2010 April » Aspiring Mama

This post originally appeared on www.bookieboo.com.

bookieboomember What an exciting evening! I just logged on to write my weekly post and all logical thoughts flew out the window when I saw my photo on the left side and the word “editor” staring right back at me! Thank you, Leah, for this fantastic opportunity!
So should I, like, make a speech or something? You’re supposed to make speeches when things like this happen, right? Okay. Gimme a second here to think…
Ready?

“Um, *tapping mike*, “Is this thing on? I’d like to thank this opportunity to thank Bookieboo, for believing in me and my ability to inspire other moms getting started on their quest to healthier habits even though my bum is still (almost) as big as it was a year ago. You have no idea how much this means to me. And my platform as a wanna-be-author. But really, Leah? It’s an honor to be a part of such a fabulous site. This is what support is all about.
I’d also like to thank The Husband. If it wasn’t for his support, and his job, I wouldn’t even have a computer, Internet, or a gym membership secured with the sole intention of kicking my own ass into shape. There’s also the Bodybugg I stopped using, the dietitian I finally hired, and the spendage required for sports bras to keep my DD’s from knocking me out cold whilst doing the Zumba classes. I love you, Sweetie.
Mom? I can’t forget you! And Buttercup? You are not going to understand why you wanting to play with Mama’s tummy pudge as you fall asleep (much like one would gently massage a stress ball at work) is not on my List of Favorite Things in the World, for a very long time. I love you, and don’t tell anyone I ever said this, but every pound I gained carrying you and haven’t been able to lose since? Yeah, baby, every single one of those pounds and every single stretch mark was worth it.
And of course, I can’t forget The Academy (aka Bookieboo members!) This entire community is an incredible source of support for any mother who reaches out asking for it. You ladies rock!”

There. That was my speech. And before I take my bow, I’d like to leave you with the one thought that took me almost a year to embrace: No matter what the scale says, you are a success every day you keep trying.

So keep at it, ladies. I know I’m going to.

I’ve tweeted about it. I’ve mentioned it in passing in my blog posts. And every time I mention the Mexi-fro I was, ahem, blessed with thanks to a round of bad luck in the DNA gene pool, I get plenty of responses asking when I’m going to finally post it for the world to see.

You see, dear bloggy world, there’s a major difference between bed head and what I wake up with in the morning. I’ve got curls so kinky my black friends point and laugh.

Need a better visual? Imagine a troll doll. Remember those? Good. Now imagine that it’s been electrocuted after your six-year-old little sister has given it a good-old hair combing and made it look, amazingly, worse than it did when your parents caved and finally bought it for you. Now, add some styling products (you know, in a pathetic attempt to tame the troll-doll ‘fro) and then place your fuzzy little friend in bed for eight hours (because everyone knows that us freaky curled folks only wash our hair two times a week.)

Eight hours have passed? Good. Now pick up your little so-ugly-it’s-cute ‘fro-baby and set it in front of the mirror and gently remind it that there is no need to fill the sink and jump the bridge and just end it all because no matter how scary it may look in the morning, you still love it because it’s what’s on the inside that really matters. Then, when you’ve talked the troll doll off the ledge (quite literally), start the whole process over again.

Done? Good. Now you know what I look like in the morning.

And you also know why I knew The Husband was The One that first morning we woke up together with me in my mexi-fro glory. Simply put, he didn’t run screaming from the room.

Curious enough to see it yet?

I’ve been trying to think of a reason good enough, worthy enough, to humiliate myself publicly since the first time I tweeted about the mexi-fro and I finally got one. I’m walking in the March for Babies in memory of Juliette Terzieff’s little boy, and have a personal goal of $500. If I get to my goal, I take photos first thing in the morning and post them for your point-and-laugh pleasure.

I do reserve the right to put a bra on, get dressed, and paint my face with enough cosmetics to retain the littlest bit of dignity. No need to scare the children, mind you.

I have had a million ideas for blog posts in the past week, but this is the first time I’ve had a chance to sit down and write. And by time to write, I mean The Husband and Buttercup are asleep and I’m not even though I should be. I’ve got an early date with a plane tomorrow, after all.

We’re heading back to Tucson after a hurried and expensive trip yo Michigan for my Guelo’s viewing. He died on April 5th and we were all on a plane on April 7 for a day-long camp-out at the funeral home, kissing and hugging anyone who showed up because that’s how our tias raised us. And even though I’m Mexican enough to usually kiss first and as questions later, I’m hyphenated enough to have ignored certain family members who have cryptically been referred to on this blog as The Crazies without an ounce of ethnic guilt.

This was a big moment for me.

Guelo was on a plane on Friday and buried in Mexico on Saturday with as many family members as could possibly be at his side paid their final respects. But I don’t have a passport and didn’t have time to get one.

Cue the ethnic guilt.

Buttercup thought the whole shin-dig was a party and she was the guest of honor. She hugged, kissed, and played with faces we all thought she wouldn’t remember after a year in Arizona. Which makes me think I’ll be that mom on flying the friendly skies tomorrow with the pissed off toddler who won’t understand why her family reunion has ended so abruptly. Or why her Padrino (godfather) couldn’t fit in her carry-on luggage.

I won’t bother explaining to her that my workout gear fit in mine, and I never got a chance to use it while on this little trip. She’ll just get mad. If I’d just been honest with myself and the mess of family obligations I knew I was going to be juggling while here, I could have just left that crap home and had enough room for a few of our leaner relatives to hitch a ride back home with us.

Which reminds me–I really need to work out. And stop bitching about the fact that I’m not one of those lucky people who loses weight while stressed out.

I’m waiting for the phone to ring.

It won’t be good news when it does.

My 85-year-old grandfather is dying. And I’m 2,500 miles away. We won’t make it in time to say good-bye in person. So my sister put the phone to his ear and I told him we love him and that we wish we were there. And then I had my sister kiss him on the top of his head. Without words, he’ll know that’s from me.

I’m 5’6”. He’s 5’0”. And since I’ve been tall enough to do it, I’ve always kissed him on the top of his shiny, spotted head. He’d grin and call me a cabrona, which is basically the Spanish equivalent of “asshole”. But the thing about Spanish is that any word can be turned into a term of endearment. Gordis and gordita are forms of “chubby” and “fatty” but are tossed around between siblings and parents and their children with smiles, giggles, and love.

Guelo is your typical Mexican male. He doesn’t say he loves you. But you hear it in the smile in his voice and the twinkle in his eyes every time he says the word cabrona.

I’ll be thinking about that tonight while I wait for the phone to ring.

I’d like to thank the academy (again)

Goal equals Mexi-fro equals Public Humiliation

Wordless Wednesday: When Buttercups Dream

We now return to our regularly scheduled program

Love, assholes, and my grandpa

My Agent:

Follow Me

Subscribe

Aspiring Mama says…

StatPressCN TopPosts

Been there. Done That. Got the T-shirt.

Blogroll

Meta