If you are a new reader, please forgive the following incredibly boring post. Usually I am laugh-out-loud funny, compelling, and fascinating to boot.

Dinner Tonight.

Offered*: Pears, grapes, steamed green beans, cherry tomatoes, roasted sweet potato, carrot sticks with hummus, whole grain pita chips, french fries from freezer, chicken "no nitrate added" hot dog.**

Thrown on the floor, Vivian: Grapes, green beans, 3 cherry tomatoes***, sweet potato, carrot sticks, several whole grain pita chips.
Consumed, Vivian: 3 pieces of pear, 2 cherry tomatoes, 2 bites of whole grain chips, 8 french fries, one entire hot dog, 1/4 cup ketchup.

Dropped to the floor, Isaac: green beans, cherry tomatoes, carrot sticks, whole grain pita chips.
Consumed, Isaac: Pears, grapes, 2 cherry tomatoes, roasted sweet potato, 1 carrot stick with hummus, 10 french fries, 1 entire hot dog, 1/2 cup ketchup.

*I do not always offer such an array of choices--it was clean out the refridgerater night.

** I do not always use these healthy hot dogs because I don't like going to more than one grocery store, and Whole Foods is the only place that carries them. But since I had them tonight, I wanted to mention it. You know, to get credit.

***there were also cherry tomatoes stuck to her bottom and on her socks.


I probably should just not offer the french fries so they are hungry enough to eat the healthier stuff. But it doesn't seem to work that way. Instead, they are both clamoring for milk 10 minutes after dinner. (Which, of course, I give them. I mean, at least that's healthy. But I don't think it is supposed to be the source of all their nutrition for the day. And for Vivian, at least, it is.)


(What did I have for dinner? Pita chips with store-bought tzatziki, 2 beers, 2 cookies.)

The one where I act like an asshole

At pre-school, Isaac paints and draws and makes projects with his friends. Eventually, these masterpieces come home with him.

Exhibit A:


Since April, when these beautiful renderings started cluttering up my (very very small, with no storage space) house, I have been, well, throwing them away. I mean, generally I wait until Isaac is asleep or otherwise engaged, and I make an effort to put them in the container outside, so he won't see his beautiful depiction of god-knows-what lying forlornly in the trash, but I do throw them away.

You see? I'm an asshole. You should have heard the gasps from the other pre-school mothers when I confessed to trashing my son's artwork the other day.

On the other hand, aren't I just being practical? Had I kept all of these wonderful expressions of my son at age two, we would no longer have room in our house for furniture. I just think it shows better mothering skills to ensure my son has a bed to sleep in, over preserving these crafty pieces of art for him to glance at one day and say, "You kept that? Why?"

Okay, here is a question for all you better mothers out there: Did your mother keep your pre-school drawings? Do you pull them out often and look at them lovingly, comforted in the thought that your mother could never dispose of such things? No? NO? Then why the hell are you saving your kids'?

Running2K posted an idea on her blog awhile back (I'm sorry, I can't find it, or I would link it): she takes digital photos of her kids' artwork and stores it on the computer that way. This seems like a good idea, and would solve my no-storage-space-problem, but then again--it requires organization and time. And effort. I still can't get around the big question: what for?

Other mothers have suggested to me that I just keep the "good ones". But I ask you: what criteria decides a good one? For example, I give you

Exhibit B:


Is this a"good one"? I mean, to me, it seems better than Exhibit A, but then again, I am no artist. Who am I to say? Isaac himself just looked at me funny when I asked him to choose.

I know that I am too practical, and not sentimental enough, generally speaking. This is my personality. So I wonder, will I regret throwing these things away? Will Isaac feel unloved because I don't have any evidence of his artistic prowess at age 2?

You see, all this time you thought my confessions of bad mothering was just self-deprecating humor. But now, the truth comes out: I am, in fact, an asshole of a mother. This combined with the conversation I had with Heidi today ("I am NEVER going to take her to any gymnastics practice at 5 in the morning! No way! It's not like she's going to be an Olympic athlete!") should leave no doubt.

However, now that I have actually taken photos of the artwork for this blog post I suppose I should just continue doing that. It's not like it was difficult to do. And Lance wants me to go to the art store and buy some sort of fancy container for them all. I guess I'm going to have to save them, somehow, after all. Sigh.

Happy Halloween! Part II

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Here they are, decked out on our way to the preschool Halloween parade. The miracle here, of course, is that both children allowed me to pull up their hoods without screaming bloody murder.

Oh, and P.S.: it was 95 degrees today at noon, when the pre-school parade took place. They look happy here, but outside in the parade? SWELTERING in those faux fleece costumes.

Happy Halloween

My neighborhood goes kind of whacko for Halloween.* I think this may be a nationwide trend (yes?), but I must admit it is a trend that I haven't fully latched onto.

With apologies to Halloweenlover, I confess that Halloween is probably my least favorite holiday. For a non-crafty, un-creative, too practical for her own good person, Halloween doesn't offer much in the way of holiday cheer. No easy get-togethers full of good will. Instead, intense, pressure filled parties where costumes are not only expected, but judged. OY!

But it is a little difficult to be the Halloween equivalent of Scrooge (what is that, anyway? Casper the Friendly Ghost? Pollyanna? I'm just not sure) when all of your neighbors go so over the top.

Lance insists that part of the reason our neighborhood gets so decked out is that many of our neighbors are "in the industry". Which is to say--not actors, or directors, or producers--but grips, roadies, prop guys. So they have access to a lot of gear, and they get excited about "setting up a stage". Whatever the reason, I give you now a sampling of the results:



There is more to this one, but a big tree's in the way.

That is actually a facade of a haunted house.

The smoke you see is dry ice, that bubbles up from a cauldron on the right every few minutes.

*There is something spooky going on this year, though. For the four years that we have lived here, about 6 houses on the main street into our neighborhood REALLY go all out, every year, for Halloween. Dry ice, loudspeakers shouting boo, dead people falling from trees, the real deal. And this year: nothing. Not one of those houses has so much as a jack o' lantern on the front stoop. I can't figure it out, and now that this weekend is over and there is no chance of a last minute decorating frenzy, I find myself a little pissed off. This is the first year Isaac would be old enough to appreciate such things on Halloween night, and now we get nothing. Hmmphf.

They're here

My cookies came! See?



I must admit that we all jumped on the cookies so eagerly when they showed up at our door at 6:30 Friday night, that we did untie the bow and eat one before I remembered to take a photo. At which point I had to recreate the pretty packaging they came in. Since I can't tie a bow to save my life, I took this photo so you can't see the catastrophe that is the bow I tied. Trust me, it was much prettier in its original state.

As for taste: here's a shot of Vivian with one of the chocolate chip ones.

I think she liked them.

I'll spare you a shot of me eating one of the white chocolate ones, for fear of scaring the children. Who knew a cookie could be so pornographic? They are good. TOO GOOD. This, after traveling through the US Mail for a day or so? I can only imagine what they might taste like straight out of the oven.

If you haven't done so yet, get theeselves over to Bite My Cookie, and start commenting. And, while you're at it, if you're a typepad person, join her crusade to demand better product from those typepad fools!

Thanks, BMC! I love you AND your cookies!

Poop!, Coq au Vin, and . . . .

Just now I am sitting here, blogging, while the kids play in the background. I hear Vivian crawling* in, and when she gets to me, she pulls up and says, "Poop. Poop." I soon ascertain from a dense aroma that she has, in fact, pooped.

That's right. My 16 month old daughter came to tell me she pooped. Are you amazed? Astounded? Knocked off your feet by the sheer genius of it all? No? Then perhaps you do not also have in your life a 32 month old child who routinely walks around with his pants full of shit for as long as the rest of us can stand. Who continues, to this day, to deny when said pants are full of shit, even when the cloud of stench through which he is walking causes the wallpaper to curl (and we don't have wallpaper). Or instead, blames his sister: "Vivi did it! Vivi pooped!" Who wakes up at least once a week before 5am, having peed through his overnight diaper, and who has never, in his life, woken up from a nap with a dry diaper.

*still her preferred method of mobility, though she can walk.


Last night for dinner I made this. It took FOREVER, but I didn't mind. I enjoyed my time in the kitchen, even though it took up the entire nap time so I didn't get a break. What I did mind: it didn't turn out. I spent 2 hours in the kitchen slaving over something that only tastes okay. And I followed the recipe pretty exactly, too. What is wrong with me??

I also made this, which was impossibly easy and took about 5 minutes, minus the roasting time. Guess what? It was fabulous. But see, I didn't enjoy making that as much--it was so simple! Again, I ask you--what is wrong with me?


Finally:
Today when I dropped Isaac off at school, there was the following note:
"Attention parents: Yesterday we had to send a student home with head lice. We have not had an incident of head lice at (name of school) for 10 years. Please check your child's head carefully."

Ahhhhhhhhh!

The Joy Unexpected Effect

This is what happens to your hits when you meet up with a popular blogger:

Here is the walking video!

