Five On You

 

Five on you looks like holes in the knees of every pair of pants you wear -

hands on, knees on, down and dirty with life.

It looks like a boy’s face, with a baby’s eyes -

wonder, mischief, soaking it all in.

Five looks tall and strong…

and tender, and needy.

Five looks like mealtime struggles and boo boo snuggles.

Like a monkey on acid at 6pm.

It looks like a mean struggle to be independent.

It looks like a deep need to be taken care of.

Five tells a lot of poop jokes…

followed by fart jokes.

Five looks like backpacks and school.

Like pinky swears and negotiations.

Five on you looks like a proud big brother, and an irritated past only child.

It looks like wit and a sharp sense of humor, with candy and sprinkles in between.

It sounds like whispers of “I love you, Mommy”, and screams of “I can do it by myself!”

It gives you permission to run farther away, and an eternity passes before you look back to see if I’m still there.

Five sounds like questions questions questions.

It sounds like even more questions.

Five on you is a fascination with the weather, a love of numbers,

and wanting to use the men’s room instead of the ladies’ room with mommy.

Five looks too big for my arms to hold,

but has never kept me from trying.

Five on you looks beautiful…

and heartbreaking…

and smacks of the passage of time.

Five says goodbye to being a baby, and embarks on the journey into true kid-dom.

Five on you

is hard on me…

In the most naturally exquisite way.

Take five by storm.

You’re ready…

and don’t forget to look back to see if I’m still there…

because I always will be.

 

jenni chiu sig

Happy Birthday, my son.

 

How quickly time flies.

How quickly time flies.

 

 

The Not-Quite-Fetish I Found While Dusting

 

“Stupid, effing, Southern California dryness.”

I curse the climate through gritted teeth as I dust my husband’s nightstand for the second time in a week.  The lack of humidity keeps my hair nice, but covers everything in my house with a thin layer of constant dust.  I pass the Swiffer duster over his alarm clock and knock over the President Obama bobble head that is usually kept inside the nightstand drawer.  As I pull the drawer open to toss it in, a ziploc bag catches my eye.  The pure oddness of it’s contents launch an inner dialogue that I have little control over.

What the hell is this?

It looks to be a plastic bag stuffed with dryer lint.

Yeah, I see that.  But what could he possibly be doing with…

It’s clearly some kind of fetish.

What?  That’s ridiculous… and very weird.

Is it?  We really don’t spend a lot of time with him anymore.  Maybe he’s bored.  Maybe he’s lonely…

Well, with the preschooler, the toddler, my writing and speaking engagements, his work, his part time teaching, and his pursuit of another degree… I suppose we are in a bit of a disconnect.

He probably washed all your underwear and now keeps the dryer lint so he can feel close to you.

Oh my God.

Maybe he smells it…

Oh my God.

Whoa, what if it’s not even your lint?

Oh my GOD!

I toss the bag back into the drawer of his nightstand and run into the next room to get the toddler who has just awoken crying from his nap.  As I change a diaper, I vow to ask him about the lint when he gets home.

I have to.

Maybe our marriage is in crisis…

Or maybe he is on the verge of becoming a psycho creep that lurks around public laundry mats.

Lots of people have fetishes.  I’m his wife.  He should feel safe enough to share this with me.  I can deal.  I’ll roll around in dryer lint if it will save my marriage… or his soul… or even if he just thinks it’s sexy.

I pull my toddler into my arms and walk to the kitchen to get a snack.

I can be brave and confront him about this.

I can be open minded and try my best not to sneeze when we open the bag of lint…

As I imagine myself as a linty sex kitten, my son knocks the Cheerios I was holding out of my hand and all over the floor.  My imagination runs constant in the background as we both squat and pick them up one by one, singing the “clean up” song…

and my brow furrows in mild disgust…

and my stomach quivers with nervousness…

tinged with excitement.

***

 

Turns out dryer lint is really good for starting campfires when you’re out in the woods.  My husband is very outdoorsy…

and not a psycho laundry mat lurker.  Turns out though, that I’m possibly pretty creepy.

