Motherhood Uncensored

And When it Rains, it Pours... Water Ice, Cheese Steaks, and Ridiculously High Car Insurance

While I know a few of you get a chuckle out of my uncensored rants on kid leashes, sex talk, and other "unspeakables," you don't fool me. I know why you are here.

You can't believe I live in Mississippi and you can't believe how crazy it is.

Sure, I write rather entertaining posts on my mother's journey to China, how moms are really training to be secret agents, and parenting in general. But for the most part, I feel like people know me as the college professor suffering through her lonely days in the Deep South.

Sounds so dramatic. And yet, it's fairly accurate.

And while Mississippi certainly has its fair share of quirks, like misquitos, pimento cheese sandwiches (and yes, they taste as bad as they sound), and some really bad hairdos, I have to admit that its been pretty good to me.

I mean, I started a college undergraduate program, wrote a book, met my husband, and had my daughter. And hell. Look at my blog. Just from bitching about a state with way too many 's'es. Okay. Maybe there's more. But still. Admit it. You love the Mississippi cracks.

And while I have suffered through various forms of racism, some really bad meals, and several conversations where I had no clue what people were saying, I have to realize that there are some good things to be remembered.

But don't worry. I'm not getting all sappy on you.

I'm just reminiscing before I kiss Mississippi's stinky, anti-green, red-loving, porkrind and chitlin eating, slow driving, bad accent, ignorant fool ASS GOODBYE.

Because in a few months (or maybe sooner), I will no longer be a New Jersey transplant. That's right. I will once again be a NJ/PA/DE resident (not sure yet). It seems that the Air Force, after trying to send us to North Dakota and then keeping us here indefinitely, has finally approved our early leave request. And so WE ARE OUT.

Let me say it again.

WE ARE LEAVING MISSISSIPPI!

And sure, part of me realizes that my blogging career has been largely based on my life in Mississippi and I'm a little worried.

What will I blog about? Will anyone read me when I'm complaining about my too-hot soy mocha at Starbucks? Or that I had to sit in traffic for 2 hours just to go 35 miles? Or that my soft pretzel salt got stuck in my teeth and I had to go to the dentist? Or that my plethora of friends through me a baby shower and I farted. In public.

UGH. That's just doesn't sound as fun as the "black n' white prom," "free shave and enema" offer at the hospital, and deep fried pickles.

I mean, will you still love me if I'm in Philly?

 

But then I realized (for various very long reasons that have to do with money and the air force) I have to live with my in-laws for awhile. Yes, those in-laws.

So, I'll have more than enough blog fodder... so long as I don't have to pay too much for my wireless, computer time, and babysitting. How much do grandparents charge these days?

I Write This With All the Optimism I Have in My Heart

I've been keeping a secret for 15 weeks.

That's hard for me to do. I'm a talker. A BIG ONE. (In case you hadn't noticed).

And for 15 weeks I've been tired, bitchy, crabby, tired, hungry, tired, anxious, nauseous, pissy, and growing.

HUGE.

I'm the size of a linebacker, towering a good 3.5 inches and 30 pounds over my husband. Dress me in green and... well, you know what you have (I can't even bring myself to say it).

The only thing I haven't been yet is excited.

Because when you've been through what I've been through (as many of you have) you just don't know when to be excited. Loss takes that from you. That ability to be giddy and joyful and full of utter exhuberance is swiped from under your feet and leaves you almost without a will for anything but worry and doubt.

But I've decided that it's not fair to anyone, especially Little Poopypants the 2nd, for me to be anything but totally and 100% excited...

...that Baby #2 is alive and kicking INSIDE me.

Still.

The Long Journey Home

My mom recently returned from her first trip to China. I imagine growing up as a Chinese American in the 50's was not easy, particularly with a bitter mother, still stinging from her arranged marriage at 17 to a smart but unimpressive American-born Chinese fellow. For more years then I can remember, my mom wanted to just be American. Sure, we ate with chopsticks every now and then and had shrimp in lobster sauce on special occasions, but on most days, she tried hard not to be Chinese.

Being Chinese meant being hated - as a young girl with a traditional Chinese mother with an abusive nature. Her buck teeth and thick black hair made her stick out amidst the blonde and blue-eyed WASPs at the desks next to her. She married my dad to get away from them and their Asian-ness. They didn't speak again until I was born and even then, we only saw them on rare holiday gatherings.

I don't blame my mother for her choices. Diversity wasn't a concern until the 90s, and by that time, she had long lost her Chinese speaking abilities. Her only positive childhood memories were of her grandmother - the one who had always believed in her - the one who had always shown her what being Chinese meant.

I was always fascinated by pictures of my great-grandparents, and I loved hearing stories about my great-grandfather, one of the "fathers" of the Washington DC Chinatown and the first American born Chinese citizen in that same city. We would play cards with my great-grandmother for hours - in her little house on Georgia Ave. I only knew her as the caretaker of my great-grandfather who had suffered a stroke the year before I was born. But I loved her.

I could never understand a word she said, but I was always amazed at how my mom could. My great-grandmother would put out yesterday's dinner for breakfast, give us Chinese date candies, and let us watch the only two movies she owned - Grease and Ben Hurr. I remember her scratchy crocheted blankets and amazing gold and jade jewelry, particularly the circular necklace she always wore. It was a beautiful light green from being near her skin for so many years.

