This morning I read about a single mom in Singapore who is fighting for her 4-year-old daughter's life. The little girl is dying of a rare cancer, and there is currently an effort to raise money for her to get a special treatment in the U.S., which would improve her chance of survival. I normally am weary of these types of stories that you typically get spammed with in random mass emails, but I got this info from a reputable website and the details have been checked out and confirmed.

So, what to do? What to do?

Do I donate? My knee-jerk reaction is to donate with no hesitation. But then I hesitated. Why this little girl? What about all the other suffering children around the world? There are millions of children everywhere dying of hunger, diseases, and abuse.

The girl's mom read my mind:

Rationally speaking, I know fully well that half a million dollars can be better spent on saving thousands of malnourished kids in Africa than on Charmaine who only has a 40-50% chance of survival even with the antibody in New York. But Charmaine is my daughter. No amount of money can justify how important she is to me...Even as I am typing right now, I don't exactly know what am I doing. I don't know what I have decided. I don't know the consequences of me typing this. The only thing I know for sure is that should anything happen to Charmaine, I would never be able to forgive myself for not trying to fight for Charmaine when all she has to help her is me.

It made me think about Bugaboo. What if she got sick? What if I couldn't help her on my own? I thought about how desperate I would be for anyone to help save my little girl. I thought about how much it would mean to my family and I if people gave just a little to bring a little hope to such a tragic situation. And for the sake of my baby? I ain't too proud to beg.

Every child who suffers is some one's son or daughter. Every child's life is precious and priceless. And while I may not have the resources to save every child, I can help save one. Like the old adage goes, "No one can do everything, but everyone can do something."


This is the little girl. Her name is Charmaine. She's not just another nameless child in need. When I look at her, I see my daughter. I see my son. I see a mother who is desperate to save her child. I see a child who is scared of needles and doctors and hospitals. I see an opportunity to help.

If you would like to help: For Donations

To read Charmaine's story: Our Feisty Princess

Labels: soapbox

A condom purse? Seriously?

I was having coffee with Caro, but forgot to take a YM5 Live picture of her because I was so distracted by the condom purse. Caro was actually standing just to the right of my camera phone, trying to shield me so I could inconspicuously take this picture all 007-like. That's what friends are for.

Labels: i spy

Last weekend we took Bugaboo to a birthday party at Gymboree. It was her first time there and I heard such great things about it so I was pretty excited for her. I looked forward to letting her crawl and cruise all over the place, looked forward to doing activities with her and the other parents and babies. I'm pretty notorious for being late to everything, but I speed-walked through the mall and broke a sweat and everything just so Bugaboo wouldn't miss one single minute.

So imagine my mortification when we took time out of all the free play so she could get her feed on right at the exact moment they were starting the activities! The party leader called all the kids to the mat and started blowing bubbles. Bugaboo had never seen bubbles before! She was only halfway through her bottle - she was going to miss it! Then suddenly her bottle slipped and tumbled to the floor. I was like, "Oops! You dropped your bottle. Oh well!" and booked it to the mat. She was a little disoriented at first, but then was like "bottle schmottle" once she set her eyes on all the bubbles. Millions of magical bubbles all over the place! You should've seen her reaction - it was the most adorable thing in the whole wide world.

So of course I had to pick up some bubbles to go.



I usually pride myself on being an Anti-Mom, anti- Mommy and Me, anti- play dates. I just never thought of myself as that kind of mom. I don't bake (I barely cook, yo), don't scrapbook or sew, don't ever want to put those family member decals on the back of my car. But while I may never be a Suzie Homemaker per se, I do want to stimulate my baby, give her opportunities to explore and learn and experiment. So I got over myself and scheduled some play dates and our first Mommy and Me event in a couple of weeks. Not only that, I recently made up a daily checklist: sing with her, read to her, teach her things, make sure she's active. Might sound a little anal, but if I didn't have that checklist we'd most likely spend the day watching Sesame Street and bad reality TV marathons. So I've been engaging in some anti- Anti-Mom behavior. Because it's not about being that kind of mom. It's about being a mom. Period.

Still, you'll probably catch me letting Bugaboo play with inappropriate things in inappropriate places before you'll catch me scrapbooking or crafting. Just sayin'.

