My Benny: birth, and the first three months

Warning: if you believe in TMI (too much info), stop reading now.

My husband and I were watching Shutter Island two weeks before my due date. The night before, we hadn't slept a wink (for whatever reason), so we decided to take it easy and watch a movie in bed that afternoon. Halfway through the movie, I felt myself have a little accident. I'd read about this -- urine leakage that occurs at the end of pregnancy -- and said to my husband, "I totally just peed a little!" We laughed and I went to the bathroom, unaware whether I really had to pee any more. In these last few days of my pregnancy, I always had the sensation of having to pee, so I couldn't really tell whether I had to go or not.

I changed my underwear and went back to bed. More urine leakage. And then a third time. We spent the next few minutes sniffing my underwear (now that's intimacy), trying to decide if the fluid was urine or amniotic fluid. For a moment, I considered having Jeff pee so I could compare the scent to actual pee.

We decided to call the advice nurse, just to be on the safe side. The nurse advised that I put on a new maxi pad, wait an hour, and see if I soaked it. Mind you, I'd already soaked two liners. We did as she said and decided to go for a walk. Along the way through our neighborhood, I felt continued "accidents," but I was still convinced it was just pee. After all, there were no gushes, which is what I envisioned would happen when my water finally broke.

We got back home after our walk, and not only had I soaked the liner, I'd soaked my new pair of undies. Jeff -- the smart one -- said, "Let's go to the hospital and get you checked out." I was in complete denial. I insisted this was silly, that I had no contractions and couldn't possibly be in labor. Since he'd already packed the hospital bag, Jeff insisted. "Consider it a dry run."

I asked for frozen yogurt on the drive there. After all, if I was in labor, who knew when I'd get to eat again?

We arrived at the hospital and I was checked by one of the midwives. And I use the term "checked" lightly. She just lifted my gown and said, "Yup, your water broke. We're admitting you."

....Um.....what?

"You knew how this would end!" she joked.

Christ Almighty. I wasn't ready for this. I had two weeks to go, and work to wrap up, and dates to go on with my husband, and pages of baby-raising books to read. We made all the appropriate calls and settled in to our room. We giggled nervously and tried to wrap our heads around the fact that next time we went home, we'd have a roommate.

Note: I was not in labor. My water had broken, for whatever reason, but I had not started having contractions. After discussing many options with the midwife, we made the decision to try and let labor start on its own before inducing, understanding that I needed to have this baby within 24 hours to avoid the risk of infection.

We attempted to sleep that night in our hospital room, knowing that induction would begin at 7 a.m. if I was still not in labor. What a laugh. Day 2 of no sleep. I suppose it was good practice for the months to come.

That next morning, I was started on pitocin and labor began almost immediately. I went 5 hours without medication, to about 3 centimeters dilation and 100% effacement, knowing that an epidural could slow my labor and I needed to get Benny out within the next 12 hours. For many first births, labor averages 14-16 hours.

After 5 hours and many, many painful contractions, I knew it was time for an epidural. Now, I've heard many people -- those close to me and strangers -- tell their birth stories. And most say things like, "It didn't hurt that bad." They lied. It. was. excruciating. I don't know why some women feel the need to act "tough" -- as though admitting to the pain somehow makes you weak. Sure, all women are different, and maybe their pain really wasn't as bad, or maybe they have a higher tolerance for it than I do, but for me: it was absolute torture. I cried often, and loudly, during labor.

After the miraculous epidural, I was able to nap for a couple of hours. At about 3 p.m., I got checked and was completely dilated. It was go time.

Holy fuck.

I pushed for 3 hours. THREE HOURS. I damn near gave up. Near the end, I looked up at Jeff in tears and said, "I don't want to anymore." I begged for help. I was sleep deprived, starving, and had been exerting so much energy that I shook with every push. The epidural had worn off, purposely, for "more productive pushing." I. wanted. him. out. of. me.

My sister and Jeff did their best to cheer me on, to keep me posted of my progress, to help me lift my body into a super crunch every time I had to push. My legs, pure dead weight, were being held up by them on either side of me. They described little Benny's head full of hair when it started making its way out. And when he finally came at 6:42 p,m., I felt the most complicated and intense mix of relief, joy, exhaustion, gratitude and love. Oh, and I felt like a sack of skin, empty as a shell.

I'll skip the part about blacking out the first time I tried to get out of bed and pee several hours later. Suffice it to say I damn near gave Jeff a coronary.