Unfortunately, it is sideways, and I can't figure out how to change it. But you should be able to see it if you tilt your head (heh). There's some pretty decent audio, too.

You know what I love?

Blogging. But more than that, I love you, the bloggers. I love the community. I love how everyone is so different, and so the same. I love how I have met so many new friends, friends I would never have had were it not for blogging.

Truth is, I don't have a whole lot of friends anymore. Motherhood can be really isolating, especially if you tend, like me, towards the introverted. There are many young mothers in my neighborhood, but the vast majority of them work. The stay-at-home moms that I know I have not connected with, for a variety of reasons, among them my inability to plan or attend outings unless I feel really comfortable.

When I met with Y yesterday, I was nervous, but also excited. It is so rare for me, to spend any part of my day talking with other adults. I arranged for my mother-in-law to babysit Isaac, and set off, determined to make the most of the opportunity. It was just the two of us, with our two daughters, who happen to be around the same age.

If you have ever read Y's blog, you know what fun she is. I am sometimes intimidated by funny people--all that pressure to be clever!--but Y was friendly and genuine, and put me right at ease. It was wonderful. We met at a Mexican restaurant about 1/2 way between our homes and had a quick lunch and some great conversation. We chatted about blogs and blogging, about our kids and our husbands. What a relief, to talk to someone who cares about the same things that I do. That sounds wrong. I just mean that talking to her was easy, and felt nice.

Gabby is completely adorable, of course, and just as friendly as Y. She immediately tried to pet Vivian's hair and give her a hug. Vivian, for her part, acted a bit like me (sadly): slightly stand-offish, and intimidated. She refused to show off her new walking skills even though (or maybe because) Gabby was walking all over the place.

All in all, a fabulous first-time blogger meet-up for me-- and fish tacos, besides.

These shoes were made for walkin'

Yesterday I caved and bought Vivian her first pair of shoes. Well, okay, that's not exactly true, we did have a few pairs that friends bought as gifts when she was first born. But these are the first pair of shoes that she may actually use for--yes, that's right--walking.



For the past week or so, Vivian has been standing on her own frequently. When I put her down, she stays in the upright position for awhile before plopping down to crawl. She stands from her position on the floor without pulling up on anything. And she takes one or two steps every now and then, when no one is watching her. Last night, all the planets aligned, and she took 10 or more steps on three different occasions. We even got it on video! (Which, sadly, I cannot figure out how to post here.)

So it seems that actual, true walking (as opposed to the fake walking we've been doing for a few months--i.e., one or two steps only under extreme duress) is much closer than I thought. Maybe only a week. Hooray! (Cheer with me, now you won't have to hear about it anymore either!)


In totally unrelated news, I had the following conversation with Isaac this morning:

Me, sitting at the computer ignoring (unsuccessfully) the two toddlers trying to climb into my lap: Just a minute, you two . . .

Vivian: UP! UP! UP!

Isaac, pushing Vivian aside and crawling into my lap: I want to see, Mommy.

Me: Oh, Isaac. Don't push your sister. Shhh, Viv, it's okay. . .

Isaac, touching my nose, then my eyes: What are you doing, Mommy?

Me: Sweetie, don't do that right now. Can you get down for a minute?

Isaac touches my breast, then starts pushing it, almost stroking it, repeatedly.

Me: Don't do that, Isaac.

Isaac: Why?

Me: Because . . . it's mine.

Isaac: No, they not yours, Mommy. Those are Daddy's.

Caution: Lameness ahead

Okay, I know this is idiotic, to post one of those email "memes", but I think it's pretty funny, and mostly true. So I'm posting it, and you can't stop me.
While I realize that most of my readers are not from Southern California, I think this list should make you appreciate your own state even more. You can thank me later.


YOU KNOW YOU'RE FROM SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA WHEN . .

Your monthly house payments exceed your annual income.

You drive next to a Rolls Royce and don't notice.

You don't know anyone's phone number unless you check your cell phone.

You speak Spanish, but you're not Mexican. Or you're Mexican, but you don't speak Spanish at all.

Getting anywhere from point A to point B, no matter what the distance, takes about "twenty minutes."

You begin to "lie" to your friends about how close you are when you know damn well it'll take you at least an hour to get there (see above).

You drive to your neighborhood block party.

In the "winter," you can go to the beach and ski at Big Bear on the same day.

You eat a different ethnic food for every meal.

If your destination is more than 5 minutes away on foot, you're definitely driving.

Calling your neighbors requires knowing their area code.

You classify new people you meet by their Area Code. An "818" would never date a "562," and anyone from "323" or "213" is ghetto/second class. Best area code: "949." Nobody likes anyone from the "909" because it stinks out there.

You know what "In 'N Out" is and feel bad for the other states because they don't have any.

You don't stop at a STOP sign, you do a California Roll.

You really can never be too rich, too thin, or too tan.

You've partied in Tijuana at least 3 times.You don't remember at least 1 of them.

You go to a tanning salon before going to the beach.

You eat pineapple on pizza.

Your cell phone has left a permanent impression on the side of your head.

You think that Venice is a beach.

The waitress asks if you'd like "carbs" in your meal.

You know who the tinsel underwear dude in Venice Beach is.

You call 911 and they put you on hold.

You have a gym membership because it's mandatory.

The gym is packed at 3pm . . . on a workday.

You think you're better than the people who live "Over the Hill". It doesn't matter which side of the hill you're currently residing in, you are just better than them, for whatever reason.

You know that if you drive two miles in any direction you will find a McDonald's or a Starbucks.

You know what "sig-alert", "PCH", and "the five" mean.

You can't remember . . . is pot illegal?

It's barely sprinkling rain and there's a report on every news station: "STORM WATCH".

The Terminator is your governor.

You actually get these jokes and pass them on to other friends from California.

Big Daddy

For BMC, as repayment for the cookies: a photo of Lance.

And bonus!, a quote: "Jesus! If we didn't have to feed them or bathe them it would be so much easier."

I won!

If you all have never met Bite My Cookie, you are not only missing out on a fantastic blog, but also the potential for cookies. The other day I unwittingly became her 400th commenter, and in doing so won a prize--a prize of cookies! Really, could there be a better prize? I'm so excited. Rest assured, as soon as they arrive, I will report back with pictures and a review.

Thanks, BMC!

Good Show

We are back from our 15 month appointment. And, I was right: Vivian is growing. Like a weed, I say. She is now 31 inches, or in the 50th percentile for her age group. This is astounding on many levels: 2 appointments ago we weren't even on the charts for height; I still have to roll over the waistband of her 12 month pants, and some 6-9, or they are too long. In fact, I am pretty sure they measured incorrectly--but my tape measure is in the garage, and thus much too far to fetch. In any event, I should probably just enjoy this completely "normal" position on the growth chart and stop fighting it, no? I doubt their measurements were off by more than an inch. As for weight, she maintains her healthy position in the 10th percentile. Dr. K was very proud of her.

She is right on track with all her milestones except walking. Oh, and eating with a spoon. But, why, pray tell, would I give a spoon to a 16 month old child who routinely gets food between her toes while using her fingers to eat? I mean, I realize children are messy, but, honestly, must I really encourage the little bugger to pour applesauce on her head? Unfortunately, Dr. K did suggest I let her give the spoon a try. I have never been one to just blindly do as I'm told, though, so we will see. (Wait! I am so! I always do what I'm told, if the person who tells me is in a position of authority! And since I am only a lowly old mother, everyone except my husband and children are in a position of authority. But I will break from the shackles of my upbringing and say no to the spoon. You watch me!) As for the walking, Dr. K said not to worry until 18 months, and even then, so long as her muscle strength seemed fine, and it's more of a comfort zone or control thing with her as opposed to physical capability, no sense fretting. She will walk eventually.

All in all, a good appointment. Although of course at the end Dr. K asked about Isaac and suddenly I got some dust in my eyes and felt a furious need to sprint from the office (Flight! Flight! Flight! Never fight, in my world). She means well, and how could she know that I have so denied the existence of a problem that the mere mention of it would cause such a reaction? Poor woman. Fortunately for me, she quickly left the room so I could freak out in private. And--more fortune!--we do not have another appointment for Isaac until his meeting with the specialist in January and his 3 year with Dr. K. in February. So I have months-months!--to continue floating along in my lovely river of deNile.

Forsaking all others

I am a crime drama junkie. TiVo faithfully records for me, each week, at least 9 hours of crime dramas. I also love the crime documentary, so I record those, too: American Justice, City Confidential, Dateline, and my favorite, 48 Hours Mystery. One thing you learn quickly from watching these shows: it is always the husband. Truly. If a married woman is murdered, her husband did it. Every. Single. Time. Even if the husband is acquitted, there is general consensus that he did it anyway, there just wasn't enough evidence. It is amazing to me how many educated, seemingly rational men, decide to murder their wives in lieu of paying alimony. They always have girlfriends. Yet they still think they will get away with it. They are still shocked and pissed off to be considered a suspect. Crazy.

