Love is Blind

Zombie Kids at the Playground

2008-05-16T19:54:00Z

Have you ever walked into a room and felt like all eyes were on you? Like every little move you made was being studied for the precise moment to strike? I have, and unlike my days in clubs or bars where I sometimes made an ass out of myself, this time I was presentable and so was my teensy girl. I wonder if she could feel the stares from the 3 feet and under crowd as they sized her up, wondering who she was and if she brought anything interesting to the playground.

GiGi is no stranger to the sound of a swing and its noisy metal chains against tall steel poles; the laughter of kids and their parents with an interruption of screams here or there. She’s been in on the teeter-totter scene for a whole year now. When I first found out she was blind, a million things went through my head. It’s safe to say a million things go through my head every day where that particular category is concerned; however, playing at the park was one of those activities that I couldn’t stop thinking about. When I was pregnant, my dreams unveiled a perfect and cellulite-free-me, chasing a child around the monkey bars and going down the slide with someone who resembled me. After our news though, I wondered if she would play at the park. Would she enjoy it the same way a sighted child would?

(swingin')

I would be a big fat f*cking liar if I said that I thought she could do everything in the world the minute I thought of it. There is definitely breathing time between saying “She can be an Astronaut” and truly believing it. My heart needs to worry first, before it can encourage her to conquer the world.

GiGi giggled in the swings without a single care, an unknown girl in a land of drooling kiddos. I pushed her back and forth while taking my camera out with one hand. I must have taken about three hundred pictures of her in the swing, each better than the previous one taken. We love the park now and aren't afraid of enjoying it like other children do. We love it in our own way, for its sounds and smells and the funny way things blow across your face when there is a spare gust of wind to make it happen.

Once we were done with the swingin’ good time, one of us decided to yell like a maniac and throw their arms around. No, it wasn’t me this time, but it was my mini-Megg. I took the yelling as a sign that snack time was here. Whenever we leave the house there is a 6 choice snack buffet in the diaper bag at all times. Today’s menu was filled with blueberry yogurt melts, dried apples, apple puffs, and an assortment of organic goods: cheese crackers, snap peas and honey graham cookies. Fearing that I could ever limit her taste buds, I set up shop, popping open one colorful snack pack after the other.

(who says snap peas can’t taste good?)

Miniature legs wiggling and kicking with total happiness….happy tummy. GiGi decided honey grahams and snap peas were the way to go and began snacking up a storm. I’m glad she couldn’t see the children who noticed her upon her entrance, once again sizing her up. Eyes locked, tongues licking the smallest of lips – they were ready to snack.

Oh, shit.

I wasn’t used to interaction with other children at public play areas yet. Sure, I know kids. GiGi knows kids too, but not *these* kids. I didn’t know them or their parents, or even their nannies who were all huddled in the biggest nanny pow-wow I’ve ever seen.

The children playing at the Oak street park of fun and bliss began to walk, dazed and new to the skill, toward me, GiGi, and our buffet of yum. I looked around, a smidge panicked, and waited for some other adult to notice their child and say “No, No! Don’t go over there, silly. Those aren’t our snacks.” Nobody noticed. With our treats locked in, ready to be eaten, the Zombie Children of the Haight came toward us in a slow, sloooooooooww, sloooooooooooooooooow manner. Nonetheless, I was afraid. There were 5 children working on getting to us. Thank god for the sand, which acted as an aid in our favor, knocking them down left and right. Only two kids successfully made it to where we were. One little boy dressed in dirty patched chocolate pants came to oogle our goods but never made contact. He just stood by the swings, looking over GiGi’s shoulder, making me feel weird. His 2 years and hunger v.s. my not knowing what to do. The other person to make it the distance was a petite, I’m guessing 3 yearr old, girl. Gorgeous blonde locks and messy hands. She bent down and patted the ground, looking first at the cookies and then at me. I think she was trying to tell me something? Hmmm

All I could think was, what the hell do I do when the others get here? I’m a nice person, I’ll want to feed them. What a horrible message to send though… Come here kids; eat these delicious snacks from the palm of a stranger’s hand. They aren’t poisoned, or are they?!

