On ten years of baby blogging


I’ve had this blog, this space, this vat of digital weirdness since 1999 which was right after Nostradamus wrote his predications. I took a break sometime in college, only really bringing it back to life when I graduated from the University of Washington and had a baby. If there’s anything that can fill the time before facebook and Pinterest and Which Sex and the City Character Are You quizzes (Spoiler: I’m Steve’s Mom! This pizza tastes like garbage!), it’s getting pregnant and writing all about it like Newsies: Off-Broadway La Leche League. The newness, the questions, the fear, the cuteness. There is endless material, sometimes boring baby woop-woop but still something to add to the pool. Plus, there are other women swimming in the same pool, though they are wearing bikinis and their pools have countless hippie dippie moon-womb connection parenting books as buoys and how dare you ask when you can feed your baby a HOT DOG, Mona, you country yokel with a uterus.

As a teenager, I blogged with the strokes of teenage desperation, Tori Amos mp3 playlists and pining to be the gothic babe of the week, a real goal I had in 1998. I made all my friends log into their parents’ ISP email accounts because you couldn’t vote with a hotmail address and for one week, I was the gothic babe. I didn’t even have a Hot Topic on Saipan to put an outfit together, I had to piece it with opera gloves (why was that on a tropical island) and a choker I made from a stretched out scrunchie and a clip-on earring.

And there were a few posts about college life, how I really thought my professor was a genius, reposts of my submissions for creative writing class, but then I got pregnant with Nathan.  A real deal baby in my tummy singing Adele, “Hello it’s me, I’m all up in your uterus and now you have to pee.”  


It was a special time to write. And a really special time to have with this little chubby, off the scales baby. I did complain and still do about what scars remain from navigating new motherhood, but I also loved the life I had with Nathan. It was the only time I was a stay-at-home mom, a glorious blip on my life radar when I could take Target walks and let Nathan memorize the voice of Dr. Phil. It was experimenting with craigslist and formula and work from home jobs that never panned out.

Yes, it was also filled with trying to fit in with a crowd that made fun of me because I chose the wrong wine glass (sorry I drank wine out of a box, the only cup I knew was red solo) and pink Razr cellphones (if you have to google that, not because you are unfamiliar with the model but because you are unaware there were phones that flipped open and that we would tell people to call us after 9pm because that’s when minutes were free, log off this right now before I tell your parents and you will be grounded.)

I had trouble breastfeeding Nathan and befriending other women so literally everything was the tits. I found a lot of sanity by writing about this baby, about broadcasting to the world that there was a young Chamorro woman with a fat little boy in Seattle trying to make sense out of it all.

And now that baby who gave me so much fodder is ten years old. Happy birthday my sweet baby. You will always be my first baby, the one who made me a mom. The one who laughed at a box of Rice a Roni. The one whom I kept on my lap on a boppy pillow so I could type above you and write words like these.  Happy birthday Nathan.


What I want for Mother’s Day

Next week this baby boy will be 10 years old. And somehow I haven't aged at all. #forever23

A photo posted by Mona Concepcion (@kirida) on

I want the pink Juicy Couture knock-off sweat pants I wore my sophmore year of college. The year that Jennifer Lopez was J. Lo and made Ben Affleck look not like he just destroyed a Del Taco bathroom. That year, she was pink and gloss and singing about all she had and I wanted all that but I could only afford what Target had–a pair of pink soft velvety sweat pants that did look like pajama bottoms but I didn’t care. I could go to school, then go to sleep, then back to school and still be on trend.

I want you to travel to 2001 and find the guy who yelled at me for taking too long on the payphone because he needed it and yet there was another man beside me on the other phone, but I was the only being yelled at. I want you go to back and tell me it’s okay to stay on the phone since I paid for the time and then I’ll give you the handset anyway and we can both beat the patriarchy out of that asshole.

I want mimosas and scrambled eggs, but on a big yacht so I can bury at sea all the voices that have told me that I should wear red on stage, I should lose weight, I should shelve all my jokes for a year, that I’m too pretty to be a comic. I want to have a nice meal watching those voices go up in flames.

I want to go to the mom’s group night out, when most of the women were rehashing their birth stories, and one woman exclaimed, “I’m leaking!” and I want you to order a bucket size margarita, text me that you’re at another table and I’ll pretend that I’m going to the bathroom and join you at the party I should have been all along.

I want to find young mom Mona in 2006, desperate to be the best mom, just wanting to make this baby happy, clinging at transitory friendships, swirling in hormones and fear and tell her, you’re going to be okay. It’s all going to be okay. You’ll have a house of boys who laugh louder than any lingering doubt, whose hearts beat loudly, with sweat that soaks their thick heads of hair, whose arms are always outstretched and one word echoing wildly the moment they see you: “Mommy!”

But don’t throw out the sweatpants. You’ll need them later.

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