I am up at 2:25 am, typing this blog while I listen to the anguished cries of my ten-month-old.
We're sleep-training here at The Chandler Chateau.
For those of you unfamiliar with this harrowing ritual, let me offer the Cliff's Notes: when the exhausted parents of an infant finally decide it is time they got more sleep, or, when the weary breastfeeding mother is convinced her boob is going to fall off from over-use, we enter the world of Dr. Ferber, Sleepyplanet and all related schools of thought: we gently ignore the baby at night. I'm not quite sure there's a gentle way to ignore a baby, but in the sleep-training world that means that when the baby wakes and cries, instead of picking him up, you enter the baby's room once every ten minutes or so to let him know you are still there, you love him, but it's time to go to sleep. You do not touch the baby, but lean in to his room and offer in a gentle tone of voice: "Hi sweetie-pie. It's time to go back to sleep now. I know you can do it. I love you. Night-night." You feel quite silly doing this, but you get used to it, as these books insist this will be the key to your sanity. Then you leave the room quickly, covering your ears as you go, because your child will inevitably let loose with a wail that could wake the dead. You climb wearily into your bed and wait another ten minutes, and repeat. Lean in, gentle tone of voice: "Hi sweetie-pie. It's time to go back to sleep now, or Mama's going to have to take heavy medication. Mama doesn't want to do that, so go to sleep, sweetie. Night-night." Ten minutes, repeat: "Hello, sweetie pie. Mama's ready for a straightjacket, so it's best we get right to sleep! Love you, you little bastard. Night-night." In theory, your baby will eventually get the message that you are indeed right there in the next room, but it's time for him to learn to soothe himself to sleep without the help of you or your weary boob.
Addie was a snap to sleep-train. It took two days tops; in fact, I could swear he saw reason the first time we wandered in there to "gently" tell him he was on his own. I could almost hear him thinking, "Oh, okay. I get it. They want to get some sleep. I guess they deserve that. I guess now's as good a time as any to learn to count sheep." By the end of Night Two, he was down at 8:30 pm and waking at 7:30 am, which he does to this day. Wow, we thought. This Ferber stuff really works.
Judging from the ten-month-old who is still wailing in his room as I type this, I'm now convinced Dr. Ferber is full of crap.
With Tucker, we have attempted to sleep-train him almost every single week since he was seven months old. I suppose "attempting" to sleep-train was our first mistake, as the advocates of this method will insist that "there is no TRY". You have to just DO, and if you falter, you will be back at Square One. This puts an inordinate amount of pressure on the parents. As with all things parental, the first lesson you learn is that the easiest route is almost never the best route. But the easiest route is SO tempting. (Example: Family is shopping at supermarket. Kid wants box of animal crackers. Mom says no. Kid screams at top of lungs. Easy solution: give kid box. Avoid full-blown tantrum. Tough solution: teach kid that throwing fit will not get him what he wants. But as kid is throwing himself on the Barnum's Animal Cracker display and passers-by are staring, the easy solution is right there, hovering like a demon... "It's only one itsy-bitsy little box of cookies...") And so it goes.
We parents spend every day resisting temptation (and also picking our battles and deciding when it's OK to give in). This lesson starts with sleep-training. When the baby cries, you realize that the EASIEST thing to do is just wake up and nurse him. It works like a charm every time, the demon whispers seductively. Baby settles back down, and in twenty minutes you can be back in your cozy bed...
But you cannot succumb, say the books. Succumb, and the baby gets the message that all he has to do is cry- for five minutes, twenty, forty-five- and you'll come get him. The only solution is to NOT pick him up. Be consistent, they tell you. It's the only way. Easy for them to say. They aren't in your house, listening to your child do his best Mercedes McCambridge impersonation down the hall.
While I'm on the subject, I must tell you that in general, I no longer read books when it comes to raising my kids. When I'm truly in a mental pickle about a particular behavior, I might look something up... but most of the time, my instincts usually steer me in the right direction. Moreover, I have found that these books are missing one key element. Sure, they offer tricks, tips and solutions. But they never go that one step further and tell you what to do when the tricks, tips and solutions don't work. And so often, they DO NOT. I remember when Addie was two and flat-out refusing to be put into his car seat. The books offered many sound techniques. "Make it a game! Say, 'Let's see how fast we can put our straps on! Ready, set, GO!'" Cute. Except when I tried this adorable little game with Addie, he looked at me as if I had three heads. In the end, you're still standing out in traffic with a child who is arching his back with the strength of ten men and will not comply. What then? The books don't address that. And ladies and gentlemen, THAT'S the book I want. The one that says, "If the game doesn't work, take your right elbow and gently but firmly push it into your child's abdomen. Press down until child's buttocks touch the chair. Ignore screams of protest. While holding child down with right elbow and forearm, take left hand and quickly shove strap around child's writhing right shoulder, taking care not to dislocate shoulder. Quickly lift right forearm and snap restraints before child has a chance to wrench body up again. Once restraints are securely fastened, calmly tell child that if he ever does that again he will be arrested and sent to jail."
But back to our sleep-deprived household. In our defense, we have had a few natural disasters thwart our efforts. Travel messes it up, and we've done our fair share of that. Illness messes it up, and we're convinced that just when we were on the right path, Tucker decided that the best way to combat Dr. Ferber's evil was to simply come down with swine flu. The boy couldn't have been more right; his scheme worked, and we sat up with him night after night for a solid week. The baby gets used to this star treatment, so that when he's well again and you the parent are walking into walls from lack of sleep, he just can't understand when you change the rules and suddenly won't pick him up every two hours.
May I take this moment to mention that just to make it confusing for parents, there are a host of specialists who will tell you there is nothing worse you can do for your baby's sensitive young brain than sleep-train. They will tell you you are damaging him for life by ignoring his primal needs. They will convince you that you are going against nature, and the results will be potentially devastating. As you listen to the plantive cries of your child in the wee hours of the morning, you will wonder if Charles Manson was sleep-trained. You will be certain the Unabomber plotted his revenge from his crib between ten-minute check-ins.
The advocates for sleep-training tell you the opposite is true, that to allow a baby to wake and feed at night after a certain age is disrupting crucial REM sleep, which is essential to brain growth. Who do you believe? In the end, you gotta go with your gut.
For the Chandlers and many others, ultimately the quest for parental sanity wins. Let it be known that an infant with a sleep-deprived mother is also in danger of being damaged for life. I agree with most experts that a three-month-old is too young to be ignored at night, but more to the point, that choice wouldn't have felt right for me. But my sturdy, pizza-and burger-eating ten-month old? He is fully capable of sleeping through the night, damn it. He just doesn't know it yet. He doesn't trust. I will make him see. I have vays of making him sleep.
Silence through the household. Not a creature is stirring. I have been typing for an hour. He's finally given up. It worked... this time. He may begin to cry again in fifteen minutes, an hour, two. And our mettle will be tested yet again. Every cry is a new test, from now until forever. It would be so easy to just sit in front of my Netflix of 30 Rock Season One, and knock out an episode or two while I nurse him back to sleep...
I better go get some ZZZZZ's while the gettin's good.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Friday, November 13, 2009
Thankful
In honor of Thanksgiving, 26 things I am truly thankful for (one for each day in the month leading up to the best feast of the year!):
1. An almost-five-year-old who sleeps like an angel, and always has.
2. So You Think You Can Dance... especially Mia Michaels' inspired routines.
3. Parmesan cheese.
4. Peet's Coffee, and Peppermint Mocha Coffeemate.
5. My health, and the health of my loved ones.
6. That we bought this house when we did and get to live in this neighborhood, complete with its parades, block parties, and amazing neighbors.
7. My parents, who are there for us- and our kids- in every imaginable way.
8. Target.
9. The Original Pancake House's glorious, melt-in-your-mouth buttermilk pancakes.
10. My ability to overcome the emotional roadblocks and insecurities that might have taken a serious toll on my happiness, had I not tackled them.
11. Aroma Cafe's heart-shaped blueberry scone.
12. That I took a job choreographing for a high school five years ago.
13. That my high school sweetheart introduced me to the Beatles when I was 17, and thus opened up my heart to a world of music.
14. James Taylor.
15. The day I hear the first Christmas song on the radio.
16. Friends who stand up for what is right.
17. People who have forgiven me.
18. One amazing architect, who has given us the house of our dreams... and one miraculous mom, who deserves that amazing architect.
19. My friends... many of whom feel like family.
20. My family... most of whom feel like friends... and how miraculous is that?!
21. A husband who makes my insides go all gooey just by laying a gentle hand on my head.
22. That I listened to a deeper calling within me, and decided to have kids.
23. Addie and Tucker, the lights of my life.
24. A good shower.
25. A great pizza.
26. A fantastic... well, let's just say if I'm lucky it comes right before the shower and the pizza.
And, because with every yin there comes a yang, 26 things I truly dislike:
1. That we still haven't sleep-trained our nine-month old, and I have the bleary eyes to prove it.
2. Tyce Diorio.
3. Fruit Roll-Ups.
4. Gristle.
5. That certain people I know are sick, suffering, or scared.
6. That when somebody says something mean, I think of the perfect comeback... three hours later.
7. People who cut in line, or cut me off; people with entitlement issues in general.
8. People who call me up, and then answer their own call-waiting a minute later.
9. Scientology, and similar cult-ish groups.
10. Fear, worry, and sleepless nights.
11. Katherine Heigl. Come to think of it, Grey's Anatomy. But still, I watch. What is wrong with me?
12. That I will probably never be able to stop picking at my fingers.
13. Being misunderstood, or misrepresented.
14. My own impatience.
15. Clutter.
16. My allergies.
17. Ultra-low-rise jeans. Why do these exist? Nobody looks good in them. If I accidentally grab them to try on, I look like I'm wearing my son's pants.
18. People whose way of connecting to others is by commiserating in negativity and mean-spiritedness.
19. When people don't train their dogs, say pit bulls aren't dangerous, or put the comfort of their animals above that of humans.
20. The existence of evil on earth in any form.
21. Earthquakes.
20. Blind hatred of any kind.
21. People who use weddings, pregnancies, and other joyous family events to make it all about them, what they need, and how they can find ways to be offended or otherwise unhelpful.
22. Undercooked chicken.
23. Halitosis, or other unsavory body smells.
24. The phrases "It's all good", "Everything happens for a reason", and "Whatever".
25. Lack of common sense.
26. People in charge who don't know what they're doing.
1. An almost-five-year-old who sleeps like an angel, and always has.
2. So You Think You Can Dance... especially Mia Michaels' inspired routines.
3. Parmesan cheese.
4. Peet's Coffee, and Peppermint Mocha Coffeemate.
5. My health, and the health of my loved ones.
6. That we bought this house when we did and get to live in this neighborhood, complete with its parades, block parties, and amazing neighbors.
7. My parents, who are there for us- and our kids- in every imaginable way.
8. Target.
9. The Original Pancake House's glorious, melt-in-your-mouth buttermilk pancakes.
10. My ability to overcome the emotional roadblocks and insecurities that might have taken a serious toll on my happiness, had I not tackled them.
11. Aroma Cafe's heart-shaped blueberry scone.
12. That I took a job choreographing for a high school five years ago.
13. That my high school sweetheart introduced me to the Beatles when I was 17, and thus opened up my heart to a world of music.
14. James Taylor.
15. The day I hear the first Christmas song on the radio.
16. Friends who stand up for what is right.
17. People who have forgiven me.
18. One amazing architect, who has given us the house of our dreams... and one miraculous mom, who deserves that amazing architect.
