November, 2011
Archive

  • My Heart Beats For You

    Trying to get a toddler to be still is a lot like trying to squeeze into a full body leotard that is 2 sizes two small while having coated your skin in sand paper. It is just not going to happen. So sometimes I like to lay with The Munch while she is sleeping and be with her while she is not moving or trying to rip my nose ring out of my face. It is nice to watch her while she is unconscious, but not in some creepy stalker way, more like I sometimes wish she was made out of wax kind of way.

    The other morning she fell asleep with her clothes and boots on and was cuddled up next to me so I could feel her heart beat. At first I thought it was so calming and peaceful… the pulse of her little baby heart pounding in her chest. But then I started to think about how vulnerable her heart was. How I could probably pierce is with a bobby pin she is still so tiny. Then I thought about how one day her heart would stop beating, or one of her other organs would fail her. I couldn’t stop obsessing about all the mushy defenseless parts like her spleen or pancreas. Then realized I had no idea what half those things that look like aliens do inside her body anyway and I probably should have paid more attention in biology class.

    The thought of The Munch and her weird insides one day not working anymore made me so sad I wanted to gag, but then I would have woken her up, so I just pictured dry heaving in my head… but that grossed me out so much I had to barf in my imagination because watching people almost vomit makes me have to spew chunks. I really hope I am long dead before I ever have to deal with her mortality because thinking about my own is terrifying enough. Maybe I was onto something wishing she was made out of wax.

    November 30, 2011 • 1 year old, Baby Body, Health, Musings • Views: 12

  • No Really, I Am Paying Attention To You

    I remember there was a time in my life when I would actually pay attention to who I was with and what was going on around me. Of course, there was always my inner monologue patiently waiting to transform into outer dialogue, but for the most part I made an effort to be present in the moment. And by “present” what I really mean is that I had an impressive capability of holding my facial expression as if totally engrossed with what you were saying while I daydreamt about being able to breathe underwater and becoming a mermaid.

    Now no matter what I am doing I am only 80% paying attention, where the other 25% is dedicated to making sure The Munch stays alive. It is virtually impossible for my mind to commit to anything because it has become conditioned into being perpetually divided. Even if I am not with her, I am still thinking about her, speculating if who ever is watching her is making sure that she only walks, skips, or sachets, with scissors.

    You could be the ghost of John Lennon telling me the secrets of the universe and how to ignite a movement of perpetual peace, and through my nods and smiles I will mostly be watching The Munch scale the bookshelf she is climbing wondering if she did fall would how long she would cry for. Or course I know the job of a parent is to watch your child diligently and keep them from harm, but I mostly weigh out how many tears would be involved if I do or don’t intervene because stopping them from doing something they want to do can also cause a cataclysmic reaction. Besides, I want her to try things and not be a prissy princess even if it means that the majority of my energy is spent fantasizing about all the things that could go wrong. I guess it is okay because I was never really paying attention to anything anyway.

    November 29, 2011 • 1 year old, Mommy Mind, Musings, Parenting • Views: 14

  • Cuntree Living

    Living in the cuntree is a much different lifestyle than living in a city. Most of my life has been a hybrid of the two. I grew up in Boston, but my parents had a summerhouse in New Hampshire where I would spend my… uhhh… summers, and then after high school I lived in New York City where I spent my uhhh… after high school years. So I really got to experience the best of both worlds. The independence of the city where I could walk the streets with my friends, get people to buy us beer, and smoke pot… as well as the freedom of the cuntree where I could walk in the woods with my friends, get people to buy us beer, and smoke pot.

    There is a very different psychology between people that wander through life in the woods and those that catapult themselves amongst concrete trees. People often move to the city because of their drive to succeed and aspiration to move forward, where they seem to escape to the country to find solace with what is. There is an ambitious pulse that courses through the veins of the city by people striving to compete and make it… where ever it is… and I miss it. You cannot replicate the conditions of millions of people packed into tight quarters who all have a dream to be bigger than who they are.

