I am a Selfie Queen. And I am not ashamed to admit it. I take that back. I used to be highly embarrassed by my love of selfies, especially when I was in a relationship with Evan’s dad. 

He is anti-social media. The man has a Facebook profile that has a feed full of photos, gifs, videos, and memes just because he’s been tagged on them. It’s the most inactive profile in the history of Facebook. My profile, on the other hand, could have been in the Guinness Book of World Records for the most popping Facebook feed since Mark Zuckerberg launched the social network from his dorm room at Phillips Academy Exeter. 

Fun fact: I graduated from Philips Academy Andover, Exeter’s rival (and better), private school. Oh, how I wonder what would have become of me and my writing career if I had sauntered over to Zuckerberg’s door room when I was cheerleading for an away game on Exter’s campus. If I were as adventurous then as I am now and into white guys (still not a thing for me now), I could have made something of myself instead of begging folks on social media to read my stories, give them a thumbs up, and follow them by clicking on that button right next to the title of my series, The LOL Mom. (See what I did there, Kindle Vella?)

I made different choices. Thank you, Mami, for drilling into my head that I should not be a ho or a golddigger and date men for luuuuuuuurve. Oh, the life I would have lived if I had bagged Zuckerberg or that guy that I graduated with whose father owns Goodyear (yes, the tires and the blimp)! 

Another fun fact: I take selfies because I hated taking photos as a kid. In almost every single childhood photo, I am crying. Snot dripping down my nose, eyes bloodshot as if I had chugged tequila like milk, frizzy and out of place moños: I was a vision, truly. So, you see, I must right those wrongs! I must look back at my photos when I am old and gray and say, “I'm so hot!”

So, yeah. I was obsessed with taking selfies and my ex sort of resented it. Unless I was making money off said selfie as an influencer and writer. As a private person, he thinks selfies are vain. But he thought everything about me (which he fell in love with!) was A LOT. What can I say? I’m extra in the best way!

Evan also likes selfies. Mostly photobombing mine. There I go, all dolled up and feeling myself. I pull out my new iPhone 15, which takes amazing long-form selfies. I smile my beautiful smile and just as I press the button Evan comes sliding in from the next room with a photobomb.

Luckily, he’s a cute kid, so our selfies are bomb. And even though I still hide when I take selfies to avoid an Evan photobomb, at least I don’t have to hide so I don’t suffer from one of my ex's eye rolls.

I think it’s sweet that Evan loves me so much that he wants to be in every photo, even when I’m snapping away in my bathroom, hoping for some privacy. I smile as Evan cheeses right next to me and, after inspecting the photo, tells me, “Mami, you’re beautiful.” I laugh when he asks for a redo with funny faces. Because taking a selfie with him may not be a lifelong thing. Because one day he will grow up and move out and not be closeby to photobomb me from the next room. Because these selfies will make for amazing memories that I look back upon when I’m old and gray and I say, “We’re so hot.”

Now, this is where I use mind control to get you to…

• Laugh with my stories. Unless it’s sad. Then you can laugh-cry.

• Click on all the links in my newsletter, especially those links where I ask you to purchase my books!

• Comment/heart every newsletter. (And I mean EVERY!)

• Share each and every damn newsletter with a friend, your momma, a romantic interest that you want to impress (You: Look! I am so well-read!), and your book club where you drink more wine than read. Just share it, dammit!

And, if you must get to me (I am a famous content creator in my head) you can always hit reply and I might respond. But only if you tell me I’m amazing.

Till we meet again! So, Thursday.

xoxo,

Sujeiry

I rarely misbehaved as a child. Much like Evan, I was timid and feisty only when provoked, like when an adult asked me to give them a hug despite my Resting Kid Bitch Face.

I wasn’t malcriada. I’ve just always had boundaries. When I say “no,” I mean no in every sense of the word. I am rarely persuaded. And God help the person who keeps pushing despite my mind being made up. This is when I blow like a helium balloon that’s been out in the heat for too long. This is when my chancla flies across the room - and I rarely miss my target.

Fortunately, Mami has always respected my boundaries. Despite her traditional Dominican values and upbringing, she raised us her way and, I believe, took each of our personalities into account. Sure, she was strict as fuck about boys, sex, dating, and makeup. But different from her Dominican mom counterparts, nonetheless. For example, Mami never told me I had to wait to have sex before marriage.

“Espera a concocer a un muchacho bueno y serio,” she advised.

Translation #1: Don’t give your cookie to a man unless you’re in a committed relationship. (Sorry Ma! That ship has sailed!)

Translation #2: Don’t be a ho.

Another surprising thing about my mother is that she didn’t believe that girls should be in the kitchen and that boys should lay around, waiting to be served. My brother, my sister, and I only helped my mother clean right before a big family gathering during the holidays. And she never babied my brother because he is the youngest and her only son. In fact, Mami coddled us all in the ways that we each needed.

I didn’t learn how to cook until I went to college when I frantically called Mami to teach me how to make white rice because UMass Amhert was hell-bent on starving me! (Lies. I just didn't like anything they served in the DC.) And Mami has always supported my love of reading, writing, and music. She drove me to the library every 3 weeks so I could borrow more books (I read one book a week). She purchased a typewriter so I could write my first book (the Dominican version of Sweet Valley High was NOT a literary success). And Mami even let me join my school’s chorus and band at an early age.