19. My friends... many of whom feel like family.
20. My family... most of whom feel like friends... and how miraculous is that?!
21. A husband who makes my insides go all gooey just by laying a gentle hand on my head.
22. That I listened to a deeper calling within me, and decided to have kids.
23. Addie and Tucker, the lights of my life.
24. A good shower.
25. A great pizza.
26. A fantastic... well, let's just say if I'm lucky it comes right before the shower and the pizza.
And, because with every yin there comes a yang, 26 things I truly dislike:
1. That we still haven't sleep-trained our nine-month old, and I have the bleary eyes to prove it.
2. Tyce Diorio.
3. Fruit Roll-Ups.
4. Gristle.
5. That certain people I know are sick, suffering, or scared.
6. That when somebody says something mean, I think of the perfect comeback... three hours later.
7. People who cut in line, or cut me off; people with entitlement issues in general.
8. People who call me up, and then answer their own call-waiting a minute later.
9. Scientology, and similar cult-ish groups.
10. Fear, worry, and sleepless nights.
11. Katherine Heigl. Come to think of it, Grey's Anatomy. But still, I watch. What is wrong with me?
12. That I will probably never be able to stop picking at my fingers.
13. Being misunderstood, or misrepresented.
14. My own impatience.
15. Clutter.
16. My allergies.
17. Ultra-low-rise jeans. Why do these exist? Nobody looks good in them. If I accidentally grab them to try on, I look like I'm wearing my son's pants.
18. People whose way of connecting to others is by commiserating in negativity and mean-spiritedness.
19. When people don't train their dogs, say pit bulls aren't dangerous, or put the comfort of their animals above that of humans.
20. The existence of evil on earth in any form.
21. Earthquakes.
20. Blind hatred of any kind.
21. People who use weddings, pregnancies, and other joyous family events to make it all about them, what they need, and how they can find ways to be offended or otherwise unhelpful.
22. Undercooked chicken.
23. Halitosis, or other unsavory body smells.
24. The phrases "It's all good", "Everything happens for a reason", and "Whatever".
25. Lack of common sense.
26. People in charge who don't know what they're doing.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
On Being a Parent
It is truly amazing how the world falls away when your kid is sick.
Both our boys just got over the dreaded swine flu. Our family is just emerging from quarantine, and reintegrating into society. It's a good feeling, one that falls in stark contrast to the intense worry that overtook us for two weeks, as we devoted our lives to nursing them both back to health. In one instant- in the time it takes to feel a blazing hot forehead or hear a cough that just doesn't sound right- all social plans, professional concerns and petty worries drop away. Suddenly, all that matters is HOLD KID. KISS KID. GET KID WELL.
A few weeks ago, we met an older couple while we were in San Diego celebrating our eighth wedding anniversary. Our conversation with them took place while standing in line to get on the Amtrak Surfliner and head for home. The man, still handsome, tan and silver-haired, stood chatting with us while his wife stood a few paces away, watching the trains come into the station one-by-one. I held a very twisty eight-month-old in my arms, and the man admired him, asked his age and name. Small talk gave way to medium talk, as we began to discuss what brought us to San Diego.
"We're celebrating our anniversary," Stan explained. "We took a train down here from Los Angeles because our older son is obsessed with them. We thought it would be fun to take the boys down here on the Surfliner, and experiment with public transportation around the city."
"What brings you here?" I asked.
The man said, "Actually, we're visiting our son in Newport Beach."
"How nice. Where do you live?"
"Montana," he answered. "We took the train from Newport to San Diego to have a nice dinner, just the two of us. It's been a tiring trip."
"Lots of activity?"
"No," he said, "We came out here because our son has stage four metastatic melanoma."
My heart dropped. Medium talk was now very large. I didn't know what to say.
"God, I'm so sorry," Stan said.
The man shrugged. "We'll be out here indefinitely. All of this is so sudden. One minute he was fine; the next, he had inoperable cancer. It's wild. The irony is that our son is a triathlete. In the peak of health. He has a great job. He just got a boat. Loves to sail."
His wife wandered over to us from where she was standing.
"Honey, I just told them about Matthew," the man said.
The woman looked in my eyes, and managed a sad smile, a lift of her shoulders, and a nod of acknowledgement. "Your baby is beautiful," she said.
Before I had kids, I had an empathetic heart, to be sure. I felt genuine sadness for stories such as these; I knew the world could be mighty unfair sometimes. I could offer eloquent words of understanding and support. It's hard to explain what is different now, but it is devastatingly so. Since I had children, I am rendered speechless. My heart has transformed.
I sometimes long for the emotional distance I could create in times past. Before Addie and Tucker, I could hear a story like the one this man so candidly shared and not have it penetrate me so deeply and personally. Now? I am this man, sixty-something, frightened, helpless. And he is me, snuggling an infant boy, so much joy and heartbreak ahead. As the man spoke, I saw him looking at Tucker, and I knew he saw his own son as surely as if it was yesterday. I knew the woman watched me hold my baby and could only think of her own. Her now thirty-eight-year-old baby, who is very sick and whose chances of long-term survival are slim. They are still cradling him, still fighting for him, still and forever trying desperately to shield him from pain. Nothing else in this world matters. HOLD KID. KISS KID. GET KID WELL.
For me, this is the most beautiful part of becoming a parent. I feel a profound connection to the human race, to a grand continuum, to my part in a much bigger picture... I feel it in a way I never could have understood before. Nothing I say to these two people will ever convey how I feel towards them in this moment. Our paths will cross ever-so-briefly, and then our train will take us to two different destinations, and two different destinies.
I don't know their names. But I know them. We are parents. We are the same.
Both our boys just got over the dreaded swine flu. Our family is just emerging from quarantine, and reintegrating into society. It's a good feeling, one that falls in stark contrast to the intense worry that overtook us for two weeks, as we devoted our lives to nursing them both back to health. In one instant- in the time it takes to feel a blazing hot forehead or hear a cough that just doesn't sound right- all social plans, professional concerns and petty worries drop away. Suddenly, all that matters is HOLD KID. KISS KID. GET KID WELL.
A few weeks ago, we met an older couple while we were in San Diego celebrating our eighth wedding anniversary. Our conversation with them took place while standing in line to get on the Amtrak Surfliner and head for home. The man, still handsome, tan and silver-haired, stood chatting with us while his wife stood a few paces away, watching the trains come into the station one-by-one. I held a very twisty eight-month-old in my arms, and the man admired him, asked his age and name. Small talk gave way to medium talk, as we began to discuss what brought us to San Diego.
"We're celebrating our anniversary," Stan explained. "We took a train down here from Los Angeles because our older son is obsessed with them. We thought it would be fun to take the boys down here on the Surfliner, and experiment with public transportation around the city."
"What brings you here?" I asked.
The man said, "Actually, we're visiting our son in Newport Beach."
"How nice. Where do you live?"
"Montana," he answered. "We took the train from Newport to San Diego to have a nice dinner, just the two of us. It's been a tiring trip."
"Lots of activity?"
"No," he said, "We came out here because our son has stage four metastatic melanoma."
My heart dropped. Medium talk was now very large. I didn't know what to say.
"God, I'm so sorry," Stan said.
The man shrugged. "We'll be out here indefinitely. All of this is so sudden. One minute he was fine; the next, he had inoperable cancer. It's wild. The irony is that our son is a triathlete. In the peak of health. He has a great job. He just got a boat. Loves to sail."
His wife wandered over to us from where she was standing.
"Honey, I just told them about Matthew," the man said.
The woman looked in my eyes, and managed a sad smile, a lift of her shoulders, and a nod of acknowledgement. "Your baby is beautiful," she said.
Before I had kids, I had an empathetic heart, to be sure. I felt genuine sadness for stories such as these; I knew the world could be mighty unfair sometimes. I could offer eloquent words of understanding and support. It's hard to explain what is different now, but it is devastatingly so. Since I had children, I am rendered speechless. My heart has transformed.
I sometimes long for the emotional distance I could create in times past. Before Addie and Tucker, I could hear a story like the one this man so candidly shared and not have it penetrate me so deeply and personally. Now? I am this man, sixty-something, frightened, helpless. And he is me, snuggling an infant boy, so much joy and heartbreak ahead. As the man spoke, I saw him looking at Tucker, and I knew he saw his own son as surely as if it was yesterday. I knew the woman watched me hold my baby and could only think of her own. Her now thirty-eight-year-old baby, who is very sick and whose chances of long-term survival are slim. They are still cradling him, still fighting for him, still and forever trying desperately to shield him from pain. Nothing else in this world matters. HOLD KID. KISS KID. GET KID WELL.
For me, this is the most beautiful part of becoming a parent. I feel a profound connection to the human race, to a grand continuum, to my part in a much bigger picture... I feel it in a way I never could have understood before. Nothing I say to these two people will ever convey how I feel towards them in this moment. Our paths will cross ever-so-briefly, and then our train will take us to two different destinations, and two different destinies.
I don't know their names. But I know them. We are parents. We are the same.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Addie Chat
I picked Addie up from school today, and as we were driving he was talking about his current and unrelenting obsession... trains. Entire afternoons can be whiled away drawing his favorite baggage cars or cabooses (cabeese?), daydreaming about model trains, discussing whether the Pennsylvania Railroad is available in O-Gauge or HO-Gauge. He can give dissertations on the difference between diesel and steam engines, and can often be heard humming the refrain of "The Atchison Topeka and the Santa Fe". However, this afternoon our locomotive conversation paused briefly while we both took in a building-size poster of the upcoming Disney animated feature, "A Christmas Carol".
"Do you want to see that movie when it comes out, Addie?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said. "What is it about?"
"Well," I began, "It's about an old miser named Ebenezer Scrooge. He's a very selfish and greedy man, and he hates everything to do with Christmas. In fact, when people come up to him and say, 'Merry Christmas!', he says, 'BAH, HUMBUG.' But then, on Christmas Eve, three ghosts visit him, and they teach him the true meaning of Christmas. By morning, he wakes up feeling grateful to be alive. He shouts, 'Merry Christmas!' to everyone on the street, and he rushes out of his house to give all his employees and family presents and turkeys and jobs and good cheer!
"You know Addie," I continued, "That's a big part of the spirit of Christmas- giving. That's why I really want you to help me pick out gifts for all our family and friends this year, because you'll get so excited about all the great things we're going to make for other people. You know, I actually look forward to giving presents on Christmas more than getting them. Christmas is so much fun because I can't wait to see people open the gifts I've made for them. It makes me happy to see them so happy."
There was a great, long silence in the car. As we sat at the stoplight, I assumed that must have been alot for Addie to take in. Knowing his sensitive, introspective young mind as well as I do, I knew he was contemplating the themes I introduced, perhaps needing clarity about the folly of Mr. Scrooge, or the meaning of BAH HUMBUG. I waited patiently, ready to answer any questions he might have about the ins and outs of gift-giving. Maybe he'd even come up with some gift ideas I hadn't thought of yet, and we could start shopping materials for a homemade ornament collection as soon as we got Halloween under our belts. At long last, I heard his voice.
"Mama?"
"Yes?"
"I want to be SURE Santa knows I want the O-Gauge Surfliner train AND the New Jersey Transit AND the Southern Pacific train. Oh, and the Amfleet. Definitely the Amfleet."