Her hands were wrinkly but soft - and her nails were always well manicured. We'd play cards for hours and hours - her muttering only quiet words like "good cards" when she'd pass me a handful of crap during our hearts games.

I never knew how much my mom loved her until she died and my mom decided to stop talking to her parents. And then I knew that my grandmother had saved my mom whenever she could. That she was the one who made being Chinese proud and honorable.

And so, as my mom returns from a trip she has dedicated to my great-grandmother, I'm so proud that she has reclaimed her heritage and not allowed it to be her downfall. That she has taken what could have been a deep and dark history and made it into something worthy of remembering. And I hope that she found what she was looking for - for herself and for her grandmother.

Perhaps they met again in the beautiful place where it all began - through the sights and sounds of a country my mom has never seen, but in a way, has known quite well. And I hope that it brings her the peace that she desires and deserves.

Beware of Toddler Sleep Zombies

Lately, my daughter has impressed me with her myriad of new skills. Proper use of pronouns (Happy Birthday to ME, and MINE!), writing the first letter of her name, and singing a rousing rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star on permanent loop.

Okay. She's brilliant. I know.

But then, she does that stuff that reminds me she's just a regular old 2-year old. Like munching on crayons, sticking her hand down her poopy diaper, and spitting out food when it's not of a perfect texture.

Blech.

But her newly discovered trait that doesn't necessarily hint to her intelligence but more to the fact that she is indeed related to me is SLEEPWALKING.

Yes. My 2-year-old is a nomadic sleep zombie.

Of course, we would never have discovered this if we hadn't moved her to the toddler bed. Damn bed. But on too many occasions, I had to leap out of bed when she cried for fear she would attempt to crib dive yet again. So we relented and bought the big white plastic beast.

And while she loves it in theory, for sleep, not so much. Naps are down from 2-hours to 1-hour on a good day, and at night, she rolls around and moans and gets up to visit us way more than should be allowed by the sleeping Gods.

But then a few nights ago, I was watching Sex and the City reruns and I heard something rustling around in the bathroom. Come to find her searching through the cabinet under our sink and asking for her toothbrush.

Confused, I put her back in bed and she fell right back asleep.

Then just yesterday, my husband and I were out watching some god awful reality show I will leave nameless and found her in our duct tape/change cabinet in the kitchen. (Yes, we have a duct tape change cabinet - don't ask). Just playing with "the moneys" and trying to pull off a piece of tape.

Same thing. Back to bed and sound asleep.

It's really quite funny, considering I used to be the queen of sleepwalking. As a kid, I was the one who at sleep over parties would hop in bed with the host's parents on the way back from the bathroom - not making it back to my friend's room. Yeah. Great stories for weeks were told about my little snooze with the 'rents. Great. Lovely. NOT.

So, I'm not sure what I can do about this, except put a gate up in front of her door. And I figure, if this is the worst thing she inherits from me, then she's going to be just fine.

Sure She Can Walk, but Can She Canter?

So you tried to fool me once.

You had a kid who refused to sit with you, and instead he insisted on running around the restaurant, taking down half your lunch and a plastic chair on his way out.

Don't worry. I've seen you and your kid. And I rolled my eyes at you - just more when you had him on the "child safety harness," as you tried to explain to the waiter.

"IT'S A LEASH," I breathed to myself, cringing at the sight of your child being whipped back from one powerful tug.

I'm not sold on the "it's not really a leash but a harness that allows your child to roam freely in the safety of your precious grip" crap. Because he wasn't roaming freely. And it didn't look safe to me. For either of you.

So, I found you out. And people got angry on your behalf.

"Don't hate on those who love the trees."

"You don't have a kid who acts like a wild gorilla on crack. Shame on you."

Yes. I heard it all.

But then I saw 'you' again.

This time you wore an uber mommy uniform - black track suit and fancy non-functional sneaker. Your bright blonde hair was brushed back under your strategically placed baseball cap. And your latte resting firmly on your large fake breasts.

But that didn't distract me. I saw what it was. You try to tell people it's a special tool to help your child walk, so you don't have to bend over and hurt your back. Lord knows you'd probably fall over from the weight of your silicone boobies.

Ha. Again you try to fool me, silly woman. Maybe you think because your kid looks like a small petting zoo pony and not a dog that I won't see - that I will be distracted by your obvious equine envy. I know. You don't have the square footage for your own yoga room, let alone a stable. Or maybe you thought that people would think you were much more high class imagining your child as a HORSE as a opposed to a DOG.

BUT YOU ARE MESSING WITH THE WRONG GIRL.

Because anyway I see it, it's still a damn leash.

And no matter how hard you try to distract me with your big canary diamond or the cheek implants that I'm sure block your vision, I KNOW.

WE ALL KNOW.

Now Giddyup, Cowgirl. Mama's taking you for a ride.

[I only wish this actually happened, however, I live in Mississippi. And no one does yoga or drinks lattes. However, the original leash post did actually occur. I couldn't pass up the follow-up - even if I had to make this one up]