Words to Live By

It's December, and Jack Frosting is nipping at my nose.

Who is Jack Frosting? Oh, come on, you know. He's that guy who makes it cold outside, who puts the winter chill in the air. He's been only slightly re-named by my three-year-old, Tucker.

Now, let me make myself clear: I have never been one of those mothers who talks baby-talk to her kidlets. I never called a bottle a "ba-ba", nor did I ever say "binky", "wee-wee", or even "potty".

But my kids have introduced some tasty words to our vocabulary just the same... words I will probably never say correctly again. These are not words they were unable to articulate. These are words their ears simply heard in a slightly new way. And  may I say, it is my opinion they have improved upon the original.

When I was a kid, my mother made me swear never to correct my younger brother Kendall when he said the word "amblee-ance" instead of "ambulance".  As year by year his mispronunciations corrected themselves, it was the one word that remained, the last holdover from his little-boy-hood. I understood my mom's need to keep that one word sacred and safe; I never corrected him. He said "amblee-ance" until he was about 23, I think.

Addie was extremely verbal at a very young age, and continues to take great pride in expressing himself. When Tucker annoys him, he isn't merely "mad". "Mama," he says, "Tucker is antagonizing me, and it's making me apoplectic." Yep, that's my seven-year-old.

But he also still calls the center of an egg "the olk."

Somehow, he never got the memo that there was a Y in there. And I love it so much that now, I call it an olk too. I also have been to the Natural History "Musa'am", seen "The Umpire Strikes Back", and sometimes a gray day can make me feel "bloomy". These are the only words I have left from the plethora of mispronounced words in my almost-eight-year-old's past. I cling to them. I don't want to let them go. Because you see, the day when he stopped asking for "nuck" and said, "milk", my heart broke a tiny little bit. When we no longer grabbed a cheeseburger at "Old McDonald's", when his special flashlight no longer shone a "laser bean". With every word that corrects itself, a child loosens his grip around his mother's hand. He grows up, and away. Just a tiny little bit, each time. I want to take those words, cradle them in my hand, put them in a bottle, so when I twist it open I can hear the sweet, raspy sound of my sons' perfect little voices just as they are now. In the utterance of those words is a bliss so sweet it aches. And with such profound happiness comes that tightness in my chest, the knowledge that as surely as the sun will rise, I will have to say goodbye to these words, one by one. And someday, goodbye to my boys. And someday... goodbye to every sweet beautiful lovely thing.

I hate goodbyes.

Tucker is nearly four now, also extremely expressive, and thankfully he has added his own flavorful interpretations to the mix. We no longer "cut" anything around here. We "snizz" it. Why? Because Tucker calls those funny cutting contraptions "snizzors", and the first time he asked me to "snizz" something, I almost keeled over with joy. As Christmas approaches, he sings "I'm Mr. Heat Visor!" at the top of his lungs. And as I mentioned, Tucker happily announced on a recent chilly morning that Jack Frosting had come to visit us.

I glanced at Addie, who was clearly poised to correct his brother. "Addie," I whispered. "Don't tell him what it really is, okay?" Addie looked at me, and smiled knowingly. He understands too. He'll be me, someday. Grabbing onto words, silencing older siblings, holding on. Just a little longer.

But I don't mean to be bloomy.

Sandwich Sitch

Things have been mighty busy in this household... not much time to try new restaurants. Our Freedom Fridays have gone on temporary hiatus, while three different musicals swirl in my head and I try to keep them straight. I don't want to end up throwing cheesy 80's choreography into "Little Women", period promenading into "Tommy", or traumatic druggie twitching into "The Wedding Singer". So far, so good.

Stan and I did have the opportunity to try a brand new sandwich place recently, aptly named "Which Wich?" This adorable little factory replaced our local La Salsa, so that was okay. I mean, with Loteria right around the corner, who needs fast-food Mexican? I also happen to be a sandwich devotee, so I'm all for a new sandwich place. I crossed my fingers and hoped Which Wich was going to be not only tasty, but popular... as even good places tend to disappear quickly in Studio City if they don't catch on.

After having one of Which Wich's wiches, I will never go to Subway again.

Not that I ever really went to Subway. I'd say the only time it would happen was when the family found itself in a state of emergency. Kids starving. Blood-sugar levels plummeting. Need food STAT. Subway nearby; only eatery within a three-mile radius. Call it. Going to Subway always felt like a resignation. Am I really going to waste a lunch on this crap? I was always disappointed with it. The meat was rubbery, the mayo tasteless, and I sort of dreaded the whole assembly-line thing, where customers are forced to dictate their sandwich needs to three different sandwich makers as their creation makes its way down the line to the cash register. "White bread. No wait... what's the three-cheese artisan Italian bread? Never mind. Wheat. Yeah, I guess, bell peppers. No, not that many. Um... mustard. Wait. Could you put a little more on there? Not... that much." I swear I saw judgment if I ordered too many onions. And God help me if I had multiple orders.

At Which Wich?, customers grab a long brown paper bag and mark their desires on the outside of it. There are different brown bags for every make of wich. I grabbed the turkey bag, and ordered my wich on toasted white bread with cheddar, lettuce, red onion and mayo. I handed them my bag, paid for it, and then they hooked it up on a sort of factory clothesline and slid it down to the wichmakers. The only criticism I had was the Waiting of the Wich, which takes longer than it probably should... but the Wich Wait was worth it. What emerged from the counter was the melt-in-your-mouthiest concoction I've had in a long time. The key is the bread. Crusty on the outside, chewy on the inside. The turkey is thin-sliced and stuffed heartily, the produce fresh, the cheese melty... heaven.