So much for profound parenting.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Fabulous Fall
I must share my elation- it's AUTUMN! Glorious, festive, cozy and luscious autumn! How I adore this time of year; from now until December 25th, I am in bliss.How do we all know for sure when this sumptuous season has begun? Not when the air turns crisp and chilly- though I adore the moment when I can finally haul out my sweaters. Not when the leaves change- though I relish the tall, East-coast-like trees and piles of multi-colored jumping leaves in our little neighborhood. No, the moment that marks the beginning of fall for all mankind is simple: it is when we go shopping and as we walk by that perennial mall staple, Williams Sonoma, we are suddenly, mysteriously drawn into their doors by the seductive aroma of wintery oven smells that make us think we have died and gone to holiday home-baked heaven. They are evil, those Williams Sonoma people. They waft those smells on purpose. And it works. Stan and I wandered in there today, drawn into the vortex like moths to a flame. They bake their pumpkin quick bread, they brew their cider, they make mouths across the nation water. Then, of course, they have the nerve to have run out of samples. But no matter; it is enough just to smell that unmistakable smell of fall and know that the ultimate season has begun!
On October 1st, all bets are off. I know I now have unofficial permission to decorate for Halloween without incurring the wrath of my neighbors, who would probably prefer not to haul out their skeletons and witches until October 15th. But my spirit will not be deterred. I stretch the spider webs across the porch railing, gleefully singing "Monster Mash" as I work. I hang the spider egg sac that Addie and I made two Halloweens ago- a Martha Stewart masterpiece of white stocking stuffed with a styrofoam ball and teeming with tons of mini-black spiders; truly creepy and awe-inspiring. I post my "Low Flying Bats" sign, turn on my Target fake Jack-O-Lantern (the real one won't make his appearance until a few days before All Hallow's Eve), and dig out my Disney's Sounds from the Haunted House CD. Oh, joy. Rapture!
I'm not exactly sure why I'm such a holiday fiend. I always have been. One of the reasons may be that my family did holidays RIGHT. My mom specialized in creating a certain kind of kid magic. I never knew when she'd surprise me with a treasure hunt around town that would end with me discovering a brand new bike or a doll collection I'd been aching for. She'd go to elaborate lengths to make the best adventures happen. Members of our family were also expert storytellers, with potent parables handed down for generations and told with such conviction and detail that you didn't just "believe"... you KNEW. Holidays were the best. The Easter bunny didn't just hide eggs at our house. He also pooped on the hearth. My mom used to wad up little pellets of mud and bunch them near the fireplace for us to find Easter morning- bonafide proof that the bunny had been there (and apparently it was always at our house where his carrots kicked in). Her dedication to the fantastical was the stuff of legend. I'm still not entirely convinced that Santa isn't real. Too many things happened in my childhood to prove otherwise. Reindeer and sleigh tracks were embedded in the snow every Christmas morning. Santa himself ho-ho-ho-ed late one Christmas Eve at my grandparent's home in Eastern Pennsylvania when I was about eight; I heard his boots in the hallway and dove under my covers with my heart pounding, a mix of excitement and fear so heady I can still conjure the feeling today.
I suppose I see Halloween and Thanksgiving as so magical in part because they are the two holidays that lead to Christmas, the Grand Poo-Bah of all holidays. I admit it: I am a bonafide Christmas freak. But aside from my brief Santa rant, I won't wax rhapsodic now; it's too early. I know I have to wait until the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade before I feel I have unofficial permission to start decking my halls.
So for now, I bury myself in the wicked fun of Halloween. Addie and I take evening walks around our neighborhood to see who has added their spooky decorations. I set my TiVo to tape those classic "Roseanne" Halloween episodes; NO other sitcom captured the holiday to such exquisite, twisted perfection, and those episodes never get old. Our annual trip to the pumpkin patch is already on the calendar; it'll be Tucker's inaugural visit. I have already researched new recipes for roasted pumpkin seeds; maybe this year I'll get it right. Last year was an unmitigated disaster. I tried a carmelized seeds recipe, with inedible results. I think I carmelized a little too long. The whole thing ended up in a glop on my cookie sheet, and had the consistency of tree sap. I may be one recipe away from being convinced there isn't a way to make pumpkin seeds taste really good. Passable, maybe. Delicious? Not so far. But I'm not quite ready to give up yet. One more Halloween.
You know, don't you, that I said the same thing last year.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Old Friends
I saw some old friends last night. Friends who knew me when I was a completely different person.
Let me explain.
I was eighteen years old when I signed up for a musical theatre class in the heart of Hollywood. I thought it would be a good place to start making some real professional connections. You see, at eighteen I was, to my mind, on the fast track to Broadway stardom. I had played the lead in every single one of my high school's musicals, and had already dropped out of college to go on my first national tour. The call from Sondheim was imminent; I just needed to meet the right people.
I was in for a rude awakening.
For this particular musical theatre class, a dozen or so students came together once a week to sing a little and cry a lot. As students of the class, it was our job to bring a song we thought was appropriate for us, and perform it in front of our teacher for critique. Easy, right? Not for this crowd. These folks were fugitives from the Island of Misfit Toys, every last one of them. There was the girl who got up to sing for the first time, launched into "How are Things in Glocca Morra", and before she had even come to the word "Morra" she had completely broken down in uncontrollable sobs. Apparently, things in Glocca Morra were not so good. Then there was the buttoned-up businessman who got in touch with his wild side by climbing the rafters and swinging like a monkey while bawling through "The Lusty Month of May".
I remember stifling laughter and glancing around to see if anyone found this behavior as absurd as I did. Nobody was flinching. Was this the Twilight Zone? What was wrong with these people? This was musical theatre, not group therapy. Yet the tears flowed, Saturday after Saturday. The teacher used every song he critiqued as an excuse to dive headfirst into the mental mishigas of each and every one of his performing patients. Hours were spent working through their issues. I knew way too much about the troubled childhood of the woman who sobbed through "It's the Hard Knock Life" or the man working out his Oedipus complex with a ballad version of "If Momma Was Married". I sat dumbfounded. Why couldn't people just sing? Was singing so hard? I held myself at arm's distance from these quacks. My job was to show them all how effortless it was, and then get the hell out of Dodge. I was a star. I was going places. This rather pitiful musical theatre class was just a pitstop for me; a place to show off the talents that would someday fuel discussions at water coolers across the nation.
I wasn't long for this class, and truth be told I still chuckle when I remember the many hours spent in musical therapy with some mighty strange people. But somehow, and entirely without my permission, a few of the characters I met therein became my trusted friends and remain in my life to this day. How they ever suffered me in the beginning I'll never know. Maybe they all saw what must have been completely evident; I was just as much of a mess as they were. I just wore tighter armor.
Last night around my dinner table, there they sat: Clay, soft-spoken and tousle-haired, who back in the days of class didn't ever ask to be noticed. Clay, whose energy was quiet, contemplative... but who had impeccable taste in music and a passion for sharing the greatest melodies and lyrics from the Great American Songbook and beyond. Clay, whose emotions ran deep and tender and pure; he hid them well, but you could see them when he sang. When the best of Sammy Kahn, Jerome Kern or Harold Arlen overtook him, he couldn't help but show you his heart.
And Wendy, fabulously diverse Wendy, who probably shed more tears than anyone in class and opened my eyes to the fact that true beauty comes messy, with frayed edges. Wendy, gorgeous and colorful like a tropical bird with a huge wing expanse. Wendy, who is like Phoebe in "Friends"; no matter what you mention, she has somehow been there, done that. She is to my mind an artist, an athlete, a sommelier, a flight attendant, a zookeeper, and has probably done time in Costa Rica.
Then, there's Jeff. When I first saw him perform I shook my head; what a no-talent. He couldn't sing, couldn't act, had no business being on stage in my estimation. I could NOT have been more wrong, for Jeff soon emerged one of the most wonderful, glorious singers and performers I've ever known. Jeff, so completely and utterly unique, onstage and off. Jeff, who became my pen pal when I moved to New York at age twenty, and wrote me the most engrossing, wry and witty letters you can imagine. These high-calorie, good-to-the-last-drop letters I'd hunger to receive in the mail- oh, remember MAIL? The excitement of a thick envelope in your mailbox and a real, handwritten, juicy letter awaiting you? How I miss the mail!- and I'd write furiously immediately upon receiving his tasty diatribes, trying to rush the turnaround time so I wouldn't have to wait too long for his next installment.
And finally Karen, my soul-sister. Karen, who once fought emotion every time the teacher tried to coax it out of her and how ironic, since she is one of the most openly passionate people I know. Karen, who lives life out loud, seizes and squeezes it for all she's worth. Karen, as hungry for life as I am and always was, devouring moments the same way I do. Karen, who I can tell anything to, who has spent countless hours talking with me, eating with me, laughing and daydreaming with me. Karen, who has yelled and screamed at me and I have screamed at her, and we're still friends and always will be because we've seen the best and the worst of each other and it's okay, and how many people can you say that about in your lifetime?
All of these people were in my home last night, eating food and laughing and talking as if no time at all had gone by since we all sat quivering in that class. But so much has gone by, you see. And oh, the people they have become! Clay, now a counselor who is pouring his quiet devotion onto an accomplished wife and two gorgeous children. Wendy, who soars like an eagle wherever she goes and is never in one place for long, currently drawing larger-than-life cartoon visualizations for corporate meetings so companies can see their goals in technicolor and leave it to Wendy to find the coolest job that ever existed! Jeff, visiting from New York where he has lived for the last fifteen years, working at the same old job and comfortable there- but with more talent, wit and savvy in his pinky finger than any of his fellow employees would ever know. Jeff, making my world a happier place whenever he is in my home. And Karen, woman of a thousand emotions, never taking no for an answer, breezing in with the energy and light of the sun and shining her passion onto anyone within a hundred-foot radius.
And then, there's me.
Who have I become?
Well, a wife and mother, first and foremost- and that's everything. It's what drives me, it's the center of me now. It has become my passion, my art, my soul.
But beyond that? Is there a beyond that? Does there have to be? It's very strange, you see, to have been defined for so long as a performer, and a pretty good one at that. People are drawn to a life in theatre for different reasons; for me, it became evident that I performed in large part to fill a hole that existed deep within me. I needed recognition on a more global level. I needed it to overcome something- what, Lord only knows, and does it really matter? I wanted to avenge the high school classmates who made fun of me, prove something to anyone who ever wronged me, win the love of absent fathers, who knows, who cares. But though I always claimed to have Broadway in my sight, clearly my true passions lay elsewhere. I never really pursued my career, not with any real fervor. I was too busy figuring myself out, learning who I was in relationships and out of them, wanting to connect to family and friends, to understand, to grow and change. I made broad strokes, and big mistakes. I hurt, I suffered, I learned. And as I did, something extraordinary happened: I fell in love with my life. It happened slowly, and not without a substantial measure of pain. But now, I look back on the troubled girl who sat haughtily in that musical theatre class, and for the life of me I don't recognize her.
For the life of me.
The life of me. What is that, from now until forever? Wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, neighbor. Who else am I? Where do I put my skills? When I was young and stupid and thought I had all the answers, nobody could have convinced me my passions would shift. I suddenly no longer fit in that world I inhabited for so long. In some ways, I never did. While most of my Theatrefriends dove headfirst into auditions, headshots, resumes and shoptalk, I paid it all its due lip service but always felt a bit like an imposter. I had plenty of disappointments and some moderate successes. I had a ball, I made money, I made lemonade when I was handed lemons, I was great in some shows, not so great in others. I met my husband and found my future. This is utterly true: without theatre, I would never have this life, this husband, these two children. There is absolutely no regret, there is only gratitude.
Okay, maybe not ONLY gratitude. I'm not Gandhi. Maybe there is a little sadness, because at the same time that I found my life, I have had to completely redefine my artistic identity. I have had epiphanies, and not all of them have been pleasant. I know how much I gave, and yet somehow I just missed. I think many people expected more from me. A part of me feels I disappointed them. I was supposed to do more with this gift. I have squandered it a bit, left it out to dry. I have doubted that it ever was a gift at all, and that is probably the saddest truth of all.
