The Fine Print

At thirty years old I had never won anything in my life. Not at raffles in piñatas as a kid, not in seventh grade when Marcela and I filled a whole Super Selectos sticker album for a chance to win a car (never mind that neither one of us could drive) ,and not when I repeatedly bought lottery tickets from the guy who sold them right outside the Courthouse.

The first time I ever held a winning ticket was at an American Chamber of Commerce event where I won a stay at the Decameron- then fairly new and the only all inclusive beach hotel in El Salvador. I had never been, and people hyped it up- it had a bunch of different restaurants, drinks by the pool all day and even a club.I am not sure if my excitement was due to the mere fact of having won something -anything- or the staycation itself. I was still riding my winning high when my attention turned to the but- it's all good until the but- otherwise known as the fine print. That very small paragraph that does not initially jump out at you, designed to not be discovered until it is too late to figure out you didn't get full disclosure up front. In said print it was stated that I could not use my vacation: 1)on weekdays except Wednesday, 2)on weekends, 3)on holidays and 4) after Dec 31st 2009. It was November.To this day I have never been to Decameron.

At thirty five I became pregnant with Finn. For forty weeks I listened to every woman I know's take on pregnancy and maternity. They warned me about everything and fed me their wisdom and experience-whether I wanted it or not. The anti stretch mark potions that work, how to pump more than you need so you can freeze some,how to deal with the hazards of breastfeeding ( the gel pads don't work btw), what to pack in your hospital bag, how to avoid nipple confusion, and what store has the cutest pregnancy clothes. I was introduced by these women to things like the Bella Band and Gin Gins, Diaper Genies, the glow in the dark pacifier, and the Mixie.(The latter is is the most awesomesesest invention since velcro). I was inundated with information in the form of advice, warnings, opinions, and product reviews. There was nothing to expect that I wasn't already expecting. Except this: Nobody showed me the fine print on becoming a mother-that shit is final sale.

I am technically a stay at home mom now. I say technically because until now I have been pretty good at finding projects to keep me out of the house- enough to feel productive and enough to feel like my activities have purpose. At first I felt preoccupied with what was next but relaxed when my friend Jen -whose credentials boast all around amazing down to earth person -uber banker-mom of four, told me all of it could wait. "Right now " she said, "you need to take your time, and learn how to be a mother." And that's what I did, I got to know my kid, I read more books than I did in law school, pestered my baby authority friends round the clock with questions, found balance between formula supplements and breastfeeding, and bought organic clothes made from free range baby alpacas or something.

Then summer rolled around and I will say it -I felt bad for people with jobs. It was awesome to have the freedom to take my kid to the beach every day. I bought him an SPF tent that took half an hour to set up and that I have never learned how to fold properly into the tidy little bag it came in. I SPF'd the shit out him, geared him up polarized baby glasses and everything. A little Coppertone probably would have done the job- but new mammas.. we are like that. We like to spend it.

Fall came and went- days passing quickly with fundraising for a kids charity that is very dear to me. I believe everyone reading this may have received a request to jump into the Teleton USA bandwagon.The idea came solely because of Finn. I am not do gooder, in fact some could argue that I am a do badder- but I have my eyes open, and it's all it really takes to realize how good your kid has it and what shitty cards other kids have been dealt. And it makes you want to do something to even out the playing field for them-even if its a tiny bit. I pestered everyone I know and everyone I don't know to donate, and went to bed every night with a sense of pride and purpose thinking "you did good today".

Now it is 2015 and the holidays and their distractions have passed. It has been a full year since Finn's debut into the world and I am finding myself increasingly restless,unsatisfied and plain bored. I feel angry- and a little cheated. I have become somebody's wife and somebody's mother. But unless latched on to one of those labels it's getting harder to see myself .Motherhood as presented to me was supposed to be EVERYTHING and it was supposed to make you feel 100% satisfied and proud of your life. You're supposed to take credit for your kid's teeth, and sleeping habits, and cute clothes and wear it like a crown.

What confuses me is all I ever hear is how people want stop working so they can enjoy their family- and how girls in my position are lucky. I know it's great to have a choice. I'm not stupid.It's great to be there when your kid cries and be the one to give them that make-it-alright hug. It's great to know I am the only person in the world he will ever call Mama. But the fine print is that there is more to life- and as good a job you think you're doing a part of you wants to find a sense of achievement in daily activities that don't include shopping, changing diapers or sitting around coffee shops with equally bored women. The fine print is that your days are anchored by set children's activities, and are organized around someone else's naps and needs. That you will eat standing up, in your denim shirt and sneakers, completely and utterly alone while your husband gets to wear a suit and go to a city that exudes stimulation every day. In comparison you get the feeling that you live in a parallel Lilliputian universe where the only other inhabitant can't quite master the English language just yet. You know the name of every Bubble Guppy but you don't even know what's appropriate to wear out anymore.