Holding him after I delivered him a few hours later, I was on a high I'll never be able to fully describe:



The next several days were equally intense, because little B had to go to the NICU. Being in the birth canal for so long, hog-tied by the umbilical cord, he had accumulated fluid in his little lungs and had a hard time breathing. A series of other relatively minor complications arose, and I felt riddled with emotions and utterly battered and bruised. Did I get hit by a truck? Was everyone absolutely positive that I didn't? My jaw was swollen from how hard I clenched during active labor. My legs looked like tree trunks. It was difficult to stand on my puffy feet because they were so rounded on the sole. And I was dreading having to poo.

Seeing your baby with a feeding tube, an IV and not being able to hold him all day long is a pain I don't wish on my worst enemy.

But by Friday (we were admitted on a Sunday), we were able to bring Benicio home.

***

The first three months of Benicio's life have brought me more joy and exhaustion than ever before. Here are my favorite nuances so far:

B's fire hose pee. Baby boy cuts loose when the diaper comes off. At least he did at first. It was truly like a little fire hose gone wild. And those peepee teepees? Kicked 'em right off.

I found myself (ok, I still do) sniffing his milky breath every chance I could. I must be wired to love his scent, because it's like a drug.

Especially those first few weeks, when you are getting up to nurse your tiny baby in the dark and stare at his almost unhumanly beautiful eyes -- everything feels like a dream. It is lovely.

I've never felt such a desperate love before. It's almost like I need it more than he does.

I'm fascinated by every sound he makes, especially little baby dolphin noises while he's nursing.

A few love songs have different meaning to me now. They bring tears to my eyes every time: "Look at you" by My Morning Jacket -- Look at you / such a glowing example / of peace and glory; "The Hand that Rocks the Cradle" by the Smiths -- Please don't cry /
For the ghost and the storm outside / Will not invade this sacred shrine / Nor infiltrate your mind / My life down I shall lie ... I once had a child and it saved my life; the list goes on.

Things that surprised me so far?

The incredible pressure to breastfeed. It's hard. And exhausting. But the world makes you feel like a bad person if you don't do it. Formula babies thrive, too, and some people just don't like to breastfeed. I got over the difficult stage and now enjoy it immensely, but I think it's OK for women to say -- I want my body back.

In that same vein, I've had to carry my breast pump and pump in odd places. Women have been so supportive. On many occasions I hear things like, "Oh I know THAT sound!" And "Kudos to you!" It's a wonderful womanly bonding thing, not just a baby-mom bonding thing.

The extreme level of sleep deprivation coupled with not caring about how little you sleep as soon as your baby smiles at you in the wee hours of the morning.

The multi-dimensional love that has happened for my husband as a result of Benny's arrival.

I can't wait to see what the next 3 months bring.

My Benny :: the third trimester

Here's where the heavy lifting began, both literally and figuratively. [I'm so clever!]

The third trimester was an interesting dichotomy: I was very clearly pregnant now, and felt like all the "awww"s happened more frequently during this phase, but I was tired again. I mean exhausted, and not just physically. So while everyone thought I looked darn cute, and I got kind, admiring looks from even strangers, I was starting to be ready to see my toes again, to lay on my belly, to eat sushi and drink beer. I was ready to have my body back despite how nice everyone was.

The waddle began. My feet got fat -- really fat. If you don't believe me, know this: I normally wear a size 8.5 and was now borrowing my sister-in-law's size 10 shoes.

The peeing was out of control. I felt like I had to pee - not often - always. I literally couldn't tell if I really had to pee because I had that sensation all. day. long.

During my nearly ninth month, we went to Disneyland for my sister-in-law's 40th birthday. (For those of you keeping track, this is the same sister-in-law who gave me all her fashionable pregnancy clothes and loaned me her shoes when my feet inflated.) It's important to note that we were there during Memorial Day Weekend. Crazy? Perhaps. We were to spend two full days there - one in Disneyland and one at California Adventure.

The first day wasn't bad! I drank lots of water, stood in the shade whenever possible and rode rides like It's a Small World, Pirates of the Caribbean, Mr. Toad's Wild Ride and the Haunted Mansion. However, once 3:00 pm hit, a tsunami of exhaustion brought me to my knees. I practically shuffled back to the shuttle, cried a little (without anyone noticing!), and spent the rest of the evening in bed while everyone went out for dinner.

