Ballad of the Busy Mom

May 20th, 2012 § 1 Comment


Image

The best hide-and-seek game EVER.

Not now.

I can’t.

Go to sleep.

I love you.

Drop that, don’t touch that, pick it up, spit it out.

Slow down. Wipe that off. Don’t spill.

Be careful!

I’m busy.

I love you.

Go play outside. I can’t right now.

Watch a movie.

I missed you so much.

Mommy’s on the phone. Mommy’s feeling tired. Mommy has a headache.

Take a nap.

Can I play too?

I love you.

Get up. Move it. Hurry up. Slow down!

Eat your peas.

Can I cuddle with you?

You’re too little, we can’t afford it, you don’t need one, you have one just like it at home.

I love you.

 Wait until we get home, maybe for Christmas, ask Grandma.

Mommy has to work now sweetie.

Wait…come back…just one more kiss…just one little hug.

I’m sorry.

I wish I could.

Tomorrow will be better, baby.

I promise.

Finding Amanda

April 28th, 2012 § 1 Comment


Me on the left in white, Amanda on the right in blue.

In my inaugural post I wrote about my childhood friend, Amanda, and how I would probably never see her again. I did not mention, however, that I looked for her often. In fact, I have looked for her ever since I found out about internet. I googled and facebooked and classmated her when I could. Since we met in Atlanta I looked for Amandas there and I found many women with her combination of first and middle name or first and last name and contacted about a dozen over the years, but none were her. I got a few polite responses and couple of well-wishers but mostly they did not answer and I was left with the feeling that maybe I had found her and she did not remember me, or just did want to be my friend anymore (or again).

And then, last week, surrounded by the boxes and mess that come with every move, I decided to look for her on Linkedin, only this time I tried her middle name because I remembered it was her mother’s maiden name, and I did not filter the city. I found one in Memphis and wrote my standard “Is it you?” message, with the watered-down feeling of hope and dread. And then I forgot about the whole thing.

Until she answered back. It was Amanda, my Amanda, my friend who had played with me during recess for all of fourth grade and some of fifth, my friend who wasted a box of sidewalk chalk with me decorating her driveway. Every day she would cross the creek that separated our houses so we could ride the bus to school (the bus that stopped on her street was a different one) and often she would come early and my mother would force-feed her some arepa  (she told us once that she only had a diet coke for breakfast). We slept over at each others’ houses and shared our diaries and liked the same boys (we would like one she liked one month and then change to one I liked the next month). She was very special to me and I both longed and feared finding her.

I wrote to her email and waited and waited and it took forever for her to write back (like 4 days, which in email time is like a month) and I figured she just was not interested. When I finally got a message, my fears melted instantly. I was crying by the end of the first paragraph.

Immediately I was struck by the similarities in our lives. This is a girl I have not seen since I was 9 and had no contact with since I was 13. But she is also a photographer, got married 4 days before I did on the same year as I did and had a son born mere weeks before mine. We share a many of the same views and values. She is also moving, and for the same reasons (crappy landlord, bigger yard) Our lives have taken us down such different paths that I am in awe that now, after 25 years, we are so in synch.

Were we always this similar? Did I have really good taste in friends a quarter of a century ago? Did that friendship mean so much to both of us as to shape our futures?I don’t know. And right now, I really don’t care, because  I still have about 6 unpacked boxes from my 27th move. I have lived in 27 homes spread out over 6 cities and 2 countries in my 35 years and having found a piece of my past while packing up my present seems like a nice way for the Universe to balance itself out.

I will surely post about this later. For now, he is a picture she sent me of us sharing a heart-shaped locket (the kind you break in half so each person gets one. I lost my half in one of my earlier 26 moves but she still has hers).

 

Educating Emma

April 14th, 2012 § 2 Comments


A factory of Parmigiano-Reggiano. There are tw...

This is about the amount of cheese I need per week.

