This weekend we attended a destination wedding in Colombia.


We overcrowded a large chiva bus that drove us around town blasting music. There was dancing in the aisles, and much cheering each other on as we, unsanitarily, gulped whiskey from a bottle we passed around; several bottles, actually. We wore printed straw party hats and colorful thematic necklaces with traditional Colombian designs—elephant masks & bull heads.


I watched a friend’s husband as he gazed at her from across the torn leather seats of the chiva bus. At some point during the excitement of cheering, dancing and exchanging saliva and liquor, they had been separated.

He searched for her through the people dancing and drinking in the aisle. She didn’t notice him staring so earnestly at her. He smiled. Maybe it was partly his loins that yearned for her. After all, the next night he would jokingly hump our table at the reception after a little borrachera from one too many drinks and cigars. But right now, it was his eyes that smiled, admiring her beauty as she laughed and clapped at those around her.


We held tight to the champagne bottle bubble favors the coordinator had handed us at the door of the church. We waited excitedly for the moment we could start blowing bubbles. Not so much because it meant our two friends were now united forever by GOD, but because blowing bubbles is fun, Damn it! A few of my friends, okay just one of them, innocently blew bubbles into the aisle before it was “time”. What a rebel! We laughed.

The clear christmas lights adorning the white rose and hydrangea arrangements along the aisle, shone hopefully through the tiny spheres that drifted above our heads.

We listened intently as the happy couple repeated their vows to each other sweetly. The groom stuttered nervously as he said,”Fi.. Fide.. Fi…Fi… Fidelidad.

I think we all wanted to shout the word as he stumbled through it. Fidelity is probably not the part of your vows you want to falter on, but it was innocent nerves.

His bride sailed through her vows seamlessly, but we aren’t gonna read into that. 😉


Later, I watched my newly wed friends on the dance floor. The bride smiled affectionately as she sang to her husband. All eyes were on them as they belted romantic lyrics to each other, spinning each other around, sometimes fast, sometimes slow; at arms length, then real close. They saw only each other.

They danced throughout the night; and always, love danced in their eyes.


Another friend, overjoyed for the happy couple, chose Patron for her celebratory toast(s). Her other half watched as she poured another glass on the rocks, then swayed her way to the dance floor where she and other friends danced energetically.

He reveled in how she enjoyed herself—dancing, laughing and taking pictures.

Did she have a bit too much tequila? Maybe.

But he never said a word; he never flinched; he never grimaced as she teeter tottered across the dance floor to use the bathroom. But, he was there to help walk her to their room, to take care of her in sickness, in hangover, and in health.


Me and my better half sat together most of the night. I’m not big on dancing in general; the fact that 95% of the music was salsa, merengue or other Latin beat, didn’t help.

A chicken with its head cut off has more rhythm than I do.

We shared a celebratory cigar on a balcony just outside of the reception hall. (I took 3 puffs. Spicy is all I have to say. Mouth on FIRE! Adventurous moment over.)

We were alone.

We chatted and gossiped. We laughed and flirted. Looked at each other, looked away. We held hands, we held each other. We kissed.

We didn’t stare off into the sunset. The view was mainly building sites that had just broken ground; other edifices, only 3 to 4 stories into the process; and some, just sites sectioned off for future use.


Love, like construction, changes and grows; just never stop building.

Pity Cat

If you utilize any form of social media, then it’s very likely you have encountered the Grumpy Cat meme.

But…I bet you’ve never seen the Pity Cat meme…
20130523-003611.jpgOk. That is a really cute, sad kitty, but we all KNOW a Pity Cat.

They thrive off your pity and NEED your attention. Yet, rather than get attention by doing something positive, they focus on all the “bad” things that “happen to them” and ONLY them.

As with Grumpy Cat, we often enjoy drama and BS, like Maury and Caso Cerrado, more than we enjoy hearing good uplifting stories.

Pity Cat is often motivated by other Pity Cats through likes and friend requests across the social media board. Some “likers” probably really DO sympathize with Pity Cat. After all, they are sad, annoying, and pathetic.

I warrant I’ve had my fair share of whiny, complaining, “I need a vacay, NOW!” type of post; however, for the most part, I refrain from bombarding timelines.

Side note: I do need a vacation, and I’m taking one this weekend!


Typical posts from Pity Cat consist of:


Ohhh, damn. Traffic, huh? The cars must’ve magically dropped out of the sky and surrounded yours.