On day two, my husband offered to rent me an electric scooter. Despite my fears about what people would think and how I'd look (oh, admit it, you'd feel the same way), I agreed to the Rascal and rode around in it all day. It was a LIFESAVER. Not only did I last until 7:00 pm, I got to harass pedestrians and honk my ridiculous horn. I would do it again in a heartbeat.



And while all of this may not sound horrible -- and it wasn't -- I had moments of sheer exhaustion. On the second day at Disneyland, my husband and I again walked back to the shuttle that would take us back to our hotel. I felt like I had to keep my knees together to keep the baby from falling out. When we got to the bench and sat, I cried loudly. My husband, alarmed, looked at me and asked what was wrong. I had no words. I was so beyond exhausted, so relieved the trip at the amusement park was over, and so ready to feel normal again, that I couldn't help myself. I cried all the way back on the shuttle, tears streaming down my face, while the other passengers tried not to look.

***

I remember telling myself I would be an active pregnant person. After all, I'd run a half marathon, so I was sure I could handle to physicality of pregnancy. I was cocky. And wrong. I've now discovered that pregnancy and birthing is the most physically (and mentally) demanding thing I will ever do in my lifetime.

Still, at the beginning -- alright, the second trimester -- I was active. I went to the gym, went for walks, did prenatal yoga. Fast forward to the third trimester and I found myself bargaining with myself in order to not have to take the stairs at work. "If it's more than two flights, I'll take the elevator," I'd say. That soon became, "Fuck it, I'm taking the elevator even if it's one flight."

Turning over in bed had become a workout, too. I had to be fully awake and use every muscle in my body to switch from laying on my left to laying on my right. That involved quite a bit of grunting and pillow rearranging as well, which I'm sure made my husband very, very happy. Add to that the constant need to pee, and I'd say I was averaging about 2.5 minutes of sleep a night.

***

And then there was the sex. What once had been so fun and carefree, now felt a little, well, dangerous. Not to mention tricky. And while I still enjoyed it, both my husband and I couldn't help but have that cliche fear you hear about: hurting the baby. And not just with my husband's penis, but with all our moving around and the pressure of our bodies being so close. I mean, I'm sure the little guy had no room left! In fact, I knew this because I was constantly witnessing elbows, knees and feet stretching my skin, searching for more room! And even though all the books and the doctors tell you it's fine, until you have a growing baby inside of you, you don't know that kind of worry.

My Benny :: the second trimester

Everything they say about the second trimester was true for me. It. was. awesome.

My boobs grew. And they looked great. My skin glowed, my hair was shiny, and I had incredible energy. People who knew me now found my growing belly "cute." I felt my body changing and loved every second of it. I had a new wardrobe, courtesy of my very fashionable sister-in-law. These were clothes I couldn't afford as a non-pregnant person, and I was wearing them as a pregnant one now.

The best part? Sex. It just felt -- different. And in my third trimester blog you'll see that it became different once again. It was like everything that was normally sensitive was 10x more sensitive. And with my new body, I felt more womanly and sexy than I ever had before. (I was, and am, a late bloomer in almost every way.)

We also got to start experimenting with the battle of the bulge. My belly was in the way, and what else can you do but be creative when things start changing? Not a bad thing.

Did I mention the food? Since I had spent the last 3 months choking back dry-heaves mid-conversations, it was of particular enjoyment that not only was my appetite back, but I could handle more spicy foods than before, finally living up to my Mexican-ness. And if I wanted a milkshake, people encouraged me. "Oh, have one! Go on! The baby needs calcium!"

Of course, the second trimester did have its share of challenges. For the first time since I started shaving, I got to the point where I realized not only were there some areas I couldn't see, there were some I couldn't reach.

So, you may ask yourself, what are your options? Well, the way I see it, there are three:

1. Go hippie. Worry about it when your toes come in to view again.

This was not an option for me. I was feeling so good! I didn't want to take away from that and start feeling, ahem, ungroomed. My mind raced through every comment ever uttered from a guy about too-much-pubage. My need for order and tidiness wouldn't, no -- couldn't -- consider this.

2. Have my hubby do the deed. After all, I knew he'd probably kind of enjoy it.

While I still think this is a good idea, the control freak in me wanted to, well, control the situation. The last thing my super supportive, pube-trimming husband needed was having me look down (literally) on his methods. And of course, eliminating this option provided me with option number 3, which I secretly wanted to resort to.

