Rain, sleet, hail, snow: I’ll be posting right here.

I feel like I should blog about what’s going on with me because the personal changes are a dramatic shift away from my norm. And yet this shift almost necessitates silence.

I’m battling it out within the paradox, trying to find a comfortable place because I know I could very well just stop writing, stop blogging, stop telling you and the world about the little treasures of each day, but that’s not something I’m ready to do. The way I feel about writing is the same way I feel about my pre-baby wardrobe: Even though I may never use most of those clothes, I just can’t bare to banish them from my life. They are just too precious to me, too much a part of the person I want to be (if not the person that I am).

My life has become perfect. Okay, not perfect because perfect doesn’t exist, but it’s as close to it as humanly possible. Rob’s the most attentive/communicative/respectful/romantic/[insert other awesome qualities that a significant other “should” have] that he’s ever been, and though I can’t help but wonder at that fact – Did I simply stop noticing the bad parts? Has it always been this way, but I was too stubborn and bitchy to notice? Is this temporary? Et al. – those musings are rendered irrelevant by the awesomeness of each day. He has become the partner I’ve always wanted, and I realize that doubting the good doesn’t make me smarter or more realistic. It just makes me intensely negative. So I ask questions, but only while keeping in mind that the answers to all of the important questions only ever unfold in time, and none of us can ever really know them until that happens.

Is this balance? Ignorance? Bliss? I’m not quite sure. There are names for it; friends have told me that I’ve reached zen, and inner peace, and my optimum level of self actualization, but I prefer not to define it or try to fit it within any specific context. It is what it is. And whatever it is is not truly known to me until it’s disproved, and even then I wouldn’t know it, but the opposite of it.

We never know if something truly is; we only know if it’s not.

Lessons from philosophy classes find their way into my everyday thinking, and it’s hard not to couch my thoughts in the hard black and white of academia and bold-faced names, but neither are things I want to do.

Truth: My experiences are far more valuable than polysyllabic words written by people with lots of letters after their last names.

Also: I wish to communicate my thoughts via my voice, and that’s what being a writer’s all about in the first place, right?

One more thing: Only pretentious jerks think more highly of an idea if it’s attached to diplomas.

Recently, the subject of Riley’s future has come up and what I say, I realize, cements me as a certain kind of person, a certain kind of mom. This is what I say: I don’t care what he does with himself after high school, just as long as he’s happy, healthy, and becoming the person he wants to be.

Who am I to say who Riley should be? Whether he should aspire to open up a surf shop in Maui and smoke hash all day while contemplating the universe and sometimes chewing on some peyote, or if he should earn a zillion degrees, know more studies and facts than anyone ever thought possible, and cure some as-of-yet incurable disease? The fact is, my dreams for him involve more of what I should do than what he should do.

I should save money for him, so that when he’s ready, he can decide what he wants to do for himself. I should make sure he has the experiences necessary to know himself and his passions, so that when the time comes, he’ll know which direction to take with his life. I should be open and honest and communicative with him at all times. I should prepare him for the real world, and yet teach him to be the change he wants to see in the real world.

He just needs to be his beautiful, amazing, compassionate, curious, determined and generous self.

(And, yes, I truly believe these things of my 9-month old son.)

For the first time, I feel like everything is as it should be, and this is an awesome feeling. At the same time, though, I am completely aware of what I’m missing out on by experiencing this wonderfulness. I am aware of the high-drama that no longer fuels my art. I am profoundly aware of the fact that writing has been, up until now, not an end in and of itself. It has been a way to find catharsis, resolution, relaxation, calm, confidence, etc. It has been a way to voice my fears, concerns, issues, victories, opinions, etc. It has not been a way to write just for the sake of writing, to see what I come up with, to give voice to the little things, to make something beautiful. The beauty has always been wrapped up in the brutal honesty of emotion that flows through my words, and the provocative nature of those thoughts. Now that I’ve reached this new plateau, I’m forced to wonder if there’s any point in still writing. I’m forced to ask myself if I still find my writing self beautiful.