Labels: i spy, parent 'hood

So, I might have mentioned this once or fifty times, but Bugaboo screams bloody murder if I leave the room. If I even show the slightest inclination to leave the room. Actually, I don't even have to leave the room. She screams her head off even if I'm standing right on the other side of the plastic tub we use in lieu of a baby gate. So I have to take her everywhere in the house with me. Only problem is, the livingroom is the only baby proofed room in the whole place, which means I have to carry her. Recently, it's become problematic because 1) she's getting heavier by the day, and 2) she doesn't like to be carried. She wants to roam free so she can pull cords and climb unstable furniture and see how dust balls taste. So for the times I need both my arms and hands but don't want her climbing the walls, I have to distract her. But she can't be bothered with any of her toys, of course. She wants things she can't have, things she hasn't taste-tested yet. I have to get creative.



Disclaimer: Don't get your panties in a bunch, ya'll, they're empty.

Labels: i spy, parent 'hood

I get sucked into reality TV as much as the next guy. I love competition shows like So You Think You Can Dance and America's Best Dance Crew, and I even just got sucked into the American Idol craze (I'm lookin' at you, Danny Gokey). I admit that shows like Laguna Beach, The Hills, The City, and Making the Band are my guilty pleasures. And I enjoy watching reality shows about strong, successful women like The Rachel Zoe Project and Life in the Fab Lane. But I draw the line at shows like Flavor of Love and Paris Hilton's My New BFF. Really, ladies? Are you seriously kissing Flavor Flav and pretending to like it? *shudder* Are you really acting a fool and doing the ugly cry on national TV in the hopes of being crowned Paris Hilton's new fake BFF? All for .02 seconds of fame? Seriously?

Fame hungry "real" people are straight up shameless these days. Take the Real World. I used to really like that show despite how people questioned it's...realness. But now that show is just a bunch of h0rny kids who like to fight and get drunk all the damn time. Must see TV! I can't help but to wonder what their parents must be feeling. Yes, I realize that makes me very old and uncool.

You must have seen, or at least heard, how Al Roker totally put Heidi and Spencer (from The Hills) on blast the other day, right? It was painful to watch. But gratifying at the same time, I must say. The ridiculous lengths these two go to for D-list fame is embarrassing and I'm not sorry that someone called them out on it. I mean, do they get that people think they're a joke? Sadly, they probably do but don't care as long as they're making headlines. The Modern Mother Teresa and White Jay-Z, indeed.

A thought occurred to me the other day that personal blogging is like reality TV for writers. And we have our fair share of publicity whores. Sure, I'm guilty of a few shameless plugs here and there, but I'm so turned off by the blatant self-promotion going on these days. Like when I attended a blogging conference where some people just threw their business cards and promotional ice cream scoopers at me without so much as an introduction. Why thank you - now every time I have ice cream it will remind me to NEVER to visit your website. Or like when I'm bombarded with Tweets of everyone pointing everyone else to their blogs. I don't need a real time notification each time you post a new blog, thanks anyway - I have Google Reader and I'll get to your blog when I'm good and ready. And if I haven't subscribed to you, then what makes you think I want to know EACH AND EVERY TIME you post? Just sayin'.

Now, I write all this fully aware that these bloggers probably have five hundred thousand times more readers than I do. True, I may not have thousands, or even hundreds, or even ONE hundred readers, but I have my dignity, yo. That and five bucks will get me a cup of coffee, and that's good enough for me.

Labels: headliners, soapbox, writers block

Ever since I saw Wicked in May, I've had the soundtrack on constant rotation on my iPod and I study the lyrics like I'm prepping to audition for the musical. I've decided that while Glinda is my favorite character, I would want to play Elphaba if only to perform I'm Not That Girl and Defying Gravity. I've always dreamed of starring in a musical. Elphaba in Wicked, Sandy in Grease, Roxie in Chicago, Gabriela in High School Musical. (No, not Tracy in Hairspray, smart ass.) If I could sing or act or dance, and if I didn't have a severe case of stage fright, then I could TOTALLY be in a musical yo.

We recently had a talent show at my school, and all us teachers had to perform What Time is It from High School Musical 3. When I first found this out, I had a few fleeting thoughts of "This is my chance!" and "I'm totally gonna play Gabriela." Like, for real. But I got yanked back into reality right quick when I realized 1) we were singing the song as a group, and 2) hello! no one wants to see a 34-year-old teacher playing Gabriela. But when I was on stage, something came over me, and I danced (foolishly) and sang (horribly) my heart out. And for about 52 seconds I WAS Gabriela up there, before I had to rotate to the back of the stage so other teachers could have their turn. Whatever.

Although I know my talents are more on paper than on stage, a girl can dream. And although that girl might never star in a musical, that girl can write the musical. Word?

Labels: writers block

When I need just a few more minutes on the computer, I let Bugaboo out of the barricaded, baby-proofed livingroom to play around my desk area. While I finish very important work...like blogging and tweeting and eBaying.

Labels: i spy, parent 'hood