...buy me some peanuts and crackerjack...

I recently saw the As lose to the Yankees in Oakland. I had wanted to see the As play the White Sox in Chicago, but because anything from school work to the weather kept me on campus, I was never able to take the trip down to see a game.

Andrew and I had planned to pack up the Toyota and drive out to Oakland and watch a game We had good seats, and I was feeling good: I was able to wear a sweater for the first time in months.

I wasn't paying attention to the game the way Andrew was, who was calling out the players by name, and leaning in to me to talk about the batters and pitchers as if I would have a valid response. This is when I remembered that the last time I had seen the As play was when my father took me, my sister, and two of her friends to most of a game. We had arrived late and left when the As lost to... I don't remember who.

That was kind of it though: what did I remember and had I forgotten about going out to the ball game?

I didn't remember wading through crowds or the exorbitant prices for a measly cup of fries.

I do remember sitting in the sunshine and looking around the field to figure out what was going on. I remember eating tostadas while my grandpa made jokes about catching the ball with a big foam Athletics #1 hand.

I remember sitting by my father and feeling really good about not being the only one who had no idea what was going on with the game.

"Any family that stays together goes to the baseball game!" shouts Andrew. "One day we'll take little girl to the game."

The most intimidating thing about going to games is coming to terms with the fact that I have no real idea what is going on. I've played these games before in the school yards and in the parks, but it took a lot of effort to learn the game and its rules. It was always difficult to want to learn with the prepubescent shouts of would-be athletes at recess.

I don't know what it is that attracts me to the games then. I normally don't like being within large crowds, but within the ball park, I don't mind nudging elbows, rubbing butts trying to squeeze through the aisles or peeing in the tub-like urinals.

There are smells in the air and there is excitement. Two opposing teams which consist of people who are hired to play the game compete. Not quite a clash of the titans, but for some, sure, the competition between two teams is just that.

When I sit with Mariana through a game, mostly I imagine I'd watch the crowd with her, pointing to people, things and whatever else exciting happens in the game. After all, I don't have to know how to play to know when to cheer, laugh, or yell with the rest of them.

One day I'll take her to a few games. Baseball, basketball, heck maybe I'll even take her to a regatta.

At least there is one sport I know the rules of and compete in!

long days

It's official eleven months of you growing, eleven months of me learning about the elusive struggles of parenting. First alone just between you and me, and then together between you, me, and papa makes three. It doesn't get easier either, just different. For every celebration of a new milestone and a new strength there comes with it a new challenge to confront that wasn't there before to consider and regard. And so we celebrate the beauty of your strengths and the collide of your budding independence and pride.

We're growing too, though you probably haven't noticed. Walking the fine line of who we used to be and who we want to be, working with what we've got towards who we ought to be and doing the best not to contradict our values or underestimate our goals. It's a long journey and I dearly hope you won't hold it forever against us that we weren't better prepared for task.

It takes a lot of work to get something for free. Long days, long lines, long winded bureaucratic reasons. A class, a lecture, a piece of paper, a number, a call that leads to a call that leads to a call that leads to a waiting list, and the question wondering why I didn't start sooner.

Today we thought we'd begin to realize that we'll have to send you to childcare. I wish we could wait, I've never had to be away from you for that long. I'd never choose it. What if we have to settle for what's available instead of what's quality, instead of what's right. While I've considered creating a co-operative there doesn't seen to be the interest/community/demand... but I'll start rallying the masses and see what the results are. I know there are others that struggle with the same institutions and there's no reason to feel victimized when it could be the opportunity to set out to create a collaborative that meets everyone's needs and helps alleviate the burdened hearts we bury in gratitude for having mediocre services available.

Eleven months and things are starting to feel more like they're falling into place where they belonged a long time ago, although no one had the courage to acknowledge it then.

I admit I'm still terrified of the many things I have yet to face in this journey. I grew up below the poverty line, didn't even have anything to compare it to until I was eighteen. I didn't mean for this to be your beginning, so sad, so shameful, so single. But we are fighting for a future set in stronger foundations. We are building ourselves up to be worthy of your pride. A few days ago your father made me a promise, (he usually forbids himself from giving into promising anything until he is more than certain he can deliver). He promised that you will not need these institutions in your life, that you won't grow up afraid and feeling guilty for your hunger. That he doesn't blame me for needing it now, but that you won't. Small tokens that mean the world on painful days. Long days.

Long days of wondering what love is afforded or deserved. But knowing that we love you with all our heart.

Happy eleven months of shining and guiding!!!

Restroom

Of the two stalls in the restroom outside my room in Dodd-Mead house, I always preferred to use the stall closest to the wall because it felt much more secluded than its neighbor.

I had just received my mother's phone in the mail. It was now mine. My Subscriber Identity Model (SIM) card made it mine. The phone slides up to reveal a full keyboard and a small camera.

Hunched over with my pants around my ankles, I would look over the 20+ pictures of Mariana over and over. These few images were about all I had from my daughter. I could only visit her vicariously through family and friends whose chance encounters with my daughter were brief.

Though I excreted, I remained emotionally constipated.

It was a huge change to have more than pictures, pixelated video, and sound bytes of Mariana. She's right there, in front of me.


I've tried keeping a blog updated before, and I've found it hard to do because there is often nothing interesting to share or if there is, I prefer to keep it private and unwritten.

With Mariana, it's hard to choose what to write about because a day spent as simply as sitting at the apartment most of the day affords so many views into Mariana's developing world.

Is this what being a parent is about? Any time I have something to talk about, it is a normal occurrence in people's lives, but it is my little Mariana whose poop the day before smelled like a full turkey dinner.

She was the one who became an expert roller-over.

Her laughs are what I love waking up to as my mind plays catch-up with the day's hour.

She just went camping, there is a wealth of material right there.

Goodness, goodness, goodness. What a change:

Small pictures in a small bathroom stall then, being peed on by a naked Mariana sitting atop a boulder overlooking the mountains and river streams now.