We LIVE in Miami! There is always traffic, and yes, an overpopulation of hispanics—Cubans to be exact. And I LOVE IT! In fact, it’s a little off putting that one day, when there isn’t traffic, someone honking at you, or cutting you off, and you actually get somewhere on time. If you DON’T like the traffic, or us “Cubans”, please move away.


Bills? What are those? Oh, you mean like phone, light, & water bill, rent, car payments, insurance, food expenses, and so on. You’re right, you deserve to win the lottery; nobody else has to work long hours or pay bills.

How about the infamous…


You know what? I will go over there right now to watch your kid, so you can have that drink!

Put. Down. The bottle! It’s called, Sarcasm!

It really might be 1 drink, but how big is the glass? Or perhaps, just a couple of innocent glasses of wine. After all, leading doctors recommend wine with dinner, right? It really doesn’t matter what they are saying now-a-days; doctors change their minds every time they go to the bathroom. Stop hiding behind statistics, and the latest pill pushing medical reports. It’s like adding “LOL” at the end of a rude or sarcastic message, it doesn’t hide your disdain…unless the person is an imbecile.

#JustSaying #WinkyFace #SmileyFace ❀

Let's face it, it's never 1 drink. You either think you have more tolerance than others, or believe that you know when to stop. Seriously though? I don't know about you other moms, but my kids do NOT sleep through the night, and they are 6, 4 and 2. When it’s not a bad dream, random fever or episode of vomiting, it’s one or more of them asking “mommy, can I sleep with you.” So, what do you do then, that “one” night when you and the bottle finish each other, and your kid wakes up crying, sick, or just scared, and you don’t…

Guess what, Pity Cat? Everyone has tough days, and bills to pay, mouths to feed, and mucho trafico throughout. Stop Winening! (spelling intentional)
If you think you NEED to drink every day to get the “edge” off, you’re an idiot!
20130523-015923.jpgLOL â˜ș
::remember to insert smiley face to take the edge off::


The Jackpot

“Mommy, can I ask you something?”

Sofia begins 5-6 conversations a day with that question.

“Sure,” I say, quickly pondering what outrageous interrogation will ensue.

“Is it hard to be a Mommy?”

This was the second time in the past week that she had asked me. The first time, I responded with a lot of Uh’s and Um’s, but this time I was more prepared.

“Well, sometimes it feels hard, because I’m tired from work, but you guys make it easy, because you are so wonderful. Why do you ask?”

“When I’m a mom, I’m gonna have 6, or 4, or 5 kids.”

I was glad to hear that response, because I didn’t want to frighten her away from her dream of having so many children.

Women aren’t easily motivated nowadays to have one kid, let alone 6, or 4, or 5.

9 months of swelling, indigestion, and 20 to 60 pounds of weight gain—yes, I gained 60 pounds throughout each of my 3 pregnancies, on a 5’1″ frame, you could say I “got around; then a long, tedious, painful labor and delivery—with or without an epidural, it bites; 30 to 45 endless nights, of crying and crankiness, and not just you, the baby is adjusting to living outside your body, as opposed to the water world they inhabited for 40 weeks; 40 torturous nights without intimacy, where you think, “I’ll never say no to sex again!”—that doesn’t last; add on the throw up, poop, pee, and other things you can’t identify that babies spew all over you; and all of a sudden, before your baby is even walking, it’s settled. You’re done. “One baby is more than enough!”

You’re right! All of that does sound awful; but there are rewards in between. Sweet smiles and giggles; gentle tugging at your hair while they nap; eyes that bat softly to sleep to your lullabies, despite your awful singing voice; and when they start talking, it’s all over.

That first time they call you Momma or Daddy, it’s like hitting the 600 million dollar PowerBall. Ok, I know it probably seems like there’s NOTHING better than hitting the 600 million dollar PowerBall, but I feel that becoming a parent is like buying a ticket and winning the jackpot every day.

So, when Sofia asked me if it’s hard to be a mommy, I quickly answered no. I don’t mean to lie to her, I just don’t want her to fear motherhood and all the responsibilities, sacrifices, and spit-up it throws at you.

What is the right answer to that question?

I don’t know, but kids don’t know that you don’t know. So, just give it your best shot.

Tonight, I lay next to my curious daughter, after reading a story and praying. She said “Mommy, can I ask you something?”