The other afternoon I watched an episode about--surprise!-- a married man who was murdered. Not surprisingly, the woman on trial is his wife. Supposedly she was mentally and physically abused for years, and she killed him in self-defense. Her trial is taking place now in Northern California.

Except--I just read in yesterday's paper that the judge has declared a mistrial. Because--get this--the defense attorney's wife was murdered over the weekend. Creepy, huh? And sad. There doesn't seem to be any suggestion here that the defense attorney killed his wife, but given all the previous episodes of these shows, that was my first thought.

I wonder if they will do a show about this, once it is all figured out, if it is all figured out. If the defense attorney did do it, you can bet on it. But since it doesn't seem he did . . .

Changes afoot

This is a post about good news: Vivian is growing. Yes! She is now too tall for most of her 3-6 month pants. She fits into almost all of her 6-12 month clothes, and even some 12-18 month ones. We have even turned her carseat around, now that she is 21 lbs. She is not walking yet, but she's getting closer. Slowly, slowly. She has, on three or four separate occasions, taken up to 4 steps on her own. Do not bribe her or encourage her, though: she only likes to take steps when no one is watching. The words keep coming, too. Now she says "book", "buck-ah" (buckle), "poo-dah" (poodle), "sock", and has started mimicking us on occasion. I am hopeful that at our 15 month appointment (which will occur when she is 16 months old since Mommy's math and calendar skill are, well, lacking) she will be not only on the charts for height and weight but maybe (maybe?) even caught up on milestones. Yee-ha!!

Not to be out-done, Isaac has been changing too. He has now entered the "Why" stage of toddlerhood. Why, oh why (heh) is this so cute when other people's children do it but so incredibly mind-numbingly boring when it is your own? This is how it goes*:

I: Why did you shut the door, Mommy?
Me: Because we are coming inside, sweetie.
I: Why are we coming inside?
Me: Because we need to have lunch.
I: Why do we need to have lunch?
Me: Because it's lunchtime.
I: Why is it lunchtime?
Me: Because it is.
I: Why because it is?
Me: Sometimes it just is, honey. Let's just leave it at that.
I: Why just leave it at that?
Me: I'm really tired of talking about this, okay? Hey, do you want some grapes?
I: Why are you so tired of talking about it?

And so on. What a sweetie (ahem).

But there is this: The other day we were at my in-laws for dinner. As we all filed out, Isaac stopped, looked up at his grandmother and said, "Thank you so much for coming, Nonie. We had a really nice time." Then as we all giggled and told him how polite he was, he added, "It was so nice to see you."
I have not taught him these phrases--it's all I can do to teach him please and thank you!--he has just picked them up on his own. Pretty cute.

Oh, and:
Isaac is not potty-trained. Isaac is not even close to being potty trained. At 32 months, he has shown zero signs of being ready. We have a potty seat for him, and he will pee in there occasionally, but that's it. The other day, we were, again, at the in-laws, when I looked up and realized Isaac was no longer in my sight. I called for him and eventually found him in my mother-in-law's bathroom, where he had pulled his pants down and taken off his diaper--all unprompted and unaided. "I'm going pee in the potty!" he said triumphantly. I have no idea what inspired him to do this--when I helped him sit on the potty he barely got a trickle out, so I doubt he really had to go--but it was a pretty exciting day for us nonetheless. Especially since he usually has a really difficult time getting his own pants down. What a big boy! (Of course, this happy event occurred a good two weeks ago, and he has shown exactly zero interest in the potty since then. I am focusing on the positive here, okay?)

* I am not relaying this exchange because I think you don't know what I mean. I am relaying it in an attempt to make you suffer with me.

Gratuitous kid photo

Post nap and red licorice snack.

Kitchen Catastrophic

It is a great sadness in my life that I am not a good cook. It's not that I'm terrible (though really, cooking is a bit subjective, yes? So some people may think I'm a terrible cook. No fair talking to my in-laws, though.) I definitely lack any sort of talent for the preparing of food.

Thing is, I love to cook. I truly love it. I love reading the recipe, looking at the photo, going to the store and buying the ingredients (especially if the monsters are not with me), getting out the pots, even the chopping. The whole process of it: the way you start with a clean kitchen, then get it completely filthy, and then get it clean again. The way you start with these simple ingredients--peppers, onion, mushrooms--and end up with a completely different animal--vegetarian chili.

When I was pregnant with Isaac, many things went wrong. The icing on the cake (as it were) was that 10 weeks before my due date, the doctor diagnosed me with low amniotic fluid. This led to almost daily ultrasounds, and also to bed-rest. For 10 weeks, I had to lie on my side and drink lots of water, making sure not to put any stress on my body by doing anything, not even something as simple as laundry. The highlight of my life at that time was the twice-weekly visit to the ultrasound tech. This was in the days before TiVo, not to mention the days before kids, and, not being a soap-opera fan, I quickly became bored. For the first few weeks I read a lot, but eventually I turned to television. One day when I just couldn't bear another Magnum P.I. re-run, I channel surfed and landed on The Food Network.

Up to this time in my life I had not been much of a cook. I didn't hate cooking, I just never did it. As a single person I was blessed to live with roommates who were wonderful cooks (you remember Heidi, right?) and I also lived in San Francisco. You know, the foodie capital of the world. Why cook when fabulous food was within walking distance whenever I wanted it? When Lance and I married, none of this changed. We went out to eat all the time, and if we stayed home we just snacked. Chips and salsa, cheese and crackers, quesedillas, hummus and baba ganoush from the deli down the street. Or we ordered: Thai, pizza, Chinese, Italian--all of it was available at the push of a button. Even when we moved to LA and settled down a bit, we rarely cooked. Occasionally Lance or I would try something out, but it's hard to cook for two people: you always have leftovers for weeks!

Since cooking was never something I cared about, landing--and staying--on The Food Network that day was definitely out of the ordinary. I don't remember what was playing that day, though I'm sure it was a recipe show (does anyone really watch those other shows? Like Unwrapped?). Whatever it was, it held my interest, and soon I was watching The Food Network every afternoon. This is the time period (December 2002) when Rachel Ray was just gaining in popularity, and I watched her show every day, sometimes twice a day.

I know Rachel Ray can be annoying; Lance and Heidi both cringe when they hear her voice. But for a person who has not spent a whole lot of time in the kitchen, her show was a really fantastic learning tool. What better way to start cooking then with a bunch of recipes that only take 30 minutes to prepare? If you screw up, you've only wasted 1/2 hour of your day.

Once I gave birth to Isaac and starting figuring out the whole newborn thing, I found I had some extra time. Since Isaac was such a good baby, he napped for hours at a time during the day, and now that I could move around without worry, watching tv quickly bored me. I started cooking and found that I enjoyed it, even though the results were not often what I'd want.

It's been 2-1/2 years now and I have a few recipes that turn out reliably. Things like spaghetti or chili. I have a marinade for chicken that people always like, and a couple pasta salads that usually work. But that's it. Other recipes I've tried don't turn out at all--or worse, they turn out great the first time but then I find I am unable to replicate that success again, no matter how many times I try. I am always looking for new recipes and trying them out, but my success rate hovers stubbornly around 35%. Not very good.

Part of me knows the reasons for this. I can be . . . shall we say . . . absentminded at times. (Yes, I am blonde. So??) I may forget an ingredient at the store and have to substitute. Or I'll skip a step and have to go back and try to add things when the entree has been cooking for twenty minutes. Also, I don't like to measure. So I'll chop up a bunch of herbs, but then I don't like to force them into tablespoons to make sure I have the right amount. I usually just throw it all in. I hate it when a recipe calls for 1/2 cup of chopped bell pepper, say--if I buy a pepper at the store and chop it up, then there will be too much, and what am I going to do with half a leftover pepper? Again, I often end up throwing it all in. Add to that the fact that I am decidedly un-crafty, not creative or arty in any way, and it's easy to see why I struggle in the kitchen.

Still, knowing these reasons exist does not cause me to change my cooking style. I like the freedom of not measuring, I like rooting around in the fridge and then finding--ah ha!--a substitute that might work. I like the sort of easiness to it all. I like being in the kitchen, in my own little world, creating something that I really hope will please my family.

But it would be a lot nicer if occasionally these creations did please my family.

Pumpkins

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with (bonus!) scare-crows.

More Pumpkins

Okay, this one's for Phantom.
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Pumpkins!

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For Laura.

A photo from the pumpkin patch to tide you over

(Apologies to the Irish fans)

Bored

I am bored bored bored. With this blog, that is. Not sure why I can't think of anything exciting to report (perhaps because there is nothing exciting to report?). I know you all are devastated. Perhaps over the next few days I will be struck with inspiration.

'Till then, enjoy your weekends!

To put a face with the whine . . .

 

Wondering

Is Dakota Fanning the only female child actress alive? Or is there some unwritten Hollywood rule that she must get all the scripts first?