I’m a total wuss, and since the nannies were still busy on their cell phones, talking to other nannies, eating, keeping their backs to the kids, and otherwise ignoring my situation – I left.

That’s right; I got up, packed the snacks away and gathered my babe. I haven’t quite figured out how to tell a child who doesn’t understand “go find your mommy and sorry about the snack denying,” yet, so I just hit the road. I felt guilty about not sharing, but there wasn’t an adult around to approve it, so what to do. I would be pissed if someone gave my daughter something to eat without asking me first, but then again I’m paranoid and never take my eyes off of her.

What do you do when this happens to you at the park? I'd love to know how to handle the zombies....

(I think she knows her snacks are in danger)

Mothers Day Makes Me Barf...

2008-05-13T21:54:00Z

Well kind of...

I can’t believe my second Mothers Day has already passed. Last year GiGi was so little and cute and this year she’s so animated and neat to be around. Cute too, but so much older. This year I started out the day in Alameda. Since we were in town I took the opportunity to have my babe visit her big sister and daddy-o. Ryan, Chloe (gasp! Their real names!) and GiGi and I all took a nice long walk to the main street to have some breakfast at our favorite Alameda eatery. Ole’s is a great place but is notorious for having a waiting line out front that is a bit long some mornings. Since it was Mothers day and there was a Spring Festival on the street right in front of the place – the line was extremely long. So long that my little babe fell asleep waiting.

It was kind of interesting to look at all of the other mothers in line and see their dynamic with the kids that stood next to them, some small and some grown. Everyone so different and unique in their motherhood. We waited and waited and contemplated going somewhere else, then waited some more and noticed a mom a few spaces behind us with what looked to be a mini version of her. A person who was quite possibly the woman she was 20 years ago, before the wrinkles by the sides of her mouth appeared and the gray mixed with the brunette locks. It was very sweet to witness until the daughter began to grope her boyfriend right in front of her mother, the line of hungry people, and everyone passing by the Spring Festival. I looked to Ryan and said “That will never happen.”

“What?” he said.

I pointed to the underage gropers behind us and said that I didn’t care how boring I got, but I would never become a mother who was okay with that. I then gave him a long list of the not so very nice things I would do to the little punk who was the recipient of the “roman/roamin’ hands” as well as the disrespectful daughter.

Oh the horror.

We ate while GiGi slept and then did some more walking around on the bustling street just looking at faces and listening to the live music. I convinced our little mother’s day entourage to stop at Blue Rectangle which is the best book store I’ve ever been to. Aside from the Free book they give away per child, they have a great selection of used books in all varieties. The children’s’ section has wonderfully kept books and I have spent quite some time on my hands and knees in that section, simply collecting a pile of book after book that we can’t seem to live without. After the book fun we walked back to Ryan’s house and said Adios. I’m always glad when we get the chance to hang out in between visitation, to just be friends and parents. GiGi missed her daddy and sister too!

Flash forward to 2 hours later

There wasn’t any traffic which rocked me thoroughly, and so our trip home sped by. Once we got home I unpacked everything in the car and started doing laundry, because I’m anal retentive that way. My parents had dinner ready so we ate a lovely little meal, and decided to watch Enchanted. I was surprised by how cute it was and as much as I didn’t want to like it *gulp* …I did.

Then…things got clammy.

...and then sweaty.

…and then I barfed.

ALL NIGHT LONG.

Thank god for parents who took my little upset one year old to their bed with them all night. I felt so bad for GiGi in the wee hours of Monday morning. I was so sick it must’ve sounded like someone was stabbing me with an ice pick in the bathroom. I think she gave her Friday/ Saturday night flu to me and her dad and her sister, and apparently as of this morning my great aunt and nieces’ softball coach. Okay – the coach wasn’t our fault but still, that’s a lot of people right?

GiGi is fine and I’m done barfing up an entire years worth of food, but still feeling gross. It’s another night of pj’s, apple juice and re-runs of MTV reality shows. Cross your fingers that the flu is out of this house soon!

Like Mother like daughter (pre-puke)

(p.s. - I hope all of you Mothers and Fathers who play the mother roles had a great day!)

The Haight Street Urine Carwash.