3. Waxing! Now, for many women, this is no big deal and likely the first, most reasonable option. In fact, I'm sure many already employ this method.

Me? I'm Hispanic. Very Hispanic. And my hair growth reflects this. I have lots of hair, and it's thick. This makes for an envious head of hair and perhaps envious eyebrows (now that having them is back in style), but it also means extreme pain in the ripping out of said hair, especially in the ever-so-sensitive bikini area. Having done this only once in my life and sweating through every second, I knew it would hurt (understatement) but be worth it.

So I pulled my big girl panties on. Or off, rather, and I got waxed. And it sucked. But then I went again and it hurt probably half as much! And the results are quite lovely.

Finally, since I haven't exactly been romantic about how great my second trimester was in terms of the amazing new life that was growing inside of me, I'll do that now:

I felt Ben for the first time. And since he was still so small, they were moments that were just for us. Jeff couldn't yet feel him from the outside, so Ben and I shared his first acrobatic movements, his first burps and jolts, all by ourselves. And they were truly magical.

One evening, late in my second trimester, I laid in bed reading a magazine, resting it gently on my belly every so often to watch bad TV. During one of these moments, my magazine page fluttered gently upwards, and my hands were nowhere near it. I was home alone, and I laughed and stared in complete amazement at the fact that my child was gaining strength and most importantly, already bringing me amazing joy and happiness.

My Benny :: the first trimester

A couple of my girlfriends have really encouraged me to blog about my pregnancy experience. The truth is I'd thought about it, and my providers even gave me journals to track the moments that would soon be over, but didn't know what I could say that hadn't already been said.

After a night out with said friends recently, a comment one of them made to me stuck. She said, "Write it so Ben can read it when he's older." And that's when I felt really inspired. What a neat idea: capturing these incredible moments - whether they've been said or not - as an early biography for my unborn child.

Now in my third trimester, it seems silly to try and capture every detail, but I know there are things about each trimester I'll carry with me all my life. This is my recollection of my first one...

***

Jeff and I agreed to start "trying" once we were in Spain. After being married 3.5 years, we were ready to start a family, but wanted to check a couple things off our list before we became pregnant: running a half marathon and traveling overseas.

I'll save the marathon post for some other day, and just say that we blew our savings on a trip to Spain, agreeing that getting pregnant there would be pretty cool.

Our trip was in early October 2009. That Halloween, I realized I was late. I remember Jeff asking, "What do we do?"

I had no idea.

We decided that people who knew the answer to that question would probably say, "Go buy a friggin' pregnancy test!" So we did. We bought a 3-pack while doing the week's grocery shopping. It felt weird. We giggled.

When we got home that afternoon, I went to the bathroom and peed on a stick. Immediately, a plus sign began to reveal itself. I mean, immediately. Wasn't it supposed to take a few minutes? Wasn't I supposed to wait in anticipiation and struggle to differentiate between a minus and a plus sign?!?

Still on the toilet, I started shouting Jeff's name over and over. He ran in to the bathroom and I said, "Um...it's already showing a plus sign!" I couldn't breathe. Always the calm one, Jeff said, "It's OK...just put it down and help me put away the groceries. We should leave it on the counter for a few minutes."

I agreed and we walked in to the kitchen. In silence, we robotically put our groceries away. It felt like one hundred years. Thankfully, Jeff caved. "Ok, let's go look," he said hurriedly and led me back in to the bathroom.

We stared at the plus sign. We stared at the box. We read the box. We read the tiny, ten-thousand-times folded pamphlet inside the box. We looked at the plus sign on the stick again.

Jeff's kind eyes and big smile looked over at me, and he stretched his arms around me and kissed me. "Congratulations," he said.

We laughed, and I confessed that I couldn't catch my breath. He admitted to feeling it, too, and suggested we get out of the house and try to not think about it for a little while.

Naturally, we went to Costco. Jeff's normally focused and deliberate driving was anything but. We weren't inside Costco five minutes before I said, "I gotta get out of here. I gotta pee on another stick." Jeff agreed.

Needless to say, pee stick #2 was another very bright plus sign. Jeff took my picture, and we took multiple pictures of the peed-on sticks. We threw them away and dug them back out to take one more, and one more, and one more look.

***

Our first appointment with the OB was at about 8 weeks. I knew the sticks had said I was pregnant, but it was really, really hard to think it was true. I didn't feel different. I wasn't hungrier, or more tired, and it seemed impossible that a baby was beginning to grow inside me. It seemed - unreal.