If my words are no longer driven by a fierce need to spew out my insides; if I no longer feel the ardent push and pull or life or death at every corner; if my goals are being met with relative ease and my problems are seemingly trivial; if my perspective is skewed by unprecedented happiness, then what do I offer as a writer? Are my words therefore empty? Or are the sheer rhyme and rhythm, syncopation of inspiration with ability, life blood via letters, etc. enough to grant me approval into highly-esteemed literary company?

I don’t know, but I’m willing to try my damnedest at my craft and see what happens.

It’s unnerving, this latest change. Not just about writing, but about possession. Nothing stirs my spirit more than what’s mine, and I’m claiming less and less as my own.

I know that there are certain labels that are inherently mine by no choice of my own, and that these labels carry with them certain baggage of ascribed identity: I am most definitely Asian, and a New Yorker, and Filipina-American, and a woman. But while I can get pretty damn riled up about my personal identity and how it relates to these labels and the many misconceptions of these labels, I don’t really feel attached to any of them. Call it being “post”: post-racism, post-feminist, post-labels, etc. (That seems to be the popular term.) I just know that I most identify with the labels that I’ve achieved, the roles that I’ve taken on by choice and not by birth: as mom, and writer, and student, and traveler. These are the roles that really interest me, the ones that really drive me to do well in life, the ones that speak to me. And while I love that fact, I must also concede that it means (for the most part) shying away from the front lines of controversy.

I no longer feel the need to take up arms, or to shout my criticisms of the world from rooftops, or to personify the big statement (aka the easy target). I simply no longer gravitate towards all of the drama of impersonal debate. Only the truly personal stuff is up for study, and only then by people I deem worthy.

So where does this all lead me? My blog? My writing?

For now, I think I’m going to keep on churning out my words, my perspective, my opinions, and my experiences, regardless of their decidedly more lame and static texture. I’m attempting to finish novels that I started a decade or so ago – if only because I see in them seeds of truth and creativity that I believe deserve to be read.

And the other projects – the ones that started to bud only recently – well, I’m giving them the attention they deserve and I have faith that they’ll take me where I ought to go.

That’s the trend these days. The shift. The unmistakable difference in my personality and my life: not just a faith in my self, but also an unflinching faith in the world. It is this alteration in my perspective that puts me so dangerously close to a conservative way of thinking (i.e., “Everything is as it should be, and therefore change is unnecessary.”) But that’s a subject for another post.

XO-M

NOTE: This post started as a message to a very dear friend.

What goes up…

More conclusions from letter-writing

I screamed at Riley. I feel like I’m a huge failure as a mom because I did that. I haven’t been able to sleep since then, and I keep telling myself that he’s only four months old, he probably won’t remember it, I was overworked and not sleeping well to begin with, it’s only my imagination that now he doesn’t seem to smile as much. I don’t know… I was just so tired and lonely and frustrated. The house was a mess, there was no food in the house, none of my laundry was clean, I was fighting with my brother, I had homework and schoolwork up my ass, and the maid and nanny were on an extended vacation. I hadn’t slept or eaten or showered, and he just wouldn’t stop crying. He was screaming so I started screaming, and that made him scream louder which directed my attention to him and before I know it-

It’s inexcusable, I know. I swear he looks at me with fiery hate now. I cry and ask his forgiveness. And I wonder just how insane I am, asking forgiveness from a four-month old. I look at all the photos I’ve taken of him: he looks so confident, serene, and happy. I pray to God I didn’t fuck that all up with one scream. I hope all the negativity is just part of my trumped-up emotions. I hope that all the child psychology articles are right, and babies don’t have long-term memory until they’re at least six months old…. God, parenthood is hard.

I knew that, but I hadn’t experienced it till that day.