 

photo (12)

 

 

jenni chiu sig

 

 

 

 

Mom 2.0 Summit – How To Be Awkward At a Conference

 

mom2summit

You’d never know…

 

 

Two weeks have now past since I attended the Mom 2.0 Summit in Laguna Niguel.  I am still recovering from the whirlwind I returned home to, but I left the conference with a few new tools, feeling inspired, and just as awkward as ever.  I have no problem speaking on a stage to hundreds of people.  I am comfortable in front of a camera.  Put me in a social situation, and I’m a wreck.

How To Be Awkward At a Conference:

  • Develop a mysterious stomach bug as you’re about to board the party bus to your first networking event.  Back away slowly from the people staring at you, and walk quickly to your hotel room while leaning slightly to the left.  Do not answer your phone or re-appear again for at least 16 hours.
  • Laugh at least two decibels too loud when someone makes a joke.
  • Ask if you can join a table at lunch time full of strangers.  Introduce yourself to none of them.
  • Flirt with Ciaran from Momfluential on Instagram while she is sitting right behind you.  When you finally meet her, say “Hi! How are you” and never talk to her again.
  • Run away from Lisa Ling.
  • Say “hi” to people you’d love to have drinks with like Jessica Gottlieb and Cecily Kellog.  Make sure not to invite them to have drinks.
  • Tweet a compliment to  women who have said something on a panel that inspired you or rang true… do it while they are standing two feet away from you.  Make sure not to say anything to them in real life.
  • Wow everyone with your pitch at the HLN/Raising America Shark Tank suite (look for me on the show, hopefully later in the year).  Get immediate green lights across the board, tricking people into thinking you are brilliant and have your shit together.  When someone grabs your arm to tell you how wonderful your pitch was – open your eyes really big, nod, turn slowly, and walk away without saying a word.
  • Smile inhumanly big at people… then disappear a lot.
  • Suggest Shannon @MrLady and Jim @BusyDadBlog hire a hotel babysitter for their 15 year old so they can have some sex.
  • Secretly send Katherine Stone from PostPartum Progress  a direct message asking for help because you are hiding in your hotel room bathroom.
  • Make a video of yourself hiding in your hotel bathroom.
  • Announce really loudly when you have to go to the bathroom.
  • Give your business cards out to tons of people, making sure to announce they might feel warm because they’ve been against your ass in your back pocket all day.

And last but not least…

  • Make sure to wear shoes that give you blisters so you acquire a nice limp.

 

I’m either going to get better at this social stuff or perfect my ability to make a room uncomfortable.  Only time will tell, but I have another conference in July and am already scheduled to go to Atlanta for Mom 2.0 next year.

I did have someone say, “Oh, your Jenni… from MommynaniBooboo… the mythical unicorn of the conference.”

I’ll take it.

Anything is better than “that awkward chick with the warm business cards and the limp”.

 

jenni chiu sig

 

 

 

Mean Girls

 

mean girl manequins.jpg

 

 

Can’t we all just get along?

 

 

Mother To Mother

 

I remember:

Singing on the walks to preschool.

Gentleness.

Amazing Grace on the guitar.

Playing with fly swatters.

Sleeping with you when Daddy was away.

Sleeping with my head in your lap at church.

You being proud of me.

 

I remember:

Arms around me when I cried.

You listening.

You taking a dance class with me so I would try it.

You quitting after the first two classes, and it becoming my life.

The importance of schoolwork.

Money for every A.

Wearing your clothes.

Honesty.

You being proud of me.

 

I remember:

You playing with my hair.

You apologizing when you were wrong.

Letting me know when I was wrong.

Telling me I could be whatever I wanted to be.

Loving me steadfast.

Admitting when you were disappointed.

Being proud of me.

 

I remember:

Stumbling toward adulthood.

Rolling my eyes.

Wanting to speed from the nest.

Your arms open.

Me walking away.

Being proud of me.

 

Now…

Now I’m proud of you.

You did good.

From one mother to another,

thank you.

I’m a good one…

because you were too.

 

 

jenni chiu sig

* I often wonder how much my boys will someday remember in their heads and how much they will simply feel in their hearts.  I post this every year for my mother, so that neither her nor I forget.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mommy.