Product Review: The Keurig B70 Platinum Edition Single Cup Brewing System: Or, my new religion.

I remember the Saturdays I enjoyed pre-child. As I woke up in my King-sized plush bed, perfectly coiffed and flawlessy made-up, I would yawn and stretch demurely before wandering into the kitchen and asking myself the age-old question: To bean, or not to bean? Also known as, "Do I want coffee today? What kind?" Then I would command my team of personal baristas to whip me up a frothy cup of deliciousness.

Well, that's mostly true. When you take away the bed, the hair, makeup, and baristas, that is.

But when A.D. (After Daughter) began, the question went from "Do I want coffee?" to "How quickly can I get this stuff into my system?" followed by a frantic shoveling of Sanka into whatever mug held the least mold cultures, usually resulting in 3rd degree throat burns.

Enter the Keurig. My Sweet Prince. My New Idol.

It features a programmable on/off time, numerous cup sizes, and a removable water reservoir and drip tray (for "easy cleaning", as if I engage in such futile tasks).

You put a K-cup into the K-cup holder (or, "thingy", if you're me). You push the button that says BREW, and in the time it takes for me to run the water while Novel-Daddy showers so that it appears as though I'm brushing my teeth, I have a cup of coffee. And not the 12-step, AA meeting variety. Good coffee. You can get K-cups in almost every brand, from Caribou Coffee to Newman's Own to Green Mountain. It also comes in tea varieties, which is usually not for me, but the B70 has an iced drink setting (yes, you read that correctly, a motherfunction ICED setting) which has converted me. Green Mountain also makes some pretty fabulous hot cocoa K-cups, which I use to caffeinate my daughter if I'm holding a grudge against Novel-Daddy.

No grinding. No filters. No burnt dregs. No mold cultures. No weak garbage "coffee". All in under a minute. And its pretty. A lazy person's dream.

Five Stars. Five, I say!

Back on the Scene

Motherhood is a strange land. From the beginning, I had to learn a foreign language: playdates, meetups, cognition, all of these were new words to me. I had a "baby shower" which is written here in quote because it was thrown by my fellow poor college students, involved liquor (not for me) and I forbade all eating baby food/fake dirty diaper/clothespin games. In fact, the only thing we had even slightly resembling a game was a "drop the kid" betting pool, with people throwing $5 on the date they thought I would go into labor (nobody won, I was induced). There was even one girl there who really classed up the joint by not speaking to me for a year but showing up for the cake with a bottle of dollar store baby wash in tow.

Wow, memories.

In truth, none of this mattered because I had saved up my waitressing money to buy everything from a breast pump to a diaper genie myself, and most of my friends stopped speaking to me when they found out I was pregnant. Really, nothing kills the buzz of a night of barhopping like a pregnant chick.

So, I entered the strange land of motherhood solo except for Mr. Edwards, and that suited me fine. I made new friends that did everything from grabbing coffee to babysitting, and I was happy. This all suited me fine. When we moved into a new apartment complex, I met Yubicela, who had a son my daughter's age. And she was my age. It was, in a word, awesome.

Then I moved. Suddenly, I'm solo again. Mr. Edwards goes to work, Yubi is up in Chicago, and I find myself back on the scene. And to be honest, I feel like a bit of a predator.

For instance, my strategy involves a basket of toys, which I happen to bring to the playground on the off chance that other kids will want to play with them, and their mothers will have to talk to me. I have learned a few things from this.

1. People who start families the "right" way and have a child my daughter's age are usually at least 8 years older than me. This means they've had careers, bought a house, and have been married for some time. We have very little in common on this front, and most conversations end when this little nugget is discovered.

2. If you are one of the people who don't start families the right way, most people in the first category find you very tacky, and immediately dislike you, and for some reason, your born-out-of-wedlock epitome of sin child. Which is kind of weird, cause really, disdain for a toddler?

3. There are always exceptions to these rules.

Meeting other mothers is a lot like dating. With all of the nervousness and none of the sex. For now, I think I've found a kindred soul at my local playground, but I think I'll wait til the 3rd "date" before I ask for her number.

You're a Crappy Parent

If you just read the title and thought, "This doesn't apply to me", you're wrong. I'm here to tell you that you're a terrible parent. 

Hey, don't shoot the messenger. Truth be told, I'm a horrendous example of parenting abilities as well. In fact, every single one of us are bad, bad parents.

Let's start at the beginning--labor and delivery.

You had a cesarean, didn't you? One of those "emergency" situations? You let some doctor reach his filthy doctor hands in to your uterus to snatch out your baby. Bad Parent. What's that? You had a homebirth? A natural, birthing pool, aromatherapy-accompanied, family-witnessed miracle of childbirth doodad? Nutjob. You crazy, crunchy, hippy freak. Neither of these? You went to a hospital. Still unnatural and traumatic. You had an epidural? Bad, bad parent. 

OK. Now we've identified why you were unfit from the start. Let's move on.

Feeding options.

You breastfed, you nipple nazi. You militant fundamentalist. Your kid's gonna be asking for booby when they're eight, with serious social problems to boot. Oh, and could you put your breast away? Cause...ew.

You didn't? You formula-fed? You realize, of course that they'll never lead a healthy life, and will probably end up working at the Gas-n-Go because choline deprivation means they'll never get a real job. I mean cow's milk? If humans were meant to drink cow milk, then....er....nevermind.

Let me guess. You decided to stay at home with your little angel(s). Lazy. Spoiled. Repressed. You complain when all you do all day is eat bonbons and watch soaps, contributing nothing to the household income. Gross. No wonder you're fat.

No?