This is what I’m up to:

I’m doing freelance writing for money, and I’m working on pet projects that are supposedly gonna earn money in the upcoming year. I’m on deadline for those writing gigs; plus school takes up soooo much time, with 7 classes and having to keep a high average in order to qualify for academic scholarship (which I really want to do for money reasons, as well as pride reasons and “it will look good on a CV”); plus keeping a healthy relationship with Rob and friends and family that are in the States while building relationships with my family and potential friends in the Philippines; and of course being a domestic diva (5 people in the household – including the nanny and maid, who I have to treat like “nieces” because of the culture and despite the fact that the nanny is old enough to be my mother – and 6 dogs!)… I’m pretty overwhelmed. I de-stress by blogging and reading and planning the future.

No joke: I fantasize about all the money I’ll make as an RN and Rob will make as an RN, and the fact that we are thisclose to already having 3 houses in our names, and our “real life” which will start when we catch up in NYC, and are able to do lots of traveling and working at glamorous jobs (writer for me, physicist for him) and have more genius, beautiful children.

How sad! How predictable I have become! How common!

I smoke all the time now, and I exercise until my bones ache. I think I’m punishing myself for screaming at Riley. I think I want some kind of absolution. Or maybe I need problems in order to function at a high level. Or maybe I just really, really need therapy. For the first time in my life, I’m really trying to be as close to “perfect” as I can possibly be, and I realize that I’m fitting the profile of a potential food disorder case. I’m high-strung, a perfectionist, easily upset by mistakes and flaws that I find in myself. I’m working so hard to achieve so much, and if I feel like any part of it is less than awesome, I buckle down, resist sleep and food, and sigh because at least I’ll be thinner and can fit into more clothes.

I tell myself this is all just a phase. Rob will get here (maybe as soon as February!), we’ll keep house, we’ll go to school, we’ll build a life free of instigating from all of our parents, and things will work. I tell myself that this is what I’ve been waiting for my entire life: a chance to write, reset my priorities, plan the future, earn degrees affordably, raise a beautiful child… I tell myself all of this, but I’m so wrapped up in performing, in acting, in being as close to perfect as possible that I don’t know what’s what anymore. I’m not sure who I am or what is real or how I’m supposed to get a hold of myself. I pray that I’ll wake up one morning and feel normal again. But right now, I just feel quick, moving, functioning at the speed of light, feeling and thinking and producing at the rate of a million breaths a second. And I say that it’s about time. Compared to how I was in NYC, I am now so productive, so good at fulfilling my potential, so active and full of momentum. Compared to how I am now, I was stagnant, static and inert. Now I’m learning science, how to be a nurse, new languages, how to be a mom, how to be a partner, how to be a daughter, how to be a sister – these are all things I feel like I thought I knew, but I’m realizing that I was always too self-involved to really know anything at all.

*sigh*

This is long. My head hurts. I should try to sleep. I’m supposed to see my nephews tomorrow, and I’m not sure how much posturing I’ll have to do. They’re sweet and respectful to me, and part of me assumes it’s only because I’m American and they think I’m rich…

Maybe I’m paranoid. Maybe I don’t know how to be happy. It sure feels like it. Here I am, in the best possible situation – writing a storm (and getting paid for some of it!), living it up on a tropical island, away from my crazy parents, with my gorgeous baby and (most of the time) awesome brother, and with hired help… And I want to write “with the love of a good man”, but I’m not sure right now if “love” or “good man” apply, and I don’t know if I’m fixated on disproving either/both because a hidden truth is gnawing at me or because I’m feeling a general malaise and needing to accuse something as the culprit.

I just know that happiness is new to me, and I don’t know how to handle it, and I don’t know if I’m able to fully achieve it. Like I wrote on Facebook recently, “life is so sweet, it’s giving me toothaches. I have to chew on some grit to fill in the cavities.” Maybe I’m not meant to go through life all fluffy and light. Maybe heavy and dark suits me.

Anyway, I’ve taken up enough of your time. LOL Let me know how you’re doing. Also, let me know: Am I going crazy? What’s this I’m feeling?

Dear Riley: You’ve Grown So Much

Dear Riley,

You’re only four months old and already I can imagine you on your first day of kindergarten, on your last day of elementary school, graduating high school, going off to college, dating, working, traveling, starting your own family… It’s not that I’m jumping the gun, really. It’s that you’re growing up so quickly, I’m scared that I’ll turn my head at the dinner table tonight and meet my grandkids.