Third time’s the charm, I thought. I was ready with my fairytale response about motherhood.

“What is it, Sofy?”

“Mommy, what’s a solar eclipse?”

Mouth agape, I blurted, “Go to sleep!

Quality versus Quantity

Every morning, without fail, my two year old asks, “Mommy, you going to work?” She looks up at me with those big brown droopy eyes, and frowns with genuine concern.

It breaks my heart every time I answer, “Yes, Vicky.”
I feel guilty to leave her when she pleads: “I wanna stay with you”, “I wanna work, too”, “Mommy, don’t leave”, “Mommy, I miss you.”

I feel like I’m abandoning her and her brother, failing them, by not being able to grant them this one wish.

This morning, she woke up and came to my room as usual, sniffing her giraffe blanky. “Mommy, you here?”

“I’m in the bathroom,” I said from my vanity where I was doing my makeup.

“Mommy, I sit too?”

I scooted over to the edge of the chair so Vicky could sit next to me. She adjusted the lighted mirror so she could see herself.

“Mommy, it’s my turn.” She took the blush brush from me and began to apply “Honey Lust” M.A.C. eyeshadow to her cheeks. I handed her a small eyeshadow applicator, and she selected another color which she commenced to dot madly below her brows.

“Mommy, I pretty?” She batted her long eyelashes at me and pouted her lips.

“Your beautiful!” I said squeezing and kissing her cheeks, and I meant it.

“And you know what? Your going to work with me today!”

She didn’t really say anything at first, but her eyes gleamed, and she sort of squealed. She held her face in her hands, and said excitedly, “I have to get dressed!”

I had promised my older daughter, Sofia, that I would leave work early to pick her up from school and take her to the mall to eat Johnny Rockets. So, I figured I’d make it a “take your daughter to work day”, as well.

We went to my office for about two hours, then came home to meet up with my sister so we could pick up Sofy and go to the mall together.

My husband and son were outside throwing around the football when we got there. I watched through the glass patio doors as they played catch. The goofy smiles on their faces as they chased each other across the yard; my son’s laughter when his dad grabbed him by the waist and lifted him high up in the air; the pure joy in their expressions made me want to stay and join them. I reached for the handle, but hesitated.

I was on my way out to spend the afternoon with my three girls–Sofy and Vicky, and my little sister Marta. She is seven years younger than me, so I always felt more like a momma, than a sister.

The boys needed their horseplay, and the girls needed their shopping and pampering, and eating at the food court, of course. I decided not to interrupt their bonding, and instead set off to pick up Sofy.

Sofy was really excited to see the three of us waiting for her by her locker. She got out of the line, pointing at us so her teacher could see we were there to pick her up. She grinned from ear to ear as she showed off her little sister to her friends and teacher.

“This is Vicky”, she said, smiling proudly as she introduced the mythical creature they had heard so many stories about.

“Mommy, can we go to the park,” Sofy begged in front of her classmates and teacher. I wouldn’t say no anyways, but when one of her best friends chimed in that he was going to the park, too, I quickly agreed.

Yes, one of her best friends is a boy, and he’s a cutie too. Needless to say, I’m in a heap of trouble when she gets older.

We watched the girls and Sofy’s classmates chase each other from tree to tree, just like the squirrels. I pushed Vicky on the swings, while Sofy played on the see-saw with her friends. The whole while Sofy smiled and laughed giddily, with that same emotion Vicky had expressed earlier that morning, and like Gaby while playing with his dad. If there is one commentary that is unanimous amongst people that know my daughter Sofia, it’s that she always has a beautiful smile on her face. You can’t fake that unwavering happiness.

At the end of the day, I suppose every parent fears that they don’t spend enough time with their kids. But, I firmly believe that the quality is just as important, if not more so, than the quantity.


I don’t remember who decided to go on strike, but most of us jumped on the bandwagon pretty quickly…

Who, in their right mind, enjoyed the Hot-Lunch at school?

It was always corn-dogs, green beans, apple sauce, or less-than-thoroughly-cooked pizza, that was more tomato sauce than crust. It didn’t matter what it was, the stagnant smell hung like a toxic cloud menacing the children to move along the lunch line.

Each morning, as the school day began, our teacher would take roll and ask the students, “Hot lunch or did you bring lunch?”