So where do I go from here, professionally speaking? I don't know the answer. In some ways I am clearer-headed than ever before. But the arrogant certainty of youth has its advantages. I never doubted my direction when I was a bull-headed, emotionally stunted young adult. And now? I know my own heart and yet have little clue where to place it beyond the people I so love and cherish.
I know I want to give back, to be of service somehow. That is why I teach, and why choreographing for high schools and working with young adults makes the most immediate sense to me. So, I do that for now. I love that. Wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, neighbor... teacher. The next chapter will reveal itself in time. I hope.
Last night, past and present converged. I have put my arm down; I know now that when I was eighteen, I was just as full of tears as Glocca Morra Girl, and maybe I needed to swing from a rafter or two. I stand humbly in awe of these weird, wonderful people who invaded my life. I try to learn from them. I learn from Clay that being quiet can yield great insight. I learn from Wendy that one person can do a million things, and do them all well. I learn from Jeff that I have a kindred spirit where I once least expected it. I learn from Karen that passion is eternal, and friendship means everything.
I learn that I am unfinished. But I wouldn't trade this lovely, messy, unfinished life for anyone's on Earth.
Let me explain.
I was eighteen years old when I signed up for a musical theatre class in the heart of Hollywood. I thought it would be a good place to start making some real professional connections. You see, at eighteen I was, to my mind, on the fast track to Broadway stardom. I had played the lead in every single one of my high school's musicals, and had already dropped out of college to go on my first national tour. The call from Sondheim was imminent; I just needed to meet the right people.
I was in for a rude awakening.
For this particular musical theatre class, a dozen or so students came together once a week to sing a little and cry a lot. As students of the class, it was our job to bring a song we thought was appropriate for us, and perform it in front of our teacher for critique. Easy, right? Not for this crowd. These folks were fugitives from the Island of Misfit Toys, every last one of them. There was the girl who got up to sing for the first time, launched into "How are Things in Glocca Morra", and before she had even come to the word "Morra" she had completely broken down in uncontrollable sobs. Apparently, things in Glocca Morra were not so good. Then there was the buttoned-up businessman who got in touch with his wild side by climbing the rafters and swinging like a monkey while bawling through "The Lusty Month of May".
I remember stifling laughter and glancing around to see if anyone found this behavior as absurd as I did. Nobody was flinching. Was this the Twilight Zone? What was wrong with these people? This was musical theatre, not group therapy. Yet the tears flowed, Saturday after Saturday. The teacher used every song he critiqued as an excuse to dive headfirst into the mental mishigas of each and every one of his performing patients. Hours were spent working through their issues. I knew way too much about the troubled childhood of the woman who sobbed through "It's the Hard Knock Life" or the man working out his Oedipus complex with a ballad version of "If Momma Was Married". I sat dumbfounded. Why couldn't people just sing? Was singing so hard? I held myself at arm's distance from these quacks. My job was to show them all how effortless it was, and then get the hell out of Dodge. I was a star. I was going places. This rather pitiful musical theatre class was just a pitstop for me; a place to show off the talents that would someday fuel discussions at water coolers across the nation.
I wasn't long for this class, and truth be told I still chuckle when I remember the many hours spent in musical therapy with some mighty strange people. But somehow, and entirely without my permission, a few of the characters I met therein became my trusted friends and remain in my life to this day. How they ever suffered me in the beginning I'll never know. Maybe they all saw what must have been completely evident; I was just as much of a mess as they were. I just wore tighter armor.
Last night around my dinner table, there they sat: Clay, soft-spoken and tousle-haired, who back in the days of class didn't ever ask to be noticed. Clay, whose energy was quiet, contemplative... but who had impeccable taste in music and a passion for sharing the greatest melodies and lyrics from the Great American Songbook and beyond. Clay, whose emotions ran deep and tender and pure; he hid them well, but you could see them when he sang. When the best of Sammy Kahn, Jerome Kern or Harold Arlen overtook him, he couldn't help but show you his heart.
And Wendy, fabulously diverse Wendy, who probably shed more tears than anyone in class and opened my eyes to the fact that true beauty comes messy, with frayed edges. Wendy, gorgeous and colorful like a tropical bird with a huge wing expanse. Wendy, who is like Phoebe in "Friends"; no matter what you mention, she has somehow been there, done that. She is to my mind an artist, an athlete, a sommelier, a flight attendant, a zookeeper, and has probably done time in Costa Rica.
Then, there's Jeff. When I first saw him perform I shook my head; what a no-talent. He couldn't sing, couldn't act, had no business being on stage in my estimation. I could NOT have been more wrong, for Jeff soon emerged one of the most wonderful, glorious singers and performers I've ever known. Jeff, so completely and utterly unique, onstage and off. Jeff, who became my pen pal when I moved to New York at age twenty, and wrote me the most engrossing, wry and witty letters you can imagine. These high-calorie, good-to-the-last-drop letters I'd hunger to receive in the mail- oh, remember MAIL? The excitement of a thick envelope in your mailbox and a real, handwritten, juicy letter awaiting you? How I miss the mail!- and I'd write furiously immediately upon receiving his tasty diatribes, trying to rush the turnaround time so I wouldn't have to wait too long for his next installment.
And finally Karen, my soul-sister. Karen, who once fought emotion every time the teacher tried to coax it out of her and how ironic, since she is one of the most openly passionate people I know. Karen, who lives life out loud, seizes and squeezes it for all she's worth. Karen, as hungry for life as I am and always was, devouring moments the same way I do. Karen, who I can tell anything to, who has spent countless hours talking with me, eating with me, laughing and daydreaming with me. Karen, who has yelled and screamed at me and I have screamed at her, and we're still friends and always will be because we've seen the best and the worst of each other and it's okay, and how many people can you say that about in your lifetime?
All of these people were in my home last night, eating food and laughing and talking as if no time at all had gone by since we all sat quivering in that class. But so much has gone by, you see. And oh, the people they have become! Clay, now a counselor who is pouring his quiet devotion onto an accomplished wife and two gorgeous children. Wendy, who soars like an eagle wherever she goes and is never in one place for long, currently drawing larger-than-life cartoon visualizations for corporate meetings so companies can see their goals in technicolor and leave it to Wendy to find the coolest job that ever existed! Jeff, visiting from New York where he has lived for the last fifteen years, working at the same old job and comfortable there- but with more talent, wit and savvy in his pinky finger than any of his fellow employees would ever know. Jeff, making my world a happier place whenever he is in my home. And Karen, woman of a thousand emotions, never taking no for an answer, breezing in with the energy and light of the sun and shining her passion onto anyone within a hundred-foot radius.
And then, there's me.
Who have I become?
Well, a wife and mother, first and foremost- and that's everything. It's what drives me, it's the center of me now. It has become my passion, my art, my soul.
But beyond that? Is there a beyond that? Does there have to be? It's very strange, you see, to have been defined for so long as a performer, and a pretty good one at that. People are drawn to a life in theatre for different reasons; for me, it became evident that I performed in large part to fill a hole that existed deep within me. I needed recognition on a more global level. I needed it to overcome something- what, Lord only knows, and does it really matter? I wanted to avenge the high school classmates who made fun of me, prove something to anyone who ever wronged me, win the love of absent fathers, who knows, who cares. But though I always claimed to have Broadway in my sight, clearly my true passions lay elsewhere. I never really pursued my career, not with any real fervor. I was too busy figuring myself out, learning who I was in relationships and out of them, wanting to connect to family and friends, to understand, to grow and change. I made broad strokes, and big mistakes. I hurt, I suffered, I learned. And as I did, something extraordinary happened: I fell in love with my life. It happened slowly, and not without a substantial measure of pain. But now, I look back on the troubled girl who sat haughtily in that musical theatre class, and for the life of me I don't recognize her.
For the life of me.
The life of me. What is that, from now until forever? Wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, neighbor. Who else am I? Where do I put my skills? When I was young and stupid and thought I had all the answers, nobody could have convinced me my passions would shift. I suddenly no longer fit in that world I inhabited for so long. In some ways, I never did. While most of my Theatrefriends dove headfirst into auditions, headshots, resumes and shoptalk, I paid it all its due lip service but always felt a bit like an imposter. I had plenty of disappointments and some moderate successes. I had a ball, I made money, I made lemonade when I was handed lemons, I was great in some shows, not so great in others. I met my husband and found my future. This is utterly true: without theatre, I would never have this life, this husband, these two children. There is absolutely no regret, there is only gratitude.
Okay, maybe not ONLY gratitude. I'm not Gandhi. Maybe there is a little sadness, because at the same time that I found my life, I have had to completely redefine my artistic identity. I have had epiphanies, and not all of them have been pleasant. I know how much I gave, and yet somehow I just missed. I think many people expected more from me. A part of me feels I disappointed them. I was supposed to do more with this gift. I have squandered it a bit, left it out to dry. I have doubted that it ever was a gift at all, and that is probably the saddest truth of all.
So where do I go from here, professionally speaking? I don't know the answer. In some ways I am clearer-headed than ever before. But the arrogant certainty of youth has its advantages. I never doubted my direction when I was a bull-headed, emotionally stunted young adult. And now? I know my own heart and yet have little clue where to place it beyond the people I so love and cherish.
I know I want to give back, to be of service somehow. That is why I teach, and why choreographing for high schools and working with young adults makes the most immediate sense to me. So, I do that for now. I love that. Wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, neighbor... teacher. The next chapter will reveal itself in time. I hope.
Last night, past and present converged. I have put my arm down; I know now that when I was eighteen, I was just as full of tears as Glocca Morra Girl, and maybe I needed to swing from a rafter or two. I stand humbly in awe of these weird, wonderful people who invaded my life. I try to learn from them. I learn from Clay that being quiet can yield great insight. I learn from Wendy that one person can do a million things, and do them all well. I learn from Jeff that I have a kindred spirit where I once least expected it. I learn from Karen that passion is eternal, and friendship means everything.
I learn that I am unfinished. But I wouldn't trade this lovely, messy, unfinished life for anyone's on Earth.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Swim School
This summer, I knew the moment had come: high time to get Addie into a formal swim class. Addie's been cleverly avoiding the art of swimming for years now. He rationalizes that because we no longer have a pool, why is it really necessary? He'll proudly announce how wonderful it is to swim at friends' houses with his beloved floaties, and never have to dry his hair afterwards like other sopping wet children- isn't that a plus? This year I vowed I'd allow him to procrastinate no more; it was time to dive in headfirst, literally. So we signed him up for Ms. B's Swim School. His ten consecutive days of sheer terror would commence Monday afternoon.
I admit I was curious to see how this teacher was going to get Addie's head underwater. I had been trying for two years with absolutely no luck. Perhaps his fear was due to a particularly traumatic pool dunking when he was an infant; the experts say that submerging a baby in water is the most natural thing in the world- all babies lived in water for nine months, after all- they will instantly remember their aquatic environment and know exactly what to do. Not Addie. His humble beginnings completely slipped his mind. His reaction convinced me I must have had a liquid-free womb.
Perhaps his fear came simply from the fact that I avoided pouring water on his head during his baby shampoos, and therefore he never got used to water on his face (Tucker, as you can imagine, gets a full-faced dousing at every bath. I've learned my lesson). Perhaps it's just Addie's cautious, over-analytical personality. But whatever the reason, NOTHING I said or did could convince the boy that going underwater would eventually be fun.