It took only 25 minutes of pushing to get you into the world; that’s a fact I announce just as proudly as I would talk about winning a Pulitzer. Something about it feels like a foretelling of the future: you’re so quick to go to the next step, to do something you and the world may not yet be ready for, to boldly go where no 1-day old or 1-month old or 3-month old has ever been expected to go.

Just minutes after you were born, all slanty eyes and ink-black hair, you were bearing the weight of your head. The nurses were in love with your easy personality and muscle tone: you hardly cried, hardly pouted, hardly fussed. You begrudgingly cooperated when the doctor forced you to cry. You were so happy to cool out in your new environment and take it all in. I’d heard that babies were like this after birth, that they’re too tired from the birthing process to make noise, and that they sleep the whole time. But the nurses assured me that, no, you were special.

Five days after you were born, we went back to the hospital for your first check-up, and the doctor and all the nurses oohed and aahed over how cute and strong you were. We were in a sea of other newborns, all having been given the same time to meet with their pediatricians, and I expected to hear medical professionals gushing over every newly-birthed baby. But no. Only your doctor and nurse, and the nurses that your nurse called into the room to see how strong and adorable you were – those were the only ones making a fuss.

You showed off your skills: lifting up your head, flexing your limbs to reveal your muscles, never fussing or crying or screaming no matter what uncomfortable test or procedure the staff subjected you to. Everyone in that room was enraptured by you.

When you were nine weeks old, you were baptized and christened*. Your Grandma Nanette’s house was filled to the brim with family and friends, and each and every one of them (except for the sick ones) got to hold you. You enthusiastically went along with each of them, and babbled uncontrollably while doing so. A lot of them, especially the twenty-something year old guys, were too afraid to hold you, or hug you, or even look in your direction. They were reluctantly persuaded that you weren’t quite as fragile and delicate as they thought, and once you were in their arms they looked at you with warmth and affection.

You’d been “talking” for a few weeks by then, and everyone was amused at the way you attempted to communicate. Even more impressive was the fact that you didn’t cry the. entire. day. From 8 a.m. till 9 p.m., no matter who was holding you, no matter what kind of oils were dabbed onto your body or how much water was sprinkled on your head, or how quickly you were changed out of uncomfortable clothes, or how much noise and commotion was going on, or how bad your hiccups got, you hardly napped and yet only ever fussed when you were hungry.

This amazing behavior continued in the plane. You were 10 weeks old, and on a 20+ hour trip to the other side of the world, and despite an incident when a child stole your pacifier, despite the weird smells and sounds, despite the inevitable popping of your ears, you stayed calm and happy. Before you and I knew it, we were in the Philippines, being shepherded out of the airport terminal, facing the blazing noon-time tropical heat. The air conditioning in our SUV was on the fritz, and I frantically fanned you the whole way home. Yet there you were. In your carseat. Smiling and relaxed. Seemingly unaware that you could very well have been baking.

We’ve been in the Philippines for two months now, and in that time I’ve watched you grow bigger, stronger, more confident, and more aware. Now, at four months of age, you’ve more than doubled your birth weight and grown almost 8 inches. With lightning speed, you roll over and over and over in your crib or playpen or on my bed. You’re apt to spend an entire hour on your stomach as you try to negotiate the coordination of your arms and legs, and when you only manage to move an inch from your starting place, you cry out of frustration. Funny enough, even though you can’t move forward or backward, you’ve figured out how to turn in circles; one second you’ll be facing me, and the next second you’ll be facing away from me. You already sleep through the night and take naps on time, even though we never tried to sleep train you. And you play: by yourself, with everyone else, with your toys.

You love to grab everything, and my most favorite thing for you to grab is me. When I come home from school, I call your name, and you look for me, look at me, motion for me to pick you up, and fuse yourself to me. Sometimes you wrap your fingers around the strap of my shirt or a lock of my hair; sometimes you poke or pinch my cheeks. Always, you shriek with excitement and anticipation for cuddle time.