And then there's the REAAAAAL fine print.

-When your kid kisses you and hugs you time stops. NO ONE, I repeat, NO ONE ELSE can do that.

-Your sense of achievement will come-but it will take years. All these seemingly mindless daily activities and playgroups will help your kid not become a derelict psychopath and have respect for women.

-You don't use your brain much, but man do you use your heart.

-He will undoubtedly, one thousand percent make you a better and more compassionate person.

-Some of those women in your same boat will become great friends.

-Last but not least..jobs will always be there, but your child will move on from you in a blink.


Anybody wanna have lunch?

And there it is, my heart poured out

Call it an open letter, call it a channel to vent, call it a torrent of tears followed by a sigh. Last night I went to bed crying.I don't think I had done that in a long time.I did it when my friend died, I did it when a forever love ran its course in a few short months, I did it when my dog didn't make it. What all these situations have in common is that they were all endings, deaths. And last night, like almost every night I read about El Salvador, I read about a death. Only this time it was an eleven year old boy's death.

In the article it said that the funeral parlor employee that had to somehow put his limbs together (for his grandmother to see him) could not stop crying. The man has seen it all..but this...There is no need to go into detail about how it was done. Let it suffice to say that gang members outdid themselves in their cruelty.

I feel guilty because I live in a place where my car remains unlocked all night, as does my house unless we are out of town. I feel guilty because my kid at five months has already traveled, sat in fancy restaurants, and worn baby clothes more expensive than the average Salvadoran's monthly salary. I feel guilty because I don't have to worry if he will make it through the day.

In my mind, that boy's death represents the death of the place I grew up in, where we would ride our bikes until it got dark outside. Not looking over our shoulders, not even when there was a war going on. Memories of moving freely, driving in a car by myself without the sharp pang of paranoia jabbing at my ribs. Memories of my worst fear being running into my sister at a club I was not old enough to be in and her telling on me. Kids in El Salvador have far more serious worries now. They worry about violence, they worry about theft, they worry about an astronomical homicide rate that can -on any day-factor in their parents.

I don't know if it's the mother in me, the eternally-in-love with El Salvador citizen in me,or the fact that this place that I have called home for so long is now unrecognizable- but I feel a sadness unlike any other I have experienced. Maybe because when my best friend died it was not in the hands of a murderer, or when that love died it was a blessing in disguise and made way for the fantastic man that would later become my husband. Maybe because my dog had liver failure and the ammonia got to his brain and he did not feel a thing. Or maybe it's because it is the first time that I truly understand how horrific a human being can be, how greed, corruption, fear and those savages have turned my little paradise el rincon magico , into a place with no freedom -because freedom is of no use if fear has paralyzed you. And it has paralyzed a country. And it has left me homeless, because the country that I knew and loved no longer exists.

The naive part of me hopes that kid is resting in peace, in whatever his idea of heaven was. The heart in me is horrified at what his last moments must have been like. The fighter in me wants a plan to get her country back, and the mother in me hopes to raise a man strong enough and sensitive enough and compassionate enough to want to effect change.The Greenwich resident in me goes to bed every night,in an unlocked house, praying for everyone else down there.

There MIght Be Dragons

Two.

In ancient times cartographers had little knowledge of the real geography of the world. After drawing what they knew they simply declared that beyond that point there were only dragons. I have always taken pride in the great relationship I have with myself. Growing up with a sister who thinks she's too cool for you and a mother who didn't bother much to get to know her kids I pretty much had a lot of time to dedicate to my musings, to read and question, prone to introspection. As a result, I know myself very well. And for this I am supremely grateful. I don't tweak easily, fortitude is my talent and I am aware of my limitations. I know what to do when the first signs of mean reds appear, I know to steer clear of other people when I get into my funks, and I know the only way to get rid of the funk is to let it run its course. For some people standing on their head and twisting into a pretzel is their go to problem solver. Not me.

After thirty five years of roaming the Earth I have probably gotten myself into more than my fair share of trouble. I have lived what seems two or three different lives. I have succumbed to wanderlust on more than one occasion, knowing full well this makes others deem me irresponsible, (my mother)unstable, (my employers), inconsistent (my shrink), unreliable,(my love interests) and lacking direction (my worried friends). But I know myself. And I know what makes me happy and it's easy to dismiss those people when at least you're having fun. Doing exactly what I want when I want has been my super power, and with my super power comes my super responsibility. The responsibility of not dragging anyone into any experiment gone awry, the responsibility of damage control when the aforementioned doesn't pan out. What I'm getting at is I have always had my scenarios down, and what to do about them in case of. I know my geography. Until now.