My friend Carolina recently gave birth to what I can only imagine is a gorgeous baby girl, Emma. When Caro announced the arrival of her bundle of joy I decided to transmit some of my hard-earned wisdom upon the child and mom thought my pearls where blog-worthy, so here I share. Add your own and maybe we can educate Emma together.

Dear Emma
Welcome to the world. Here are a few things I think you should know:
Men only give you flowers for one of two reasons: they just did something rotten or they are about to.
Never eat yellow snow.
There is no such thing as too much chocolate or too much Parmesan cheese.
All anti-acids taste like chalk, no matter what the commercial says.
Garlic is the best form of birth control, followed by hairy legs.
It is never polite to laugh when you are kissing.
Whenever you are invited to dinner, bring dessert. You will be polite and also you will make sure that there is at least ONE GOOD THING to eat.
You can never have too many purses. Or shoes. Or purses to go with the shoes or shoes to go with the purses.
Never ask a man if something makes you look fat.
Never ask a woman if something makes you look fat.
Don’t ask anyone if what you are eating is fattening. It probably is. Deal with it.
Don’t ask yourself if you NEED that dress. You don’t. Get it anyway because the things we need keep us alive but the things we want give is reason to live.
There is a big difference between getting by and getting ahead.
It is easier to keep up that to catch up.
We all have mustaches.
All men have ear hair. They just do.
Boys are born gross. Trust me. They do not outgrow it.
When in doubt, wear pink.
If you are not sure what the filling is, go for the plain chocolate. You might think you get caramel but you probably get stuck with the gross cherry filling that tastes like cough syrup.
Shots always hurt. The doctor says you won’t feel a thing, but he is wrong. It is a piece of metal being shoved into your vein. Of course it hurts. But the hurt goes away. This is also true with broken hearts.
Don’t cry over men; they make ‘em every day. You are bound to find a good one eventually.
Be nice to your hair or it will get back at you.
Always tweeze your eyebrows before getting your picture taken.
Never wear white when you get your picture taken for an official document.
There is no such thing as foolproof plan. Fools always find a way to fuck things up.
Women think older men are more mature. This is not true: men don’t mature.
You know you are in a loving, committed relationship when one of you farts and the other one says nothing. No laughing, no blaming the dog, no faking it was the leather on the couch. Just a fart.
Sharing a bed is hard. Sharing a closet is harder.
Guns, condoms, safety belts and insurance policies: better to have them and not need them than to need them and not have them.
Roaches, ghosts, aliens and guerrillas: believe they exist but don’t go looking for them.
Hot dogs, laws and reality tv: three things you don’t want to know how they are made.
Babies, pets and cars are designed to make you look bad in front of company.
Everybody is ashamed of their parents at one time or another. And then you become a parent and think you are soooo cool.
No matter how much time has passed since you last saw them, your mother’s friends will always say how much you’ve grown.
You will never do enough to make your parents think you lived up to your full potential, but you will never do so little that they will not be proud.
You are never too old to crawl into bed with Mommy.
You are never too old to want to hold Daddy’s when you’re scared.
You are never too old to get picked on by your older sister (in your case, brother).
You are never too old to appreciate it when they stick up for you.
The more important the relationship, the more embarrassing the story your mother tells.
Your mother will always show baby pictures of you to your boyfriends. Let them know in advance that they must say that you were the cutest baby EVER.
Your boobs are fine. Your ass is fine. Stop fiddling with your hair and stand up straight.
When in doubt, smile.
If you point at things with your breasts, you will get them cheaper and faster.
Flirting to tease is like playing with candle wax: it seems fun and harmless at first but somebody always gets burned.
Don’t say “I love you” unless you mean it. And when you mean it, say it often.
You never know which one is the last goodbye so make each one count.
The things you regret the most are the risks you didn’t take. Embarrassment turns into comedy, pain becomes a lesson, but regret never goes away.
As hard as it is to believe, everyone has problems. Never assume yours are any better or worse.
If you cheat at cards or marriage make sure either nobody knows or everybody knows.

If I think of more things I will let you know.

Real estate, distraction, chaos…and miracles

March 27th, 2012 § Leave a Comment


Our log house.

