell in love with every single part of a word. Words.  

Five.  FIVE.  People have talked about this age as one that is another big milestone.  Kindergarten begins at five.  More independence sought.  Thinner carseats. Bigger poop. Full-sized backpacks.  No more training wheels.  Fairy wings come in.   

I'm not sure what exactly I'm looking for at five.  I know that I can't stop saying it.  

Five, baby.  you're a five year old.  Holy crap.

On her birthday eve this year she couldn't sleep.  Tossing and turning and singing to herself in her big girl bed surrounded by all things Gia.  I couldn't sleep either.  Like a normal person, I scooped her up in my arms and snuggled with her in my bed, so that we could ring in five together. 

She asked me if she could have presents for her birthday.

yes, baby.

She asked me if she could have four of the movies already in her collection.

of course you can.

She told me, in the same manner that she usually tells me,  what her tomorrow will be.... that tomorrow we will:  "wake up in the morning, have breakfast in the morning, have waffles, use syrup dip, brush our hair mommy in ballerina bars (because she doesn't say buns, and she corrects me when I correct her), and we'll watch a movie, and play outside, and brush our teeth, and be five, and have an adventure, and have lunch and crackers and soda, can we have soda at our party, mommy? (yes, baby),  and have presents, eat chocolate cake, read books, play letters, have a mermaid bath, mommy, can she have a green mermaid bath with splashing?  can you tell her : "mermaid, mermaid, mermaid!" 5 times?  no, no, 100 times? (yes, gigi).  

Mommy, can we do that?

absolutely.

She's speaking to me.  Yes, it is in the third person, and it is one fluid sentence, and she is busy moving her hands and feet while she is telling/asking/yelling her sentence.   

...but this is our milestone.  This is five. FIVE.  This is what it means.  She talks to me about being five and everything in between and I take none of it for granted.  I cried when she told me that we would go on adventure on her birthday, because she was right.  We did five years ago and we will again.  We do every day.  

She echos my speech and those around her much less.  There are times, when overwhelmed or nervous, that she will echo questions or make sweet sentences full of beautiful words that have no connection or relation to one another according to my ears, but make every bit of sense to her....but less so than before.  

Organic sentences.  

One of my favorite phrases. Its taken a long time to get to this spot where we are.  Tonight, we went to the grocery store and she pointed, with her whole hand, to a something over head.   She asked what it was.  What shape was it?  Is it blue?  Green?  Red?  Tiring as it is to always answer "what's that?" questions from a four five year old, I will gladly keep doing it because she is asking me about something new.

I'm not sure if she always wondered about her world, and could never say the words, or if she simply hadn't seen something yet that compelled her to explore, but for whatever reason I feel so, so lucky that I get to go on this adventure every day. 

Welcome, five... we've been waiting for you. 

Autism + Gia

Today is December 4, 2011. It’s just a Sunday, not a particularly magical Sunday, but a Sunday nonetheless. It is exactly two months from the day that Gia was diagnosed with an Autistic Disorder. I thought of other crafty ways to say that, but it never turned out the way I wanted. I typed the sentence(s) and then delete-delete-delete, and then typed another. I gave up. Nothing poetic. No segue from witty thought to a topic that tears my heart out, most days.

Most days, I cry.

The other days? Honestly, on the other days, where I am not sobbing-in-my-car-alone-like-a-not-so-hot-mess, I wonder what the fuck I’m doing. I’m angry for her, and unsure of who I should direct my shitty disposition to. I remember feeling like this when I found out that she was blind. I remember feeling like this when the doctor said she would need a growth hormone injection, nightly. At this point in time, I am heartbroken. Pissed and heartbroken. Eventually, I will stumble across these words and realize that this was just a phase, and that I tackled this diagnosis like the others, and kicked its ass, on her behalf. I will be her advocate, there’s no questioning that, but right now I'm sad. Don't confuse that with pity, because there is no pity here. Most parents want what is best for their children, and in those wants come the desire to have good health and the least amount of obstacles in their future. Right? RIGHT??

This isn’t a phase. That’s the part that I’m having a hard time with. For some reason, it was easier to be content with thinking that her behaviors were phases in her development and not actual issues. Actually, I was pretty content with the possibility of Autism. Once there was a hint of the A-word, it served as a point of relief for certain otherwise-unexplainable behaviors. If my family and I could imagine that Autism was the cause of a lot of issues, then the actual tantrums/hand flapping/incessant jumping/etc. became easier to deal with. Okay, not easier, but more ….understandable. Does that make sense? It isn’t a phase, however, and the realization that these behaviors are here for a while - - - are overwhelming.