You know your name, and you turn when someone calls you. This is especially awesome since your dad often calls to you from the computer screen. You stare at him and you smile, and I know that it’s the most beautiful pain your dad’s ever felt. It’s the same way I feel when I lift you in the air and play “airplane” with you, and I’m well aware that in no time at all you’ll be too big for me to lift over my head. It’s the same way I feel when I hold you by the hands or the sides and you stand on your own two feet and you emanate the joy and pride of accomplishment. It’s the same way I feel when you’ve grown tired of cuddle time and you want nothing more than to sit in your bumbo chair or play by yourself like a big boy. It’s the same way I feel when your entire body booms and shakes with laughter, and you cause everyone around you to laugh along with you. You’re growing up, Riley. It’s happening so fast, so soon. I’m basking in the glow of every second that you’re awake and I’m home. I’m waiting eagerly for the time when your dad’s here and can do the same.

I think of your first four months of life, of all the unbelievable progress you’ve made, and all the happiness you’ve granted to all those lucky enough to have met you. I remember the smiles of your pediatrician and nurses, the love pouring out of people who had previously believed they’d never be ready to hold a newborn, the family and friends who have cooed at you and fussed over you and continue to love you because they just can’t get enough of you.

I get nostalgic about a time that’s seemingly so close to the present, when I was still anticipating your rolling babble and turning over and incessant touching. It all seems so perfect, so surreal, so amazing. One day, I’ll be left to sniff your newborn socks and reminisce about when you were small enough to fit into them. But now, as you’re asleep in my arms, I’ll only think of how amazing you are, and how lucky I am to have you.

You, Riley, make us believe that anything is possible.

You, Riley, are a miracle: the stuff of dreams, made real.

You, Riley, are loved. Especially by your dad and me.

And no matter how much time passes, no matter how much you’ve grown up, those three facts will never change.

Love,
Mommy

* Riley was christened in a Catholic church then baptized in a spiritual yet secular ceremony at Rob’s mom’s house. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Conclusions reached by letter-writing

Remember [sic.] that guy? He’s the one I daydreamed about doing dirty things to? SIDE NOTE: Yes daydreamed because I’ve reached the conclusion that when it comes to sex, I just don’t get wet for anyone but Rob. And what’s the point of daydreaming about doing someone if I won’t actually do them?

NEXT SIDE NOTE: *NEWSFLASH!* Holy crap, I’m pretty much married. And I LIKE it… Who the fuck am I?!

*breathing deeply*

Okay, yeah…  Well, he asked me out. [sic.] That guy. Kind of. I think. I dunno, the Filipino way of doing things slightly throws me off center. Plus I’m not interested in pursuing anything, so I’m not putting much effort into figuring out what he meant. Never mind that he’s probably interested in pursuing something with me on the off-chance that I’ll put out and also give in to bringing him to the States. My gut tells me that I could make this man my emotional slave if I wanted to…

But whatever.

Here’s the part that’s making my head spin. I’m not at all curious. I don’t feel the need to stroke my ego with a love slave. When I realized that I could possibly be getting laid here on the regular, I actually dried up knowing that it’s only possible with someone who isn’t Rob.

Speaking of Rob, he’s been throwing around the “M” word. A lot. Marriage, I mean… We talk about his move to the Philippines, and he keeps on asking if I want to get married in the Philippines (cuz we can afford a big ta-da over here), or if I’d rather wait till we move back to NYC (of course! I want all my fam/friends there!). And we’re constantly talking about having another baby and planning things financially for another baby and tuition and a wedding and…. holy crackwhore! I think I’ve reached an entirely new plateau of living. It’s not even a “stage”, it’s like a brand-new space in the universe.

Up until recently, I didn’t feel so certain about marriage. I was afraid that my dad’s steak of infidelity was hereditary, or at least too deeply ingrained into my subconscious to stop myself from giving in to temptation. I had all these fantasies about being the wild woman that no one could tame; having kids with a smattering of guys so that my family resembled a grouping of ambassadors from the United Nations; thinking that “I’m too good to settle down, or settle for anything really.”