“What’s the hot lunch today?” We’d ask every time, knowing all the words to the song in our heads, but unable to get them out. It can be hot, but that doesn’t make it lunch. We prayed for a cafeteria miracle!

There were usually two options: something gross, not surprisingly followed by something grosser still; but almost always pizza, which was the best, albeit semi raw, option. Nothing like uncooked tomato paste, to get those gastric juices going.

We’d eagerly walk up to the clear glass partition between us and the slop that would otherwise surely suck us in like some 1980s horror movie, each time hoping for a different outcome. But, it was always those same aluminum containers, overflowing with protein and fiber and nutrients—in other words, yucky, smelly, green stuff.

Well, one day, to my surprise and dismay, there was no pizza, even though they had said it was the hot-lunch!

I wasn’t going to pay $2.50 for corn-dogs and corn bread, or Salisbury steak. I don’t care what they wrote on the bulletin board, that was NOT steak. It was like a stake through the stomach. I wasn’t going to throw away money or food. So, I grabbed a chocolate milk, and a pack of cookies, paid the lunch lady and was on my way.

After a couple of days of this, I suppose they started noticing they had a surplus of corn-dogs. The lunch lady said I HAD to get the hot-lunch if I had signed up for it. I tried to explain that they didn’t have what they had promised during the morning roll call, but she insisted. I sullenly, no, not sullenly, I infuriatingly, went back and got a hot-lunch tray; the corn-dog seemed to bark at me in contempt. Ok, I was a little sullen.

I threw it all away! Their moist and chewy texture made them nauseating. Somebody needed to put those dogs to sleep.

So, we or I, decided to go on strike. One day, we all said we had brought lunch from home so none of us would buy the hot lunch. 20 kids, give or take, at $2.50 each, that’s 50 bucks. Yep, there were only about 20 of us in the classroom, in the whole 8th grade for that matter! For this small private school, fifty dollars was a significant enough sum to cause a stir.

They did the math and figured out some kids weren’t buying the hot lunch, even though they had signed up for it!


Also, rumor had it that somebody who actually did bring their lunch from home, had snitched about the “strike”. TattleTales! It was the Hot-Lunchers versus the Sack-Lunchers. I certainly thought they were a sack of something after that.

We all got called to the Chapel. Church services were held there, as well as weekly Chapel when we would sing songs of praise and hear different Christian testimonies. It was GREAT, because you didn’t have to eat anything! We held mental math competitions, which I loved ’cause I was, ::cough cough:: am a geek. We also performed drama piece recitations, and reenacted many a nativity scene there.

Today wasn’t about fun, though; it was serious.

The Principal said we were being defiant and conspiring together for evil, maybe she didn’t say evil. She was going to get to the bottom of it, she insisted pounding her fist on the pew before us, specifically, before me I thought. After several minutes of the “What would Jesus Do” spiel, she dished out some silly punishment. No Hail Mary’s or Our Father’s, since it was a Christian school; more along the lines of “no recess for a week“, or an essay about Christian morals, and what not.

But, the biggest punishment…we had to start eating the hot-lunch again.

I will say that they messed up on the food orders less frequently. AND, eventually, they even started ordering Papa John’s instead of pretend cooking in their Easy Bake Ovens!


Shipping and Handling

I received a package the other day. I often get packages at home because I do a lot of online shopping. Yes, I love buying stuff, but I’m really not big on malls. I can’t say that I enjoy walking around for hours, going from store to store, trying on countless outfits, just to leave with a belt & a couple of perfume samples. And, I definitely don’t want to waste the little free time I have, there. For me, it’s worth the shipping & handling.

I saw the package on the front lawn on my way out that morning. It was covered in dew, must have been there since yesterday. I tossed it in the house, wondering what it could be, since I hadn’t ordered anything, but I didn’t have time to check.

When I came home that night, there was another, larger package by the door.


I brought them both into the kitchen.

Sure enough the packages were addressed to someone else—Jane*, the lady who used to own my house.

*(The names have been changed to protect the innocent, and by innocent, I mean the children.)

My husband and I only met her once, on the day of the closing; by then we had come to a few conclusions about her. But, we met her husband, or rather ex-husband, when we saw the house for the second time.

His realtor mentioned how he was looking better, and filling out again.

We learned that John had survived a battle with cancer the year before.

John showed us through the house. One of the walls of the family room was a showcase of his daughters’ awards and accolades over the years for volleyball and softball. There were numerous school pictures, and their graduation pictures.