Now that we have the diagnosis, I find myself struggling to believe it’s real or accurate. I feel like the 482,196 questions I answered were wrong somehow or I overestimated things. I question its validity daily. She has been evaluated by several people who each say the same thing, and I still can’t believe it sometimes. G and I had a meeting the other day with 4 million people from her school (well, it felt like 4 million). The whole group was there, all nine of them. They each took turns pointing out her skills and weaknesses and intended goals. They showed me, in years, where her current abilities reside. If you’ve never had your child picked apart and described to you, even in the most gentle way, by a group of educational professionals, then you may not know what I’m talking about when I say that it sucks. Yes, there is my very most grown up phrase. It suck-suck-sucky-suck-SUCKS, and it is one of the most difficult parts of being a parent.

I began parenting classes last week. The first class was extremely hard, because we all had to share our stories. Talking about G’s vision or the other things that make up who she is comes easily, but if you expect me to explain anything about her daily habits, or what I want for her future – you’re out of your mind. I cried like a baby. There I sat, in a room full of parents who had kids with echolalia, strange attachments to unusual objects, and the inability to create spontaneous speech consistent with kids in a close proximity age group. Story after story, parents spoke of situations and behaviors that we see every day in our home. Not a single person tried to make another feel crazy for being concerned about a specific behavior. Not one person pacified the other. We were in a room full of people who understood that their kids’ milk drinking obsession was akin to my child’s tendency to carry a chapstick in her hands for as long as I'll let her. The second class was better, because during the moments in between exercises, I was able to share my frustrations with other parents at my table. We laughed about the things our children had done, because what else can you do? I've talked to several parents of children who are blind, and we have our own connections and camaraderie but not like this. Sitting across the table from the faces of parents who look as tired as me, and have stories similar to mine, I can see how important it is to have this contact.

Gia is sitting on the floor asking "what's that?" repeatedly, while she flips through flash cards. She holds them to her eyeball and I have no clue how she sees any of it with the tiny vision she does have. She's hitting the bed and semi-yelling "nooooOOOooOOoooooooo," with every word I sing out loud, as I type.

We're trying to figure this out. We're trying to find the right rules, actions and behavior. We're trying not to lose our shit. Well, I'm trying not to lose my shit.

2011: Project 365- GiGi

In 2010 I participated in a Flickr inspired 365 day photo project and chronicled GiGi for a year. One photo, every single day, for a year. There were times that I felt annoyed with the tediousness of having to edit, post and share. It wasn't until I had gotten to the end of the year and began to edit my photos that I realized how perfect each and every one of them were, because of the subject. I found the week, the exact week, where GiGi started to become this little girl. I spent every day with her (with the exception of a weekend for my birthday and another - which still, by the way - had pictures that the sister helped me with) and if I had not done this project I would have never been able to tell you which month it was that her hair seemed longer, or that her face became thinner and her legs hung closer to the ground when she sat upon a park bench. August. August is the month her face morphed into a little girl and shed the image of a teeny toddler.

The 365 Project taught me a lot about my daughter and myself as a parent. I learned about this craft, this photography. There were times that I felt bored with the types of images that were taken, because there were indeed times when her sleeping face, perched upon a pillow were all I could snap before the clock struck midnight and my camera turned into a pumpkin. I hated that for days on end I would have to decide on whether or not to use the photo I had taken of her with my cell phone while she was brushing her teeth/ smacking the TV/ having a tantrum in time-out town was better than the one of her sleeping that I snapped with Nina Nikon. I loathed that those were my choices. So I put them off. I put off editing those photos and posting them until I had a pile of images to sort through.

When I looked at my set of photos and the last one read "day 211/365" I nearly pissed myself. Collecting images and sorting through my various eJournal entries in my Word Docs and figuring out how to mash them together without my head exploding was proving to be a massive challenge. Alas, I did it. I put on my big girl pants and followed through on a project I had so much fun doing at times, and whose final product I was sure, positive, I would love. Looking through the folders clearly marked with the date the image was taken proved to be a lot easier, and A LOT more time consuming that I had initially imagined, but it was doable.