    The energy of the city is contagious, I feed off it, and I think there will always be part of me that has that city girl mentality… but I have come to appreciate the peacefulness about hibernating in nature. There are less distractions, and more time to commit to myself and what it is inside. My outer world may not be as exciting as my past, but my inner world is more stimulating than ever.

    So far all The Munch knows is cuntree living because I have been in New Hampshire ever since I ejected her from my lady parts. I think she has a pretty good life for now. She gets to spend the majority of her day outside wandering around, feeding chickens, pulling the vegetables out of the garden, and looking for beer and pot.

    “Hey… do you guys know where I could score?”

    November 28, 2011 • 1 year old, Musings • Views: 14

  • Mirror Mirror

    Although mirrors provide the valuable service of warning us that our teeth are speckled with food particles, the amount of times we see our reflection in the average day cannot be healthy. First thing in the morning when you brush your teeth you can also stare at the imperfections of your skin, when you get in the car and check your mirrors you have the opportunity to see the creases in the corners of your eyes, you can then take notice of the size of your butt in the windows as you walk by, and anytime you want to use the bathroom and wash your hands you have to look at the sadness behind your eyes as you clean fecal crumbs from your fingers.

    There was a time I went on a camping trip and spent over 2-weeks in the backcountry with not one mirror to judge my image. I have to say, that was a pretty emotionally satisfying time in life. Of course I was hiking all day and living in the magnificence of nature, but not having to think about what I looked like freed my mind to think about so many other important things, like how much I weighed.

    I wonder when it is in our development that we start to put so much importance into our appearance? Right now The Munch not only doesn’t give a care, but I am not sure she understands that the baby in the mirror is actually her! When I bring her in front of one she points to my reflection and says “The Mama,” but then looks at the baby I am holding and wonders what is she doing with her Mama and if she should kick her ass?

    I hope I can delay this part of her understanding as long as possible. Why does she need to know who that baby is? She can just live her life thinking of mirrors as some parallel 2 dimensional universe and never have to stress about her hair being out of place or if she has visible diaper line.

    “That baby is hilarious!”

    “I LOVE this baby!”

    November 25, 2011 • 1 year old, Mommy Mind, Musings • Views: 10

  • Giving Thanks

    When I was 26 years old I was told I would never have babies because of a tumor in my pituitary gland. In case you don’t know where that is, (I sure didn’t and assumed it was either in my throat or genital area because those are the only places that need to gland/secrete anything)… it is in your brain. I remember hearing this information and thinking two things.

    1) Why are you telling me this?
    2) If I wore black more often I would look skinnier and have to wash my clothes less.

    I wasn’t sure how to feel about never having children at 26 because a baby would have really cramped my style at the club… well, unless she was wearing Prada and Miu Miu shoes… but then I would have had to tell her she looked fat in those shoes so I could borrow them… do you see how complicated these feelings were?

    At first I was more concerned about my own health than the non-existence of a being that didn’t even exist. But in all honesty, I think the real emotion I was battling was denial. Not allowing myself to believe in my own infertility because to even consider that I would never be able to multiply myself was just too tragic. What would the world do without more of my DNA? Probably collapse from grief. I also didn’t want to believe that anything was wrong with me because I had no idea how to fix me.

    My journey of dealing with my health was extensive, arduous and involved a series of holistic healers, reiki practitioners, meditation, and dirty hippies. But for a while nothing was working and every time I would go to the doctor they would tell me something else was wrong. So I just stopped going. Not because I was being irresponsible but because I felt like going was reaffirming the existence of my tumor. If I was going to believe I could heal, I had to stop believing it was there.

    So when I got pregnant the doctors couldn’t understand how it happened without medical intervention. Rather then saying that I probably had healed, they said I was a high-risk pregnancy and my head could explode into a bagillion pieces while giving birth. Hearing this news I thought two things

    1) Why are you telling me this?
    2) Wearing make up is a lot like painting your face, but without the rainbows or cat noses.

    Although they had their reasons for being cautious, and I respect that the doctors were trying to protect me, I didn’t believe that my baby wanted to kill me. Now that I have met her, sometimes I am not so sure… but I am thankful for The Munch every day. (But not so much at night when she is keeping me up… just kidding… sort of… no of course I am… kinda… no really I am. I loves her).