After a few questions and some chit chat with the doctor, I had my first ultrasound. My doctor casually pointed out the placenta, the tiny fetus, and its heartbeat. I choked out a huge, single sob and Jeff squeezed my hand.

What was happening?! I was 100% expecting this woman to say, "Now...why did you think you were pregnant?" Now she was telling me there was something in there, like it was no big deal.

***

Around week 9, I started feeling like POO. I could not get enough sleep to save my life. And everything made me dry-heave. Not full-on puking - in fact, I only ever puked once - but not just regular old nausea. I'm talking having-to-turn-away-from-a-conversation-so-I-could-make-ridiculous-dry-heaving-faces-and-noises nausea. Tear-inducing, aggressively intense and mouth-pooling nausea. "Let me just find a place to spit," I'd think. Yum.

Saltines and orange juice. Yes, I'll have some of those. Toast and more orange juice? Sure thing. Mentos in my purse - and I never, I mean NEVER, eat Mentos. For lunch and dinner, any hot and spicy soup. Eventually, all things spicy felt good in my constantly-turning stomach. Whoever called it morning sickness is a Pants on Fire Liar.

***

The most intense day of my first trimester was a day I convinced myself that Jeff had been in a car accident. I'd worked 30 hours in two days filming a TV commercial, and it was a Friday night. I was so excited to get home and sleep, finally. Jeff was working nights, and always made a habit to call me on his way home since he had such a long drive. I knew to expect his call at the latest by 11:00 pm - and that was on a late night.

That night, 11:00 pm came and went. I called, and got his voicemail. Thinking it was likely an unusually late night at the restaurant, I called the restaurant to reassure myself that he was just now wrapping up. To my disappointment - no, horror - the machine at the restaurant picked up saying they were closed.

Six or seven more calls to Jeff's cellphone later, my mind started racing. I imagined trying to raise a child without him. Learning to live my life without him. I was immediately in shambles. The minutes flew by - I couldn't believe how quickly time was advancing and I still hadn't heard from him. 11:07. 11:14. 11:20. Oh, Christ. 11:28.

My cries became hysterical. I called my sister in hopes of hearing a rational reason for his un-call, but woke my brother-in-law from such a deep sleep he must have thought he was dreaming.

Minutes later, Jeff walked in the door repeating, "I'm here, I'm here, I'm here," already anticipating my hysteria. He'd accidentally left his phone on the roof of his car and driven off without it, after deciding he could call me from the car. I choked loudly and sank into his chest, and his bags (gym bag, backpack, lunch bag) fell off him as he tried desperately to calm and soothe me.

I cried quietly for the next hour as we tried to watch TV. I finally slept, woke up with a gnarly headache, and cried some more the next morning.

Thank goodness I can blame the hormones. I can't possibly be that crazy, right?

Prank Call

Growing up, my best friend, Patsy, and I thought it was the most hysterical thing to dial random numbers and make fake phone calls. Of course, these were the days before caller ID, when everyone picked up their phone, not knowing who'd be on the other end.

We'd call neighbors, family members, or even made-up phone numbers and ask, "Is your refrigerator running? Well, you better go catch it!" We'd roll on the floor, hugging our stomachs, drying the tears streaming down our cheeks.

One day, I decided that I could make calls even if Patsy weren't around. I dialed a made-up number, and a woman answered the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hi. I'm Vero." For some reason, I couldn't carry out the joke without my partner-in-crime.

"Who? What can I help you with, mija?"

"Oh, nothing. I just came home from school. I go to Vista Hills. I'm in third grade."

"Where's your mom, honey?"

"She's at work. Do you have any kids?"

The woman on the other end kindly carried on a conversation with me, unsure about what exactly was happening. After a few minutes, I told her I had to go, and we hung up.

To me, there was nothing strange about what happened. I called someone, we chatted, and that was that. So the next day, and every day for a week after that, I called the same number after school and had a lovely little chat with the woman on the other end of the line.

The following week, as I got home from school, I went into the bedroom to make my call. This time, my mom, dad and telephone friend were in the room waiting for me.

"Why have you been calling this woman every day for a week?" asked my mom furiously. "What's wrong with you?" She pulled me in closer. "What have you been telling her?"

I was immediately embarrassed and ashamed. I stared at my feet.