I found the folders, one day after the next, with a mere 4 or 5 photos in each one, 3 out of those 5 blurry or over exposed and began to see the bigger picture. She was asleep in those photos, but on the other side of her little hands clasped together was a mound of textbooks. I didn't take her out and create some set/stage for a mini photo shoot because I was studying. I was in school. I fell asleep before I finished my online geography assignment, or wrote a paper on violence in the media. What I captured in those images wasn't just a little girl growing up, but myself growing with her. Those images reflect what *our* life was like in 2010, not just hers. Sometimes life was sloppy and tired and forgetful. Other times, our life was organized and blissful. There were days when I couldn't express (in words) to someone - or myself - how much loved her and a photo was the only choice I had left. The photos splashed humor and talent all over the place and punched me in the gut with irony sometimes. They captured firsts. They shut the door on lasts.

I love my kid. I love her more than anyone on the planet and I feel so lucky to have a record of what each day was like with her, for one entire year.

...and I want that feeling again.

This year, my 365 day project has gotten off to a mediocre start. At least, I thought this year had started that way, but yesterday I had a moment of clarity with regards to this whole thing. I knew that I wanted a challenge, something that I could push myself to do - raise the bar. So I've decided that while having a set of print for myself is an amazing gift, I want Gia to have a set as well. Whether there is any improvement in vision or not, I'm confident that large print may be a reading option in her life. I'm hopeful. Even if I'm completely wrong there is always the option to have things Brailled for her. This year, I've begun to make each image representative of how our day went sot hat I can look back and remember it. For GiGi, I've decided to tailor my entries to her, and her alone, and include what the image looks like so that she will have a better understanding of the photo.

I'm excited. Thrilled, really, to finally know how to get into this years project. I won't beat myself up for not posting every day, because chances are, I *won't* post every single day. I have school, and homework, and the park, and dinner...and story time, and a million other things to do and sometimes I won't make it to editing or writing and posting each day. It doesn't mean that I didn't capture a moment and that I don't have something brilliantly personal to share with my daughter. The pressure stays at bay this way. I'll try to give myself a short term goal of having a month unprocessed at a time and no more, but with today's date being February 3, 2011, I suppose I've already slipped up. Que sera, that's what this weekend is for.

... so with that, let the project commence!

(a visual sneak peek...)

day 23/365: 'round about midnight

day 23/365: 'round about midnight, originally uploaded by urbanbrat89.

Day 23:

You sit by the window kicking your feet in rhythm with the music that's dancing around - back&forth- swinging through your ears. Dancing. Dancing as if it were 1956 and you are hearing Miles Davis' record "Round About Midnight," for the first time. You are in utter bliss the first time yoiu hear his melody 'Bye Bye Blackbird.' However, it's not 1956. Not even close. The year is 2011 and while it's the first time you've listened to this album you are no stranger to Davis. You go way back.

You could hum 'Blue in Green' before you could say "I love you."
In fact, if you could have said I love you at that that, I bet my life you would have said it to that very song.

My darling, you enjoy MIles davis more than anyone else ever could and this look explains that. Your eyes are closed and instead of being pinched shut they carefully squeeze together as if to examine his carefully placed notes. You dissect its color - it's tone. Like a lover of food critiques each flavor that caresses their palate you too have an innate ability to discern this brilliance from that one.

The light pours into the room like smoke and fills the air, surrounding you, circling you. It rests on your face, your skin. It sit's in silence with its ear pressed to yours, swaying this way and that to the lullaby of this song. It would peacefully fall into a sleep of dreams and dreams if it weren't for the unmistakable pounding of your heart. Miles makes your heart pound. You - make - my- heart pound. I watch both of you , the light and your body, sitting by the window and I'm afraid to break your silence. At this moment, there is nothing else in the world for you, but the music.

Thirty: A rambling

It's 12:01 am and like a child who waits up for their Santa Claus or Easter Bunny to arrive and bring them a surprise; I too wait up for something. I've anticipated this moment for the past year. I've dreaded it, loathed it, loved it, tried to lose weight for it, planned a party for it, stopped planning a party for it, and waited up for it.

I'm not quite sure what I'm looking for today.

It is October 31, 2010, and I am officially thirty years old.