And why, oh why, would you name your daughter Dakota? Really, if you are going with a state theme, Delaware is much prettier. Or Connecticut.

Would you like some more whine?

My kids look remarkably alike. People often comment on it, and I've even had one or two ask if they were twins (though, since Vivian is about half Isaac's size, I'm not sure why anyone would think that). I suppose it's to be expected. It's kind of fun that neither one looks exactly like Lance or I--rather, they are each a combination of the two of us.

The similarities end at the surface, however. As infants, they looked so much alike it gave me a sense of deja vu. But by the second day home, it was apparent that Vivian was not the same baby as Isaac had been. When she was less than a week old, she stayed awake one whole day. As in, never closing her eyes from 7 am to 7pm. There were days in Isaac's infancy when he only opened his eyes for minutes at a time all day. Vivian had horrible baby acne; Isaac had none. Isaac grew so fast I could practically see it; Vivian was in preemie size clothes for weeks. Isaac slept through the night at 10 weeks; Vivian at 11 months. Isaac has always been an average sized kid, consistently hitting at 50 to 75th percentile on the growth chart. Vivian has never hit higher than 20%. Developmentally, they are very different, with Isaac reaching all the major milestones much sooner than Vivian did.

There are other differences, too. To this day, if Isaac falls or hurts himself in some way, I can pick him up and hug him, kiss the scratched body part, and he will feel better. On the other hand, if Vivian is hurt, the last thing she wants is a kiss from me. She screams until the pain goes away on its own, glaring at me with her tear-filled eyes, as if to say: "I am not a fool, woman. There is no way a kiss from you is going to help this pain!" When Isaac is frustrated, he will growl, or scream or fall to the floor and kick his legs. But his are short-lived frustrations. He gets over it fast enough and moves onto the next thing, and the next frustration. Vivian has a much longer attention span. She can happily read books for 30 minutes at a time, or sit in the playroom with the same toys she's played with since she was old enough to sit up on her own. When she is angry or frustrated, she is much more difficult to placate.

The latest difference is whining. Like any kid, Isaac whines. Although most often he whines only when he's just woken from a nap, or when he's sick. In other situations, he's pretty good about changing his tone if I tell him "Well, I can't understand what you're saying when you talk like that, so I don't know how to help you", or some variation thereof.

Vivian, at almost 16 months old, has about 20 words. I don't consider her "talking". She has recently become rather demonstrative, however, about what she wants. She just whines. Incessantly. Whines to be picked up. Whines to be fed. Whines because she's bored, or because she doesn't want a barrette in her hair, or she does want to drink the bath water, or whatever. Yesterday, I think she whined for a good three-quarters of the time that she was awake. It's driving me crazy! I don't always understand what it is she's whining about, and when I do, it's often something she can't have anyway, which just makes her more upset, and the whines escalate to cries. She doesn't understand the words or the concept of "if you stop whining I will help you", so we spend a lot of time at an impasse.

I know this is age-appropriate behavior. When Isaac was 16 months old, Vivian was a newborn, and he and I struggled mightily. But he had more words by then--I guess about 150 or so. Communication was part of the problem but it wasn't the only problem. He was so active, at that age. Running all over the place, getting into things, and not understanding consequences. If I looked away for five minutes, he'd be running down the middle of the nearest freeway, chugging from the bottle of rubbing alcohol I left on too low a shelf. He had major temper tantrums when things didn't go his way--which was often--but he didn't whine. Vivian is not nearly so active--she can't even walk yet, for pete's sake!--but she's got the whining thing down pat.

Writing this post has been really good for me. Now that I'm remembering Isaac at this age, I understand that there actually isn't much I can do about the whining, until she starts understanding more. That I just need to be patient with her, and understand that this is only temporary. In a few months, she'll be talking (and, by the grace of God, walking) and we'll be onto the next challenge.

In the meantime . . . would you suggest duct tape (for her) or earplugs (for me)?

How would you react

if your child was bitten at pre-school?

What if you knew that two other children have also been bitten recently, by the same child?

I wish

that being a stay-at-home-mom didn't make me feel like such a loser.

Corollary: I wish that enjoying above-referenced "position" as much as I do wouldn't make me feel even more like a loser, because why would I enjoy something I don't value?

Corollary the second: I wish I wouldn't take it so personally when working moms say things like "I don't know how you do it. I needed to work, or I would have lost my mind." Or, "I'm a much better mom because I work. If I stayed at home, I'd be a total basket-case all the time."

Here they are in more harmonious times

DSC01393
Originally uploaded by starheel.

Officer Isaac

For several months now, Isaac has found much delight whenever I need to reprimand Vivian. It's getting to the point where he will ask me to tell her no. As in, "Mommy, Vivian took her barrette out. Can you say 'don't do that'?" Or if I say, "No hitting, Viv", he'll reply: "Can you say it louder, Mom?"

He's been telling her what to do for awhile now. "No, Viv!", he'll holler, "Don't touch that!" "Don't do that, Viv!" Or my personal favorite: "That make me very frustrated, Vivian!" But lately, it's more than that; now he wants to get her in trouble.

He is always and forever running to me, grabbing my hand, and saying, "Can you come with me, Mommy?" When I follow him, Vivian will be throwing the dirt out of the house plants onto the rug, and he just points and looks up at me in glee, fairly dancing in his anticipation of my reaction. It's kind of disconcerting. I mean, I suppose it makes sense--what a relief, for him, not to always be the bad guy--but should it really make him that happy?

We've been working on this: I've explained that it is not really nice to be a tattle-tale, and I can't tell you how many times a day I say "Okay, sweetie, but let's just have Isaac worry about Isaac. Vivian can worry about Vivian, okay?" But truly, it's a difficult concept to grasp--and to teach. I can't say--"Well, you wouldn't want Vivian to tell on you if you were doing something wrong, would you?"--even though that is basically what I'm trying to teach him. So we talk about treating each other the way you want to be treated, but he SO doesn't get it.

Truth be told, while I don't want him to be a tattle-tale, it does serve a purpose. For example, the other day I was washing dishes while the kids played outside. Isaac started yelling, "Mommy! Mommy! Come look at Vivi! Vivi got so dirty! MOMMY!" At first I just shouted back, "Don't worry about Vivian, Isaac. You just worry about you! It's fine." But eventually I had to go see what all the fuss was about. And, um, she was dirty. Because she had pooped, and leaked out of her diaper, and was wiping the poop all over the place.

There's also the times he says: "Mom! Vivi's climbing again! Come say 'don't do that'! Mommy!" And I know this means she has climbed on top of the hearth and is trying to get onto the sofa from the top of the toy chest. Or: "Vivi's playing in the pee, Mommy!" Or: "She's playing with the fan!"

In that case, I like my little mole, because I can come running before she falls, or drinks a mouthful of day-old pee from Isaac's potty, or gets her fingers chopped off in our $15 Home Depot fan, or whatever other danger she's about to face.

I leave you with the face of our personal family stickler.

How

the hell do you make the double spacing go away on this bleepin' thing?

Anyone? Anyone?

Happy Anniversary

Yesterday was my 7th wedding anniversary. To celebrate, a few photos:
(Please forgive the blurriness; I have no scanner.)

The happy couple.
The ladies in waiting.The world's ugliest wedding cake. But it tasted good. I swear!

Last evening Lance and I went out to dinner to celebrate. (Heidi--I'm telling you, pure rockstar--babysat the monsters.) On the way to dinner, he pointed out to me the many Starbucks where he spends his days, drinking lattes and partaking of the wireless access. Then he began comparing and contrasting them, discussing, for my pleasure, the various pluses and minuses of each one. And I thought, "Hmm. We've been married for 7 years and he still thinks this kind of thing is interesting to me?" Aloud, I just laughed and said, "Wow. They really always make their milk too hot? Good to know, babe, good to know."

That's love, people.

Lance, thank you for being the same guy, but better, than you were 7 years ago. Thank you for working hard so that I can stay home with the kids; and for hardly working so that you can help out--a lot--at home. Thanks for the thousands of walks you have taken the kids on at 5:30pm, leaving me time to wind down from a long day. Thanks for putting up with my sorry attempts at cooking, and for usually forcing down the food without comment. Thanks for accepting the fact, with good humor, that I must go to sleep before 10pm every night or be useless the next day.

I can't wait to see what the next 7 years will bring.

Meme Time--Edit

The lovely and talented Chantal over at Bread Crumbs in the Butter tagged me for a meme, so here you go:

Ten Years Ago:
I was 25 years old. I had recently ended a very brief interlude with a guy named, I kid you not, Woody. I was working for the furniture company, living in San Francisco with Heidi and Alex, generally happy but feeling slightly bored with my life. I hadn't been in a true relationship in 3 years (unless you count Paul, and let's not), and I was lonely. In 4 months I would go on a blind date with Lance. I spent a lot of time at the bars on Haight Street, or hanging out with my best friend Jen and her boyfriend Fred. (Originally Fred was my boyfriend, but that's a story for another post.) Jen was sober then. When I wasn't doing that, I was sun-bathing on our roof-deck with Heidi and the girls from across the street, or letting Heidi dress me to go out (no fashion sense here), or eating dinner that Heidi made for me (truly, a rockstar of a roommate), or sitting in my room with the door closed wondering when my life was going to start.