"What's going on, mija? Are you OK? Do you need someone to talk to?" asked the friendly telephone lady.

"No."

My dad, as it were, stood quietly and didn't say a word. I couldn't tell if he was uncomfortable with asking me personal questions or if he was embarrassed by what I'd done. Whatever it was, it was awful.

I think the questions went on for several minutes, and finally, the friendly telephone lady excused herself and my mom walked her out. Days later, my mother approached me again, wanting to know why I'd made those calls. I desperately wished there was something deep and meaningful that I could give as an explanation for my behavior, but the truth was, I just wanted to make a crank call. For the next few weeks, I'd be mad at Patsy for not being there to make the call with me.

Short Teeth

News Flash: I'm self-conscious about my appearance. Overall, I feel pretty good about myself, but like most people, there are certain things about myself that really bug me. In high school, I didn't have very nice skin. No surprises there, since this is pretty common, I know. But the embarrassment of having poor skin doesn't go away once your skin clears up. As a grown woman, I want a flat belly. Equally shocking, I know, since it is likely that 99% of women would like a flatter belly. And thought these are areas I'll probably always be self-conscious about, I've gotten comfortable with my discomfort in these two areas. And I've grown to [mostly] like the way I look.

A few weeks ago, however, I added another annoyance to the list: short teeth.

I've had dental work my entire life. In my teens, I had too many teeth in my somewhat small mouth, so I had 4 removed and wore braces to straighten the rest out. In my early twenties, my wisdom teeth were severely impacted, so they were all removed. Last year, I had a root canal on one of my two front teeth, after learning that the nerve inside my tooth had died and begun darkening it. I brush and floss religiously. So after obtaining a near perfect smile, I decided that I wanted whiter teeth.

For my birthday this past year, I got little trays made by my dentist and started whitening. He even made me a special tray for the darker front tooth, which could be whitened all on its own. The improvement in my smile was addictive. I now wanted my teeth so white, they'd glow in the dark. Or something like that.

Last month, I went in for my yearly checkup. My dentist was pleased with the success of my whitening. We discussed a reasonable whitening schedule, to make sure I didn't overdo it. After some chit chat, my dentist stepped back and said, "Smile for me." I smiled proudly and waited for more praise.

Instead, he said, "You know what bugs me now?"

I stopped smiling.

"The gum line. You know, we could do a little gum contouring to lengthen your teeth a bit."

Jesus. I had no idea I'd been walking around with short teeth this whole time! Actually, I think I did figure it out recently, but dismissed the critique of my smile and chalked it up to neurosis. I remember looking at a picture of myself and thinking, "Why do my teeth look so small?" And then I giggled to myself and thought, "That's ridiculous. My teeth are perfectly big enough!"

But I'd been wrong. I have short teeth, and my dentist wants to lengthen them. Guess what I'm examining on a daily basis now? My tiny, tiny teeth.

My dentist and I politely discussed my [very costly] options and I left his office, knowing I wouldn't be doing any freakin' gum contouring. I mean, I know I'm vain, but I'm not that vain...right?

Chunks of Time

There are pieces I remember, and pieces I don't. I'm not sure if my 3-year stint with pot evaporated enough brain cells to erase some memories from my mind, or if I just chose not to hang on to those particular memories.

Here's what I do remember: Memorial Day, circa 1986. Driving to Mountain Shadow Lakes - a man-made lake in Horizon City, Texas. Giant dragonflies that I desperately swatted at. Hot-air balloons. Tension in the air. One minute, my dad was with us all. The next, he was gone. We solemnly made our way home from the man-made lake several hours later and I knew I was supposed to be sad, I just didn't know why.

Within hours of arriving at our house, drama ensued. My mom's sister arrived, my mom cried, my sister listened to their conversation. My mom and aunt sped away and were gone for hours. When they got home, they brought a locksmith with them.

"I saw you," my mom said in Spanish into the phone. "I saw you."

My dad no longer lived at home.

--

We drove to the church, actually it was a monastery, and asked for one of the nuns. We sat with her and my mom lowered her head and sobbed loudly as I sat in her lap. When she wept, she made soft, low sounds with her voice. They sounded painful and uncomfortable. It always made me want to tell her to stop.

When the crying subsided, my mom said gently, "Tell her. Tell her how you feel." I wanted to make my mom proud, and say something dramatic and heartbreaking, but I felt nothing. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to be feeling, and honestly, I just wanted to get out of there and get back to playing or watching TV. Anything but this.