What sent us straight into a formal swim class this year? A grueling incident last week, one I fear I'll never recover from. My friend Nick, who is a swim coach himself, advised that one way to get a child used to water is to play bath games. "Try trickling a little water down his face with a small plastic cup. Tell him to close his eyes if that makes it easier. He'll learn to enjoy the sensation of water on his eyes." Sounds reasonable, right?
"Addie, let's play a little game," I said on this fateful day.
"What game?" He asked nervously. The boy was already onto me.
"You sit there, and I'm going to trickle a little water on your head with this cup."
"No."
"Oh come on, it'll be fun," I lied. "You have to get your face wet when you take swim class. This is a good way to practice how that feels."
I didn't give him much time to argue. I told him to close his eyes, and feel the gentle water trickle like a waterfall.
"Ahhhhhhhh," I sighed serenely as I did it, for added effect.
"AHHHHHHHH!" he screamed. Not so serenely.
"That wasn't so bad, was it?"
Addie sputtered and coughed, glaring at me as if I'd just dragged him headfirst into a tsunami.
"Now, let's try it again," I said calmly, "And this time..."
"NO!" he insisted. "No-no-no!"
Now here is where I win the award for Worst Mother on the Planet. I figure every mother wears this self-appointed crown a couple of times a year, and this month it was my turn. I'd had it with his endless protestations. I lost my temper and threw the little plastic cup into the tub water, then stormed over to get his towel. Addie became instantly intimidated. Which was, after all, my subconscious aim.
"Okay, okay, Mama, I'll do it!"
"No," I said coldly. "You lost your chance."
"Please!" he cried.
I took him out of the tub and dried him off, lecturing all the while. "Do you understand that I am trying to HELP YOU?!" I said, speaking to him as if he were about thirty-eight years old. "You are going to get into a swim class and they are going to MAKE you go underwater, and you won't have had any practice. Do you understand I'm trying to help you to OVERCOME YOUR FEAR?!"
Yeah. I know. I suck.
"Okay Mama, I want to try it again," he muttered meekly. Mission accomplished, I softened and put him back into the water. I scooped up a cup of warm water and ever-so-gently trickled it down his face. He squeezed his eyes shut, held his nose, sputtered, coughed, and moaned like a wounded cow. When at last the water was done trickling, he looked up at me, mustered a forced smile and said through tear-and-water stained eyes, "I LOVED it...!"
I told you, Addie can break your heart. He breaks mine every day.
When I relayed this story to Stan that evening, he held me tightly, reassured me I am actually a Good Mother who simply had a Bad Day, and we resolved together to stay the heck out of his swim journey from this point forward. We'd leave the instruction to the pros. Our job was to simply have fun with Addie when we all went swimming, and stop putting any sort of weight on it.
Thus, we found ourselves at Ms. B's Swim School at 12:30 sharp, Monday afternoon. There are three other students in Addie's time slot: fetching five-year-old Molly (I think Addie has a thing for her), her three-year-old, fearless little sister Georgie, and three-year-old pigtailed Mo, who screamed throughout the entire first class. All four of them were called to the pool and ceremoniously told to sit on the first step, one by one.
Now, no mother reading this will be surprised to learn that Ms. B had Addie dunking his head underwater in about two seconds. I watched her tell each child that their eyes were like windows in the water, and they were all about to get their "windows wet". Before Addie knew what hit him, it was his turn and he was doing it. There was no drama, no protestation, no wailing. It really is true that a parent is often the only person a kid will refuse lessons from.
Now, truth be told, Addie wasn't entirely pleased about this dunking. But he is an excellent student, hell-bent on impressing his teachers, and swim school was no different. If Addie could have philosophized his way out of it, he would have. But he really had no choice in the matter. His windows, wide-open and fearful though they were, had their date with destiny.
Since Day One of Ms. B's, Addie has been submerged into the water more times than he can count (although he has tried). "Mama! I put my head underwater nine times today!" He spends the majority of class talking up a storm, and my heart goes out to him, for I know this is how he deals with his nervousness. I admire his forthrightness, actually; I was the exact opposite as a kid. I never gave myself permission to voice my concerns. I stayed quiet and tried at all times to act as if absolutely nothing phased me, when the truth was I was dying inside most of the time. Nobody would have known.
But Addie, ever the vigilant narrator of his own experience, gives Ms. B the running commentary of his inner monologue:
"Are we going to do exactly the same thing today as we did yesterday? I wasn't scared yesterday when we went around the pool holding onto the sides. THAT was fun. Are we going to dive? I saw the other class you had here earlier and they were diving. Does that mean we're diving too? When I jump in the water are you going to catch me? Can I hold onto you? I'm a little bit worried about this. Am I going underwater this time? I know you told me to keep my eyes open underwater- last time I didn't but this time I did. It sure was blurry- is it blurry to you?"
The other children stare at him like he has lobsters crawling out of his ears. The teacher patiently answers his every inquiry, no doubt suppressing the urge to call him Woody Allen.
Today, at class #3, the kids had to jump to Ms. B from the side of the pool, but this time she didn't take their hands first. She promised to catch them, but when Molly and Georgie went before him, Addie observed that she was allowing them to go completely underwater after the jump, heads submerged for a good five seconds. When it was his turn, he bravely walked over to the edge of the pool. But as he curled his toes over the edge and prepared for his jump, I caught a glimpse of his skinny little legs; they were shaking so violently that I could see his swimsuit shuddering from ten feet away. He was petrified. And still, he mustered all his courage and leapt (well okay, toppled) into the water, allowing her to submerge him too. Five whole seconds. She glided him back to the step... and as he wiped those precious windows of his, he turned around to me, smiled, and gave me a hearty thumbs-up.
Proud just doesn't begin to cover it.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Tucker
Here I sit at 4:35 am, because it's one of those nights (excuse me, mornings) where I cannot get myself back to sleep after nursing. Tucker doesn't have this problem. In fact, Tucker doesn't seem to have much in the way of problems.
Tucker is, simply put, a ray of sunshine. He bathes everyone in it wherever he goes. He is so very JOLLY, with an infectious smile that melts hearts. He opens his mouth in a wide and wonderful grin, and his eyes crinkle into half-suns. I don't quite know what he's so happy about, but would like to think my endless shower of face-kisses have something to do with it. Before he was born, I couldn't imagine loving another child the way I love Addie. But it's true what they say; the heart just grows, and makes more room.
Addie was a happy baby, but his energy was different. I could leave him in his bassinet for an hour, and he'd find something fascinating to contemplate. Knowing Addie now, I will insist that even at six months, he was trying to solve world hunger issues. But Tucker's needs are simpler, and more immediate. He wants to be held. Alot. He doesn't much care for bouncy seats, jumpys, saucers and swings; within five minutes he's making noises to be relieved of them. But hold him in your arms- usually facing out so he can watch the world- and he's content for hours. He'll sit on my lap as I gab with friends, as I eat lunch, as I read a magazine... he'll just wrap his hands around mine and drool contentedly onto my thumb, smiling unabashedly at whoever engages him.
Not that this blissfully happy child doesn't have his occasional glitches.
As a baby, Addie would fall asleep the moment we got into the car, and would say asleep for hours; in fact, driving was one of the most foolproof ways to insure a good, long nap. But with Tucker, we were slightly dismayed to discover that the boy wakes up and cries every time the car stops.
Every single time.
This doesn't bode well for a family who lives in Southern California, home of the dreaded 405 freeway.
We enact scenes from "Speed" every day, frantically trying to keep the wheels turning, desperate to avoid stop signs and traffic jams. There I am, panic-stricken at the wheel, channeling Sandra Bullock: "Oh God oh God oh God, there's a red light in thirty feet, what do I do, what do I do?!" Stan, doing his best Keanu Reeves: "There's a green arrow to the left. Take it, bail out!" "Where?" "Ten feet ahead. It's all we can do. GO GO GO!" "I can't make it, I can't!" "YES YOU CAN, KIRSTEN! YOU CAN DO THIS! TAKE THE LEFT ARROW! LEFT! LEFT!!"
If the worst happens and we do hit an unavoidable red light, it takes about seven seconds before the inconsolable wails begin. The immiment threat of it is as foreboding as any bus bomb, I can assure you.
Another subtle difference between our two boys: Addie never spit up. I mean, never. I, the proud mother, told myself that my breastmilk must be ever-so-pure and wonderful. I was so pompous. Those poor formula-fed babies, vomiting all over their neglectful mothers. We Chandlers were above such nonsense. Stan and I never carried burp cloths; we didn't need them. We were the envy of damp parents everywhere. When earlier this year we unpacked Addie's old baby clothes to put in Tucker's closet, we marveled that all of the outfits were as pristine and unstained as the day they were purchased.
So when Tucker came home and began to nurse, there was not a burp cloth in sight.
Big mistake.
Tucker spits up. Buckets. Everywhere. On me, on strangers, on the couch, on the floor, on the computer keys. He does it happily. He's downright jolly about it, as he is with everything (except red lights). So much for my pure breastmilk theory. Tucker is Mount Vescuvious. Stan and I were in denial about it for a good four months, never remembering to carry a burp cloth anywhere. Every time it happened, it came as a total surprise. "Whoops" was heard from every corner of the house, morning 'til night. Also, "Tucker, dammit..." "Criminy, kid", and the occasional "Jesus, Lord in Heaven." In the beginning, Stan would sometimes glare at me and ask, "WHAT did you EAT?!" He's since learned this does not go over well and results in the cold shoulder treatment, which adds insult to an already very wet shoulder.
It's been suggested to me that I cut out dairy. I have realized I am not that devoted a mother, and that I am okay with this. Give up cheese? A little spit up never hurt anyone. I don't mind doing laundry four times a day, and honestly, the stains come right out.
When I walk in my mother's house, I can sense her mounting tension as I sit innocently on her brand-new sofa to nurse. Before my boob is out, she has nonchalantly tucked four beach towels under my arms and legs.
We're currently considering investing in those plastic ponchos, the ones you can rent at Six Flags Magic Mountain before you ride Roaring Rapids.
Ah, the adventure of a new baby. The discovery that nothing is predictable; that no matter what you think you know, you will be surprised and humbled. And drenched.
I can't imagine a time when my Mr. T wasn't tucked into the crook of my arm. How perfectly he fits there- his creamy, dimpled hands wrapped around my shoulder, so happy just to be along for the ride. There are new rules, new guidelines around every corner, but I love every lesson.
I'm learning that all we really need is each other, a wide open road, and three changes of clothes.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Mom and the Art of Worrying
I never used to understand why my mother worried so much.
Growing up, I was forced to endure countless cautionary tales about the latest danger, disease, disaster. One false move and I was surely toast. To this day, I know that if it is in the news and it is a potential threat, I will get a detailed report about it one way or another. According to my mother, there is E-Coli on my counters, Salmonella in my raw cookie dough, ten choking hazards in my junk drawer, and a pedophile around every corner.
Okay, so I'm exaggerating. A little.
As a teenager, I rolled my eyes about her worries; infallible, impenetrable force field that I believed myself to be. I threw caution to the wind. I snuck out my bedroom window at midnight to meet my high school sweetheart. I broke the speed limit and did so without a seat belt. I smugly licked the bowl of uncooked brownie mix whenever I got the chance.
I grew up... and then, I had kids.
Now, let me be clear: I do not now, nor did I ever, worry the same way my mother worries. Perhaps that is because my mother does the fretting for me for the stuff she considers life-threatening. Bomb scares, toy recalls, pandemics... she's got me covered. I receive her phone calls and emails regarding these daily cautions with an open heart- it's part of how she goes about the business of loving me. I always wear my seat belt, and I try very, very hard not to break the speed limit. I still lick raw brownie mix though. Sorry, Mom. I obviously consider that a good healthy spoonful of it is worth a touch of Salmonella.