You went back to work, you say? How COULD you? Abandoning your child like that. You should be ashamed. Leaving your child with strangers at some daycare just so you can hold on to some deranged idea of self-sufficiency. *whispers* Don't you know they teach your kids to be gay there?

Ugh, someone better call CPS.

The point I'm trying to make here is that no matter what you do, someone's going to look down on it. I don't know why. Maybe we are so unsure of our judgment calls that if we make someone feel bad enough about theirs, everything will somehow be okay. Whatever your options (or lack thereof) are, someone, somewhere, thinks you made the wrong choice. Which is, of course, patently ridiculous. We should be supporting each other, not denigrating one another or only supporting the people who make the same choices we do.

That's all for today. Go hug your kid before someone comes to take them away.

Help a Mutha Out...

Hey everyone!

I decided to enter the Momlogic "Mother of All Bloggers Contest". You would be doing me a giant solid if you went to my profile on Momlogic to leave a message saying something to the effect of, "I nominated you for the Mother of All Bloggers Contest." This has to be done by April 19th, 11:59 pm.

More to come on the radicalness of Momlogic and this sweet contest soon.

A Story for Sona

There was once a king and queen who lived in a lavish but empty kingdom. In all the world, they had only each other. For awhile, the king and queen were very happy. They loved each other, and their days were filled with laughter and dancing.

Time wore on (as time is apt to do) and soon the royal pair began to feel the weight of their empty kingdom. It weighed down on them like a burden, and though they loved each other even more than they did before, their laughter waned and they hardly ever danced.

The king, unwilling to bear the sadness on his queen's face, took her to the Shores of Sleep to walk along the water, in the hopes that he would see her smile again. The Shores of Sleep are different from other beaches--every grain of sand is a dream and the waves don't crash, they sing lullabies.

The Moon, queen of the Sky Kingdom, looked down on the regal couple along the beach, called to them,

"Why are you so sad? You have a kingdom, and you have each other."

The queen replied,

"Oh, Moon, we are so lonely. Look at all of your star-children! How happy you must be to always have them twinkling all around you."

The Moon thought on this, and said,

"I will send you one of my star-children. She is the most beautiful one of all, and I am sure you will all be happy. You must promise to care for her with all of your being."

The queen swore oaths and vowed, and her husband, the king, made his promises as well. Then, with a flash of light and stardust, the Moon-queen sent her most beautiful star-daughter to Earth, where she landed with a ripple in the water.

The queen gathered her robes about her and waded into the water to gather her child. She brought the baby back to the shore, where the smiling princess stole her new father's heart.

Smiling at last, the king and queen cradled their new treasure between them, and named her "Sona", which means "happiness" in our grand-parent's language.

And there were many more days of smiling and laughter and dancing.

At Home...Reluctantly

So here I am, recently graduated from college with a BFA in Art History--possibly the LEAST employable degree next to a BFA in Interpretive Dance--and instead of lazing about a parent's house, half-heartedly sending out resumes to potential dream jobs, I've suddenly found myself gainfully employed. As a stay at home mom. Or, to be irritating, a SAHM.

Needless to say, this is not what I imagined when I entered college 4 years ago. I imagined myself flitting into and subsequently taking the art world by storm, all while getting my Master's and PhD by the time I was 30.

Mr. Edwards (my boyfriend) got a (fairly) high paying internship with a game design company here in Austin, and I moved down here with our daughter after I finished writing my thesis. After about 3 days at home with the little one, I decided that I might need to either hari-kari or abduct our daughter and go someplace exotic, just to break the monotony.

I settled on trying to find a job.

I have very simple requirements in this department. First, any job I take has to pay more than the cost of childcare, or I'm throwing money away. Secondly, it can't be a job where I'm selling stuff. I'm bad at it, and I hate it. 20 resumes to 20 different Administrative Assistant jobs later, and here I am still, getting all dolled up (read: hair thrown in ponytail) for my trips to the HEB, and finding myself trying to have cogent, adult conversations with a two-year-old.

ME: "What do you think, Sona? Should we buy ground espresso or whole beans?"

SONA: "Boon, Mommy?" Boon being Two-inese for a balloon

ME: "You're right, I think the whole beans taste fresher, too."

Now I find myself faced with a dilemma. Staying at home can suck. It can be boring. It's hard work, doing all of the work of a maid, a cook, a nanny, an accountant, and a chaffeur for no pay. On the other hand, I've found myself entirely accustomed to the way Sona rounds the corner in her footie pajamas, her hair a disarray of little corkscrew curls. I find myself looking forward to the pre-nap stretch, when she climbs up on the couch and rests her little cheek against my collar bone and reaches up to grab a strand of hair.

Perhaps my reluctance is turning. If only I could have a conversation with anyone that isn't two or currently in a monogamous relationship with me.

The Story of Us

When I tell people that I got pregnant when I was 19 and had my daughter when I was 20, reaction usually ranges from shock to disgust. Which, of course, pales in comparison to the look on their face when I tell them I am a) not married, and that b) My boyfriend and I have been together for 3 years and some change, and that my daughter is 2. Seeing them do the math and then realizing that I got pregnant on the first date is, in a word, priceless.

And yet, here we are. Despite the fact that this was not supposed to work, under any circumstances, we plod on. In love, happy with our situation, thinking casually about marriage, a home, a life beyond.

It seems to me that you can only be valid as a mother if you fall into a very small window. White, Married, 25-28--you get the picture. But we are out there--those of us that don't conveniently fit into niches. Sometimes we are single, some of us are young, some of us begin having children at 30, even 40. Some of us are Black, Asian, Hispanic, or a mix of all of the above or none of the above. Each of us valid. Each of us, in a way, novel.

So, welcome to my blog. Enjoy the ride.