Forget the minor things. Being fat and a gross 34DD for the first time, the embarrassment of throwing up into my own bag in the middle of the street in New York, or the way the town car driver shamed me after a particularly bad throw up even though his own wife is pregnant too. ( "But your wife throws up too , right?" "Not like deees."). Smelling danger in the wind and every garbage can within a mile radius, suddenly deciding deviled eggs are a good dinner choice. All the oddities seem small in comparison to the MOOD SWING. Who am I? Why the waterworks? I run a mental checklist of things that I have always been thankful for. They are all still there, plus a cute baby on the way! I am still incredibly lucky, and yet I have never felt more miserable. I share this with my friend Adriana. "I think I have a mental disease", I type into my iPhone. The screen flashes back a response "Your mental disease is called HORMONES, stupid." After a big teary blowup with my procreational partner and victim that same night I decide she's right. I have just never been here, I don't know what any of this will be like. This exceeds the realm of the me I know so well, these are my dragons.

Mom vs Boy

one.


THE YEAR OF B

-"You definitely need to be in fashion", declared my friend and Ralph Lauren Director, Wendy. We were brainstorming possible career paths for me, not mere jobs, but somewhere where I could actually grow and focus. Sitting across from each other at a communal table at Le Pain Quotidien I vented my life's frustrations. My fear of missing out on my vocation, of not being able to make something of myself away from my past life as an attorney.
Back then I was working at the intensive care unit of a kid's hospital, helping out with their research and clinical trials. I had been there for a year and a very intellectually stimulating one, but I felt like a fish out of water, on the medical short bus, and my creative side was being starved. This led to reevaluating it all. And so it was decided that Wendy would look for something in fashion PR within Ralph Lauren and I would actively seek out job opportunities I found interesting. "It's gonna be great", she said. "It will be like, the year of B."
I quit my research job, not as happily as I thought I would, and took a PR summer job in New York City. It was a pretty legit firm, doing PR mostly for music and film. I had visions of myself becoming a competent and sought after publicist who as if my magic made things happen, or made them go away. I would go to work in pencil skirts and Louboutins again. I would commute on the train with all the suits. This was it, a new chapter, a new adventure, a new challenge. I was ready to take on the city. It was, after all, the year of B.

A week later I found out I was pregnant.



There was once a little plus sign,
that created some division,
and some symptoms that included,
nausea and a blurry vision.

Then along came the swelling,
and the absence of my waist,
my boobs like watermelons,
in my mouth a tinny taste.

If I had had x ray vision,
what is it that I would see?
myself as a Russian Matryoshka,
a mini doll inside of me?

In my head so many questions,
who , what, me , mother to-be?
after all of this is over,
will there be some normalcy?

I panic about everything,
from stretch marks to my career,
that stray thought from months ago,
that stray thought is REALLY here.

Lola's Life is a Video Game

Washington Commons, NYC


Lola is tugging at her leash. I can feel it coming. She's revving up her inexplicably strong twenty five pound dog body to chase something. I am usually prepared for this in autumn, when the leaves fly around or sit in huge piles by the side of Orchard Place, my Connecticut street. But today she seems to be going after something else, the pink petals that have fallen from the trees that line Horatio street in New York. They are tiny, even less attainable than the big dry leaves she chases in the fall. It's like Lola's life is a video game, and like in said games she is now on a new level where the dynamic of the game is still the same (i.e. chasing something presently out of her reach) only the level of difficulty has been increased. Lola is unwittingly conveying a message of mockery. My life is a video game.

Adios Licenciado

He was given to me at a time when I was grieving. I had sent Gabo the black lab to dog boarding school and he mysteriously died overnight. The owner asked me to accept his apologies and the gift of a beautiful almost white yellow lab. I named him Licenciado, the title given to people who graduate college in Latin America. I have always found it funny that this title defines some people so much they demand from others that they call them that, as opposed to their names. It was funny, and he had more intuition that many of the real ones, the ones with many diplomas.
From the minute I met him I admired him. Little as he was, he already had strong paws, a beautiful boxy head and an elegant and strong stance.Some animals, like some people, are just born flawless. He was by far the most beautiful pet I had ever owned. Soon I was to find out he would also be the most spirited, annoying and disarmingly warm, all at once.

I remember these Licenciado moments clearly:

1. When my mom, who reprogrammed herself to not like pets after suffering the death of Frosty, met him for the first time. After she had Jesused another Dog Me she came back into the room, and covered him with a blanket while he slept. I knew she would be ok with him staying.