I think the world sees me as a pretty relaxed, breezy parent... and in truth, I am. I don't spend my days twitching about much. But when I turn out the light and settle into my pillow at day's end, that is when the demons find me. Sometimes I have to sit up and shake my head vigorously. I'm trying to dislodge the worries before they follow me to sleep.... because if I don't shake them, I will dream them. My worst fears become my most paralyzing nightmares.
My latest: I am at the beach, and have set Tucker in his infant seat among many friendly-looking strangers. (Glaring Parent Mistake #1). I leave him there for just a moment while I wrangle the rest of my family (Glaring Parent Mistake #2). My head is turned for nary ten seconds, but when I turn back, Tucker is gone. At first, there is a slight quickening of my heart as I tell myself it has to be a mistake; I simply forgot where I put him. Then, as I process the fact that he is nowhere to be found, sheer panic stabs my chest as I begin to ask the strangers if they saw anything, if anyone picked him up. Everybody says no, sorry, we didn't see anything... and I think- HOW COULD NOBODY SEE?! I begin to shout his name, then scream it, all the while running aimlessly up and down the beach, knowing he is just a baby and of course cannot respond. I scream at the top of my lungs, "TUCKER!" but there is barely a sound coming out of my throat. Somebody took my baby, somebody has him, he's gone from me forever, and I can't turn back the clock, I can't... all I can do is imagine his bright, wide blue eyes looking up in fear, wondering where I am...
I awaken with a shudder and slowly realize I am in my own cozy bed next to my sleeping husband. My beloved Tucker is in his crib in the very next room; I can hear his snuffly breaths as he shifts in slumber. Relief and sadness envelop me. Relief -because he is here thank GOD, he is safe and warm and barely fifteen feet from me... and sadness- because my dream could happen, has happened, to the best of parents. And there is no escaping the fact that the more you love, the more you stand to lose.
I was so willing to risk life and limb when I was a typical, miserable teenager. The happier I got, the less appealing skydiving became. And when my children came into the picture? Let's just say you'll never again see a bungee cord tied to my ankle.
Yes, I am relaxed and breezy by day, but invariably I will run over the course of events at nightfall and berate myself for being so careless. How could I have left Addie on the porch alone for those two seconds it took to answer the phone? What was I thinking, letting Tucker sleep on his belly during his afternoon nap? Stan is by now weary of the times I come to him after one of my sleepless nights, making him promise he will be the last car to leave the intersection when the light turns green because I just had a nightmare about being broadsided. He'll nod patiently as I ask him once again to please promise never to let Addie cross the street without holding tightly to his hand. MAYBE, if he's good, Addie can cross solo when he's seventeen.
Funny how happiness can make you hold on so tight. My mother has been teased mercilessly for her worrying. She's been berated for it, told to let go a little. But how does one let go just a little? Worrying is my mother's way of holding on to her children, to her husband, to her whole world, to her happiness. I feel her holding onto me every day, whether I talk to her or not. I know she is there, searching ever-vigilantly for the latest crisis she will help me avert, and I thank God that someone is clutching me that hard. How lucky am I, to be held so tight? To be loved that much?
Parents say, "When you have a kid, you'll understand." We kids all rolled our eyes, every single one of us.
I look at my boys now, and I feel sick about the times I drove without a seat belt. I feel sick mostly because if I did it, that means they might very well do it too. There it is; my punishment for having done it in the first place. I put it into the world. I made it real for myself that smart kids can be awfully dumb sometimes. And like my mother before me, I will have no choice but to caution my children about it when they're teenagers, and hope they use their heads. I will have no choice but to sit in my bed waiting to hear the car pull in the driveway, waiting to breathe that sigh of relief knowing they are home safe and I can go to sleep now. And when they come to kiss me goodnight, I will smile and act sleepy and never tell them how I worried.
They'll know soon enough.
Growing up, I was forced to endure countless cautionary tales about the latest danger, disease, disaster. One false move and I was surely toast. To this day, I know that if it is in the news and it is a potential threat, I will get a detailed report about it one way or another. According to my mother, there is E-Coli on my counters, Salmonella in my raw cookie dough, ten choking hazards in my junk drawer, and a pedophile around every corner.
Okay, so I'm exaggerating. A little.
As a teenager, I rolled my eyes about her worries; infallible, impenetrable force field that I believed myself to be. I threw caution to the wind. I snuck out my bedroom window at midnight to meet my high school sweetheart. I broke the speed limit and did so without a seat belt. I smugly licked the bowl of uncooked brownie mix whenever I got the chance.
I grew up... and then, I had kids.
Now, let me be clear: I do not now, nor did I ever, worry the same way my mother worries. Perhaps that is because my mother does the fretting for me for the stuff she considers life-threatening. Bomb scares, toy recalls, pandemics... she's got me covered. I receive her phone calls and emails regarding these daily cautions with an open heart- it's part of how she goes about the business of loving me. I always wear my seat belt, and I try very, very hard not to break the speed limit. I still lick raw brownie mix though. Sorry, Mom. I obviously consider that a good healthy spoonful of it is worth a touch of Salmonella.
I think the world sees me as a pretty relaxed, breezy parent... and in truth, I am. I don't spend my days twitching about much. But when I turn out the light and settle into my pillow at day's end, that is when the demons find me. Sometimes I have to sit up and shake my head vigorously. I'm trying to dislodge the worries before they follow me to sleep.... because if I don't shake them, I will dream them. My worst fears become my most paralyzing nightmares.
My latest: I am at the beach, and have set Tucker in his infant seat among many friendly-looking strangers. (Glaring Parent Mistake #1). I leave him there for just a moment while I wrangle the rest of my family (Glaring Parent Mistake #2). My head is turned for nary ten seconds, but when I turn back, Tucker is gone. At first, there is a slight quickening of my heart as I tell myself it has to be a mistake; I simply forgot where I put him. Then, as I process the fact that he is nowhere to be found, sheer panic stabs my chest as I begin to ask the strangers if they saw anything, if anyone picked him up. Everybody says no, sorry, we didn't see anything... and I think- HOW COULD NOBODY SEE?! I begin to shout his name, then scream it, all the while running aimlessly up and down the beach, knowing he is just a baby and of course cannot respond. I scream at the top of my lungs, "TUCKER!" but there is barely a sound coming out of my throat. Somebody took my baby, somebody has him, he's gone from me forever, and I can't turn back the clock, I can't... all I can do is imagine his bright, wide blue eyes looking up in fear, wondering where I am...
I awaken with a shudder and slowly realize I am in my own cozy bed next to my sleeping husband. My beloved Tucker is in his crib in the very next room; I can hear his snuffly breaths as he shifts in slumber. Relief and sadness envelop me. Relief -because he is here thank GOD, he is safe and warm and barely fifteen feet from me... and sadness- because my dream could happen, has happened, to the best of parents. And there is no escaping the fact that the more you love, the more you stand to lose.
I was so willing to risk life and limb when I was a typical, miserable teenager. The happier I got, the less appealing skydiving became. And when my children came into the picture? Let's just say you'll never again see a bungee cord tied to my ankle.
Yes, I am relaxed and breezy by day, but invariably I will run over the course of events at nightfall and berate myself for being so careless. How could I have left Addie on the porch alone for those two seconds it took to answer the phone? What was I thinking, letting Tucker sleep on his belly during his afternoon nap? Stan is by now weary of the times I come to him after one of my sleepless nights, making him promise he will be the last car to leave the intersection when the light turns green because I just had a nightmare about being broadsided. He'll nod patiently as I ask him once again to please promise never to let Addie cross the street without holding tightly to his hand. MAYBE, if he's good, Addie can cross solo when he's seventeen.
Funny how happiness can make you hold on so tight. My mother has been teased mercilessly for her worrying. She's been berated for it, told to let go a little. But how does one let go just a little? Worrying is my mother's way of holding on to her children, to her husband, to her whole world, to her happiness. I feel her holding onto me every day, whether I talk to her or not. I know she is there, searching ever-vigilantly for the latest crisis she will help me avert, and I thank God that someone is clutching me that hard. How lucky am I, to be held so tight? To be loved that much?
Parents say, "When you have a kid, you'll understand." We kids all rolled our eyes, every single one of us.
I look at my boys now, and I feel sick about the times I drove without a seat belt. I feel sick mostly because if I did it, that means they might very well do it too. There it is; my punishment for having done it in the first place. I put it into the world. I made it real for myself that smart kids can be awfully dumb sometimes. And like my mother before me, I will have no choice but to caution my children about it when they're teenagers, and hope they use their heads. I will have no choice but to sit in my bed waiting to hear the car pull in the driveway, waiting to breathe that sigh of relief knowing they are home safe and I can go to sleep now. And when they come to kiss me goodnight, I will smile and act sleepy and never tell them how I worried.
They'll know soon enough.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Addie
My son Addison can break your heart.
There is something truly magical about him, though I cannot explain exactly what I mean by that. I think you just have to know him. My neighbor Joe recently said, "That kid needs a theme song." If you know Addie, you know what he means. Addie is funny, quirky, and ultra-cool. He is his own man, with his own unique dance through life. I'll watch him as he leads his friends into a world of imagination, boundless in possibility. I wish I'd known someone like him when I was young. We would have been the best of friends.
Addie has always been extremely verbal. When he was not yet two years old, he turned to Stan and said, "Daddy, could you lift me up onto the counter because I want to grab three apples and give them to Mama so she can juggle them."
Addie has always been extremely verbal. When he was not yet two years old, he turned to Stan and said, "Daddy, could you lift me up onto the counter because I want to grab three apples and give them to Mama so she can juggle them."
That ought to give you some idea of what we're dealing with here.
He is dedicated to the pursuit of full disclosure; that is to say, he can explain his every emotion, yours too; he assesses every situation and reports on it throughout the day; he doesn't miss a trick. He has a rare gift for communication. A cupcake isn't just "good", it's "delectable". If he can't be pulled away from an art project, it's because he's "putting the finishing touches on it". And if he's sad and doesn't want to play, he will explain he's "feeling fragile". At a party last month, the neighbor kids were playing too rough in the bounce house. He came to tell me that they were "torturing and torturing" each other, and then announced that he was going to let them know their folly. He marched right over to the bounce house, stuck his head in the net opening, and began to reason with them in a slightly raised voice. None of them heard him of course, but it did not deter his efforts. I was his only listener (devoted mom that I am), and kept looking around to see if anyone else thought this was as precious as I did.
Nope. I guess they were all too busy watching their own little geniuses.
Is it just me, or does every mother do that- look around every five minutes to see if everybody noticed the adorable thing their kid just did? I admit it, I get that dumb look on my face- that idiotic mix of pride and love and disbelief- and glance around after every moment I deem noteworthy, be it miraculous or mundane. It's pathetic. I'll be at the playground watching him climb the jungle gym, and if he so much as utters a slightly precocious phrase, I'll glance proudly and furtively around... "Did you all hear THAT?!" Stan and I have both mastered the art of shameless offspring admiration, so when we're together watching our kids, forget it. It's out of control, because we'll simply glance at EACH OTHER for the appreciation. A fan club of two.
What always cracks me up is listening to Stan brag to the pediatrician. From the time Addie was a baby, Stan's unabashed pride was off the charts.
Two months old:
Doc: "So, is he holding his head up yet?"
Stan: (scoffing) "Is he holding his head up. HA!"