We are finally moving. The anal compulsive Hun that owns the apartment we live in did not let us out of our contract a month early (we had to pay the equivalent of 3 month’s rent as a fine if we left) and I had to find new tenants but finally, after strenuous wishing, we are good to go. And going we are! We are moving to Chia, a small town about 45 minutes away from Bogota where Matías can have a big yard to play in. I promise there will be pictures.

Anyway, the owner being the pill that she is (if I had such powers I would smite her with a whooping-cough and a lazy bladder), we are glad to go. But still, making the change is a little scary and very time-consuming, which explains why I have like 5 great posts in draft but haven’t posted for days. Packing is dull, hard work and when Matty finally falls asleep, blogging is the last thing on my mind.

Well, that is not entirely true. I blog in my head all the time. TYPING is the last thing on my mind. But we found a great house, the truck is scheduled to arrive Saturday morning and by this time next week I will be in my huge log house with a big stone chimney and waking up to the sounds of birds chirping instead of cars honking. And if by Thursday I haven’t killed any of the birds, I’ll consider it a win!

The boobie wars

March 8th, 2012 § 2 Comments


When my son was born a couple of years ago I went through many strange and wonderful changes in my body. My stomach felt spongy, my thighs kept bumping into things and my breasts were porn-star worthy. Sadly, the fluff did not last long as I was unable to breast feed. turns out my C-cups are just for show. I tried for 3 months, making him suckle and using a breast pump, drinking tons of water and whatever herbal teas old ladies recommended. The most I ever produced was 10 millilitres (one third of an ounce). In the end, both my pediatrician and my OBGYN told me to let it go, that powdered milk has the same nutrients as breast mil and that I was not harming my child in any way by bottle feeding.

I am happy to say my son’s height and weight have always been normal and his cuteness is off the charts. Even so, I have encountered some hostility, especially from other moms. “You should have kept trying! You should have done this and this and that”.

I call it boob guilt. Some people seem to believe that bottle feeding is like copping out, like cheating on a math test by taking out your calculator. I got sneers and sighs and flat-out eye brow aggression,  even after I quoted the numerous studies that have revealed that breast milk is not necessarily better, it is bonding that counts.

I had a great experience bottle-feeding. It allowed my husband and parents to bond with my son at an early age. I never fed him while watching TV or reading or doing anything else. I was -and still is- our time together. While I give him a bottle I touch his hands or feet and look lovingly into his eyes.  I have no regrets. Sure, if I could do it all over again with my boobs, I would. Give me the pain and the sore nipples and the grossed-out husband (mine hates milk) any day. But spare me the guilt if I can’t, or choose not to.

Drinking a gross beverage that was suppose to help produce milk

It’s my kid, they’re my boobs and what happens between the three of us is our business.

 

How to be a Great Mommy

March 4th, 2012 § Leave a Comment


My son's attempt at body art

I was talking to a fellow Mommy the other day and she mentioned that she felt guilty because she worked all day. “I mean, I could stay home. I don’t have to work…”

“Yes, you do” I pipped up. I have heard this guilt before, especially when other Moms hear that I quit my job to take care of my son. I get two kinds of reactions: people who think I am crazy for giving up work or people who think they are crazy because they did not. I think we are both quite sane because if there is one thing motherhood has taught me it’s that nobody knows what is best for you and your child better than you do.

I LIKE being at home. I love to cook, I always have, and I love my son. I love getting dirty and playing with watercolors and making action hero soup. I love cuddling and snuggling and running when he tells me that he is a tiger and is going to bite me and faking an illness so he can be a doc-a-tor and give me med-sun. And also, I hated being at an office. I don’t like high voltage jobs or meetings or clients calling me forty times a day. I suck at water-cooler-talk and hate playing Secret Santa and never remember Secretary’s Day. I am not a people person. I can’t remember the last time I was surrounded by twenty people I was on first-name basis with.

