Light up the darkness.

It was a typical Sunday afternoon. We're home from church, lunch has been devoured. Michael decided to make some homemade mango ice cream with the girls. Our boys, however, were in the living room, blasting music from my ipod. They were playing air guitar to Metallica, Beastie Boys, rapping to X-Clan and other bands that cause us to run over to the player and mute out the occasional profanity.

I study them but they don't realize that I am studying them.

Monsters, I wonder. We have created little monsters. They are just like us.

And the thought occurs to me that they have been the ones studying us all these years. A cold sweat broke out across my forehead.

What were we thinking? Creating little people who are just like us?


We should have taught them all how to play the violin, the piano...something. They should have immaculate table manners. They should be fluent in at least two languages. They should've been taught calculus in 3rd grade. The boys should not have long hair. Crew cuts all around! The girls should know how to sew their own denim jumpers. The boys should know how to build a car from spare parts. Maybe by the age of 15, the girls should take up the practice of midwifery.


Whoa whoa whoooooooooooooa.

I just may have been watching a little too much 19 Kids and Counting on TLC. You gotta love them Duggars.


Take me out to the ballgame...again.

I didn't think I would feel this way, but...I kinda miss the boys' baseball games.

I know, right?

It was great to get out of the house a few times a week. All the chil'rens had the opportunity to run wild with their friends while I sat and cracked sunflower seeds. We ate more candy in that four-month period than we have in years. The weather was always cool and breezy. I loved to look at the grass swaying on the mountain behind the fields. But I will especially miss cheering on my boys, high-fiving them after good games, and consoling them with whatever leftover candy was left after the bad games.

This is what my van looked like everyday Saturday...smiles, sweaty boys, dusty feet, Gatorade mustaches.

Cyan backing up his teammate. Go #32!!

Go, Diego, go!

This was my view, every Saturday. You can't beat that.


Shake it.

I babysat my two nephews on Wednesday. One is 2 and the other is 7. I know, I'm a glutton for punishment, right?

Since my baby boy just turned 8 this year, the thought occurred to me that it's been a while since I've had a little guy around here. I've gotten so used to having self-sufficient chil'rens (well, except Diego) that don't need me to change their diaper and make sure they don't eat something poisonous, that it was somewhat of a challenge to shadow my nephew all day.

A sistah needed a nap by noon.

Caucasian sister in law said, just make sure Seth uses the bathroom before he goes down for a nap, he should be fine. So I took his tiny little butt to the bathroom and helped him with his pants. I wanted to make sure he was tall enough to reach the toilet.

Me: Do you pee standing up or sitting down?
Seth: Standing up.
Me: Ok...well....go ahead.

He grabbed his little smokey and did his business. As he was dribbling his last dribble, I pulled out about two squares of toilet paper, so he could dab his junk dry.

I mean, don't all men have to dab their junk dry?

This is what I mean when I said it's been while since I've had a little, little boy around.

I handed him the two square of t.p. He looks at it for like 2.5 seconds, like WTH, tia? Then he proceeds to clean his nose like he has a case of the sniffles, and tosses it into the toilet.

Heh. We all got a good laugh at that. Apparently, men don't dab dry, they shake it.

Good to know.


Being drawn to the good in people.

I wrote Michael a little something on his Father's Day card, but knew I would have to fully elaborate in a post. This isn't easy to admit about myself, but it's taken me 38 years to truly realize it. That, and my husband constantly reminding me that just maybe I need some therapy.

I have a very low opinion of men.

I don't even like to write that. I don't want all the men I know and love to give me the stank eye from here on out.

But sadly, in my mind, it's scumbag before proven decent. I have a very small, select pool of men that I love and trust. And I know, deep in my heart, that they are good and kind, full of integrity, they love their wives and children and would never hurt a woman. They respect women. Of course, they are not perfect and they have their struggles, but I know his family's heart is safe in his hands.But like I said, it is a very small, very select pool of men.

Like a lot of people, ever since I was a child, I've been surrounded by men who have objectified women, have disrespected their wives, abused them physically--even cheated on them. They would rather hang out with buddies and drink and gamble the night away than spend time with their children. They've thought very little about being a positive influence in their families lives, and it showed.

And we all know I have daddy issues, so that doesn't help the scenario.