But now it’s all changed. Now I realize that all of those feelings were only symptoms of fear; I wasn’t yet ready to grow up and take responsibility for a set way of life. Now I understand and empathize with the need to be anchored by something substantial. Having my life set by something real, and heavy, and meaningful is suddenly a real draw for me.

I’m trying not to be a snotty and self-righteous asshole who’s constantly looking down on people for not having reached this conclusion, but it’s so hard. I’m fortified with a sense of well-being that’s so awesome, I sometimes forget that other people may feel this way from living another kind of life. It boggles my mind to remember what life was like a year ago, and remember how thrilling and amazing and wild and crazy and hectic it all seemed – and how much I thrived on all the hysteria.

I feel like the Old Maria would spend sleepless nights wondering about the implications of all these changes. The New Maria, however, has other priorities. I’m not so much concerned with why I’m doing things, rather than feeling secure in my desire to want to do them and following through with them. I’m finding it’s a lot easier to accomplish my goals when I’m not tripping over my own slow & lagging/suspicious/skeptical feet.

I realize that this is what I want: something so purely figured into the American Dream that I’ve always felt certain that me – nonconformist, off-the-wall, hard-wired-to-self-implode-if-confronted-with-mediocrity Me – couldn’t possibly want it. I wanted, first and foremost, a challenge. I wanted to be certain that I didn’t want something because society made me want them. I wanted to make sure that I’d experienced EVERYTHING POSSIBLE before making up my mind about how I wanna live…

I still want those things, but now I’m of the mind-set that the most challenging goal is to be comfortable. Really comfortable. Not just wealthy, but healthy and loved and surrounded by goodness of every kind. I want to feel valuable and special. I want a life where I never have to worry about the State of the World (because I’m doing something about improving it), or not having fulfilled my potential (because I’m actively working on it), or never having succeeded (because I realize that what/who I am is a success). That kind of comfort is rare and a worthy challenge to my time and effort.

Maybe it’s a cop-out that my life all of a sudden fits the white-picket-fence template more than it ever has before. Or maybe I’ve simply exhausted every other option, and have come to the conclusion that this way of life, for me, for now, is what I want and need. Maybe it just so happens to look all white-picket-fence to me, but to most people, starting a family out-of-wedlock, moving overseas to a third-world country, fulfilling artistic potential, and general traveling-the-world-while-fulfilling-personal-potential and being a responsible/respectable/outrageous/spontaneous/caring/socially active individual is the farthest thing from the norm.

Or maybe both are versions of the “ideal” and I’ve simply found my niche in the world.

Wow. The ideal.

I think I’m fulfilling my version of the ideal. I think I’ve found where I fit. I think I’m immeasurably happy.

My world is satisfyingly full of awesomeness.

Riley has three “grandmas”

Today I learned to love my nanny, instead of seeing her as an adversary for my baby’s affection. It sounds trite and stupid, I know, but there. In writing. The truth. I need a nanny to take care of Riley while I’m at school, and having been his primary care giver for his entire gestation and post-uterine life, I was reluctant to let another woman step in. It’s strange, Internet, because I’m not a jealous person, but lemme tell you: I felt like the homely chick in the back of the classroom, batting my eyelashes at the quarterback as he was flirting with the head-cheerleader. I wanted to simultaneously kill her for having the attention of my love, and love her for giving him the attention and affection he so desired and deserved.

Cecil is awesome. She’s in her 40s, with five kids of her own and a heart of gold. Not only does she take care of Riley, but she tends to the outside of our property, does laundry, cooks, and cleans. She’s a godsend.

Sure, there were a couple of bumps in the road: times when I had to hold my ground and say in broken Tagalog (because I’m not yet fluent in the language), “Look, lady, I know you’ve got a hell of a lot more experience at this mommy thing than I do, but this is my kid and I’m paying you for a service: Do. Things. My. Way.” But she’s learned to adjust, I’ve learned to see her as someone on my side, and now I feel like Riley has three grandmothers. There’s my mom (known affectionately as “Nanay Liza”), Rob’s mom (known lovingly as “Grandma Nanette”), and Cecil, who’s called “Nanay Cecil”. For the record, “nanay” is pronounced “NAN-aye”, and it means “mother” in Tagalog; in certain circles, though, (especially when the grandmother is very close to her grandchild) it’s also a colloquial term for “grandmother”.