But my guilt-ridden friend is. She confessed that after about an hour with her three-year-old, she ran out of things to do. She got tired of playing and didn’t like to get yucky things in her hair and hated the taste of the soggy french fries her son tried to feed her. And she felt bad because her husband’s salary was enough for them to live well and still she had chosen to stick her son in a day-care so she could work. And she wondered if she was a bad mother and sighed and said “If only I could be a good mommy, like you”.

And I said “Hold it. The best thing you can give your son is a happy mom. If working makes you happy then he is better off with 4 hours a day of you being satisfied and fulfilled and proud of yourself than 24 hours a day of you being miserable and impatient and desperate”.

And I really mean that. There are eco-friendly moms that take their children everywhere on a basket of hand-woven hemp on a bike made from recycled cans and grow their own food; there are moms who spend all day doing Important Things and get home tired but hold their children proudly because they feel that they made the world a better place for the next generation; there are moms who have to work because they need the money and can’t wait to get home and play with their kids and shower them with all they can afford thanks to their hard work; there are moms who don’t like messy games but are infinitely patient at teaching manners and politeness. And all those moms are great. Because being a happy person is the first step to being a Great Mom.

I need a time out from the time out

March 1st, 2012 § 4 Comments


The Jedi Smile. "This isn't the baby you want to be mad at..."

I had to do it. Normally I don’t care if he spills but this time he did it on purpose. He looked me in the eye and spilled the mango juice all over the table. So I gave him a time out. He is sitting there, singing. Looking at the wall. I have to leave him there for two whole minutes. That’s what all the books say: minute per year of age. So he’s two and that means two minutes. I did all the things the experts say you should do. He spilled a little and I told him in a firm but loving voice that it was not OK to spill the juice. He did it again and I warned him that he would get a time out if he continued to spill so after he poured the rest of the glass on the table, I had no choice. Right? I had to teach him that there are limits, that rules are rules, that he needs to do as I say sometimes. Even if it’s only juice and I can easily clean it up and it’s no big deal because we don’t have a carpet or anything. No stains. But still, STILL, he needs to learn. And I have to teach him. Who else, if not me? Because if I don’t teach him this now he will grow up knowing no limits and then he’ll have no respect for authority and wind up a criminal. That’s what the books say…and it’s not like he’s locked up in a dark closet. I took him away from the mess so he could have a minute to think about what happened. That’s how it’s done, experts say.

What they don’t say is how hard it is to hear him call me. He’s not even crying. He’s making funny faces. Of course, he’s trying to use his Supercute powers on me. Oh no, he’s using the Jedi Smile. It is powerful indeed.

Just a few seconds to go and it is taking all I have not to run to him, hug him and kiss him and tell him that I have an evil twin that was impersonating me but that I am the Nice Mommy and I will let him spill all the juice in the world just to make him happy.

It’s over. I go to him and tell him that Time Out is over. He turns to the wall and says “Bye bye, Time Out. See you later!” and invites me to bounce like Tigger. I have never bounced more happily.

King me

February 20th, 2012 § 3 Comments


My son and I went out for a walk today which included a stop at a local burger place for a snack and some playtime in their jungle gym. Afterwards, as we were walking home, I noticed people smiling at me. I am used to getting smiles, but they are usually the oh-your-son-is-so-cute variety, with an occasional hey-you’re-kinda-cute-yourself. But these smiles were more on the smiley side than usual, and I discovered why as we walked by a window.

That moment when you realize the looks were of mockery.

Since we were halfway home and I had already been laughed at by a dozen strangers I decided to continue wearing my crown. My son had one, too, so we looked quite regal together.

Now you see why the smiles are usually the he's-so-cute kind

And then we got home and Daddy joined in the fun. We posed for our Royal Family Portrait.

We look way Royal

Just in case you were one of the people who laughed, let me say this: I was wearing a crown because my two-year-old said I looked like a Princess. And that made me feel like a Queen. No one has worn a crown so proudly since Kate became Mrs. England. So there!

See? I DO look like a Pwintheth

PS: The people from Burger King don’t know I exist. This is not a sponsored post but I wouldn’t mind getting a shake a some fries out of it.

