My job is pretty boring. Not boring, in the “oh my god snooooooooooooze” kinda way, but in the repetitive, brain on auto-pilot, kinda way. So most nights, I tend to zone out and my mind wanders and when my mind wanders I come up with some really weird shit. Hence, this post.

{Side note: I read some really disheartening stuff for work, so the zone out is part unintentional, part necessity, because if I allowed myself to fully process the crazy that people spew, I would curl up in a fetal position and cry for days}

So, the other night, I started thinking about what I would want to be able to do if I could do anything in the world. Not like a job, but like a natural talent. I think I had watched The Voice earlier that evening, and whenever I watch singing or dancing shows, I spend an inordinate amount of time afterwards imagining how awesome it would be to have that much talent. Or, in my case, ANY talent. I can dance pretty well (for a white girl), but holy mother of god, I should not be allowed to sing. Even Dylan gives me side-eye when I do, and she eats lint from the floor.

Sometimes I think I would LOVE to be able to sing or dance like they do on So You Think You Can Dance or The Voice (not American Idol, because apparently you can only be on that show now if you’re prepubescent). I mean, who wouldn’t want to entertain the world with their beautiful talent? But then I think about ALL THE PEOPLE who can sing and dance, and how very, very few of them actually get to entertain anyone else but their mom and grandparents. And honestly, I don’t want to be able to sing or dance if the world isn’t watching. My family has to love me, I don’t need to impress them.

Then I thought about how cool it would be to be able to draw or paint something other than slightly embellished stick figures. But Jesus, that must take a ridiculous amount of time to practice and hone and what have you. And really, I want a low maintenance talent.

Know what I eventually settled on? After hours of thinking about it? Math. I would love LOVE to be able to do math. Not basic math (I can do THAT. Kind of.). I’m talking long, complicated problems. I want to be able to do that in my head. I don’t know why, since one, I don’t have a job that requires any math skills whatsoever, and two, have a phone that does whatever little math I need. But man, how cool would that be, to just bust that shit out at a party or something? “What’s that? You need to know what 8374648293747 divided by 3858593927264 is right this second? Oh, no worries, let me just BUST OUT MY BRAIN.” I realize that the odds of anyone, ever, anywhere needing to know anything like that are slim to none, but I’m not worried about that. Whatever time wasn’t spent doing math shit in my head would be dedicated to coming up with scenarios in which my incredible super power would come up ORGANICALLY. Plus! Oh my god, it just occurred to me: Dylan could take me to school for Show N Tell! As the thing she’s showing and telling! Can someone say best mother ever?

So, yeah. That’s what I do when I’m bored and zoning out. Well, that’s one thing, anyway. You know what I DON’T do when I’m bored and zoning out? Complicated math problems. How unfortunate. For us all.

We found these sunglasses for her in the dollar bin at Target. These are her car glasses, and every time I buckle her in her seat, she asks for them. “Suglasses? Suglasses mama?” At first, she just played with them, and occasionally aimed well enough to get them close to her head. And then one day, she figured it out, and now she wears them all the time. 99% of the time, she puts them on right. But some days, a girl just needs to wear her shit upside down for a car nap. Amirite?

I made a quasi resolution in the beginning of year that I didn’t share with anyone, because I was absolutely positive that it would be broken, like, later that day. The resolution was to go the entire year without buying anything NEW for me and the girl child. Meaning, not paying retail for clothes and such, with a few notable exceptions: underwear/lingerie (because EWW), shoes (also, eww, and I realize that many people buy perfectly good shoes secondhand but let me assure you that I cannot be one of them {this one applies only to me, because kids shoes are freaking expensive, yo}, work out clothes (too much…personal sweating), and a bathing suit (again, this applies to me, not the diaper clad small). The shoe rule will work in my favor very, very soon, when I get my grubby little hands on the most adorable pair of crocheted Toms. For me. And I guess one for the kid too.

A little background: I worked in retail for a very long time (12ish years?), and working in retail is the quickest way to develop a little, ahem, problem with shopping. You see it first! Brand new! At a discount! It’s hard to resist the siren call of the perfect boyfriend jean or LBD, even if you already have both hanging in your closet at home. When I got pregnant, my husband made me promise I wouldn’t go overboard on buying baby stuff, and I didn’t, for the most part. I knew that buying tons of cute and expensive clothes for a newborn was literally throwing money down the drain, since we probably wouldn’t be leaving the house for quite some time, and when we did, it wouldn’t be to anywhere that a onesie and bloomers wouldn’t be appropriate. And I was lucky enough to have a lot of awesome moms who gave me tons of clothes and gear, which is the way to go. So I stayed in control with baby stuff. And being pregnant and then postpartum makes clothes buying excruciatingly nightmarish, so my own consumption has slowed quite a bit. But the last time I cleaned out my closet, I found so much stuff with tags still attached, it really got me thinking. Why am I buying stuff that I may never wear, and paying full price?