I appreciate that Mami let me be me. That she didn’t and still doesn’t pressure me into anything, whether that be an activity, a choice, or even a meal, that I was not and am not ready for. This is how I choose to raise Evan. I feel him out and let him lead all while encouraging him to try new things and to not give up. But I still respect and honor his boundaries and his readiness.

Take sleep training for example, which is another story in itself. At 7 years old, Evan is now finally sleeping by himself, in his bed, the entire night. I didn’t force him out of my bed. I didn’t make him cry it out. I just knew it was time. As a woman and a mother, I always know. My intuition is a force and I always listen, just like I hear and see Evan.

I connect to his sweet, funny, sensitive, and feisty nature because he reminds me so much of myself. And I remember exactly what I needed as a kid- and still need - from the people in my life: support, radical acceptance, and unconditional love.

So I don’t push when he doesn’t want to share his food or when he doesn’t want to speak to an adult (as long as he’s not rude). I don’t reprimand him for needing to feel people out like the cautious and private Cancerian that he is. I don’t even get upset when he chooses to tell me things on his own time. Because if I push, his chancla will fly. So I give him the space and the love that he needs when he needs it and how he needs it because of who he is.

Now, this is where I use mind control to get you to…

• Laugh with my stories. Unless it’s sad. Then you can laugh-cry.

• Click on all the links in my newsletter, especially those links where I ask you to purchase my books!

• Comment/heart every newsletter. (And I mean EVERY!)

• Share each and every damn newsletter with a friend, your momma, a romantic interest that you want to impress (You: Look! I am so well-read!), and your book club where you drink more wine than read. Just share it, dammit!

And, if you must get to me (I am a famous content creator in my head) you can always hit reply and I might respond. But only if you tell me I’m amazing.

Till we meet again! So, Thursday.

xoxo,

Sujeiry

Welcome to the LOL Mom, my new personal essay series where I share #boymomlifebelike moments. I'll get to tickle your funny bone all while preserving memories. It'll be like our little time capsule. And potentially a way to embarrass Evan in the future when he's old enough. It's a win-win.

Episode 2: Don't Talk to Strangers with RBF

Despite my New York City upbringing, I’m a very polite and very friendly person. That’s unless you come at me with a Resting Bitch Face, an expression so nasty that it looks as if you can’t stand the smell of your own breath. Hold my imaginary hoop earrings! I get really Washington Heights (despite living 10+ years in suburbia) and will meet you with the same energy. Because RBF (resting bitch face) begets DALYCDSF (don’t act like your caca don’t stink face). It’s called karma, baby!

Turns out that an eye roll for an eye roll has brought upon some karma for yours truly in the form of my son, Evan. You see, my sweet, kind, sensitive, funny, and artistic boy has RBF when meeting new people. This is especially true when yours truly talks to strangers.

Exhibit A. Evan and I are walking to Kohl’s. I see an older Black woman walking behind me and stop to leave the door open for her.

“Thank you, young lady,” she says with a smile.

“You’re welcome,” I respond, feeling myself and my polite deed of the day. (One of many, I assure you!)

“And who’s this handsome fellow?” She asks while peeking over at Evan who is holding my hand with a grip of 1000 UFC fighters.

He stares at her blankly, RBF all up on that mug. “Evan.”

“Oh, he’s so cute,” she says to me as we all walk inside of Kohl’s.

“Thank you,” I reply, although Evan’s now yanking at my arm so I don’t walk beside her.

“Stop talking to my Mami!’ he finally yells. His RBF transforming right before my eyes into DALYCDSF!

Welcome to the LOL Mom, my new personal essay series where I share #boymomlifebelike moments. I'll get to tickle your funny bone all while preserving memories. It'll be like our little time capsule. And potentially a way to embarrass Evan in the future when he's old enough. It's a win-win.

Episode 1: Kalino Saved the Music and Almost Killed Me

I’m lying flat on my stomach on my couch thanks to La Corona. Evan walks over to me and rubs his face on my dirty, knotted hair. 

“Mami, can we have a dance party?” he asks. 

“Uuuuuuh,” I grunt into my pillow. 

My new sectional has been christened with bodily fluids much sooner than I thought. And not the sexy kind of fluids. Thanks to the far-reaching, wide-spreading Omicron, my brand new couch is stained with drool since spending day after day dozing in and out of sleep. I can hardly remember what day it is. But, like Celine would sing if Rose were a single mom co-parenting with Jack in the Titanic, mom life will go on. 

“Please, Mami, pleeeeeeeeease!” Evan begs. 

His little voice reminds me of Elmo. And who can say no to Elmo?

I lift my head. Strands of black hair stick to my face. I smell. I’m seeing double. And I look like the Lochness Monster. Mom down! Mom down! 

I peek at his cute little 4-year-old face, and although he looks like a replica of The Man Formerly Known as The Fiance, I feel a rush of adrenaline. My arms feel sore. My head is pounding. Did I dance the night away at the Copa, chug six Bacardi and Cokes and three Jose Cuervo shots, and drunk dial my ex? Is it 2002? No, I’ve just come down with the ‘Vid like everyone else in America. But I refuse to spend the entire day in a pool of my own saliva. I will not let Omi win!