2008-05-08T01:07:00Z

Monday morning came like an unwanted solicitor on the front porch. I was exhausted from the busy weekend, but still wanted to do something special with GiGi before we left the tall, tall buildings and traveled back through towns with two stoplights. I sprang to my feet over the course of 5 minutes and took a shower first, then the babe.

Around 9:30 am we made our way to a great little punk rock café in Emeryville and had eggs and toast. It was a seat yourself kind of a place so I chose the back of the restaurant and watched the faces of flats and mod dresses look up at me with mild horror and discomfort. A hip joint like this doesn’t appear to be swarming with the 2 and under crowd. No one was rude exactly but the vibe in the room seemed to be muted once GiGi started banging her toy hammer on the table and chanting “MA-MA-MA-MAMAMA-MA!!”

We snacked merrily and I was delighted when a cute couple walked in with their two little girls. The noise they were smacking up halted my little destructo mid-hammer-swing, and I glanced over to the couple. They quickly scanned the room with an apology hovering over their eyes like a flimsy visor, and when they got to me I handed them an eye-catching Hi-Five. I tend to applaud parents who let their kids be kids while they take in an omlette, french toast, and bottomless cup of coffee.

( Here is my little cup eater. Evidently pancakes aren't as tasty)

I thought a great after breakfast venture would be the Haight in San Francisco. The last time I was there I didn’t get enough of it so another trip was needed. I dialed the music up and hit the non-trafficked freeway with the windows down and my sunglasses on. I could see GiGi in my rearview mirror and she had the same pleased look on her face that I get when I have no place to be except the place where I’m at.

(GiGi and I seeming quite touristy in the Haight)

It’s always nice to go shopping in the city when everyone else is working the 9-5 gig. Parking is plentiful and the elbowing on the sidewalk is totally manageable. Even the crazy homeless folks who are fighting on the street over whose turn it is to push the empty wheelchair aren’t so bad.

We weren’t shopping for anything in particular so we walked around, GiGi in the Ergo and me on foot, and peered through windows. In a window with no store name visible, I saw a Tano bag that had a small speaker on it. I mean, it must have had a speaker, because through the Italian leather, even through the front window, I could hear it saying, “Take me home with you. I promise I’ll be good to you in my vibrant pool color and shiny charm. Marry me and make me yours! If not marriage, at least take me home and have a little pinch and giggle with me. Get flashy with me and throw me over your shoulder, tossing your head wildly in the air and searching for a floor length mirror to catch a glimpse of me, if only briefly, and how I look resting on your ass.”

So I stood there, pretending to rock GiGi to sleep, all the while daydreaming of my future love affair with this handbag. This twiggy woman and her mother walked up, breaking the staring contest between Tano and I, and they began to talk about how great the store was and how it sucked that it wasn’t open on Mondays.

F*ck.

There goes that fantasy.

I was completely bummed about the bag so I walked back to the car, kicking a burrito wrapper and whining about the stupid store hours under my breath. The only good thing that had come out of waiting in front of the store for 30 minutes was my fast asleep child. I crossed the street, and saw the same wacky homeless woman from earlier, minus the wheelchair. She was actually doing the full grown pee-pee dance and semi-running up the hill where I was parked. She hopped off the sidewalk and cut between my car and the van in front of me.

“What the hell is she doing?” - I thought to myself.

I was still walking up the hill to my car and searching for my keys which I always seem to lose in any size purse. The homeless woman began to tug down at her wine colored sweat pants, revealing two other layers of pants/shorts/underwear/what-have-you’s. I yelled out before I could think “EXCUSE ME MA’AM!” She cut me off and said “When you gotta go, you gotta go,” and began to pee half on my car and half on herself. I couldn’t look away. All I could see where two layers of obviously unwashed clothes being soaked with urine. I stared still. All I could find the words for was “Dude! Come on!”

She pulled up her piss pants and just waved her hands while she walked away, hunched over, muttering “you gotta go, you gotta go” over and over again.

Just when I thought I was missing the urban life, my car gets pissed on. The only thing that I presume could be odder than watching a woman pee on a car, is watching the owner of the car totally let her, and then snapping photos of the event.