I’ve gotta admit, even allowing my son to call this woman “Nanay” was a struggle for me. Every smile she received from him felt like a slash to my heart. Every time he laughed with her, I was filled with envy. Every time she bathed him or cuddled him or rocked him to sleep, I felt like my place was being taken away.

But I needed to study, and she had to do these things. School here is so different than it is in the States (more on this in another blog). I’m used to effortlessly getting As, but the pressure was overwhelmingly against my favor. I MUST be an amazing mom, I said to myself. I MUST be an awesome student. I MUST blog all the time and work on my writing and get back my figure. I. MUST.

I don’t know what it was: maybe the difference in culture, or the shock of realizing that I don’t cut the once-stunning figure I once did, or the pangs of guilt/sadness/anger every time I thought of Rob being thousands of miles away, but I became so emotional. So very emotional. Not in a depressed and hard-pressed kind of way, but in a pure, very real, OHMYGODTHISISHARD overwhelmed kind of way. November 9th was Rob’s 28th birthday, and I couldn’t stop myself from crying in class.

Let’s rewind because I don’t know if you caught that.

I cried. Me. The once-tough-as-nails-can’t-fuck-with-me-don’t-you-dare-even-think-of-fucking-with-me-unless-you-want-your-mother-to-be-stabbed-hardass was crying. In public. Because I couldn’t control the tears.

Yes, Internet, something very profound and elementary in me has changed. I don’t know if it’s for the better, but I do know that it makes me cry with joy every time I return home from school. I know that it makes me look at Riley and see herds of unicorns galloping majestically in rainbow-drenched fields of lush, verdant greens. I know that I’m not PMSing, nor am I pregnant again. And yet. Here I am. Emotional. Vying for attention from my three-month old. Seeing my hired help as competition.

I don’t fit that last description anymore, but the rest? I’m pretty sure I’m still there. I don’t know what “there” is, or if I like it, or if I’m even comfortable calling it out, making it real, telling people about it. I just know that it exists, and I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t put it out there for all to see.

Something clicked today, between Cecil showing me pictures of her daughter and the two of us watching the Pacquiao-Cotto fight on TV with my dad: there was a bond there. A mutual understanding. A capturing of kindred spirits. I knew that I had nothing to worry about. Cecil will take care of Riley while I’m at school. She’ll love him as if he were her own. She’ll follow my instructions, and never question my decisions. And I’m still his mom. Loving him. Showering him with affection. Giving him all the time I can muster, and even more when I can’t really keep myself awake but wanting more time with him. I’m still his mom. No matter how many times she puts him to bed, or bathes him, or changes his clothes. At the end of the day, it’s me he’ll run to. Me he’ll climb into bed with for story time. Me he’ll bake cookies with and whose neck he’ll nuzzle and who will eventually bring him to New York. Nanay Cecil is an extension of me, loving him, taking care of him, making sure he is safe and happy when I’m not around. She’s the ultimate help in child-rearing. The very amazing woman who makes my life so much easier, and my son’s life so much better.

And really, how many moms are lucky enough to say they have someone like her?

Dear Riley: What You’re Already Teaching Us

NOTE: Pics will be inserted into this post once I find the cord that connects the camera to the laptop.

Dear Riley,

There’s a storm outside. The wind is whipping around so that I feel like we might end up in Oz. The rain is cascading down in sheets. Thunder is crashing all around. And yet here you are, 16 days old, quiet as a lamb, and safe and sound in your bassinet. A string quartet could be serenading you with Brahm’s lullaby, you’re so calm and serene.

Any second now, I expect you to wake up with a jolt and give me the look you’ve already patented that seems to say, “Umm… I don’t know how to tell you this, but there’s a problem.” It’s pretty amazing, this look. It’s bewilderment, surprise, disappointment, and condescension all wrapped up into one forehead-lined grimace.