"I'm sad," I said.

"Well you're going to have to tell your dad. Tell him what he's doing to you. Tell him how angry you are for ripping this family apart, for not loving us enough to stay. You have to tell him."

I wasn't angry. I didn't feel like my dad didn't love me. I was mad at my mom for making me sit there and have this ridiculous conversation with a stranger.

On the ride home, she said, "Tell me what you're going to tell him." So I lied.

Cousins

I've always been really envious of people who have great relationships with their cousins. In fact, I'm so removed from my extended family (both on my mom's and dad's side of the family) that I don't even really feel like I know any of my cousins all that well. The closest I can come to having a cousin-like relationship is with my oldest friend Patsy. We met in first grade, lived seven houses apart from each other growing up, and were best friends forever. Our moms still know each other, since they still live seven houses apart, while Patsy and I live 3 states apart.

Here's the run-down on some of my actual cousins:

Araceli, Linda, Carlos.

My mom's sister's kids. I used to really love Carlos. He's about 13 years older than me, and by the time I was old enough to get to know him, he moved to Puerto Rico. Araceli and Linda stayed behind with their mom, my Tia Maria, but they never took me seriously. I was too young to relate to them, and far too awkward to be interesting. Every question they asked me was just another way to make fun of me.

"Do you like any boys at school, Vero?"
"No."
"Why not, are you scared they'll hit your big glasses when you kiss?"

Even once I grew out of my awkwardness, they still found a way to make me feel boring. My sister, on the other hand, was worth befriending. She didn't care what they thought, which made them chase after her, and she was pretty to boot and had a boyfriend who worshiped her. That's all they ever wanted: a man who would treat them as though they were worthy of love. Ironically, every time a man showed interest in them, they treated him like shit.

Brenda, Sergio.

I always considered these cousins to be part of my dad's side of the family, but they were actually on both sides. See, they were the offspring of a marriage between my dad's sister and my mom's brother. It's funny, because Mexicans use both their parents' last names. Mine was Veronica Acosta Rojo (my dad's last name is Acosta, my mom's maiden name was Rojo). So these particular cousins' names were Brenda Rojo Acosta and Sergio Rojo Acosta. It is definitely an interesting connection that I have with them, since we shared the same grandparents. We all looked very much alike.

But when my parents split up 20 years ago, all interaction with my dad's side of the family ended for me and my siblings. That included Brenda and Sergio. We've probably seen them 4 or 5 times since my parents' separation, and two of those times included grandparent funerals. They are the ones I most feel like I've missed out on a great relationship with. They, unlike most of my extended family, seemed sincere and trustworthy.

Izkra, Christian, Alan.

Offspring of my dad's sisters, Velia and Estella. In the last few years, I've be-friended Izkra again, and have found her to be a beautiful young lady. She made a huge effort to see us in Sacramento when she visited family in Stockton a few years ago. She emails, MySpaces, and is uniquely interested in me and my siblings.

The truth is, I have a ton of other cousins on my mom's side, but I have no idea who they are. I vaguely remember names of children who were sprung from my mom's very distant siblings.

Sometimes, when talking to my dad, I hear him talk about my cousins - and it absolutely breaks my heart. Not just because I don't know them and probably never really will, but because he knows them far better than he knows me.

A different way to Boo

I can't believe it's almost time for Halloween. It's one of my favorite times of the year, and not just because it's a great excuse for indulging in way too many sweets. (Note: other favorite times of the year include Thanksgiving, Super Bowl Sunday, Christmas-time, and my birthday. No one gives me any shit about stuffing my face.)

When I was younger, I was always into being scared. I couldn't find a haunted house scary enough, a zombie gory enough, or a movie disturbing enough to satisfy my appetite for horror. (I'm realizing now that I've always had an insatiable appetite; be it for food or some kind of feeling.)

Luckily, one year I found a haunted house that would change my life forever, and my brother's as well.

It was like 1993 and I was a junior in high school. It rarely snows in El Paso, but this year it snowed like crazy the night that I decided to head down to the haunted house everyone was talking about. My brother loved hanging out with me and my friends, and this night was no exception. We brought him along, and headed over to a warehouse off of Gateway East. My brother was about 11 or 12.

A couple of things you should know before I start: we're Mexican, we were raised Catholic, and we believed pretty much everything our parents told us, until like, yesterday.