5 Years Ago:
I was 30 years old. I was living in Los Angeles with my husband Lance in a tiny, 800 sq foot bungalow we paid $1700/month for. Still working for the furniture company, but now in L.A. It was my second wedding anniversary. I bought Lance a Kid Rock CD, which neither one of us ever listened to. Heidi had moved to New York. Jen was still in San Francisco, but no longer with Fred, and no longer sober. I was trying my best to force Lance into home ownership, and he was resisting on all counts. In 8 months we would purchase the house we live in now. I sun-bathed on the patio and read a lot. I didn't have any friends, except the women I worked with.

One Year Ago:
I was just barely coming out of the hell that was my life the first few months Vivian was born. Isaac was almost 20 months, Vivian was almost 4 months. We had just returned from Hawaii. Vivian was still up several times at night to nurse. Isaac was a maniac, and not in pre-school yet. The light at the end of the tunnel was the knowledge that November 1st I was heading home to Delaware for 4 weeks--4 weeks in which my mother, sister, niece, nephew, and other best friend Susanna could help me with the monsters. I was probably drinking too much. (Yes, I drank when I was nursing. No, not during the nursing sessions. I did have my daily beer, and it was the only thing that kept me sane.) Heidi had moved to L.A. and was dating Steve. It was my 6th wedding anniversary and we: what the hell did we do? I can't remember at all. We must have gone out to dinner. I'm sure it was lovely.

Yesterday:
We got a babysitter and went to a housewarming party for a friend of my husband's. Although this friend--let's call him Neil--spends a decent amount of time with my husband, and by default me, I do not consider him a friend of mine because--well, he's kind of an asshole. So we went to the party and I got very very drunk and now I'm hungover. The end*.

Okay, there is much more to this meme but I am beginning to bore myself and god knows if I'm boring myself the rest of you must be about ready to slit your wrists, so I'll stop. If anyone would like to participate, consider yourself tagged. You can see what the whole thing is supposed to look like here.

Okay, okay: here's one more tidbit from my exciting life for you.

I walk into the playroom where both children are playing loudly (read: fighting) in the hopes that my presence will quiet them down. It doesn't. I lay down on the floor hoping this will make the pounding in my head go away (I'm hungover, remember? Didn't you read the whole post?That part, up there, where I said I was hungover? Gah. You people.)
Immediately, Vivian starts crawling over to me. The gleam in her eyes says: "Yay, a Mommy jungle gym! I can jump on her and stick my fingers in her eyes and head-butt her! What fun!"
Seeing this, Isaac runs over to me, blocking her way and landing triumphantly on top of me with all 35 lbs of body mass. Ugh. I gasp for breath and try to push him off me but not onto Vivian.
"No Vivian!" he yells, as she approaches. "That's not your Mommy! That's my Mommy! MINE!"
Commence screaming from the wee one.
The end.

Yes, I am still hungover.

*I was going to go into the long boring story about why Neil is such an asshole but it's just too much fucking trouble to spend on a guy who's an asshole, so there you go. Longtime girlfriend, sex on the side, do I really need to say more than that?

Edited to add: Jesus! My anniversary is not today, it's tomorrow. Who's the asshole now?

She Talk Pretty

We're having a bit of a word explosion out here in L.A. I'm often bemoaning Vivian's slow-to-achieve-milestones-tendency, so I thought I'd toot her horn for once.

Daddy
Mommy
Bye bye
Hi
Ayessee--Isaac
Ah Pop--Otter Pop
UP! (a word she can only say in all caps with an exclamation point)
Mine
No
Wawky--walking (yes, she can say it; she just can't DO it)
boodie--birdie
wa-wa--water
baby
dockie--doggie
yucky
ehmo--elmo
nye-nye--night-night
bapap--diaper
ah-see--outside (this one kills me, because it is the exact same way Isaac used to say "outside". He was 10 months old, and he'd crawl over to the door, pull himself up and start demanding: "Ah-see! Ah-see! Ah-see!")
ayedee--Heidi
mik--milk
mahkee--monkey
kee--keys
keekee--kitty
ahya-ah--elephant

No word for yes yet--but if you ask her a question and she agrees, she'll giggle hysterically.

She also knows that dogs say "woosh whoosh"; cows say "mmmm"; and cats say "reaarow"

And, she can point to her nose, mouth, eyes, toes, belly, and hair on command.

She's a genius, I tell you.

Disciplinary Action

As I've mentioned several times before, Isaac is an active 2 year old. Sometimes I struggle in my effort to encourage good behavior from him. Most of the time I realize that he is a unique person, and that what works for some Moms might not work for me. Every now and then, however, those little voices of doubt creep in, mocking me and my attempts at "good" parenting.

Although Isaac is active, he is not what you would call "wild". He doesn't run willy-nilly into a crowd, he waits a few minutes before trying new things. What makes him difficult is his independent streak*. He always wants to do things by himself. He doesn't want to ride in the stroller, he wants to walk. He doesn't want to hold your hand. He doesn't want to walk the way you are going, he wants to walk his way. He wants to pour his own milk, cut up his own dinner, put on his shoes, take off his diaper, wash his own hands. He doesn't want to sleep in the crib, so he climbs out. He doesn't want to take a nap so he gets out of bed. He doesn't want to read the Napping House, he wants to read Franny B. Kranny. And HE wants to turn the pages!! Etc. Etc. Etc. Ad naseaum.

In preschool, it is required that parents sign their kids in every morning and out every afternoon. The teachers use this sign-in sheet to write little comments about the day. You know, like "Isaac had a great morning today and loved playing with the play-doh". Except, that's not the type of comment I usually get. More often, our comments go like this: "Isaac had a hard time staying with his group today." Or "Isaac doesn't like to sit during circle time, but he does better if I hold him in my lap."

Last year, Isaac was the youngest in his class, so I didn't worry myself too much with these comments. "He's just young," I told myself, "he'll get it in time." This year, he is not the youngest. And the comments I get are like this: "Isaac didn't want to sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star at circle time today and had to sit outside for a few minutes to settle down". Or "Isaac loved making cookies with his group but he got upset when other children stirred the batter".

I have talked to his teachers at school, and they insist they are not bothered by his behavior. It is well within the normal range for kids his age. One teacher told me that he "just really seems to know who he is and what he wants, and I can respect that". I thought that was very true, and pretty cute, if truth be told.

But I still worry, every now and then, that I am not molding his behavior properly. That if I was a better mother, he would "mind his manners". Another mother at school has two boys, age 3 & 2, and she told me how they recently flew across the country. She sat between the two boys and said the flight was pretty uneventful. This made me cringe inside. "Wow," I said. "You didn't have carseats, and they just stayed in their seats?" "Oh yeah, " she replied. "They know better than to get down until I tell them to." A cross-country flight with Isaac would never be uneventful. Further, it would be impossible to consider without a carseat to strap him into.

I try to be consistent when I discipline him. Time-outs are very big in this house. We use an egg timer, and he has to sit for 2 minutes. If we are out--at the market, at a friends house--and he starts acting inappropriately, I am perfectly willing to warn him, and then take him immediately home if the behavior persists. But there are times, I admit, when this doesn't work so well. When I threaten something before I think about it, and realize, too late, that I won't be able to follow through.

I also try to be careful not to "break his spirit". I don't want him to fear authority, the way I do. I want him to feel confident enough to speak his mind, I want him to hold onto this great sense of himself thoughout life.

But shouldn't I be able to control him better on an airplane? Shouldn't he be able to eat at a restaurant by now? Shouldn't he know that he has to sit nicely in the grocery cart?

I guess I will always worry, to some extent, about whether I am doing a good job at this parenting thing. I find that funny, considering I never wondered about my "official" places of employment, in the pre-kids days. I always felt like I was doing a great job, and didn't worry about it beyond that. And yet, this job--this un-paid, under-valued job that I hold now, for which I received no training, and for which it is assumed that I need no training other than that xx chromosone--this is the one that I feel the most insecure about.


*Lest you be confused, being independant does not mean that Isaac likes to play by himself. He may want to do everything his way, but he also wants you to watch him doing it.

The Truth about Parenting

On the night your 15 month old agrees to finally sleep thru the night again, your 2-1/2 year old will inevitably refuse to lie down until after 10pm, and awake--for the day--before 6am.

Yawn.

Happy (Belated) Birthday

My best friend Heidi celebrated her birthday yesterday. I was going to write her a nice post and direct people over to her blog to say Happy Birthday, but . . . well, we have been so busy here.