Maybe those aren’t emotions I’d like readily expressed by my teenage son, but you’re, like, two weeks old. At this age, honestly, ANYTHING you do is pure adorableness. So this look? It’s as awesome as the events you caused on the day we took you home from the hospital.

You were two days old, and our first stop after being discharged from the hospital was your Grandma Nanette’s house in Brooklyn. Auntie Julie and Tita Tessie were fawning over you, and when it was your Grandma Nanette’s turn, she just held you out in her two brown hands and stared down at your perfect little face. She sat there, on the sofa of the upstairs living room, her eyes going over every little detail about you. And your Grandma Nanette, the same wise-cracking and hard-as-nails woman who has survived a seriously bad bout of lung cancer, the excrutiating pain brought about by chemo therapy and radiation treatment, and a 20-year old divorce that STILL has her going to court with her ex – well, she had to hold back tears. She just stared at you and all of these emotions welled up inside her, threatening to expose themselves.

Your dad and I watched from the other side of the room, and I could feel the gears of your dad’s mind working as he took note of your Grandma Nanette’s change of expression: He felt this amazing tinge of jealousy and joy all rolled into one.

See, parents and their children often have very complex and complicated relationships (as you’ll no doubt learn), and your dad and Grandma Nanette definitely prove this rule. But at that moment, as your Grandma Nanette’s eyes met yours and her face glowed, there was no doubt of her love for you. And this knowledge, I believe, transformed your dad’s opinion of his mom for the better.

Next, we went to Queens, to settle into your Tatay Ben’s and Grandma Liza’s house. Your Uncle Justin had rented a car so that we could drive home in air-conditioned comfort, and just as soon as he pulled up to the curb and your dad lifted your car seat out of its base, your Tatay Ben appeared. It’s like he sensed you from the backyard. He hadn’t yet seen you, and the moment he laid eyes on you it was like he was on ‘shrooms and a kapleidescope of color was beaming out of your every orifice, saturating the world in rainbows. He was entranced.

Tatay Ben was on the phone with Tatay Onnie, and all the while he was taking note of your every feature and expression, and communicating it to his brother. We brought you inside, and almost immediately I knew you’d soiled yourself. What I didn’t know was that somehow your dirty diaper had overflowed, so that half of your back was covered with yellowish goop. Tatay Ben relayed this to Tatay Onnie, and their converation went something like this:

Tatay Ben: Talk about holy crap! Riley crapped so much that it’s halfway up his back!
Tatay Onnie: It’s okay. Don’t freak out too much. It’s just baby poop.
Tatay Ben: Freak out? Who’s freaking out? It’s breast milk that’s been through a newborn’s system. It’s so clean, I could eat it with a spoon… I think I just might!

That’s how much your Tatay Ben is in love with you: He’s willing to eat your poop. Be sure to remember that when you need your first bail bond.

The fact is, all of your grandparents have shown great emotion concerning your birth. Your Grandma Liza cried when she first saw you; your Grandpa Benny cried the first time he heard that I was pregnant with you. All of this mirth and giddiness is doing wonders for the repoire your father and I have with our parents. In the days since that day, your father and I have noticed and appreciated more about our parents than we ever have before. We now understand the opposition they’ve faced, the strength they’ve shown, and the beauty of their humanity. We’ve come to accept their faults and mistakes. We’ve learned to depend on them for support of all kinds. We’ve realized for the first time that they are in fact human, and as such, are perfectly imperfect. These are facts that have never quite sunken in. Go figure: You don’t even have a birth certificate yet, and you’re already teaching us a thing or two about life.

From the moment I decided to have you, I knew you’d change my life in so many ways. I knew you’d alter my perspectives, opinions, and priorities. I knew that you’d change my relationships and make me such a different person from the one I was accustomed to. I knew all of that and I was ready for it. What I didn’t
bargain on was the awe you inspire, the beauty you relate, the hope and joy you bring just by being around. Your birth completes me in ways I’d never thought possible. And for that, I’ll always be grateful.

Love always,
Mommy