    November 24, 2011 • 1 year old, Adventures, Health, Mommy Body, Musings • Views: 12

  • Extreme Emotions

    As an adult we are expected to exist between the realms of emotional extremes. In fact, if we fluctuate between being too happy and too sad too often we can be diagnosed as manic or bipolar. If a person doesn’t have control over their emotions they are made to feel like they have a chemical imbalance that should be medicated. Of course there are people who cannot express their emotions in a productive way and that can be incredibly problematic to themselves and those who love them, but perhaps the intensity to which we try to regulate our impulses denies us of the very thing that makes us human.

    When I hang out with The Munch I watch her catapult herself from one disposition to the next with such intensity I am convinced she would make an amazing character for a reality TV show. “Real Housewives of Yet to Be Wives.” She seems to either be tremendously jubilant or outrageously upset, and sways between the two like slow dancing teens at their middle school soirée. The Munch can be so cute I want to squeeze her face like toothpaste, or so annoying I also want to also squeeze her like toothpaste… but in a more sinister way. She could be having the time of her life playing with her socks, and then suddenly start screaming in protest throwing them on the floor. And it is not because her only toys are socks okay! She loves socks!

    At first I thought she was insane. Whoops… I mean passionate. Then I considered that perhaps she is frustrated she cannot express her needs through language, but is aware enough to know what she wants. So she is in a crisis of communication. Then I pontificated that all people feel the way she is behaving, we just have conditioned ourselves to subdue the urge to act out on these yearnings. And then I thought about if I should cut my hair, and if so, like which starlet. Maybe The Munch is mercurial because she is a cancer and ruled by the moon?

    So when I used to judge parents for their kids doing spastic things and freaking out for no reason, now I just judge the kids…

    This picture pretty much sums it up

    November 23, 2011 • 1 year old, Baby Brain, Behavior, Musings, Parenting • Views: 7

  • Its a Small World

    Every morning when The Munch wakes up she whispers to herself. Listening to her inner monologue made me realize just how small her world really is. Of course, our understanding of the universe isn’t limited to what we can verbalize, but language is the ego’s way of processing reality. Everything else is just abstract imaging…

    So this is what The Munch thinks about when she comes into her conscious mind after a night of baby dreaming.
    *socks
    *Mona (my dog)
    *cracker
    *bup (what she calls her belly button)
    *shoes
    *duck
    *bear

    And it sounds a bit like this

    “Socks… socks… socks… Mona… socks… Mona… duck…duck…socks… cracker… cracker… duck…shoes…shoes… shoes…bup bup bup…socks…. Mona… Mona… Mona…. bup… duck….cracker… bear… bear… bear…bear…bear…bear…bear…”

    Maybe babies are so happy because the don’t have all those words cluttering their minds telling them how they suck at coloring in the lines, or that their butt looks fat in their diapers. I think from now on I am just going to use words about what I care about most like The Munch.

    “chocolate… chocolate… chocolate…. youtube videos… youtube videos… chocolate… Star magazine… chocolate…. texting… texting…. youtube videos… Star magazine… cute shoes… cute shoes… youtube videos….”

    Ahhhh I feel better already!

    “Bear! Bear! Bear!”

    November 22, 2011 • 1 year old, Baby Brain, Musings • Views: 12

  • Cookie Catastrophe

    I am really uptight about food quality, at least when I have control over what I eat, or what I feed The Munch. I am fully aware of how annoying I can be, but it is only because I have over educated myself on the subject. I know too much, and you can’t unlearn something once you know it. Except for fractions…

    My crusade began in college when a friend of mine told me about partially hydrogenated oils and I transformed from someone who ate Hamburger Helper and Rice-A-Roni to the orgamazon that I am today. Food that is over processed and garnished with chemicals doesn’t even taste like food to me any more, so you can imagine my self-rightous horror when a friend brought over hydrogenated cookies as a gift for a dinner party. Now, I am not a sociopath, so of course I didn’t say anything, but I was not about to put one of those maple cream cookies in my mouth even if I knew they had the potential to be delicious. After my friend left I debated throwing them out, but could’t rationalize it thinking of my dead Grandmother who having escaped her motherland during WW2, instilled the value in me never to waste food. Besides, I figured someone else would enjoy them who isn’t as holier than though as I act.

