I've been morphing babies all day. And by that I mean I've been using this site to combine pictures of me and my boyfriend to see what our future child may look like. It's probably all BS and just the same face generated for all couples of a similar skin tone, but that doesn't stop me from arguing that these future babies look more like me. So much so, that the boyfriend and I spent most of Sunday trading picture collages comparing said babies' faces to our own and laying claim to a child that doesn't actually exist ("That's my nose!" "But that's my chin!"). We're weird. But just for the record, these two precious children look just like me, no?

Ha! Well, what spurred all of this on was the baby fever I caught sometime last month. Now, I've always been the sappy type when it comes to children, fiercely protective of all cubby cheeks and little baby giggly wigglies. But recently, it's been over the top. I cry when I see kids sad, and I cry when I see them happy. I start arguments over the way my child will be transported to school or the activities they will participate in (ie. my child will devour books as soon as he can read), even though I don't have a child to argue over. Most of these arguments end in screaming through tears. "My child will never take a yellow bus to school! It's not like the Magic School Bus anymore! Kids are hurting and bullying other kids and teachers are doing nothing about it! I will raise hell!" Listen, I never claimed to be sane.

It's not PMS; it's just PM. I seemed to have switched into 'parent mode' all of the sudden. For one, 'parent mode' is the opposite of rose-tinted glasses. (This is not an official term. I totally made it up, but it is real, I tell you.) When you're in 'parent mode', you see the world as this super dangerous place full of land mines for your children (or my crazy case, future, potential children) to trip over and get obliterated. A world that is a scary monster of a place, lying in wait to swallow my babies up whole. It's seeing all the negative aspects of life as if looking through dark, cloudy glasses. Shit-tinted glasses if you will.
Secondly, transitioning to 'parent mode' is also this moment when you feel like you're not really living just for yourself. Recently, I find myself making decisions with something else in mind. For instance, I've always vowed to live in NYC for the rest of my life. People would ask where I planned to settle down, buy a home, raise children, and I'd look at them as if they had two heads. Right here in New York City, of course. They'd remind me how expensive it would be to live in the city and raise the 2 children I'd always wanted, and I'd say "fine, I'll just have one then." Just like that, I gave up a future little ball of mush. I was ruthless. But over the past six months or so, I felt this steady almost imperceptible shift. I'd pass this all-boys high school near my house and think "would my future son fit in here?" Although I'd still prefer to an apartment somewhere in the West Village or a Townhouse on the UWS, I find myself watching the HGTV Network and wondering whether my family would be better suited for a colonial or a victorian style home (fyi, neither of those are options on the island of Manhattan). I've begun factoring in the possibility of a family into my career and financial choices. And even though I still think growing up in the city is the best childhood ever,every now and then I wonder how cool it would be for my kid to grow up in a small town where everyone knows him. Even, reminding myself that I better get my shit together for my future children. Who am I? Maybe I'm just starting to grow up.

Oh, and I cry over anything related to children, so there's that. I've turned into the wailing woman. I swear, I'm going to be that teary-eyed mother who can barely let go of my little Charlotte's hand on the first day of kindergarten. Goodness, help us all.


PS: I also mix my face with my favorite celebrities just to see the children I'll never have. If only Robert Pattinson could see how perfect we'd be :)

Annual Father's Day Hang Up

My dad doesn't do Father's Day. He also doesn't do pictures. Consequently, one of those "Happy Father's Day to the best dad ever" captioned photos did not materialize on my IG yesterday. See, my dad doesn't believe in special days to appreciate special people, because the time for appreciation is everyday. In fact, when I spoke to him yesterday and mentioned the 'special day', he responded "yo B, bye" and hung up, to which I responded with hysterical laughter. Our annual Father's Day hang up. Maybe it's not that funny for outsiders, but to me, it's all a part of his charm and the only response that feels right. I was 18 when I realized that this response was not only the only kind I'd ever get but also the only kind I ever wanted.

My parents drove me up to college on a really sticky afternoon in August. I remember how sticky it was because I cursed myself for wearing shorts on leather seats (thunder thigh probs). I don't remember much else about the 4 hour trip up there except it was long, sticky and I got nervous every time I heard glass shuffling around in the boxes in the back. Oh, and the fact that my father wore cowboy boots, a hat and chewed on a straw the whole way there because as he put it "I'm drivin' up this here road cuz my daughta here's on her way to call-edge" in his terrible Southern accent. To dear old dad, middle of nowhere Pennsylvania = the south. As we unpacked the car in front of my dorm, I watched all the parents, fixing their kids things - making beds, stuffing drawers, asking if they had enough shampoo or underwear - and all of them hugging and tugging on their teenagers like they might never see them again.

Because if not a pic of me and my dad, why not a picture of the most famous daddy/daughter duo (or trio)? :)

After my parents and I finished unloading and stacking all of my boxes on my side of the room, I stood expectantly waiting for something. Bed making, clothes folding, showering of kisses and 'I'll miss you's'. My father pulled the straw out of his mouth, said "Well, that's it, little lady. I love ya!" in his accent, pulled in me in quickly for tight hug and a kiss on the temple, and was out the door. I only had time for a confused mumble of "I love you too" before he was gone. I remember unpacking my things with tears in my eyes, trying not to cry in front of strangers.