And there's this:

Yesterday I took the kids over to her work at the un-named studio lot for lunch, and we all had a great time. I don't drive very much. I mean, I drive to pre-school, and the grocery store, and the drug store, Target, the library, my in-laws--you get the idea. Los Angeles is a big place, but since I rarely need to travel more than 10 miles from my home, I don't know it very well. If Lance is in the car, he always drives. (I know, I should set a better feminist example for my kids, but I hate driving. I fantasize about having a driver at my beck and call.) The drive to the un-named studio lot was outside my area of expertise. No worries, Heidi sent me directions and I got there just fine.

Going home was another story. I turned the wrong way out of the lot. Once I realized this, I looked for a place to turn around but didn't find one. I did find a sign for the 134 freeway, and thought "Okay, I'll just take that. I know how to get home from the 134". Except I never know whether I need to go north or south or east or west, so of course I got on the 134 heading the wrong direction. No problem, I'll just get off and turn around. But wait! There's a sign for the 5 freeway. I'll just take that and go through downtown. Fine. Except I didn't get over soon enough to make the exit to the 110, so I had to take the 110 going the wrong way. Damn. Oh well, I'll just get off and turn around. Oops, the exit I got off of does not have an entry onto the 110 going the other way. Well, I just drive around here until I see a sign. The freeway is right there! There has to be a way to get on it! After driving around a fairly sketchy area of Glendale for what felt like hours, I finally got back on the 110 going the correct direction. And made it home without another glitch. Sheesh.

In my defense, during all of these driving and turning around and swearing and wishing I knew my south from my north and my right from my left, I was also constantly turning my head to the back seat and making faces and funny noises in an effort to keep Miss Viv awake. If her eyes close for more than 60 seconds at a time before her afternoon nap, then she does not take one. I failed to keep her awake. She did not nap yesterday, aside from her snooze in the car.

So, Heidi, I'm sorry! I know you had a somewhat pissy birthday but I'm glad that we could at least be a bright spot in your day. I love you and hope the best for you. Thank you for always being there for me.

Inspired

Gah. Those kids have kept me so busy this week I've barely had a chance to blog. Blogging is a bit habit-forming, for me, and also un-habit-forming, so that if I don't blog for a day or two, then I suddenly I have to search for things to blog about and before you know it, it's been a week and I've barely said anything.

This morning I finally have a few minutes to myself and so I decided to get down to business. Except all the posts I have brewing about in my brain just don't feel like working their way down to my fingers on the keyboard. Instead I start reading other people. And find this.

Heather, as you may remember, was my college roommate. We are very good "in real life" friends, although we live 3000 miles apart*. However, I had no idea that she struggled so much with her weight. (She always looks fabulous, by the way). Her post is beautifully written and powerful, so here I am, pointing it out to the rest of you.

I'm aware that this is not the same as writing my own post. Though after reading her blog, those unwritten posts of mine do seem closer to the surface.



*Also, I must add here: I am such a telephone moron that we don't talk nearly so much as we should.

Available for immediate shipment*

One petite 15 month old female child. Extremely cuddly, often sweet baby girl with sparkling smile and infectious giggle. Can crawl and cruise at will, and walk assisted. Set includes diapers, wardrobe & carseat.

*Incessant whining not grounds for return. Frequent and prolonged night-wakings may occur. Inability to communicate can cause frustration and lead to louder than average tantrums. Pushing and shouting "MINE!" are favorite pastimes.

Addendum

I was speaking with a friend last night (Hi Susanna!) who reads my blog and she told me that while she wouldn't spend $65 for a pair of shoes for her daughter, she does enjoy buying her things. It makes her really happy, she said, to buy cute clothes for her. She spends all of her money on her daughter, rarely spending a dime on herself.

I started thinking about that--because I definitely don't feel the same way. In general, I hate shopping. Buying clothes for anyone--the kids or me--makes me feel guilty. I don't like spending the kind of money that is generally required when one shops anywhere but the discount stores. It rarely gives me pleasure to buy a cute dress, a fun toy, or a fancy new pair of sneakers. About 4 years ago, I spend $280 on a dress I needed for a wedding. It is a very flattering dress, and well-made, but I have had guilt about that dress for years. Only after wearing it to every single dress up event in the last 4 years have I accepted that it was probably worth the money.

All this stems from my up-bringing, I'm sure. My parents were very big on the "value of a dollar" thing. We knew, from a very young age, what things were expensive and thus out of our reach. We knew that many things we wanted were too expensive for my parents to afford. When my parents were finally able to send us private school, we knew what a stretch this was, and knew to do the best we could, or risk wasting our parents' efforts. Whenever we received a gift, especially if it was expensive, we were well aware of the sacrifice my parents had to make to get it. In a way, we learned that wanting things made our parents suffer. We also learned that money is really important. Or at least, that's how I internalized it.

I don't want my kids to feel guilty if we buy them a computer for Christmas one year. But I do want them to appreciate it, and take care of it, and recognize that it is not just something they get because of who they are. I don't want them to grow up feeling entitled to things. At the same time, I'm not really sure that feeling guilty everytime you buy your son a new shirt is a real healthy way to live.

So that's the balance I'll have to walk with Isaac and Vivian in the years to come. Who knew that so much of parenting would be spent on a teeter-totter?

Wondering

Is there something wrong with me if the thought of spending $65 on a pair of sneakers for my 2 year old son makes me gag?

Today I was browsing the old baby board where I used to spend my time (pre-blogging) and there was a discussion about shoes. A mother was trying to find some Mary Jane type sneakers (I know, Mary Jane sneakers? Weird) for her daughter. Other moms piped in and posted links for her. These shoes were all in the $45 to $70 range. To me, that is at least $20 too much to be spending on shoes for a toddler.

Thing is, these are moms that do not have a ton of extra income. And they seem to be fairly down-to-earth, thoughtful people. So I just wonder--why are they willing to spend that kind of money, when I am not?

Isaac does not own a pair of shoes that were not purchased at Target or Land's End. In fact, all of his clothes are either hand-me-downs from my sister, gifts, or purchased at Target. It would never occur to me to spend more than, say, $20 on a single item of clothing for him, and more often, I spend less than $10. He has one pair of sneakers, one pair of loafers, and two pairs of sandals.

It seems to me that a lot of moms I know are a lot more "concerned" (for lack of a better word) about their kids than I am. And I don't just mean that they spend more money on them--though they do. Kind of like the school thing--I am just not that worried about it, whereas other Moms are truly desperate. I don't care if Isaac and Vivian get dirty. I don't care if another kid knocks them down. I don't care that they get scraped up, or bit by bugs, or get colds from other kids. As long as my husband isn't around, I'm happy to let them play in the playland at McDonald's.

I know this post seems like I'm trolling for compliments. Like, look at me! I'm not materialistic! I don't waste my money on silly things! Honestly, I'm just thinking aloud, and wondering if I need to adjust my parenting "philosophy". I know that I definitely don't focus on my kids the way others do, and usually I'm okay with that. I love my kids--they are everything to me--but in a lot of ways, my parenting style is dictated by what is easiest for me. I put them to bed early because I need a break. I kept Isaac in a crib as long as humanly possibly because I didn't want to deal with him getting up every five seconds. I don't buy them things when we are out shopping because I don't want them to expect it. I put them out in the backyard to play, unsupervised, because I want to blog.

I know that parenting is not easy, and I won't always be able to take the easy, selfish way out. I just wonder if I will be able to do what's difficult, when I need to.

Though I'm still left with this question: if I don't purchase the $65 shoes for my 2 year old, what will happen? And the only answer I can come up with is: nothing.

Quick update

Vivian took her first steps yesterday! Sadly, they were captured by neither camera or video. Even more embarrassing--the person who encouraged her to take these steps? Not me. Not her father, her grandmother, aunt, uncle or relation of any sort. Rather, the groundskeeper, Candido, at the little beach club* that we belong to. Glad someone is taking responsibility for her continued growth and maturity!

Here's a photo taken several minutes after the aforementioned steps. She has--of course--refused to take any more since then.




*I feel compelled** to explain that this is not one of those snotty beach clubs that the rich folk belong to. This beach club only has about 30 members, and is merely a house on the beach, with parking, a kitchen and locker-room. It's awesome, and very inexpensive, but difficult to get into since it's so small. Fortunately, nepotism is big there, and Lance's grandparents were members for years.

** this compulsion to distance myself from rich snotty people is something I should probably talk to a therapist about, especially considering that my parents are pretty well-off, as are Lance's. Not snotty, though, I hope.

Filed under: things not to mention to Social Services

You know how sometimes you go to a blog and read all about how that mother has fed junior peas and butternut squash for lunch, and how she's so happy that she's introduced these kinds of foods into junior's diet at such a young age, because, look! how healthy he is? And then you glance over at the high-chair tray of your own junior and feel just a little smaller about the cut-up hot dog and French fries you've tossed there?

That will not happen here.

My daughter, at 15 months old, is neither walking nor talking. Though she does have about 6 words.