For some odd reason I had half expected to turn into something at this magical midnight, but much to my amazement it feels like New Years Eve 1999. Do you remember that year? Everyone sat around and anticipated the end of the world at the stroke of midnight, but nothing happened. People stayed the same. The weather stayed just as it was 13 seconds prior to the time changing from 1-9-9-9 to 2-0-0-0. Just as I sat and watched the clock on that new Years Eve - preparing in my mind for a potential doomsday, but neglecting to lift a finger to change it - I sit in my pajamas, wipe Gia's drool off of my arm, and wait while the clock ticks still, and doomsday never comes.

I am thirty, and I can't stop saying it.

Some people make lists of things they want to do before their fateful thirty arrives. I hadn't really thought of it all that much until now. Do I have a list of things I feel that I should have accomplished before thirty?

*I wish my ass wouldn't have brought me into this age bracket at this size.
*I wish I would've been stronger, sooner.

-There are things however, that I am happy to have done. Places that I am happy to have traveled and people that move me all the time.

+My daughter, as most people say about their little ones, has changed my life.
+The family I have, though trying, and stressful as we all may be in our interactions at times - loves me, and I them - no matter what.
+I have made three of the very best friends a girl could ever want or deserve to have.
+I've seen more bands than my 16 year old hands could have ever prayed for in those days.
+I've met a legend.
+I've fallen in love.
+My book has begun ...metaphorically and physically.
+I'm committed to school.
+I've suffered.
+I learn something, every. single. day.
+My passport has been used.
+I've done things to make my parents blush.
+I've given.

I am done with my twenties and thank-my-stars, I have taken enough photos to remember the best times and retrace my steps of the even better times.

When Gia turned one I cried because my little girl was finished being a baby. I cried a few minutes ago for reasons quite similar. I wasn't upset that she was growing into someone new and older, but there was something heartbreaking about having to say goodbye to a time she'll never get back. My twenties are the same. I'm trying not to be completely bummed that they are over, because the events that occurred in those years were the events that established who I am and who I love at this very moment in time. Still, I feel like there is some apprehension to turning thirty. Maybe the reason that so many of us (please, please let me be right - that there are MANY of "us" and that I am not imagining all of this)are frightened by this particular age is because of the responsibility it brings with it. I'm no longer in my twenties, thus I am required to be more focused and stable than I've ever been in my life, because who wants to watch a thirty-something fuck-up left and right? No one. People look past the mishaps in your twenties and write off the stupidity to acts of capricious youth. In your thirties, people just write you off as a fuck-up. That's a lot of pressure in my book.

If you're reading this and you think that I should shut up and eat cake, then high-5. I wish I didn't over analyze things sometimes, but I do. That is me.

It's 12:40am and I'm 40 minutes into being thirty years old. It's 12:40 am and I've "seen Santa" and "checked out what the Easter Bunny left me," and if it's all right with you, I'm going to cozy up to a little girl who held my hand today and called me "Mommy." I promise to spend this birthday both lamenting my twenties and saying Cheers! to my thirties.

Thirty will be easier to handle with sweet little breath on my cheek and a finger in my eye. Thirty will be more interesting with 3 am trips to the potty with Gia to pee, instead drunken twenty something nights filled with 3 am trips to the potty to puke.


-m

My Relationship is Over

My Relationship is Over
Dear Political Science,

These types of conversations are never easy so it might be best for you to just sit there and take it like a subject.

I think the inevitable is here and we should probably break up. When Im with you, I think of other things like English and that sexy new guy Math. I know, I know, I said I was really into you, but I think the honeymoon is over. Sure, we have great times here and there, like yesterday when we locked eyes during the discussion of the tenth amendment and the courts giving states their rights again. There was also the time that we shared a video on the subject of how the federal government nationalized the Alabama National Guard, so that two African American students could attend the University of Alabama. Maybe it was the Bobby Kennedy or JFK on the big screen that really put that *spark* there, but it was magical nonetheless. I still don't understand why the State national guard had to receive executive orders to be a NATIONAL state nat'l guard, and you talk yourself in circles when explaining. I need more from you.

The bottom line is that you are smothering me. Every night when I get home from hanging out with Geog, and Eng, and Algebra, you're like, "What the f*ck? Where have you been? I have so many things to explain to you right now. In fact, I wrote them down and I want you to check out sixty pages worth..of my feelings, of what makes me...ME." *yawn* I think we need to have more of a "closed book" relationship if you know what I mean. You're so emotional and long winded.