We left the Haight Street wackiness and moved on to an awesome little park close by. More on that to come…

(Note: Isn’t that a lot of pee for someone who isn’t getting her 8 glasses of water a day!)

(GiGi is nice and awake after mommy asked the nice homeless woman why she was peeing on her car)

Milkshakes for GiGi, Martinis for Mommy

2008-05-06T23:46:00Z

This weekend was busy. Crazy and chaotic with a side of “ew” at times. My Friday morning hint at this arrived in the form of a ditzy drive-thru barista who forgot to hand me a straw with my light coffee blended frothy goodness, that I didn’t realize until I merged onto the freeway. Aghhh! Keeping with my attempt to make things more positive in karma land, I kindly unstrapped my 1 yr old who at that point thought it was time to get out for good, and walked inside to let them know that next time they should consider passing out straws with their cold beverages.

Once we got to the bay area, we stopped in Orinda to grab a house key from one of the best friends, Lea. I threw her baby shower this weekend (thank you Dina!) and needed to unload 206 tons of rubber duck paraphernalia while she was workin’ it up at her company. I’d like to thank her bosses for encouraging my portly state of being, by offering GiGi and I the best milkshakes ever. We went with a little F’real mint chip action and before I could get my camera out, my little ice cream monster had already dove in, fist first, to the cup before her. I thought I would go with the flow and let her feed herself, but in retrospect, I gave her a lot more hand-to-mouth credit than I should have. We got ice cream everywhere. Sticky hands, sticky table, sticky mommy, sticky eyelids, sticky 5-foot radius…

“5 feet?” you ask. Ah yes, because when you are a one year old it is nothing short of pleasure baked with satisfaction to wave your hands all around in the air like you just don’t care. Cannonball pieces of chocolate flying through the air like missles and detonating upon impact. Nice pieces of smooth furniture covered in bits of instantly melted chocolate

(brain freeze!!)

Another one of my best friends, Anouck (who is also pregnant) was entertaining houseguests this weekend, so GiGi and I stopped by to visit. Her parents were here from the Netherlands and we just love them so much that we couldn’t pass up the chance to say hello. Little G adored the touch-n-feel book that they brought her almost as much as their singing of Dutch nursery rhymes.

(GiGi, proud of her new book)

(Opa, Gigi, Oma)

Once we got back to Lea’s we worked like mad women – GiGi and I – to get the final details of the shower finished. It’s a good thing she picked the night before what was to be a long day, to resist all urges to sleep. At 3 am, we promptly began working on the favor boxes (little Chinese takeout boxes with labels and ultra-non-femme bows that read “it’s a boy) since she had jolted awake, kicking me in the side, and began jumping up and down. Seriously GiGi, thank you for your help and for staying awake SO long to make sure everything got done. I totally didn't need that extra sleep.

I connected label to box and she connected metal handle to mouth. For anyone who received a party favor with its contents upside down, broken or otherwise messed-up, my apologies. You can be glad however that you didn’t get one of the ten or so with drool on them. This fun game lasted right up until 7:30 am when she decided to finally call it quits on being awake.

(helping mama)

The shower came and went and now all that’s left to do is twiddle thumbs and wait for the baby. For me that is. She gets to stress, panic, ready the room and shop until her credit card drops dead of a heart attack. We went out for drinks that night, pregnant woman in tow, and it wasn’t long before I was slurring my words and asking for post-drink-pre-hangover food. I never really drink at all since having the babe, but since she was keeping her daddy up this Saturday night instead of me, I indulged. Sadly, I made my way through two dirty vodka martinis before accidentally walking into a busy men’s’ room and then cutting myself off from more martinis. When we finally headed toward the car and got ready to leave, I asked what time it was.

11:44pm.

I used to leave my house around 10 or 11 pm to go out for the night and now I can’t even manage to have a few drinks and stay awake late. That’s motherhood right?

(here I am ordering my first and last two martini's for a while)

Food and Breaking-up.

2008-04-30T07:09:00Z

It’s not at all uncommon to read that some little starlet has dropped a million pounds since giving birth to her ridiculously gorgeous baby like 2 days after having him /her.
In theory, losing weight is attainable and very appealing on a “fat day.” You know what I’m talking about. I buy these magazines that say how so and so lost all the weight in 47 milliseconds and I hope for once, that the article will make sense. It never actually computes correctly in my head though. I'm not sure how to afford or incorporate the 3 hours of personal trainer time or low carb diet into my daily routine.