One of them is "Otter Pop".

TRISHA, I LOVE YOU

The lovely and talented Trisha, whom we all know and adore, has created for me a kind of banner. See it? Over there, to the left! Is that not awesome?

And, I'm trying to make it my gravatar*, too.

Yay!



*Don't try and tell me blogging isn't a subculture--we even have our own language.

From our trip to the zoo

DSC01193
Originally uploaded by starheel.

See what fun we had?

More fun

DSC01189
Originally uploaded by starheel.

Observation

A wet one used to wipe chocolate icing from sticky hands looks remarkably like a wipe used to clean shit off a poopy butt.

School

Now that fall is here and all the kids are going back to school, it seems everyone I talk to asks me where I'm going to send Isaac to kindergarten. I'm not sure if it's naivete, or denial, or what, but this is not something I have spent a lot of thought on, or plan to spend thought on anytime soon. I mean, Isaac will not be going to kindergarten for three more years.

However, we live in the Los Angeles Unified School District, which, in case you weren't aware, is one of the "worst" school districts in the nation. I think it's second worst, behind NYC. Or maybe that's 2nd largest. I don't know how they rank schools anyway, and if it's based on some kind of standardized test, then I am not surprised--I would bet that at least half, if not three-quarters, of the student population is Spanish-speaking. I can't imagine those tests come very easy to you if English is not your first language.

Many people we know are struggling to get permits for their kids to go to the Santa Monica schools, which apparently are much better than LAUSD (much wealthier client base). Or they are applying for charter schools or magnet schools, or trying to move to a district with a better elementary school. The elementary school in our neighborhood is "improving", but still scores really low, compared to other elementary schools in LAUSD. They bus kids in from all over LA, since no one in the neighborhood goes there.

We cannot afford to send the kids to private school--nor do I have any desire to do that, even if we did want to shell out $15,000 for kindergarten. We cannot afford to move--two bedroom homes in neighborhoods with better schools are selling for $850,000 to $1,000,000 these days. We have no relatives who live in Santa Monica, nor does Lance work there, so getting a permit is out of the question. That leaves the charter or magnet schools, or our local elementary.

If Isaac went to the local school, we could walk there. And I keep thinking--it's only kindergarten! How can it be that bad? So what if a lot of the kids don't speak English very well.

I can't seem to force myself to see this issue as life-or-death, the way so many others do. I have no fear that Isaac and Vivian will struggle to learn to read or write. I can't imagine they will struggle much in school at all, no matter where they are. And I guess I just don't believe that their lives will suffer if they don't go to a good college.

I went to a public university. Yes, it was difficult to get into, and yes, it has a fairly good reputation, but still, it's a state school. And in many areas of the country, no one sees it as more than that. So I don't necessarily feel that my making good grades in high school to get into that college helped me in any way after school.

I just don't think--unless you are going to go into something highly specialized--where you go to college makes much a difference in your employability. And further, I guess I'm just not that concerned with my kids' employability. I have confidence that they will do fine. I don't care if they are lawyers or doctors, or mail-carriers. Truly.

But even as I type this I know that I am being dense. That in 3 years, I may change my tune entirely and start begging on the corner for tuition money. That when Isaac is cutting class in high school I will be screaming at him, "How do you expect to get into a good college with grades like this?!" That when Vivian tries to go to school in a belly shirt in 5th grade I will lose my mind.

But still, I can't seem to muster the hysteria that other moms in the neighborhood have, and I'm not sure why. Why doesn't it seem as important to me as it does to my parents, my in-laws, even my husband? I don't know. Maybe I have my head in the sand.

Northspring

When I was growing up, my maternal grandparents lived on a farm about 20 miles out of town. Many, many an afternoon was spent there, playing king of the hill in the hay-loft, weeding and seeding and roto-tilling and picking vegetables from the garden, mucking horse stalls, roaming around the 20 some-odd acres, pondering my life. My childhood memories are colored in the landscape of Northspring: the lush green leaves of a Mid-Atlantic summer, complete with buzzing yellow jackets, biting mosquitoes and chirping crickets, the pale grey of winter, long brown branches of maple trees and dull grayish spikes of evergreens, water pails in the barn frozen over.

The farmhouse itself was originally built at the turn of the century, and then added onto in the 20's and 30s by my grandmother's family. She grew up there. When her father died and her mother grew ill, she moved there with my grandfather and their six children, aged 19 to 5. They lived there for over 30 years, finally selling it in the early 90s, in part to finance their move to a retirement community.

My grandmother has never gotten over the loss of that house. I myself mourn for it often--I would love to be able to show my husband the linen closet we used to hide in with the hidden trap door leading to a bedroom. Or the attic where we spent hours scouring through old dresses and top hats, reading letters from a great-great uncle written home from World War 1. I long to prove to him, finally, that a tomato grown in the heat and humidity of the east coast beats a mealy Californian one hands down. I would love to watch my son learn to flip off the diving board, a rite of passage for all of us cousins.

I can only imagine the memories my grandmother had to leave in that house.

---------- ------------- --------------- --------------

It is cold, and there is still an inch or two of snow on the ground from a storm the night before. Although it is only 3:30 in the afternoon, the light is dim. The sky is cloudless, a grayish white film that blends into the snowy hillsides at the horizon. My mother, holding my sister's hand, looks over her shoulder at me.

"Come on, Amy, let's go!" she calls. My grandmother is already down at the pool, lacing up her skates.

I grumble, but trudge along, watching the impressions my shiny red boots make in the snow. All afternoon, there has been talk. My mother and grandmother are going to show my sister how to ice-skate. I am deemed too little for skates, but have decided to come along anyway. I have been told, in no uncertain terms, that if I complain, I will be sent right back to the house.

"Alright, Annie, let's get your skates on!", calls my grandmother. "Won't this be fun?" Ann sits down on the wall and lets my mother lace up one skate while Grandma does the other. I stand nearby, watching.

"Here, sweetie, you can skate, too." says my mom. "Your boots are slippery, almost like skates!" She helps me onto the pool surface. "Just stay right here in the shallow end. I don't know how thick the ice is in the deep end."

I slip around the ice on my boots, but I can't get going very fast. I don't understand why I can't try the skates, too, but resist the urge to ask the question again. Soon my mother, grandmother and sister join me.

My grandmother and mother each hold one of Ann's hands and help her wobble over the ice. "Look!" squeals Grandma. "Isn't this fun?"
"Look at you, Ann!" agrees my mother. "Look, you're skating!"

I turn, slushing away from them.

"Amy! Don't go in the deep end! You've got to stay down here!" my mother hollers.

"Okay, okay." I mutter sullenly, turning around to watch again.

"Can't I please skate?" I ask. But no one hears me. They are concentrating on Ann, helping her up when she stumbles, encouraging her and laughing with her when she slips.

I turn around again, and make for the deep end, waiting for the scolding from my mother. I'm bored now, and I don't care if I get sent back to the house.

The deep end is slicker than the shallow end was, and I can slip around easier on my boots. The ice is darker, almost black in spots, but I also notice that there are cracks. The cracks make pretty designs in the ice, and I follow the lines with my boots, turning in crazy directions. I try to twirl in a circle, throwing my hands out to my sides, but my boots catch on the ice. Maybe if I get a running start.

Then I am in the water. I am holding onto the edge of the ice with my mittened hands. My boots are heavy, dragging me down, but my head is above water, and I can see the other women in my family at the shallow end of the pool. Their backs are to me; they didn't hear me fall.

I hesitate at first--if I call for help, then they will know I disobeyed. I went to the deep end despite orders to the contrary, and I will be punished for sure.

But it is cold in the water, and it is hard for me to hold onto the ice. My legs, in their snowpants, are heavy.

"Mom?" I call out, not much louder than a whisper. Suddenly there is a very loud CRACK!, and the ice shifts.

"Help!"I yell, startled, and scared.

"Amy!! Oh my god!"

My mother is running, slipping, skating across the ice to me, but my grandmother stops her in her tracks: "Randy, no! The ice can't hold both of you! You've got to go from the side!"

She stops, wobbling on her skates, but her eyes have locked with mine. The panic in her eyes scares me.

"Mom?" I start crying. "I'm sorry".

"Sweetie, no. Hold on. Just HOLD ON. I'm coming to get you."

----------- ------------------ ------------------ ---------

The rest is a blur. I know my mother, in attempting to reach me, fell in the water herself. I know that somehow my grandmother got me out, but could not lift my mother from the water. I remember very clearly the image of my father and grandfather running down the hill to the pool to help. I imagine my father lifted my mother to safety.

This is one of many memories of my childhood at Northspring. I am not sure why the one I chose to share happens to be scary, when so many other memories are only wonderful. Perhaps because the emotions were so strong that it sticks out for me.

In any event, September 11th is my grandmother's birthday. A day that brings a lot of sadness and retrospection for most Americans, especially this year, especially when it seems we have learned nothing in the last 4 years. I prefer, for now, to think about Northspring, and picking blueberries from the bushes (not groundcover, like they grow in more northern climates) underneath the protective netting.