Hence, the Nothing New Resolution. About a month ago, I participated in a clothing swap with some other women and moms, and I scored some great pieces (and got rid of quite a bit of excess in my own closet). And today, my lovely friend Tessa and I attended the presale day for LA Kids Consignment Sale. It’s a giant sale that happens about 6 times a year, where anyone who wants to can register and sell their baby gear, clothes, furniture, toys, etc. We did not participate as consigners (oh my god the time involved in that), but we did purchase passes to shop the sale a day before it opened to the public (consigners and volunteers also get the shop early, for free). I didn’t really know what to expect, so when I walked into the WAREHOUSE, I started hyperventilating a bit at the sheer magnitude of what was before me. It. Was. MASSIVE. Rows and rows and rows (and rows and rows and rows) of clothes, books, toys, strollers, swings, bouncers, cribs, gliders, potty seats, and on and on and on (seemingly into infinity). Anything that anyone can possibly even think of wanting for their baby or kid, was there. The best part? It was there, in (mostly) great condition, for a fraction of what you’d pay retail. Bouncers for $20. Books for .50. High end strollers like Quinnys and B.O.Bs for $80. It was a bargain oasis.

Since it was my first time, I went in without a game plan, and that’s what you need for this kind of shopping. You need a list of must gets, you need shopping partners, comfy shoes, and time. I had an awesome (but equally flummoxed) partner in Tessa, but nothing else. Hell, I even brought the kid. We did browse some, and I did end up scoring some good stuff: 2 pairs of shorts, a skirt, a tank, a pair of sandals, and 8 books for $20. That alone is reason enough to hit up the next sale, which incidentally, is only a month away!

So I’m starting my list now, in preparation for the April sale. I want to get most of her summer wardrobe, a lot more books, and I really want a jogging stroller so she can go on runs with me. And I’m sure I’ll find a few extra goodies too. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to go the whole year without buying anything new, but the LA Kids Consignment Sale will make it pretty much a cinch for the girl. I don’t know if I can swallow paying full price for stuff anymore, knowing that I can get it for $2. I’m a smart girl.

Now, if only they had this sale for grown ups. I want to start thrifting, but am clueless as to where to begin. So if you’re a thrifting mama (and I know some of you are masters, judging from my Instagram feed), I would love some tips/advice/pointers. I’m willing to pay more than $2 for my stuff. But not much. Like I said, I’m a smart girl.

People, I’ve been drawing stuff. You may have heard of a little app making the rounds called Draw Something! It’s basically Pictionary for iPhone or iPad and Android devices, and it is like CRACK. Of course, never having smoked crack, I can’t exactly verify its addictiveness, but I’ve heard it’s whack. Draw Something! is addicting, but so totally not whack.

I’m not an artistic person. Like, at all. My handwriting is atrocious, I don’t have any sort of vision, and even my stick people look like they all suffer from elephantiasis. So I was initially hesitant to start playing and showcase my abysmal skills to my opponents. Until I played. And realized that EVERYONE is terrible. It’s kind of designed that way. I mean, who can draw a legible picture of Rza from Wutang Clan using their finger and an iPhone? (Incidentally, NOT ME ::shudder::)

Here are some of my finer (i.e. recognizable) moments. I’ve gotten much better, which should give you an idea of what I was like when I first started playing.

Vampire. Duh.

One of my finer pieces.

Celebrities are kinda my thing.

I mean, it’s just a little guitar, right?

This is one my husband played. He knows me very well.

So, as you can see, drawing isn’t really my thing. But, it IS really fun, and seriously addicting. So if you’re in the market for a new time suck, get thee the Draw Something! app, and look me up: Littlebabyblog1. I promise, I am good for hours of entertainment.

Just ask Arnold.

She has my hands. Long, slender fingers that will turn upwards when held palm down. She has my skin, translucent, pale, with just a hint of pink. Her hair feels like mine, baby fine and wispy. She laughs like I do, with her whole self. She laughs at the same things too. When she can’t do something, her cheeks flush and she stomps her foot and I can feel the rage bubbling up inside, percolating at the surface, threatening to boil over. I can feel it because it bubbles in me too. We’re both quick to smile, and even quicker to strike. We are almost identical on the inside, she and I.