I join a foodie support group because people are starting to stare at me funny when I say that I'm still carrying a little toddler weight. I go for a meeting or two and then I miss a week because GiGi is sick or has specialist visits 2 hours away. I miss a meeting or seven because the weather is too hot or too cold and my hair looks bad that day. Unicorns have stopped by for marshamllow tea and all of the sudden my car won't start. I can think of anything to get out of these meetings.

My will power and commitment to dropping the pounds was savage at one point in time. I was a goal-oriented beast. I’ve never been a size two or even a size ten, but I have been able to run for miles and miles with a belly full of mixed greens and perfectly portioned foods. Now, with a one year old on my hip and little hands touching my face nonstop, I find that I have less and less patience to count out my food. My head and my heart are both convinced I can do it, but have yet to sit down with my giant ass and big mouth to discuss how exactly to get on track.

Today I had fresh pineapple and 4 cups of coffee with fat free creamer and pretend sugar. I buy lots and lots of pretend food. Lower this, free of that and always always without sugar.

Coffee and pineapple in the stomache, I secretly want a burrito with cheese and guacamole and so much sour cream I could take a bath in it. Rich, delicious sour cream. The very real fact is I’m going to cave in. I’m going to cave in because I have an obscene amount of love for my daughter…and eating. What else can I say, I love the food. Aside from mayo and curry – I will eat anything. I can still wear cute clothes from off the rack and get off the couch without the help of a crane or two strong men, so I think everything is okay on the health front. My thighs rub together and I would never wear a swimsuit to the beach, but I kind of think that a bowl of pasta has a better deal going than sand between my toes and potential skin cancer. Besides, my doctor isn’t concerned so should I really be right now?

Is it okay to cave in and eat what I want without the desire to watch my portions and cut out carbs? As long as I’m feeding GiGi flax seed bread with organic cream cheese, and whole wheat pasta with veggies and sauce, can’t I just have taco?

…Or eight?

When it comes to GiGi, I’m the Colonel of Snacks: Healthy Baby Division. My family is afraid to feed GiGi without direct permission from me. The “yes” eyes. The double-nod. They joke when I come in to see them feeding her. All hands raised up high and voices yelling, “WE DIDN’T GIVE HER BUTTER!!” So why is it that I love food that I would never feed to her? Why can’t I just say,

“Listen Morrocan olive bread, I love you but I don’t think I can do this anymore. You’re consuming me and I just don’t know where you begin and I end. I mean you’ve moved in on my thighs. You’re not even paying rent to stay here. All of the burden is on me! All you do is hang out all day, with those two jerks Calories and Carbohydrates. We both know they are hard to get rid of."

Why do I do this? Because I’m into toxic romances, apparently. I know we need to break-up but I’m in love with food. I guess I’m just a I’m a food whore. All of the support groups, magazines and pep talks won't help me with this relationship. Maybe there is a safe place for me to go during this struggle....say...a beer-battered womens shelter?

Tell me babblers, what’s your foodie weakness? I’m hungry and I want to hear!

I hardly let GiGi indulge in crappy food; however, here is her weakness:fat free chocolate pudding.

A Passion for Jonathan Richman.

2008-04-28T03:29:00Z

There are a kagillion things to be embarrassed about as a mama. GiGi has raised hell with so many of her bibs that I refuse to buy more. We’re using the backup food catchers now. She wears a cotton candy colored one that reads: HOTTIE. It’s got a mild creep factor to it, since my kid is cute…silly….any word, except for HOTTIE. GiGi also sucks on cabinet knobs and grocery cart handles no matter how many covers I lay over them. She has accidentally dropped her bottle onto more sets of pricey shoes than I can count and while I’m a smidge embarrassed none of it means the end of the world is coming.

G’ is also known for more ‘making-mama-proud’ habits like chewing the head of a red Buddha that I keep on my desk, or motor-boating my chest, and of course my favorite – talking to Jonathan Richman.