There were no “family” pictures.

The rest of the house seemed pretty bare.The master bedroom, although huge, looked more like the maid’s quarters: a small bed, 1 nightstand, 1 lamp. No decorative frames, furry rugs, floor mirrors, or big fancy comforters. Just some drabby old sheets that seemed to be collecting dust. Throughout the house we noticed grime in the corners of the bathrooms, behind doors, and so on. Someone was trying to keep up appearances, but barely.

It didn’t seem like anyone had been doing much living there for a while now.

He showed us the patio area,”This is a great party house. The pool is heated. Nice big yard. The cabana has a bathroom and a shower; perfect for entertaining.”

John mentioned that his daughters’ friends were always at the house because the school was so close by. “Our daughter goes to school down the street,” we added.

“That’s great! We loved having all their friends over, to enjoy the pool and the lake. We’d barbecue. Those were great times,” he said staring off towards the lake.

“I live with my parents now, and my youngest daughter,” he added and turned back towards the house.

Jane’s number was listed on the package just above her name and my home address. I decided I’d give “the bitch” a call to let her know about her packages.

“The Bitch” seems like a strong name for a woman we barely knew… Seems.

The day of the closing, she brought her new husband along, a man she had conveniently met at the very school her daughters and his son had attended. We wondered, “Did they meet before he got cancer or after? Before the divorce finalized or after?” Needless to say, she wasn’t looking good in our book.

Jane had inadvertently left behind a drawer full of lingerie in the built-in in the closet. After we moved in, I started cleaning out the drawer and noticed some greeting cards and letters. Don’t get snooty, OF COURSE, I opened them. There were Christmas and birthday cards from her now husband, dating back 3 or 4 years.

One letter read, “I wish we could already be together this New Years. You’ve brought so much happiness to my life. I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you…”

Sounds sweet enough, except she was still living with the father of her children at the time.

Despite what I may have thought about her marital misbehavior, Jane was very sweet and appreciative when I called to let her know about the packages. She said her daughter would drop by the next morning to pick them up.

I said I’d leave them by the door, but the next morning just as I was heading out, a black honda civic was parked halfway in the gate, motor running. It was her daughter. The driveway was clear, but she seemed to hesitate to pull up all the way. She stared in my direction under the carport, not at me so much as at the large wood front doors.

She saw me then, walking out with the packages, and got out of the car.

“Good Morning. These are the packages that came for your mom.” I said, handing them over. She didn’t say a word, or couldn’t.

She finally smiled and nodded, taking them from me, but staring through the open doorway into the house behind me.

In the mornings, the sun shines through the many windows and doors of the living room. It’s the main area just as you walk into the house—bright and crisp and hopeful. It sold the house to me. The clean light cheers up the whole house and mood…well, most of the time.

The exchange took only seconds, but felt longer. Her eyes wondering,”When did this stop being my home?”

She returned to her car. I pretended I had forgotten something and went back inside to wait until she was gone. She sat in the car for a few minutes before finally driving off.

That was some expensive shipping and handling, I thought sadly.

The Scientific Method

Once upon a time… there was a social network called MySpace. Yes, you remember. Think back, back, back. If you see yourself in diapers, you’ve gone too far. In a way, MySpace was like a social network in diapers.

Just 5-6 years ago MySpace was thee space to be.

I worked on my page feverishly during the 6 weeks I was home after the birth of my first child. My days were consumed by reruns of Charmed, working on my MySpace profile, baby feedings, changing diapers and dieting, some sleeping.

I returned to my MySpace page today after years of not logging in, and discovered this post…


9 Months…40 Weeks…280 Days…6720 Hours…403,200 Minutes…

I think you get the picture. It’s A LONG TIME and a long process. You may not know what I’m talking about. Or perhaps you know all too well—that familiar tingling or cringe when you hear yourself, or another say,”I’m Pregnant”.

Step One: The Creaking Board

You know in every scary movie, the protagonist is trying to sneak away quietly, and when they are almost in the clear, a floorboard creaks, revealing their exact location. The killer turns around and… We all know how it ends.

Well, the wrappers on pregnancy tests are much worse—hard, crinkly and impossible to remove quietly. You can run the water while you remove the plastic; although, it might seem weird that you’re washing your hands before using the toilet. You can always claim O.C.D. Go ahead and laugh at yourself a little—this is a nerve-wracking situation no matter what outcome you hope for.