But her face is not my face.

Her face is his. The full lips, strong jawline, sharp, defined cheekbones. The little button nose, and the eyes, almond shaped pools of soulful brown. Her face is striking and unique and the most exquisitely beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. I can stare at her for hours, and discover new parts of it that I hadn’t noticed before. And I do. I’ve memorized every inch of it, and I stare at it in my minds eye, at night, in the quiet of the dark.

The world notices too. The world sees her, and the world says she is beautiful. Exotic, is the word it uses. The world doesn’t see her and think, “beauty”. The world sees her and thinks, “different”. When it is just she and I, that’s when the differences are marked. When the world notices the most. Are you the nanny? Is she yours? Where was she adopted from? Just words, innocuous and curious and benign and like knives, every time. My green eyes and her almond eyes don’t match, so she can’t be mine. They don’t see her insides. They don’t see how our laugh is the same, or how our rage bubbles just under the surface in the face of failure. They can’t know that it is my blood that pumps through her heart, my blood that sustained her then and now and will always. All the world sees in her face, and her face is not my face.

At this age, this clumsy, toddling, babbling age of wonder and curiosity and innocence, her face is just one part of her. Babies are adorable, and she is a (quickly growing, almost not) baby in their eyes. But soon, I fear, her face will cease to be just one part of her. Soon, the world may see it as the only part of her. The part of her that stands out, not because of its beauty, but because it’s different. And sometimes, sadly, the world doesn’t like different.

I’ve spent the last 18 months preparing for scenarios we might encounter in the coming years. I know what I will say to her the first time she loses. I know how to comfort her the first time a friend hurts her on purpose. I’ve practiced what to say when something is out of her reach, and how to coach her to reach it. I’ve stored words away, in letters and journals and in my mind, to use for her first betrayal, her first success, her first fight and win. I’ve cried tears remembering these moments in my own life, and I’ve written down those feelings. I know what ice cream we will eat to soothe her first broken heart (and subsequently, the place husband will have to take me to keep me away from the one who broke it). But there is one thing I don’t know how to deal with, or even how to prepare for. I’ve had my heart broken. I’ve experienced loss, both superficially temporary and soul crushingly permanent and irreversible. But I have never been treated differently because of how I look. Because of who I am. I have never had ugly words used against me, had my heritage and appearance used as a weapon to hurt me.

I’ve never had to hold back tears against the sting of hateful whispers.

He has. And my fear is that she will too. And instead of helping her, instead of teaching her how to deal with and stand up to it, all I can see is white, hot rage. And I hate them, the world that will one day make her feel not beautiful. I hate the ones who will make her hate her eyes, those breathtaking almond pools of soulful brown. I hate them for hurting her. I hate that world for ever making anyone feel different, for making even one person look in the mirror and feel anything but acceptance and love for their face or skin or body. I never thought beyond the surface of it, because up until I met him, I was, by nature, on the other side of the mirror. Never hating, but so far from understanding.

I still don’t fully understand, and I may never understand, what it feels like on that side of the mirror. If I could, I would spend my life changing the wiring of every single person in this world who could one day hurt my baby. I would never change her, because she is perfect. I will never wish for her face to be different, because it is HER face. It is beautiful and exotic and perfect. I wish for everyone else to be different, for her face to never be anything more than a PART of her, not all of her. There is something coming, that I am not prepared for, but I am ready. I don’t know how long I have to find the words, but I am looking, looking, looking everyday for them. I may not understand how the world thinks, but I know how she thinks.

Because inside, we are the same. It is my blood that pumps through her veins. It is my rage that boils just under her surface. Her face may not be my face, but her heart is my heart. And my heart is strong. And it gets stronger everyday. For her.

When you give a toddler an iPad, expect to find a shit ton of the following:

(She must open the camera while the case is on and just go apeshit, because I find more of these black squares than I know what to do with).

This is her handy work after, oh, 15 minutes with the iPad and a little freedom. She usually gravitates between the Toca Boca Hair Salon and Easy Bake Treats apps (both found on iTunes), with a Sesame Street video thrown in as a palate cleanser. She loves it, and can navigate her way through the games like no ones business. I don’t think she even realizes that she’s taking pictures, she just likes the little “click!” that the camera makes. I’m gonna introduce her to the actual camera app soon, and show her how to take reverse camera pictures, because I am dying for some shots of the inside of her nose.

I’m taking gallery suggestions for the public unveiling of her (clearly) award winning photography collection next month.