(Doc grabs the tiny fists and lifts. Baby's head lolls back lifelessly.)
Stan: (incredulous) "Well, THAT'S a first! Come ON, Addie..."
One year:
Doc: "Is he talking yet?"
Stan: (scoffing)"Is he TALKING YET."
Doc (to Addie): "How ya doin' there, buddy?"
Addie: (blank silence)
Stan: (incredulous) "Oh come ON, Addie! Doc, ya gotta believe me..."
I still think our pediatrician thinks Stan's a big liar, since it's the only place Addie has decided to clam up. He also still speaks to Addie a bit slowly, like he's Forrest Gump.
Strangely enough, one of my favorite things about Addie is watching him work his way through anger. From the time he was a toddler, he could take that angelic face, lower his chin, and glare up at you from under deeply furrowed brow. You would swear he was wishing you into the cornfield. You would find the sudden urge to mutter, "It's GOOD that you feel that way, Addie. It's REAL good. And tomorrow's gonna be a REAL GOOD DAY."
These days, the only time Addie displays any real moodiness is when he hasn't eaten for a while. Blood sugar plummets, and he becomes a bit unreasonable until we manage to get a little nourishment into his stubborn stomach. Last week the family went to Disneyland, and a swell time was had by all. But all the fun had delayed our midday meal, not to mention you seem to need a Fastpass for the lunch lines at peak hour. So there we were outside Soarin' over California after a long wait for food, trying to get our temporarily crabby Addie to take a bite of his burger so his mood would normalize. He wasn't having it- the burger, or our admonitions to eat it. He began to make quiet, idle threats, which he is an expert at: "I am not going to eat that cheeseburger, now or ever, Mama. I am going to go back to the car and sit there and not ride any more rides with you, Mama. I am going to squirt this ketchup in your eye, Mama." To which I always calmly reply, "No you're not, because you know what will happen if you do."
But this time, instead of mulling this response over and giving up, Addie looked at me, lowered that chin, wished me into the cornfield, and then it happened: his right hand came up into a fist in front of his face. He stared intensely at his own fist, and then I saw him slowly, oh so slowly and with great effort, lift his ring finger up. He stared at the picture he had created, and as he examined it he instantly realized: wrong finger. With equal effort, he put his ring finger back into the fist and then with great concentration began to raise the correct, offensive finger, all the while looking at me with a mixture of anger and sheer dread.
Before you judge the boy (or his parents) too harshly, you must know that the reason he knows this gesture, and its meaning, is because about a year ago he once used that finger to point to something. I told him we should always use our index finger to point, that putting up our middle finger all by itself was not nice. "Why?" he asked. "Because," I explained, "People will think you're telling them to, uh... go jump in a lake."
Which brings us to the burger moment.
Now I know I am supposed to instantly put him in the Designated Disneyland Naughty Chair for attempting to flip his mother the bird, but the look of consternation on his face- mixed with the great effort it took to muster the courage to lift his middle finger out of his tightly clenched fist- well, I burst out laughing. I had to turn my face away, because I didn't want him to see that I found this funny. I took a deep breath and tried to turn back to scold him, but there he was with his middle finger half-up, waiting to see whether he wanted to commit to the full, extended length of finger and perhaps suffer the consequences... and I lost it again. I simply couldn't contain my glee... or my love.
I hereby humbly apologize in advance if someday my boy Addie gives you the finger. You can blame me. Clearly I am a terrible parent and have inadvertently taught my son that this obscene gesture is just about the funniest thing in the world.
Every day, Addie provides me with another story... another moment I'll want to bottle up and preserve forever. Yesterday, he didn't want to go to school and thus was making our exit quite difficult. He ended up losing a star off his achievement chart, and he was heartbroken over this. It's very hard for me to punish him, because he cries just like I do; his lip quivers, he tries to be brave and hold it all in, and thus he can hardly speak through his tears. I put him in the car as he sobbed, telling him maybe he could earn a star back that evening by helping with dinner. These words of encouragement didn't seem to help, so I buckled his car seat and kissed his forehead goodbye. But he wouldn't let me go. He clutched me tightly, pulled me back to his tear-stained face, and sputtered out the words, "Mama... this... is... not... easy."
That's Addie- summing it all up so simply, so profoundly. I held him tight, and said simply, "I know." It sure isn't easy- these lessons learned, this life navigated. My son and I see the world through similar eyes. He feels the joy and the pain as deeply as I do. He reflects back to me the rawest and most wrenching emotions I possess. I'm not sure if I should thank him or punish him for this... but I do know one thing: I am so lucky to know him.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Birthday
In honor of my birthday, 41 Random Things About Me:
1. I love the smell of bus exhaust. Now why did I open with that one?
2. I dislike people with entitlement issues. Especially the ones who don't think they have to stand in line at the yogurt store like everyone else.
3. Speaking of yogurt, I am addicted. My favorite: vanilla and chocolate swirled together with so much graham cracker that the mixture resembles spackle.
4. I used to be a classical pianist, with a penchant for Chopin.
5. I play baseball better than many men do, and definitely do not throw like a girl.
6. I am obsessed with my sons' feet, which is unusual because I grew up not liking feet much at all.
7. Watching my husband swim the butterfly gets me hot.
8. I love the sound of clinking pool balls.
9. I am in search of the perfect slice of pizza, though I admit Casa Bianca comes pretty close.
10. My theatrical resume of shows I've turned down is more impressive than the one of shows I've actually done.
11. Every Christmas, I absolutely must watch every vintage Christmas special ever made. This has become easier and less embarrassing now that I have kids.
12. When I am almost done with a bar of soap, I take the remains and press it into the new bar of soap. This saves lots of money, or so I tell myself.
13. I love theme parks and rollercoasters, writing and receiving long letters in the mail, and getting a really good deep-tissue massage.
14. I was painfully shy in high school.
15. I believed in Santa until I was eleven. I still have a hard time accepting the truth.
16. I wore braces for three years in middle school, including a neck gear at night.
17. I have almost every letter or card ever sent to me pressed into binders in my garage.
18. I used to write long, elaborate fiction stories and read them to my roommate Bonnie when we lived in New York.
19. I hated living in New York.
20. I went through a rebellious period post-high school, wherein I dyed my hair purple, drove without a seat belt, and shoplifted a buttermilk donut.
21. I come from a long line of great debaters, and relish a good debate.
22. I used to pretend to be deaf in malls. I would make my friends sign to me. I also once trick-or-treated while pretending to be blind. I got a lot of candy that year.
23. When I was eight years old, I worshipped Stockard Channing.
24. "Felicity" is my favorite TV series ever.
25. I absolutely love my TiVo, and don't know how I ever lived without it.
26. I don't drink. Never really liked the taste.
27. My favorite subject in school was astronomy.
28. A high school boy once threw a can of baked beans at my head. I used my aforementioned talent for baseball to catch the can with one hand before it hit me. The group of boys he was with all laughed. This became known as "The Baked Bean Incident", and traumatized me for many years.
29. I once got my left middle finger slammed into a locker. It still lists slightly to the left because of this.
30. I have very long curly eyelashes, and thus have never used an eyelash curler.
31. I think they should bottle the smell of snow, and the smell of Pirates of the Caribbean.
32. My grandmother taught me the time step in the kitchen of her home in Conyngham, PA.
33. I love everything morning; the yawning, the smell of coffee, the newspaper, the cereal, eggs, toast, bacon, pancakes, scones or waffles, the snuggling in bed, the coziness.
34. If I am home, I am usually in my pajamas.
35. I have the best mother on this Earth.
36. I have three fathers, and it gets very confusing for people. Father #1: Bio Dad, who despite his best efforts didn't see himself rising to the occasion of parenthood, and split when I was three. Father #2: Dad, who adopted me when I was six, raised me, and helped shape me into the human I am now. Father #3: Jeff, my mom's current husband, who seems he was always in our lives and hearts.
37. I pick at my fingers, and have done so since I was four. Nasty habit, but hey- see #26. At least there's that.
38. My husband and I are both Geminis. He always says, "The four of us are having a swell time." Ain't it the truth.
39. The two most incredible days of my life are the days I gave birth to my two baby boys.
40. If anyone had told me when I was twenty, "In a decade, you will marry that guy you saw in Forever Plaid, then both of you will decide you don't really want to pursue musical theatre anymore, you will live in a beautiful house, have two sons, and never want for anything more than just being together"... I would have thought they were absolutely nuts.
41. I believe you never know what grand adventures await you, and you can never imagine the person you will turn out to be as a result. But if you are lucky, you will thank God for every twist and turn in the road, for it brought you to here. And here is a miracle.
1. I love the smell of bus exhaust. Now why did I open with that one?
2. I dislike people with entitlement issues. Especially the ones who don't think they have to stand in line at the yogurt store like everyone else.
3. Speaking of yogurt, I am addicted. My favorite: vanilla and chocolate swirled together with so much graham cracker that the mixture resembles spackle.
4. I used to be a classical pianist, with a penchant for Chopin.
5. I play baseball better than many men do, and definitely do not throw like a girl.
6. I am obsessed with my sons' feet, which is unusual because I grew up not liking feet much at all.
7. Watching my husband swim the butterfly gets me hot.
8. I love the sound of clinking pool balls.
9. I am in search of the perfect slice of pizza, though I admit Casa Bianca comes pretty close.
10. My theatrical resume of shows I've turned down is more impressive than the one of shows I've actually done.
11. Every Christmas, I absolutely must watch every vintage Christmas special ever made. This has become easier and less embarrassing now that I have kids.
12. When I am almost done with a bar of soap, I take the remains and press it into the new bar of soap. This saves lots of money, or so I tell myself.
13. I love theme parks and rollercoasters, writing and receiving long letters in the mail, and getting a really good deep-tissue massage.
14. I was painfully shy in high school.
15. I believed in Santa until I was eleven. I still have a hard time accepting the truth.
16. I wore braces for three years in middle school, including a neck gear at night.
17. I have almost every letter or card ever sent to me pressed into binders in my garage.
18. I used to write long, elaborate fiction stories and read them to my roommate Bonnie when we lived in New York.
19. I hated living in New York.
20. I went through a rebellious period post-high school, wherein I dyed my hair purple, drove without a seat belt, and shoplifted a buttermilk donut.
21. I come from a long line of great debaters, and relish a good debate.
22. I used to pretend to be deaf in malls. I would make my friends sign to me. I also once trick-or-treated while pretending to be blind. I got a lot of candy that year.
23. When I was eight years old, I worshipped Stockard Channing.
24. "Felicity" is my favorite TV series ever.
25. I absolutely love my TiVo, and don't know how I ever lived without it.
26. I don't drink. Never really liked the taste.
27. My favorite subject in school was astronomy.
28. A high school boy once threw a can of baked beans at my head. I used my aforementioned talent for baseball to catch the can with one hand before it hit me. The group of boys he was with all laughed. This became known as "The Baked Bean Incident", and traumatized me for many years.
29. I once got my left middle finger slammed into a locker. It still lists slightly to the left because of this.
30. I have very long curly eyelashes, and thus have never used an eyelash curler.
31. I think they should bottle the smell of snow, and the smell of Pirates of the Caribbean.
32. My grandmother taught me the time step in the kitchen of her home in Conyngham, PA.
33. I love everything morning; the yawning, the smell of coffee, the newspaper, the cereal, eggs, toast, bacon, pancakes, scones or waffles, the snuggling in bed, the coziness.