When you talk, I'm listening to other people.

When you quiz me on what you've just said, I freeze up because halfway through reading your letters (it seems like you write books, not letters), I start thinking about other more important things. Chips. M&M's. Bad breath. The new season of Brothers & Sisters. My daughter.

That's another thing. You don't care about my child. I mean, I thought when I entered into this relationship with you, that things would be intense, but I had no idea that you would suck the life out of me. Let's face it, Gia comes first and at this point you are trying to push against that. Unacceptable.

There is something else I need to tell you. Last night, after I put my pajamas on and let my hair down, and you crawled into bed beside me and opened up your book looking for a little action.... I was secretly reading an In Touch magazine while you stared up at me with your big blue words. I'm not even ashamed. Sure, this is an awful venue to say things like this, but had you made it a little more exciting in those moments where my guard was down and your book was open, maybe I wouldn't have had to balance the checkbook or read magazines while you were...well, you know what you were doing. (by the way, seeing how many 'post-its' you could hang from your index, stopped being funny/cute weeks ago.)

While I'm confessing, last week - while you were away in my backpack - I logged into online algebra and spent the night doing it until we asleep. That's not all. Last Thursday, when I told you we would spend time together, and then at the last minute I said I was tired....? The truth is, I hammered out a quickie English paper. it was fast, and good, and it turns out, I got an A. Maybe that's the problem. I'm more of an English kind of girl - creative and spontaneous - and you are more of a fly by the seat of bookshelf kind of ...whatever. I'd say person, but you're so stiff its like you're not human.


We've been doing this dance for some time, and I think that it might be best to ride it out, just until our little semester, Fall 2010, grows up and spreads its own wings. After all, we need to set a good example. When our semester is gone, I'm going to clean its things out of the house and put a gym in its place like other mama-students with empty nest syndrome do. Who knows, maybe I will adopt another semester. One from a foreign country. A friend of mine says that a lot of little classes are homeless and I would like to open my home to a whole semester if I can. French 25, Spanish 101....

So, I will try to see you as little as possible until December 16th. Maybe We can just keep our conversation to minimum and have that Professor on campus be our mediator.

Always,

Megg
Posted by

You, You.....you follower.

Hey Kids! I changed my blog to Mama Maraca which means that if you haven't started following me there, you may have missed the last 10 or so posts. Hopefully you will stop rolling your eyes and say "oh okay, we should follow her freshly named blog and not his one, because she PROMISES to blog a lot more."

Promises.

day 88/365 + Oso De Oro

day 88/365 + Oso De Oro, originally uploaded by urbanbrat89.

There is a park, in Fresno, that has handicap access. There are swings for people who are in need of wheelchair access, and ramps and things to engage all of those children in need of a park that - isn't - like the others. A park that welcomes them.

Included in this park, are a maze and tunnel, which was made entirely with the enjoyment of visually impaired people in mind.

Fucking awesome, right?

Right.

For nearly 3 years, Gia and I have popped up at all kinds of parks and tried out hand at fun. Some days are quite a bit more successful than other days. Like with anything in this life, finding a fit is a welcome opportunity, but finding a fit when you really need that extra helping hand - is like christmas/easter/thanksgiving pie/valentine chocolates all rolled into one. I couldn't believe that there was this little treasure trove of play hiding in plain sight the whole time I was looking for every park, BUT, it.

...and then my child was pushed down the slide, meanly, by some brat with a forever-frowning mother encouraging him. Here she was, in the mecca of happiness and tactile love, and some little ass was ruining it.

A public park - a community park- for all kids to play on, but specifically made accessible to those with specific needs. I got it. I get It. I just thought it was fucked up that this absolutely able-bodied, wonderfully healthy little child was mowing down small happy-smiling-lovey-dovey kids with his impatience. And the kicker? When I smiled and said, "no no honey, we dont push others just because we want to go down the slide. We wait turns, and show kindness," I was greeted with a stern look from his mother, who rolled her eyes and encouraged her son to indeed come down the slide - AS my child was descending without her consent and still ON the slide.

I wanted to punch her in the small brain, and then slap her tiny insensitive heart.