Step Two: Try Not to Pee on yourself.

Your hand shakes nervously as you hold the test in your urine stream, while trying to count out five seconds in your head, because less is too little and more is too much, and you don’t want an inaccurate reading ’cause then
 then you might have to pee on your hands all over again.

Step Three: The Scientific Method.

We all learned about “The Scientific Method” in elementary school. There are 5 basic steps:

1. Name the problem or question
2. Form an educated guess (hypothesis) of the cause of the problem and make predictions.
3. Test your hypothesis by doing an experiment.
4. Check and interpret your results.
5. Report your results to the scientific community.

You never thought you would use it in the real world, but what better time than this.

1 ) The Problem: You haven’t gotten your Period.
2a) Your Guess is that you are Pregnant.
2b) Your Prediction is that in 9 months a Baby is coming out.

Now back to the experiment, I mean test.

Step 3: Replace the cover over the tip and lay on a flat surface. Do not hold at an angle for a prolonged amount of time as this may cause an inaccurate reading. You really have to read the directions; there are so many little tidbits they throw in.

Step Four: The ballots have been cast and the winner is

It takes about 3 – 5 minutes for a completely accurate reading. Slowly, but surely a faint line will appear in the first box and then in the next. If you are not already pacing, now is the time. Don’t stare at the result window, nothing will happen; it’s tricky, like watching the grass grow, you can’t. You just walk outside one day, and it’s to your ankles. Okay, so this isn’t exactly the same, but you’ve wasted enough time by now that it should be time to take a look.

Flip, flip, flip through the instructions again, even though the picture on the outside of the box clearly shows how to read the results. A second blue line may appear in the first window to form a blue cross. You frantically look back and forth between the paper, the box, and the test.
The moment of truth is upon you and the test reads

Up to this point, all test-takers are equally nervous or anxious. But now, after seeing the results, it’s no longer a matter of reading instructions, peeing on a strip, or looking for a blue line in the test window. Now it’s time to face the music.

Step Four: Interpret your results
(Yes, we’re still on Step 4)

Is this good news or bad news? Well, you probably won’t decide yet. You’ll probably take another test. You might even take several tests over the next few days. You may buy tests from different brands just to make sure there wasn’t something wrong with that lot.

You may decide that the tests are faulty, because you have been on some medication that you are sure has affected the outcome. Or, maybe your period got off track because you forgot to take the pill that one day. Maybe your body is changing, and you won’t get your period this month. Maybe something else is wrong, but you aren’t pregnant.


Just face it. You are pregnant. There is a tiny bundle of cells that is slowly, but surely, going to grow and transform into a beautiful and innocent baby boy or girl. If you don’t believe the 6 tests you took, then go to the doctor, but it’s time to start thinking about the future. What are you going to do? What do you want to do? Should you tell your husband, boyfriend, lover, that guy from your English class or that one night stand? Are you going to tell anybody at all? Who should you tell? When should you tell? Should you call your gynecologist to make an appointment? An appointment for your first prenatal visit or a consultation for a termination?

The truth is that not everybody wants to be pregnant. Maybe you think you are too young or too old, too poor, too busy, too single, too hot; finishing college; working in a convent; living at home, but feel like you’re living in a convent; maybe you don’t want that guy to be the dad; or maybe you don’t know who the dad is.

There are a million if’s, and’s or but’s; “Cada persona es un mundo” (Each person is a world of their own). They each have their own problems and solutions, reasons and excuses, and no one other person can really tell them what is right or wrong for them. However that may be, remember, you are not alone. There is always someone out there who cares about you, so OPEN UP! If you think you are pregnant and don’t know what you should do, or even if you have some other issue troubling you. Don’t bottle it in.

Step Five: Report your results to the scientific community.

In my case, the test was positive. An uncontrollable smile and irrepressible joy rose to my cheeks. I put the test down, picked it up again, and so on. I couldn’t believe it.

My husband and I were really excited. We had a beautiful little girl who was 17 months old. Girl or boy, it would be our second child, and we were very excited. We had been trying for the second one for about 6 months and finally, WE WERE PREGNANT! Eight months later, we had a beautiful 8 pound baby boy.


I’m sure everyone on MySpace was really excited, too. After all, it pretty much gave birth to Facebook.