We waited in line (in the snow) with my friends for about 3 hours that night and were finally let in to the haunted house at about midnight. They were letting people in in groups of about 10, and the only thing we knew about the thing was that it was being put on by a non-denominational Christian church.

Yeah, I said church. How scary could it actually be?

As we walked inside, my stomach dropped. I felt like I was actually on a roller coaster, and had just reached the top of the scary drop. There was a moment where I thought about turning around, which is weird, because nothing could actually scare me when I was 17. But something felt totally wrong in the place. Maybe it was the uniformed person leading us in--I mean, why wasn't he in a costume or something? Maybe it was the fact that I realized I was actually bringing my little brother into this creepy warehouse on midnight on Halloween. I mean, haunted house or not, that's kind of scary.

Our guide lead us to an area that was segmented off, and it looked like there was a little set and some actors standing still under a barely-there glowing light. Once the group was settled, the lights brightened just enough to see the actors' faces. There was a couple on the couch, and they looked about 16 years old. They started making out, slowly at first, and then they got a little heavier.

"Wait, I don't think we should," said the girl. "My mom said it's a sin to have sex before you're married."

"If you love me, you'll do this," said her boyfriend.

They kissed some more, and before you knew it they were having sex. At least, it was implied that they were. I was totally confused. This did not feel like a haunted house. What was happening?

Our uniformed guide led the group around the corner to another scene. The girl we just saw having premarital sex was laying on a table in a doctor's office, alone. She was crying as she said, "He said he loved me..."

A tall, lanky doctor walked in to the room. He was wearing a surgical mask and didn't speak. He performed an abortion as the girl yelled and cried.

We continued through the "haunted house" and were presented with a potpourri of "sins" for the next half hour: drinking, drug use, suicide, gang-joining, and finally, Satan worshipping. This was the grand finale. We were brought right into hell, flames and all, and were witnesses to the Devil himself.

I don't remember talking, or even screaming. I just held my brother's little hand and walked through the warehouse, too afraid of what would happen if I tried to break away from the group. My friends were like statues, neither looking away or at each other.

When the torture was finally over, we were seated in a small, well-lit room and handed brochures that gave us detailed information about the church who had put on the fun. They asked us to lower our heads and pray, and as my brother and I lowered our heads, I whispered to him,"Don't pray, Ruben. Don't listen to them." Forever obedient and trusting of his older sisters, he obeyed.

I felt so proud of myself for catching them before they could brainwash us completely. I felt like I had saved my brother.

To this day, he hasn't forgotten. We laugh hysterically when we think about how crazy that was, and how much I truly believed I had stopped something horrible from happening. Like somehow, praying would have sealed the deal, and we would be destined for hell. Only Catholic prayers were real prayers, after all.

It wasn't until years later that I realized the impact my actions and words had on my brother. I didn't walk away from that experience thinking that churches were fucked up or brainwashing institutions, or that I was wrong about what a "real" prayer was, or even that I shouldn't have premarital sex. (Ahem.)

I walked away realizing that I couldn't ever take back all those things I said or did in front of my brother. They would always be something that affected the way he thought or behaved, and that I had no idea what the hell I was talking about. I mean, I still probably don't! But I had helped shape him, and that was both wonderful and horrifying.

Friday is for dreaming

Things to be excited about today:

1. It is Friday! That means I have 2.5 days ahead of me full of knitting, sleeping, movies and husband-ing.
2. I have the new Radiohead album. I feel like Homer Simpson with a donut. I think it's going to change my life.
3. Al Gore won the Nobel Peace Prize today. A brilliant man gets what he deserves.
4. My siblings and I are starting a small family tradition this year with a Day of the Dead party. I'm going to try and make these pins:


I'm ripping the idea off of the Blythe website, which by the way, I totally love.

I'm so excited though, because we can make a beautiful altar and honor my grandparents. I have so much guilt surrounding my relationships with them, it will be nice to think about them and honor them for a night.

Plus, we'll have tamales and hot chocolate. Wut, wut!!

...

On a side note, Optimus Prime sent me a voicemail yesterday via my friend Kelly. Apparently, he fears my brother Ruben may have joined forces with Megatron. Confused? I was, too. This should clear it up, though.

Primer Dia

Welcome to my blog. Today, of course, is my first day as a blogger. Kind of intimidating, but I think it's time for me to confront my fear and embrace my narcissism.

Stay tuned.