Like a bus or BART, or train, or any other public space we must share..... it was open to any and everyone. But unlike those other public places, I noticed that a great many parents refused to extend the skill of a little common courtesy on to their children. The courtesy, that gets up for someone pregnant, elderly, or disabled, and lets them have the seat, because they might just need it more.

Gia moves well, and might appear to be just like all the other kids, which she is, only she cant see as well...or really...at all, but she was using her cane that day.

Insensitive, right?

can I get an amen?



taken: 3.29.10
posted 4.29.10 oi!

Coffee break/ Reality Check

(see, I even have time to do things like I used to do, ie.... take photos of myself in a public bathroom)


I never would have thought that this would be my saving grace, my little escape from everyday, and especially “school” days, but it is. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I wake up at 5 am, hit snooze, hit snooze, hit snooze yet again, and then kiss GiGi before really waking up and getting ready for school. Im nearing the end of my second semester, and as with most things I get involved with, I am bored. Don’t get me wrong, there is a certain stick-to-itiveness present that I simply did not have in my late teens when I gave school the ol’ college try (get it? College? College-try? *snort*), but still yet, I’m done with this semester. In my head, I am over these four months, a month early.


In between my first class, which goes from 6:30-7:45am, and my second class which begins at 9:30 am, I have a gazillion minutes to entertain myself. In the past, I would suffer through the terrible coffee at City College and eagerly await the fascinating classes in store for me throughout the day. Now…I am on to this whole “coffee house” luxury kick that helps saves my sanity with an increasing attention problem during school. For $4 I can have a cup-o-joe, a refill, and a reduced fat berry coffee cake thingamajigy. There is so much more to this whole coffee break siesta that I hadn’t realized until this morning. Aside from the general overheard chatter and distractions that fascinate me, I get a break from school, thinking about all of the crazy issues that may be going on, and my family.


Sounds pretty mean right? Forgetting about problems is normal but forgetting about family? That’s fucked up. But! (there is a but) it is in this disconnection, this freedom to play word games, or write blogs or even pick up a magazine and thumb through it, that I am able to appreciate my life even more. When I am at home, there is a huge sense of obligation, and whether or not I actually get to edit photos and play games with the babe, still doesn’t allow for a total escape from the pressure that goes into just….living. Does that make sense?


When I am at home, I am a mother who just so happens to be single. I am a mother who goes to school and takes on way to many classes to be a straight-A student, and who worries constantly about grabbing a grade lower than that initial letter of the alphabet. My bed sees my body but never gets to have me resting, no matter what it may seem like from the outside. There is a three year old there who love me and I her, but requires an amount of attention Im uncertain of. The balance of pushy vs organic perplexes me almost daily and I struggle to have the continued confidence that I am being the best parent I can be. My roommates are my parents and as I approach thirty, I feel somewhat loserific at times, even though deep down, it hurts that I need them so much right now. Being in that home transports me back to the times when I was lost, and sad, and waiting for a big new world out there to make me smile. Im not sad, or lost, but I miss that big ol’ world when I scratch my forehead and hatch-mark my way to a more fitting life. My old life, with a new person in tow.


With a cup of coffee, and a berry thingamajig, I am nothing but a patron and observer of conversations and lives I am a part of for 10 minutes at a time.
It frees me, allows me to play, read, say, and do what I want to. For an hour and a half, I am just a patron. Nothing more/nothing less, that is, unless I want it to be.


Today, as I sat with my phone in my hands, deleting photos to make room for new applications, I noticed that I was having a hard time deleting images of my kid. My gorgeous child and her face were all over my phone, and for some reason, I couldn’t seem to shake her photos. I’ve downloaded them to my computer and even uploaded some to the web, but I couldn’t manage to take them off of my phone because I started to miss her. Sitting in a Starbucks, engorged with freedom and absence strings to a busy life for an hour, I began to miss my daughter so much it almost hurt my teensy, rapid beating heart.


What the f—


What was I downloading? Sponge bob tic-tac-toe games for Chloe to play with, and alphabet recognition apps for GiGi. I suppose I am never really free from who I am, but at least for a short bit of time, twice a week, I get to have my own time, free from judgmental looks, or pressure filled sentences. Calls from the next room that rock “Mommy!” and “Mama” with high pitches and infectious giggles can overwhelm at times, but leave a sweet tasting memory inside a little box I get to open when I am away from GiGi and the every-days, of being her mom.