Happy Birthday, Grandma.

Some comic relief

Borowitz Report


Thanks for the link, Rachel!

I am water-logged.

I need a break from the Katrina coverage, from the horrible stories that keep coming out. I can't keep being angry and weepy and taking my emotions out on my husband and children. No matter how horrific this situation is, my life has not changed. I still have diapers to change, meals to prepare, laundry to do.

I have sent money, I have sent boxes of relief items. If an influx of Katrina victims arrive in L.A., I will do what I can. But for now, I'm done.

I need to concentrate on this for awhile:




















Thanks to YT, for reminding me. (in the comments of my last post, sorry--I can't figure out how to link it)

And also my dear Republican friend, Susanna.

If I ramble, then I am not ranting. Right?

I have nothing to report, since I can't stop ranting and raving and sputtering in the face of all this incompetence and suffering.

There's this: http://www.sltrib.com/utah/ci_3004197 via Phantom

And this:
Barbara Bush said: "Almost everyone I've talked to says we're going to move to Houston."
Then she added: "What I am hearing which is sort of scary is they all want to stay in Texas. Everyone is so overwhelmed by the hospitality.
"And so many of the people in the arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway, so this--this (she chuckles slightly) is working very well for them." via Suburban Bliss

And who can forget this: http://media.putfile.com/OlbermannSwings via I can't remember who.

Or this: http://www.whitehouse.gov/news/releases/2005/09/20050902-2.html via everyone.

Not too mention, apparently some cartoon is making the rounds which shows Sean Penn in a boat trying to help, and makes fun of his clothes or claims he doesn't know what he's doing. (I didn't see it) Because, hey! People are dying! But isn't it fun to sit here at our computers and make fun of people who are trying to help? Via Heidi

There are people in my life--people who are near and dear to me--who refuse to see this debacle as that. Who still insist we could never have foreseen this. Who defend the federal (lack of) response by blaming the state and local governments. Who claim the reason it took so long was that the snipers impeded our progress. Who are outraged not at the suffering, but at the fact that people looted. Who believe that--despite the dead and dying people in New Orleans--we should not move the National Guard in, because that would leave us vulnerable in other areas to a "potential terrorist attack".

I love these people. And I knew, before this disaster, that our political views differed. Generally speaking, politics are not a large part of my life. It is easy for me to see that different people will think differently. We just don't discuss things like abortion rights, gay marriage, border patrols.

But now, now I am at a loss. I can't stand to hear their ridiculous defenses one more time. I can't stop ranting at them, stop my fury.

I am not an extremist. When Clinton was caught "not having sex" with Monica Lewinsky, I was pissed. Not because I cared that much about his sex life. But because he was the leader of our county, and he did something really icky. Totally disrespected his wife and Monica, and insulted the American people by lying. Made the whole party look bad, made it easy for the religious right to get all high and mighty. Many of my friends--loyal Democrats--did not take this line. Who cares?, they said. It's not like this has anything to do with his ability to run the country. While I agree with that statement, I find it kind of irrelevant.

Where am I going with this? Oh yeah. Why can't people be honest? If your politician makes a mistake, why can't you call him on it, even if you elected him? Why does admitting that the Bush administration made some horrendous error in judgment here scare you so much? Why is everything so absolute? If you say--yes, this is outrageous. Yes, the federal response was shit-- you can still admire the way Bush handled 9/11. You can still love him for whatever other reasons there were before this (sorry, I just can't think of any). Why can't we all be outraged when our leaders do something outrageous??

If Kerry were in the white house, and somehow this still happened, I would be furious.

Look, I realize that nothing is as simple as it seems. That hindsight is 20/20. That many many people are to blame. But the reaction of our leaders just keeps getting worse and worse, it seems. And call me ridiculously optimistic, but I had more faith in my country than this. I don't believe you when you tell me it is just too hard to get helicopters in there. I don't believe you when you claim a few shooters are enough to stop the entire National Guard. I don't believe you when you say you couldn't have foreseen this.

Also, yes! It is satisfying to point the finger. It does ease my blood pressure just a little bit to say--YOU! YOU ARE THE ONE WHO CAUSED THIS! Yes, I am glad--if I am being honest--that it is Bush, and not Kerry who I get to blame.

But in the end it doesn't even matter. When this many people die, someone should be held accountable, of course. But that is not going to bring anyone back. All those people are still dead. All those survivors still have nothing.

I am sick sick sick. I am completely uninspired by my own mundane life, and even though Phantom is right, I can't think of anything worth writing about. I just sit, and stew. And stew. And delete horrendous emails from my father*. Try to block out enraging conversations with friends. Think about how ridiculously fortunate I am.

What if that happened to us? I asked Lance last night. What if there was a massive earthquake and we lost everything? If LA fell into the ocean, but somehow we survived?

We'd go live with my parents, in their nice house, where they have plenty of room and enough disposable income to easily help us rebuild. Lance works for a global company, who would do its best to find him another position.

Yes, it would be difficult to start over, but it wouldn't be that difficult. We have a safety net, because of who we are. Because we were lucky enough to be born white, and middle class.

FUCK! Why is the spell check on this thing acting so irrationally?

On that note, I end my ramble.

*edited to add: this is not really fair. I have received no horrendous emails from my father. He just told me not to be so quick to point the finger. However, he has not responded at all to the links I send him, and since I know his political bent, I am imagining what his response would be if he did decide to engage in a battle with me. Totally unfair, on my end. Sorry, Dad.

Al Queda: Mission Accomplished

According to the LA Times, FEMA has been under-funded since it was brought under the umbrella of Homeland Security. We have spent those dollars instead to prevent a "terrorist attack". In doing so, we left ourselves vulnerable to another kind of attack--Mother Nature.

So, in fact, the terrorists have done exactly what they set out to do: killed thousands of Americans. Destroyed cities and counties. Brought out the worst in people. Made America look incompetent.

How can I not blame the Bush administration and their focus on terrorism for this?

I can't stop crying.

What the hell is going on? I don't understand why these people are not getting help. And now Congress is trying to push through a 10 billion dollar aid bill--great, but jesus christ! It's been 5 days already! What the hell is taking so long?

I feel so helpless. They need help, and I can do nothing.

Good Boy

I have written here occasionally about what an angelic baby Isaac was. And I have also hinted at how that all changed once he became mobile.

By 6 months old, he was army-crawling all over the place--into the cat-food, the toilet, the CD player, the speaker wire. He walked at 1 year, and was running soon after. By 16 months old he could open doors and get himself outside without my help. He is really curious, I guess, and energetic, and these qualities make it likely that he will "get into" whatever there is to get into, no matter where I hide it. He gets bored easily, so sitting quietly reading books or playing with his toys does not appeal to him. He has seen those toys already! He needs new toys, new experiences. He actually gets bored of the playgrounds we frequent, forcing me to drive around LA, looking for new ones.

I realize this is fairly typical 2-year-old behavior. However, other moms, comparing him to their own, call him "active", or say things like "Wow, he's really into things, isn't he?" My sister claims he is much more energetic than most 2 year olds, and while I don't believe that, I do think that he is on the high end of the spectrum for that age range.

This has made things difficult at times, especially when Vivian was a baby. I absolutely cannot stay at home all morning long with Isaac. He will go clinically insane if we do not get out and do something before lunch. So I would schlepp him and his newborn sister out to various playgrounds, Target, the grocery store--anywhere so that his boredom would not disintegrate into screaming crying fits, writing on the walls with shaving cream, or ripping the wires out of the TV.

As Vivian got older--oh, and I enrolled him in pre-school!--things got better. Vivian does not require nearly the care she did as an infant, and I have learned how to better manage Isaac. Still, it can be exhausting, constantly trying to find things to entertain him. And also, being so vigilant, since he can open most any door, including, but not limited to, the baby gate.

So you've heard me complain here.

Yesterday I took the kids for a walk in the neighborhood in their wagon. Isaac likes to do things "all by myself", which means that he does not sit in the wagon, put rather pulls it and Vivian around himself, with me walking alongside, trying to steer him back to the sidewalk while he says, "No, Mom can you please not pull it? I pulling it!"

We were walking along--this style of walk is very time-consuming, as you might imagine, and it takes almost an hour to get around the block--and we needed to cross the street. "Okay, Isaac, let Mommy pull now, and hold my hand while we cross the street," I said. He relinquished the wagon handle without complaint (this is HUGE, because he absolutely hates to hold my hand, and often will clapse both hands together in front of him in an effort to thwart me), stuffed his little palm in mine, and across we went. "Thank you, Mom", he said, as we neared the other side, "it's my turn now."

And I thought--you know, he really is a good kid. Every child is challenging in his own way, but I feel really lucky that Isaac is not aggressive, or angry, or impossibly shy. Yes, we have our challenging times, but overall he is just a sweet, mild-mannered boy.