Music is a key ingredient to our daily mix of life. I wake up singing her ‘good mornings’, we sing to soothe before naps and nighttime, and we most certainly rock out throughout the day simply because if she cannot see, I will make life colorful in other ways. Needless to say – I have a colossal assortment of tunes to move her soul. Every person active in her life has their own song that they la-la-la to, so that she is content in their arms.

My mother sings “Gia Lorraine, sat on a plane” and it reminds me Mike Meyers in all black, singing on stage in So I Married an Axe Murderer. Boy Wonder has a wide range of weird trance-house-indie-synth-pop magic that she adores also. One best friend of mine, Anouck, belts out a lovely rendition of Whams’ “Wake me up, before you go-go” that I can’t even get next to. For the life of me I remember one verse before I’m clueless again. Another best, Lea, can soothe her with the two songs that I have been singing for a good 9+ months- “Blackbird” by the Beatles or “I could’ve danced all night” from the musical My Fair Lady (the Julie Andrew version, not Hepburn. GiGi is quite picky). Actually, my parents, siblings, and their children can all sing “I could’ve danced all night” since it has sve our life on more than a thousand occasions.

All of these and more send her to bliss each in a different way. What’s interesting is what makes her rock the f+ck out, and that would be a little Jonathan Richman. That’s right, Jonathan Richman from Modern Lovers. I can play any one of his songs and this girl lights herself on fire with the moving and the talking. The amounts of faux-words that come streaming out of her mouth are astounding. For one reason or another he brings out her passionate side. You can actually see her connect with the music. I wish I knew what it was that she was telling him when he sings, but I figure that’s between her and Jonathan Richman.

I have recently changed her MP3 player to house a multitude of Jonathan Richman songs and few of my favorites that she has grown accustomed to hearing. Adele, !!!, The Knife, Jack Johnson, Pavement, Vampire Weekend, The Editors, Elvis Costello, Nina Simone, etc. I wish there was more space on the player because she would have hours and hours of listening heaven at the touch of her tiny hand. But alas, I have to limit it to what is touching me at the moment. So we just keep updating and we keep running into Jonathan Richman, and that's okay because he makes us happy.

Club Mean

2008-04-24T03:16:00Z

I wish I could say that I wasn’t interested in ‘Mommy Clubs’ but sadly, I am. Maybe it’s because when I was sitting with my newborn in the bay area and all of my girlfriends were working and then heading out to live their own child free lives, I was there with cries for milk and poops. At some point I think it’s only natural for us to gravitate towards other people who are in our situation. People who have children and spend their mornings sneaking through the house to see if they can be quiet enough to take a shower or brush their teeth without waking the sleeper.

My first club experience involved terrible house music and people under 18. Wait, wrong club. I tried to join several mothers groups but most were showing as inactive for the past few months when I searched them online. My first actual club for mamas that I got to join was a seemingly sweet group that I found on meetup.com. I was a member for a whole week or two until the organizer kicked me out for not answering enough of their polls and for having yet to attend a function. I’m sure if they would have emailed me first before kicking me out they would have known that right after I joined, GiGi was diagnosed as blind. When that happened, I didn’t give a shit about their ANYTHING bit my babe and of course I let them know that a few weeks later. They, at that point, decided to let me back in. I sucked up my ego and pride and went to a few outings and actually really liked the women.

Then we moved.

Upon my arrival to the slower parts of the world I thought joining another mothers group would be the ideal approach to making some friends in my new town with at least one thing in common. I have tried to be a part of two groups here and one is very understanding of our therapy schedule and busy past few weeks in the hospital and out, and I am looking forward to hopefully being a part of. The other club I tried was one that I saw as an icon in the Babble Playground area of this site. It looked hip and by the mere site of an icon I had a glimmer of hope that some rockers or tattooed mamas were members of this little club. I joined and alas, I was rejected.

I received an email from someone in the club saying that I was not invited to join because I was not living in the city but simply a neighbor to it. I vented my frustration to this woman and got an odd response. If I wanted to be a part of the club apparently I am supposed to explain how often I visit the city in which they are from and for what purpose. Am I willing to drive there for a 2 hour playdate?