The un-respectable “A” word.

February 17th, 2012 § 6 Comments


I have never introduced myself or referred to myself as an “artist”. I don’t even say “writer”. I sort of hide behind “journalist”, knowing that it is a tad better than “blogger”, which in this country is right up there with tarot reader or professional scrap-booker. The very word artist sends shivers down the spines of my  respectable family and their respectable neighbors with respectable careers and jobs. Being an artist just isn’t done, especially not when your parents are well-educated upper-class socialites who worked their asses off to provide you -and your sisters- with the best damn private education this country had to offer. And even then you couldn’t go all hippie and get some useless degree in creative writing or the like. No, going to college meant getting a real degree so you could be a lawyer or a doctor or a rocket scientist. And if you really, really wanted to be a *sigh* writer, you had to study something that would allow you to make a decent living. Something to fall back on. Something respectable.

My name on a wall

Which is why my two sisters, one older and one  younger, did us all proud and got sensible degrees in business administration. And me? Well, I’m the odd girl out. I was always the different one, the one with the imaginary playmates (who wouldn’t always play with me) and her nose in a book. I was the one who believed (OK, believes) in fairies and wrote poetry and concentrated more on the storyline than the wardrobe when playing with Barbie dolls. So I went as far as I could go and majored in Journalism and Mass Communications. I became a reporter and specialized in the arts, partly because I loved the art world and partly because I cried the whole time I was doing the ‘red pages’ (crimes and deaths). I became the editor and chief reporter (all right, the ONLY reporter) and photographer for the Sunday insert.Funny how something to fall back on became something to hide behind. I hid behind being a “photojournalist” because coming out and saying I was a photographer and a writer was just tacky.

One of the walls of the exhibit.

Then I hid behind being a professor in a university where I got to teach people how to do what I loved but was too chicken to do. And I did that for a long time until I got pregnant and quit to take care of my son (more on that here and here). And then…a few months ago…I got itchy.

I felt something stirring in me. At first I thought it was boredom, but it ran deeper than that. I still had my humor column so I started a blog to upload those columns and maybe get readers from other Spanish-speaking countries. And then I started this blog, which is kind of a cyber-happy place in that I write what I feel like writing and don’t get payed so I have no responsibilities or dues. And it was fun and freeing. And I met a bunch of people and I started writing for some stuff online like the Indie Ink Challenge and I entered a contest and I got the Wordless Wednesday thing and…and…and I discovered, that I love to write. That I love to take pictures, not just for Wordless Wednesday, not just of my cute son doing cute things but really as an aesthetic, creative, artistic endeavor.

My dad framed each and every picture.

And finally, this year, out of the blue, some guy that was friends with a cousin who…well, some random guy stopped by my parent’s new house and looked at my pictures and loved them. He turned out to be the marketing director for a mall in Pereira, my hometown, and suggested I set up and exhibition. So I did. I printed out 24 pictures of close-ups of flowers, all of them taken in that region. At first I said this was just a quick way to make a buck to support my writing habit. But then, the day of the opening, there it was, in big bold letters (the letters were bolder than I had ever been): the Artist Angela Alvarez. And I got interviewed and people came and saw and ooohed and aaahhhed. ¡I felt like I was coming home, and my entire family not only oohed and ahhhed but also helped and supported and cheered and told me it was about time I did what they had always known I wanted to do.

And I accepted that maybe, despite my respectable efforts otherwise, I am a fucking hippie artist after all. One more statistically hopeful photographer-writer trying to triumph in spite of the hyphens; waiting to be published, dreaming of being discovered, yearning to be read. Just another cliche… and damn proud of it.

This blurry picture was the best I could find of all of us. My family is not trying to hide their identity, it was just taken by a clueless cell phone-challenged person.

Wordless Wednesday: Sunny, tropical Bogota.

February 15th, 2012 § 9 Comments


In case you missed it, I was being sarcastic. People often think Bogotá is all palm trees and piña coladas. Think again!

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