All of this makes me a woman who is deeply attracted to a man that is good. I don't mean attracted in the physical or sexual sense, no....its more like being drawn to a person. No one likes to huddle in the dark. You go where the light is.

And I like to be bathed in light.

I am deeply offended. I guess.

I mean, Miley, really?

I hold the chola/lowrider/gangsta culture close to my heart. Because it's a beautiful thing.

I've grown accustomed to celebrities appropriating So Cal/Nor Cal culture. But seriously? At least that hollaback girl Gwen had a ghetto pass, since she was from the O.C. and all. That's just a hop, skip and a 45-minute ride from the hood.

But, still.

The dark lipstick, the Dickies, the black Chucks, the chola hair, the tube socks, the bandannas, the lowrider bikes, Miley and her tranny voice...this is just wrong, wrong, wrong!

Whoever styled this show really needs to be beat over the head with a chancla. No, a huarache. One of those big, bulky ones made from tires, straight out of T.J.



This is how he always looks when we have a get together.

Whenever the family gathers, my siblings and I are usually shlepping in one by one, with our baybays and diaper bags and assorted food dishes in tow. Since I know I'm gonna be kickin' it at my mama's house, I don't really bother to dress up. I mean, sure....I'll make some sort of effort to look decent. Everything is washed, shaved, moisturized, moussed and tucked in and tied down, as it should be.

But I can't say I've ever had the urge to throw on a sequined bow-tie. You feel me?

My baby bro likes to take every opportunity to show his flair for fashion. So much so that he's accustomed to this much-asked question, "Are you going out?" and "Going somewhere?"

Josh: No.
Me: Oh.
Josh: Why do you ask?
Me: Well...you're all dressed up in a jacket and tie, with combat boots and aviator sunglasses and all's we're gonna do is eat ceviche and watermelon out in the backyard.
Josh: Yeh, well...I just felt like it.

Good on you, baby boy. Work it. Sashay shante. Shablam! and all that good stuff.


He knows what I mean.


I'm still the same Pear. Just fancier.

I started this blog back in 2006, at my husband's insistence. I was a faithful writer of my life experiences ever since I was in elementary school, in the form of short stories, diaries and journals. It was Michael's vision that I would continue writing about our family adventures....and maybe someday--if I survived the successful raising of six children with my physical and mental facilities intact--I would write a book.

To be totally honest, I was just planning on making it out alive.

Still am.

So the Hello World title for this blog was just something we threw out there, for lack of a better title. It was a generic greeting for those people who stumbled across my page. I've realized the need to personalize the title for quite some time now.

Enter Pearmama dot com.

Way back in the olden days, before myspace and twitter and facebook blew the doors off of the constant cry for safe identities on the internet, people used usernames. You know, to keep it anonymous. I know, right? This was before people felt the need to let the world know every time they drove to Target, drank a cup of ice tea, or got the doodie bubbles at Disneylandia.


You get the idea.

Pearmama is the username I have used ever since I joined the world wide web. Why Pearmama? Well, at the time, Michael used to tell me that I was shaped like a pear. And I, obviously, was a mama so I just put the two together. Pearmama. Sounded cute. Even though I am totally shaped like a papaya these days.

But nevermind that.

I've kept that username and applied it to pretty much all of my dealings online, except for Facebook, which, at the onset, felt very much like someone just stripped me of all my clothes and thrust me into the spotlight. They want me to use my real name? My maiden name too? What's next, a urine sample and a wisdom tooth?

But the name Pearmama has endured. So....this blog will still be the same. The writing will still have the same flava. Just my header and title have changed. If you are linked to little old me, could you be a doll and correct the title of your link?

Peace and Hair Grease,


The First Concert...

So I was checking out Los over at Ragamuffin Soul, just like I usually do, when he posed this question...what was the first concert you've ever been to?

His was....Carman.


That is sooooo pancake-makeup-purple-hair-spiderweb-eyelashes TBN.

After reading the ninety plus comments from what seemed like a solid majority of people with a Christian upbringing (which meant concerts from 80's Christian bands), I was like....daaaaaang.

I guess it really pays to be raised by two heathens if you want your first concert to be a cool one.

Apparently, my mama didn't get the memo that one didn't send their eldest female child...one on the cusp of womanhood...already rockin' a bra...with puffy bangs, no less....to a Madonna concert.

Her Like a Virgin tour, even.

I suppose it wasn't totally her fault.