    Okay… fast forward a few days… The Munch has a cold all weekend and is not sleeping. Awesome. I had a dance rehearsal and decided it would be best if the baby sitter watched her… the baby sitter who I LOVE mind you…. but who will not say no to The Munch…EVER. She doesn’t like it when she cries because it hurts her heart. Oh… she is so sweet it is painful.

    When the baby sitter brought her to me this fateful afternoon she told me “She did not eat much… but she wanted cracker… so I gave her two… and I had one.”

    “Liliana, you can have 10,000 crackers. Help yourself!” It didn’t occur to me that it was odd she mentioned she had 1 cracker… I didn’t even think about it. I went into the kitchen, and saw the cookies had moved from the counter to the table. Again, I didn’t over think this assuming someone had moved them and figured they had just moved them selves like cookies sometimes do. No big deal.

    I then sat on the couch and found a cookie with little tiny Munchee bites taken out of it. It then occurred to me… THE MUNCH CALLS EVERYTHING CRACKER! She calls granola bars crackers, pasta crackers, crackers crackers. As I held the cookie in horror knowing this was the most sugar The Munch has had in her entire life I watched her talking to herself about starting a band, throwing every book out of the book shelf, trying to sit on the cat, and them climb up to the second shelf of the fridge all within in 75 seconds. She was high as f*ck.

    I could see the scene in my head. Her grunting at the cookies, Liliana trying to figure out what she wanted… and of course… of course… it was the cookies.

    Sigh… I threw them out.

    “Ummmm I don’t feel so good”

    November 21, 2011 • 1 year old, 1st time for everything, Adventures, Baby Body, Eating, Health • Views: 7

  • Hurt So Good

    I went to get a massage last night, and from the second I walked in the door and saw her hands I felt like an aggressive cat that leans in to make you pet them as they pace back and forth. Although intellectually it may seem odd for a complete stranger to rub your naked body with scented oils, and under normal circumstances you would probably insist they pay you rather than vice versa… But when you are in pain and need someone to poke, probe, and knead your aching muscles you may start taking off your clothes before the masseuse leaves the room to give you that private time disrobe. This is actually harder to do than you think, especially if your masseuse is Eastern European with Popeye forearms.

    The irony about massages is that you want someone to hurt you to make your hurt go away. Of course massage is a healing hurt rather than an injury hurt, but often times in order for something to get better you have to endure a vast amount of intensity. John Mellencamp must have been getting some serious body work done when he wrote that song “hurt so good,” or it was inspired by losing his virginity as a teenage girl.

    I had a realization during my massage that was inspired by the fact that every time she was penetrating the core of my tenseness me I started to giggle. The masseuse told me she had another client who also laughed because “I am either going to laugh or cry…” which was exactly how I felt. It made me appreciate the very thin line of sensation, and how our 5-senses help us to see the balance between black and white, good and evil, right and wrong, and how it is all really the same.

    For instance, when your feet are freezing to the point that your toes burn. Or you taste something so sour your mouth is flooded with sweet saliva. How about when you shut your eyes as tight as you can, to be as blind from the outside light, and see spectacular colors and patterns. Isn’t it easy for something to tickle so much it itches? And how often have you heard the deafening sound of silence? Can’t you smell something you really enjoy, but after too much of the scent it starts to make you feel sick?

    We often simplify our human experience of the world into moralistic definitives, and judge people who behave differently because it is easier than understanding each individual context. But when you think of how complex you feel about your own life you then start to realize how everyone feels that way about theirs as well. Nothing is as it seems because is everything is what it isn’t, and really the ultimate game in life is maintaining a positive perspective.

    “Wow… maybe I am not that small after all!”

    November 18, 2011 • 1 year old, Adventures, Mommy Body, Musings • Views: 10