My mom called me that night when they finally got back to New York and she let me in on a little secret. "You know your father cried on the way home." I hadn't said anything but she knew I needed to hear it, knew I needed to know so it would make sense. He was going to miss me, his only little girl, and in some ways it broke his heart to leave me there. But he also didn't want to make the moment an upsetting one. He wanted to give me my independence and prove to me that he trusted I could go it alone - whether that was unpacking a box or living on my own for months at a time. He didn't say it, but I knew it because I knew him. I silently cried myself to that night. Not only because I was gonna miss him, but because he was such an amazing dad, unique reactions and all, unlike any other and I was lucky to have him.

I love that man with everything in me, for everything in me I owe to him. Everyday.

Don't You Forget About Me

Today's topic: "A story about a time you were very afraid."

This post has nothing to do with The Breakfast Club (my favorite movie by the way), but the outro, hit song "Don't You (Forget About Me)" by Simple Minds is quite fitting. Do any of you 80's kids remember it?
Photo Credit; Edited by me. 

Today marks the second day in a row during Blogtember that we're going to look back to my ninth year of life. Apparently, a hell of a lot happened to 9 year-old Kari. I was mean and forgettable. 

I don't remember many of the details but that's actually consistent with how I remember things that I am or once was afraid of. I kind of block them out and when I pull on those memories, only certain tethers return, like feelings or settings. My grandmother, whom I called Nanny, was diagnosed with lung cancer when I was a child and she progressively got worse over time. Because her condition was worsening, they (my parents, aunts and uncles) wanted me to spend as much time as possible with her, just in case. I was going to go visit her at her house when my mother tried to explain that Nanny was a bit different from the last time I had seen her. When I asked how, she said that I could go in to see her but that she might not remember me because she had forgotten a lot of things lately. Little did I know that just earlier Nanny didn't even remember her own children, but to my 9 year-old ears, my mother had essentially said "you're grandma has forgotten you." My mother lead me to the hallway that lead to Nanny's bedroom but I would barely budge. I stood with my arms stiffly by my side and took tiny little steps in their direction. My family has told me this story quite a few times since then, about how I was moving so slowly that it would've taken me an hour to enter the room, but I only really remember how I felt. I feared of the possibility that Nana wouldn't know who I was, that her blue eyes would pass over my face without recognition. They say it took them 5 minutes of calling me to get me move an inch and that eventually, my uncle just carried me into the room with my face buried in his chest. But I just remember feeling so very afraid that I had already been forgotten. 

Now that I think about it, this story was a precursor of sorts for my life. If I care to admit it to myself, being forgotten is one of twenty-five year-old Kari biggest fears as well. 

"Try Hard Not to Lie, and Have Clear Being There."

Here we go. My first ever blogging challenge, #Blogtember, created by the lovely Jenni @ Story of My Life. I've always thought I want to do one of those as I watched countless Makeup Mayhem and Vlogmas videos on YouTube. And now that I have so much time on my hands, I can.

Today's topic: Describe where or what you come from. The people, the places, and/or the factors that make up who you are.

The first thing that popped into my head was the city, an idea fueled by my continuous love affair with NYC. But that'd be too easy, at least for me it would be a "cop out" of sorts. I could mention my love of writing and creating a world I preferred to live it at the age of six, the years of gymnastics training that I am convinced saved my life, or the four years away at university that allowed me to "find myself" which for the record turned out to be the same person I had always been. But there will be other, dare I say more relevant, times to discuss all of that. Of course, I technically come from my family, you know my parents and other distant relatives. But then again, don't we all come from our families (at least in the general sense of it)? And, I mean, I could talk ad nauseam about my dear father who challenges me every single day to be a better person than I was just moments ago. Or my mom, who rarely nags or asks a million questions but always knows what question to ask when I need her most. But I'd rather talk about something specific, a certain factor that makes up who I am.  

Photo Credit
Edited by me

I was raised on truth. That isn't to say I've never told a lie. I have. Probably more than the share of lies allotted to one during her lifetime. But where I come from, the people I come from - they've always taught me to tell the truth. And that's the important part. That's always kept me safe. From myself. See, no matter what I've told anyone else - that they didn't hurt my feelings when they actually crushed me, that I went for a run instead of sitting on the couch watching reruns of America's Next Top Model, that I was but a city block away from our lunch date when I in fact wasn't even dressed yet - I've never lied to myself. In fact, I don't think I can. It's almost as if my father spoon fed me truth out of a baby food jar and so it's become such a part of me, of who I am, that my body rejects anything else I try to convince myself of. "Try hard not to lie and have clear being there,"  my father would say to me since I can remember. So I'd scrawl into my diary about just how hurt I was, vow silently to myself to workout tomorrow instead of watching hungry models bitch at each other, mentally curse myself out for running so behind schedule and setting an early lunch when I know I'm a late riser. Lying to myself, one of the easiest and most self-destructive things to do, was something I simply never could do. 

See, everybody lies; whether they are bomb-dropping, life-changing lies or small, white, "your-butt-doesn't-look-fat-in-that" lies, everybody tells them. It's when you've convinced yourself of your own lies that you're in trouble. And where I come from, more aptly what I was raised on, it keeps me out of trouble, it even keeps me honest. Because if I know the truth, but I tell a story, well then I'm a fraud and I don't like the way that feels so I try hard to avoid it. It's funny, huh? The way some things come back full circle.

Thanks for reading! Are you participating in #Blogtember? If so, let me know in the comments below so I can follow along. If not, where do you come from, what makes you, well, you?