2.When we went on vacation to Hector's house at the lake and he disappeared one morning. Security and guests searched every inch of the property to no avail. He was spotted three hours later on the dirt road with a fellow canine lady friend,taking it easy. After he came back he proceeded to play in the water , his favorite pastime. It ended badly when he ate the neighbors floating devices. When we were all sitting around the terrace atthe days's end he laid out in front of me to rest, finally exhausted. Hector turned to his mom and asked her "guapo , verdad?" "Si, muy guapo", she answered.

3. When we took him to the beach, tethered him to a Rubbermaid table and he ran off with the table. Seafood everywhere.

4.When he got in the car, equipped with a pet net, but insisted on sitting shotgun.

5.When I had my heart broken and cried like you only can when your heart is, indeed, breaking. He put his giant head on my lap. I'm sure he didn't understand but he sensed something was off, and it was not the time to try to knock me over or play. Some humans don't give you that courtesy.

6.How much he loved kids and how much he scared them, Ironic, really.

7.The fact that he went to dog school and after four weeks only learned "sit."

8.Our first dog show, where he won for beauty but failed in obedience.I started calling him my dumb blonde.

7. When he chased Chayito, my sister's Boston Terrier at the lake house and got literally booted from the house. I had to bring him back to the city.I still think that was overkill, he was just trying to play.

8.When he met Gizmo, Marcela's yorkie, and the smaller dog slid down his back and that was their game. Until he knocked him over with his big paw.

9.The anguish I felt when he ate all the mangos that fell from our tree and ended up vomiting nonstop. I thought his stomach had turned, as it is common with labs. I slept on the floor next to him to be able to hear his breathing and to be there in case he puked. I remember thinking maybe I would be a good mother after all.

10. When we said goodbye, my plan was to not make a big deal out of it, to not be sentimental.I'd return soon anyway, and he would still be there.

But I did not return in time for that. And the cycle of his arrival and departure closes, for here I am,grieving again. Because that floppy eared, boxy headed, clueless beast that drove me crazy also drove me good crazy. Because despite all of the public humiliation and endless mortifying moments he made me go through, despite his bad behavior, his heart was all goodness. And today he died, and I wasn't there to help him or even pet him. And now I can't stop crying.Kind of like the time he rested his boxy head on my lap only now there's no black snotty nose on my knee. And if I listen closely I hear a crack, my heart breaking. Adios, Licenciado.

The Wedding Funk

The Wedding Funk.


I've been in a funk for the past twenty two days,
just festering and recoiling from the tasks of wedding daze.
All this saving, all this planning, just for one day out of life,
party favors, nighttime terrors, to become somebody's wife.

I fast forward to the day of,and things there don't look so grim.
Best friends, music, party chaos and my drink of choice, my gin.
First slow dances and white dresses,scrumptious food and wedding cake.
All of these are things I think of to retain the peace I make.

Then there's gifts and honeymooning, sunny beaches,little huts.
White sand moments we'll remember when we hate each other's guts.
Expectations, no carnations only roses purely white,
Decorations, cocktail stations, they will all be gone by night.

Don't expect to see me play the role of swan princess in veil,
all prince charming and no problems,that is such a bullshit sale,
And my friends won't let me lie, they've seen me laugh ,they've seen me fail,
this is painful time consuming and its not a fairytale.

I wrote this in the midst of wedding planning, on a frustrated day at work when I should have been doing research. (Sorry Dr.Li). I can honestly say there where times when it seemed we had chosen to do things the hard way by having this ceremony and the party that ensued , as opposed to just staying at legally married and going on a spending spree at Design Within Reach. It has now been a week since the wedding and I still sit and recall bits and pieces of it, relishing once again in the newly made memories. The cheesy fairytale book is full of brides exclaiming their wedding day is the best day of their lives. I like to think I will not peak so early in life. But I also have to give it to them, because if the one day in your life when all the people from your past and present who mean the world to you, who have been witnesses of your highs and lows (and have stuck with you through both) are gathered in one room celebrating you and love and the good things this life has to offer, if that day is not your happiest I don't know what could be.
I like to think that our wedding , although intended to celebrate love between myself and my husband, was also a celebration of friendship and those love stories that are not necessarily of the romantic kind. Ongoing stories made of bonds formed out of loyalty and friendship. Because at this wedding there were people who have literally peeled me off the ground, and are just as happy to be there to see me soar. They have been my confidentes, my shrinks, my clients, my support system, my fun, and my school. I have truly been blessed with immensely kind, bright and good people as friends, a circle that is insurance against the mean reds and all things that can go wrong in life. You can't really tell but I am tearing up. I love you all, thank you for the efforts you made to be here,it really was the best day ever.

Love,


Boomer