34. If I am home, I am usually in my pajamas.
35. I have the best mother on this Earth.
36. I have three fathers, and it gets very confusing for people. Father #1: Bio Dad, who despite his best efforts didn't see himself rising to the occasion of parenthood, and split when I was three. Father #2: Dad, who adopted me when I was six, raised me, and helped shape me into the human I am now. Father #3: Jeff, my mom's current husband, who seems he was always in our lives and hearts.
37. I pick at my fingers, and have done so since I was four. Nasty habit, but hey- see #26. At least there's that.
38. My husband and I are both Geminis. He always says, "The four of us are having a swell time." Ain't it the truth.
39. The two most incredible days of my life are the days I gave birth to my two baby boys.
40. If anyone had told me when I was twenty, "In a decade, you will marry that guy you saw in Forever Plaid, then both of you will decide you don't really want to pursue musical theatre anymore, you will live in a beautiful house, have two sons, and never want for anything more than just being together"... I would have thought they were absolutely nuts.
41. I believe you never know what grand adventures await you, and you can never imagine the person you will turn out to be as a result. But if you are lucky, you will thank God for every twist and turn in the road, for it brought you to here. And here is a miracle.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Hubby
By now, almost everyone knows the story: my husband Stan and I met when cast as a married couple in a highly mediocre new musical called "Democracy". Stan came up to me at the first cast meeting, extended his hand, and said, "Hello. I'm Stan Chandler, and I'm going to be your husband." I love that story... not just because it's as hopelessly romantic as I am, but also because our life together seems a gift bestowed from a fateful place. Something handed to me at a time when I could never have visualized my life being so full, so beautiful, so enriched as it is now. When I look around me and see what bounty we've created since that day, it seems only fitting that he would come up to me and make such a prophetic statement.
Stan is my heaven-sent husband. He's the guy you wish for on a star when you're young and you vow you'll never compromise. Yes, I got THAT lucky. I wonder why sometimes, especially when I take stock of all the mistakes I've made and the years I spent being a complete and utter nincompoop. Maybe the heavens rewarded me for actually realizing, and coming to terms with, my nincompoopeosity. Maybe it's just random, dumb luck. All I know is that whatever it is that brought Stan to me, I thank God for it every day.
Exactly ten years before we met, I was living in New York. I had passed Steve McGraw's a thousand times and had seen the marquee for a show called "Forever Plaid", but couldn't be pursuaded to attend. Stan and I probably passed each other on the street countless times, especially since my favorite restaurant was Peretti's on 72nd and Amsterdam. Thank goodness he didn't meet me then, since I ate way too many breadsticks at Peretti's and at the time was quite... round-y.
In 1991, I was dragged to the show at the Canon Theatre in Los Angeles, by a friend who had heard it was "cute". CUTE?! I was bowled over- by the incredible musicianship, the irresistible harmonies, but mostly by the hilariously subtle humor. I adored all of the Plaids, but I admit it was a guy named Stan Chandler who stole my heart. It was the golden hair, the big sad eyes, the angelic tenor. I remember it so clearly- looking in the program to read his bio, remarking that his name was so old-fashioned for someone so young. After I saw the show, I was the one dragging everybody to see it, and each time before Stan's big solo, "Cry", I'd lean over to my companion and say, "Wait until you hear THIS." He never disappointed, not once.
And so, nearly ten years later when he introduced himself, I knew exactly who he was and blushed as he shook my hand. We all took our seats as our first rehearsal commenced, and when I coughed and said, "God, it's dry," before I had even finished my sentence he handed me a fresh bottle of water. (Talk about a sign of my life to come!) I thanked him and silently wondered if he genuinely cared about the state of my throat, or if maybe- just maybe- he thought I was cute.
But as the rehearsal wore on, something tragic began to unfold. I began to get a whiff of a mighty odor... the unmistakable stench of halitosis. I could only assume it was coming from Mr. Chandler- after all, he was the nearest person to me by far. My heart sank. How could someone so impossibly cute smell so bad? How could someone so impossibly cute not get himself to a dentist and do something about it?! What a waste of impossible cuteness! I wasn't paying attention to the rehearsal anymore. I was too busy lamenting this sad state of affairs. What a shame. We could have had something. We could have been something! But halitosis is a deal-breaker for me. I'm big on smells. I once stopped dating a guy because he smelled weird. Not even bad... just weird. That was it. Full-blown halitosis? Fuggetaboudit.
The stage manager called our first break, and I stood up to stretch and to nonchalantly scoot my chair farther away from him. As I did this, another fellow cast member came up to introduce himself to us. "Hi, I'm Richard* (*some names have been changed to protect the halitosis-ridden)," he exhaled, and as a fresh wave of nausea came over me, the glorious truth came clear. Richard had been sitting ten feet behind me, so I hadn't seen him or realized where the smell was coming from. So persistent was Richard's problem that it had the power to travel ten feet and waft over me from behind without losing an ounce of potency. Hats off to you Richard, wherever you are. I am so glad it was you- and not my future husband- who stank. The irony is that my husband is one of the only people in the world whose breath is always pleasant. He actually wakes up with fresh breath. I've often wondered if it's because he eats a full tin of Altoids and a package of Dentyne Ice a day. But in retrospect, let's just say I should have known it could never have been Stan who turned the rehearsal room green that fateful day.
Since we met in 2000, Stan Chandler has gently placed my dreams in the palm of my hand. He's the kind of guy who holds the door open for you, pulls your chair out, delivers a box of tissue before you have barely finished your third sneeze. He scarcely realizes it, but he lives in service to others. If he hears you have a leaky faucet, he'll not only bring you just the tools to fix it, he'll be under your sink mending it himself, even if it takes him hours... and while he's at it, he'll print you up a recent article about the best way to maintain healthy pipes. Sometimes I have to remind him to think of himself, because it is not in his nature to remember. But it's probably the thing I love most about him... and not just because he has gotten me quite used to being treated like a princess.
Stan is introverted, serious, contemplative. You won't know him instantly; it takes a while for him to let you in... but once he does, you will have a space reserved in his heart forever. He devours the newspaper, and a good piece of dark chocolate. He has endless curiosity about all walks of life, and thus can speak intelligently about almost anything. He cares deeply about the state of our world, and the world that will be handed to our children. He is also one of the funniest, goofiest people I've ever known. He makes our four-year-old laugh straight from his gut, and already can illicit a hearty guffaw from our four-month-old. Today as I got in the shower, I heard my three boys in the nursery. Addie was on "Diaper Duty", and the two of them were singing to Tucker and making him laugh. I listened to the sounds coming from that room, the laughs from those three distinct voices. And oh, the love that filled my heart...
It was nine years ago that Stan and I met; nine years ago he shook my hand and said those fateful words to me. "Hello. I'm Stan Chandler, and I'm going to be your husband." Of course he was only referring to the show we were about to do, but I like to think he was somehow channeling a higher truth about our destiny. Here we are, one house and two kids and a bundle of memories later. I can't imagine a time that he wasn't here, right by my side, right in the next room, singing and laughing.
That's the most beautiful thing about my husband. He doesn't realize it, but he took me by the hand and led me to my happiness.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
As I enter the brand-new, wonderful world of online journaling, my greatest challenge seems to be finding the time to write! Tucker is three and a half months old, but he hasn't fully embraced his age yet... at night, he's still waking up every three hours on the clock. I mean, honestly. Does he think he's still a newborn? Clearly, the man is HUNGRY. I understand how he feels... but more on that later. I spend my nights never quite reaching REM, sleepwalking to the nursery every few hours to retrieve him, shuffling out to our cozy new den, wrapping myself in my Boppy, getting Tucker into position, and turning on my latest Netflix for another twenty minutes of entertainment while the baby nurses. When the first light of day streams through the window, I know it's Stan's turn to take over, so I wordlessly hand him the baby, crawl into bed, and if I'm lucky, I get three hours of uninterrupted slumber.
This is where it gets tricky. I can sense it's about 8:30am and I need to get up, feed the baby again and help get Addie off to school. But there's one tiny problem... I can't open my eyes. They are positively glued shut. I try to look at the clock next to the bed but I can't see it because my eyes refuse to open. I think I may be going blind. I throw water on my face, but this does not help my condition. I try to find Stan and bump into a wall. I call his name in desperation, and follow the sound of his voice. He sounds so AWAKE. I tell him I think I may need to go to the hospital, because my eyes no longer work. He calmly tells me to have some coffee. Now, making coffee is difficult when your eyes won't open... but proceed I must, and somehow instinct takes over. Stan is right... I do not need to go to the hospital. A little coffee, and I can see again. Hallelujah. My eyes stay open for most of the day. They will become glued shut again sometime between 5:30 and 8:30am. And so it goes.
My hubby and I start our day dropping Addie off at pre-school, then taking a hike in Runyon Canyon. Or, if I'm feeling particularly wimpy that day (because the coffee didn't work and my eyes are still glued shut), Fryman Canyon. Which is just like Runyon Canyon, without the twenty-minute mountain climb straight uphill.
During my days, I do as much as I possibly can with one hand, since I've got Tucker in the other. I can choreograph, run a rehearsal, load laundry, wash dishes, talk on the phone, operate heavy machinery, bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan... all with one hand. I am especially impressive at the computer. Most of my close friends know I am already the fastest two-finger typer in the West, but now that there's Tucker, I have mastered the art of typing with ONE finger. I've gotten quite good at it, if I do say so myself. Only the shift key poses a bit of a problem; in order to achieve a capital letter or a question mark, I have to twist my upper body into a pretzel and Tucker's left ear will sometimes get squished. He seems to take it in stride.
But my daytime one-fingered typing is mostly devoted to work-related emailing and occasional (OK, not so occasional) visits to Facebook... not journaling. Before we know it, 2:30pm is upon us and it's time to pick Addie up from school. I admit I so look forward to seeing his face light up when I walk into his classroom. He beams, yells "Mama!" and runs into my welcome embrace. I relish his excitement while I have it, because before I know it he will be ten years old and pretending he doesn't know who I am. I either take him home or to his Karate class. His Sensei says has a natural gift for the sport, and I figure all I have to do is buy him a little Banzai tree to trim and some chopsticks for catching flies, and I've got myself the next Karate Kid.
Home we go, to make dinner. Often we find ourselves hosting one of Addie's neighborhood friends, Jack or Samantha. In these parts I'm already famous for my one-handed grilled cheese sandwiches. The kids play outside, we clean up the kitchen, I hand Tucker over to Stan so I can shower. I wash my hair with one hand out of habit. We all get into our pajamas and Addie and I watch The Amazing Race together. I give Tucker his bedtime feeding, lay him down to sleep, help Addie brush his teeth, fill a sippy cup with water for next to his bed. Addie turns saying goodnight into a fifteen-minute dramatic play, but at last he drifts off to sleep and the house is quiet. Stan and I snuggle together to enjoy our nighttime snacks and watch one of our Tivo-ed programs. We are unconscious as the final credits roll.
So I ask you, when can I write? I used to write all the time. I spent most of high school filling journal after journal, pretending I was taking notes in class when really I was busy chronicling my teen angst. I furiously wrote in journals throughout my twenties, working through my relationships with family, friends and [mostly moronic] boyfriends.
Then, something amazing happened. I got happy. I met and married the most amazing man, and then made two precious little humans with his able assistance. I found that I wrote far less once I found happiness. Upset, rage, dis-ease... it drove me to my journal. But joy? No, I'm too busy living it to write about it. Well, I am now determined to reverse that. I want my kids to know how sweet this life is with them and their incredible father. I want to describe all this splendor as vividly as I described how mortified I was to be sixteen. I want to write it all down... to capture it and remember it and bottle it in all its messy, chaotic loveliness.
I just have to find the time.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