I’m sorry. Excuse me?

I really wish you could see my face right now. Along with a lovely look of awe and curiosity is the face I make right before I’m about to explode with laughter. Who the hell do some people think they are to demand itineraries from prospective members? The last time I checked, a twenty minute drive was not far to travel for the benefit of enjoying the company of friends and giving my little one the opportunity to interact with others.

At what point did leading a mothers’ club turn into a power trip for some women? I say *some* because I am quite sure there are groups out there who are fair and considerate. I however have not found a whole lot of them. Shouldnt this whole thing be as simple as getting together at a pulic location for coffee and swingsets? I’m blown away that there are parents out there who are discriminating and petty and willing to teach that to their kids. When we take our children to the playground, aren’t we looking for them to get along with everyone the same and to welcome newcomers to the sandbox? Why, as mothers, aren’t we all doing the same at our own playground?

GiGi and I avoided all clubs today and worked on our dance routine instead...

New Kid in Town

2008-04-22T17:10:00Z

Well hello Babblers! My name is Megg and I’m the mother of one of the newest additions to the dirt eating, playground wandering, germ sharing, tiny giggling world of toddlers , GiGi, who just turned a year old less than two weeks ago. Babble has invited me to be part of the blogging family but before I am welcome here I should probably tell you a bit about myself. After all, it’s a bit rude to try and settle in somewhere without giving up some info.

I’m 6 feet of brunette funkiness that hails from a lesser known city in California called Madera. Up until 7 months ago, I was living on a small island bordering Oakland, working full time, raising the babe and living it up. My ex (let’s call him Boy Wonder) and I got the news on August 8, 2008 that our GiGi was blind. She never really tracked my face or looked at anything in particular so concern grew and grew with each check up. You know, I asked my sister in the hospital, right after I gave birth, “When will she look at me?” I should have known by the quiet, delayed response, that something was wrong with her vision from the start. I didn’t though, because she is and has always been perfect in my eyes and I was too in love with her to imagine something like that. At 4 months old, hearing the overwhelming diagnosis of optic nerve hypoplasia, meaning her optic nerves never fully developed for one reason or another, was more than I could handle with just Boy Wonder present and neither of our families close by. So almost 2 months after the shock GiGi and I moved to farm life, usa.

While living at home with your parents at 27 years old isn’t the most hip thing to do, it is the thing that makes the most sense for me. For us. For my family of two. Our puzzle-pieced two household family of four. I spend every other weekend in Oakland with my closest friends while GiGi is spending time alone with her daddy. When I’m not honking in traffic or looking for never available parking, I am here at my new home which is smack dab in the middle of …nowhere. Instead of phones’ and heels, people are rocking the cowboy hat and boots look. Madera is a pretty conservative place, and having spent 10 years in the bay area I’m in total culture shock. I can’t seem to find a radio station spewing politics or even sports talk. There is however a lot of country music and Spanish channels. Neither one are my thing though so I am out of luck there. Thankfully the town is progressive *enough* to have internet availability.

Here’s the bottom line – I’m a brand new mother. A woman who had never planned on children or even considered become a foundation of stability and consistency. My life was flipped upside down and thrown into a blender with wheatgrass shots and then served with a mango slice on top the day I found out I was a people maker.

My heart says that I can do this. I can be a great mother to my daughter and learn as I go, doing things my way, her way, any which way but normal. We will create art together and GiGi will be passionate about painting and reading even if that means raised paint and Braille. She will love beeper-ball soccer and dinosaurs and playing with friends. I will encourage her to play any instrument she can get her hands on, and sell my soul to pay for them. I will let her know that tattoos are fine and pink is a lovely shade to color her hair.

There is no real “how-to” guide for parents that fits everyone’s life perfectly, but at least there is some sort of guide out there. GiGi, Boy Wonder, his older daughter and I have no handbook. Nothing is present in our lives to explain how to do this so our parenting trip has been a rocky, but entertaining show. My pint sized hero is teaching me everything I was once missing in life, and putting me to work for that knowledge. Stay tuned to hear about my lessons in love, single-mothering, and raising a child with as much vision as I have patience.

oh, I almost forgot, Nice to meet you!

Megg & GiGi