Blame my Dad, that's right. I can see her passing the buck as I type this. It was his fault!


Letting it all hang out.

I went camping down in San Diego over Memorial weekend. I don't mean camping like you're accustomed to seeing in a Sears catalog, with mom and dad wearing fishing caps and Teva sandals while their blonde 2.5 children roast marshmallows near the tent.

Oh, no no no no.

This is balls out, twelve to thirteen families (beaner families, so you have to factor in all the chil'rens), 50+ people standing in line to eat during mealtimes, have you seen my kid?...I just saw your kid, clotheslines hung up with twenty soggy towels dangling from them....bbqing forty pounds of spare ribs type of camping.

Oh, sure...it would be nice to lay up in a hammock and listen to the fireflies. Relaxing to the sound of the waves crashing on the shore. But where is the fun in that? When you have a large family, that's just the way it is. What's the saying? The more the merrier. Whoever made up that saying needs a swift kick in the ass.

Ok, but this wasn't what my post was going to be about. No. My intention was to talk about a swimsuit. Yes, just the word alone strikes fear and terror in the hearts of women. Some butt quivers too, I'm sure.

I have a decent bathing suit. I've had it for a couple of years now. It's served it purpose. Its not like I do anything strenuous in it, like white water rafting or water polo, so its in good condition. But I wanted something new. So I ordered one from Old Navy exactly one week before we were set to leave for camping.

It literally arrived the morning we were on our way out, so I threw it in my bag without even trying it on. I brought my old suit for backup. When I did get try it on, in the campground's bathroom--with my mama and my cousins around to share their comments and opinions--I didn't really get the time I desperately require to obsess. To obsess is what this fatty does.


Baseball stress

This is how I really, really know that there is a God up there, and He loves me.

Baseball season is almost over.

About five months ago, I had the brilliant idea to sign up a couple of my boys in little league. They need to learn some sportsmanship. They need some exercise. They need to stop being social misfits and learn how to play baseball like normal boys.

You have to understand...we are not an athletic/team sports family, by any sense of the word. The chil'rens can tell you who Picasso and Matisse and Frida and Georgia O'Keefe are...but they have no idea what a foul ball is. Not only was I wondering how I was gonna cope with four practice days a week--not counting games--I was a little concerned about how they would do, considering they knew zero rules about the game. There are boys their age who have been playing since t-ball. But I sucked it up, and signed them up anyway.

Thus, my nervous five-month addiction to sunflower seeds began.

I worried about everything. Are they learning fast enough? Oh dear Lord, I hope they don't hit the ball to him! Do his teammates think he is a retard? His coach prolly wants to karate chop him in the neck--at least, I know I do. Slide!! You are supposed to be batting, not swatting at the flies. THROW IT TO SECOND BASE!! If the coach's wife yells at Diego one more time, I'm going to have to pull out the knife from my beehive and cut a biatch.


The only thing that would soothe my nerves were to crack and spit sunflower seeds. Barbeque, ranch, chili lime and dill pickle.

I don't know how my mama did it all those years. You see, I am a card-carrying softball butch. I played for almost nine years--little league, summer league, winter league and high school ball. I know what it feels like to be out on that field, the highs and lows, the expectations. I am one of the only moms sitting there screaming, "TAG UP!" and "HUSTLE!" and "WAY TO GET IT TO YOUR CUT OFF MAN!" and "CHOKE UP ON THE BAT, SON!" Maybe this is why I feel all stressed out like I do.

I want them to hit the ball.
I want them to steal bases.
I want them to show some promise in the game.
I want them to be good.

This is their first year playing. I know I am asking too much. Thankfully, my expectations haven't ruined the game for them. This is why our league made the parents attend a positive coaching seminar, because we can sometimes be stoopid.

Too bad Michael went and I didn't. Heh.

He never fails to ask them if they had fun. They always say yes. While I'm still brooding over missed grounders and strike-outs, the game has been erased from their memory banks and they are happily munching on their granola bar and gatorade. I guess I never thought this game would bring out the Pageant Mom in me but sadly, it has.

There is a light at the end of the tunnel. We'll get our Saturdays back. No more having cereal for dinner. No more roasting like a Georgia ham in the sun. No more farmer's tan. No more washing stank athletic supporters.

But I must be a glutton for punishment because I just signed them up for winter ball. I can't wait.
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