Stan ordered "The Wicked", which basically means they take everything they have back there and throw it on the bread. A meat-lovers paradise. We went back a week later, and this time I had a breakfast-wich (served all day!)... scrambled eggs, cheddar, bell peppers, onions and bacon on the same toasty bread. Dee-lish.

I anticipate that Which Wich will become a weekly thing for The Chandlers Four. And apparently there is no danger of it closing... at lunchtime, the line is out the door, every day. Whee!

Return of the Hubby!

To commemorate our triumphant return to Freedom Friday, Mr. C and I celebrated with ceremonial trips to Target and Costco. After our shopping revelry, I led Stan off our beaten path to a little hole-in-the-wall deep in North Hollywood, called Brami's Kosher Pizza. I had read about some amazing creation they had there, though I could not remember the name. My confidence was momentarily shaken when we pulled into a dingy little strip mall and I saw cheesy posters in the window of Brami's, advertising "two slices and a drink, $3.99!" It looked like your average generic pizza slice joint, no frills, nothing that promised to be earth-shattering.

Appearances can be deceiving.

We wandered in, throwing caution to the wind (though we didn't throw too much caution; we did, indeed, take all our valuables out of the car). There was no ambience to be found within the confines of Brami's; in fact, this was pretty much a get-down-to-the business-of-eating place. We went to the register and said to the guy, "Okay, we read about you guys in the Times. What should we get?"

He humbly pointed to one of the items, entitled Malawach Pizza, saying, "This is pretty darn good.". It wasn't even prominent on the menu. But it sounded different enough to be promising. So we told him to bring us one of those, and a Greek salad.

Once we had ordered, we noticed the very article I had read from the Times, framed on the wall. Indeed, it was the Malawach pizza they had reviewed, and I was happy I had gotten my facts straight.

We were even more thankful when we got our pizza. WOW. Turns out Malawach is a kind of dough. I can't quite describe it except to say it is melt-in-your-mouth spectactular. Kind of a cross between puff pastry and phillo dough. The bottom gets a little crispier, the top is soft and pillowy, and stuffed in between is an exquisite melted mixture of mozzarella, feta, chopped tomatoes and green olives. Stan and I shamelessly inhaled this pizza in about five minutes, giddily laughing because it was that good. I could have used a little less green olive- I love them, but the tang was a bit overwhelming after two pieces. No matter; I simply peeled back my Malawach, picked a few out, and folded it back. If I ordered it next time (and there will be a next time), I would ask for what the menu says: green onion, not green olive. Big difference. I think the menu must be a misprint, but I'd like to try it! Stan loved the abundance of green olive, so it might have just been my delicate feminine palate.

Let it be said that the salad was also big, beautiful, and quite tasty. Lots of lettuce, feta, red onion, kalamata olives and tomato, with a huge side of ranch dressing. And if you're just not in the mood for kosher pizza or a salad, fear not... they have omelettes too.

Flying Solo on Freedom Friday

How can there be a restaurant called "There's No Place Like Home", and I didn't know about it?!

This week, my husband was rehearsing a show and was unavailable for Freedom Friday. Oh, the horror! But I quickly rallied and recruited aforementioned awesome friend Jimmy to be Stan's Stan(d) In. He lives in Los Feliz, so we chose this place with the name I melt for, right around the corner from him. You can't miss "Home", as a huge red sign hangs over the outdoor patio seating area as you walk in, as if announcing to the neighborhood that you've arrived at the zenith of comfort and coziness. I almost expected Aunt Em to emerge from the kitchen to hand us our menus.

We sat inside on this chilly November day, and were greeted by our waitress, a good old gal who was so friendly and helpful we almost asked her to join us. She explained the highlights of the menu, and was very enthusiastic about her favorite items. She also joined Jimmy in a discussion of the best and worst wheat-free products available at Trader Joe's.

Jimmy got the red velvet pancakes, and I ordered the Eggwich, designed As You Like It. As I Liked It was with eggs scrambled fluffily, as-crisp-as-they-could-get-it turkey bacon, smothered with cheddar cheese, on grilled sourdough. This was one awesome Eggwich, accompanied by home fries- the kind with tiny perfect squares of red and green pepper and onion mixed in. Who invented breakfast? I'd like to kiss him.

Jimmy raved about his red velvet pancakes, but I didn't try a bite only because I am not a huge red velvet girl. It's just chocolate with red food coloring, right? But the red throws me off. I think I prefer taking my chocolate straight. And keeping it out of my pancakes.

Jimmy and I talked about everything under the sun, which always happens when we get together. We're very like-minded and seem to agree on most things of grand importance, from the key to world peace to the best and worst movies (perhaps we only disagree about red velvet). On this particular day, we were lamenting violence in film and TV. We agreed that many psychological dramas and creepy thrillers can be great fun... but both of us have trouble watching scenarios of blatant brutality towards human beings. I know for me, something changed when I had kids (I can hear the collective childless-adult groan now). But it's true; after Addie's birth, I was shocked to find myself walking out of the room early into a renting of "Pan's Labyrinth", because of a particularly brutal scene involving a father and son. This scene would certainly have bothered me before I had kids, but it is unwatchable now. It followed me into my dreams. I will replay the images over and over again. It's not worth the wrenching sadness it causes within me. Lots of people tell me I'd really enjoy "Dexter", but I haven't seen it because I'm afraid I won't sleep.

By contrast, I watched "Paranormal Activity" on Halloween. I was tense the whole time, but it was a fun tense... and I didn't dream about it, or even think about it, again. Supernatural and demonic, I can handle. Throw me an Exorcist or a Rosemary's Baby anytime. I love it. But I will never watch "Saw", any of its countless sequels. What good are these movies in the world? They only serve to give bad people innovative torture ideas. For the rest of the population, they're a way to watch horrific things happen to ordinary people. Who sits in a room and thinks of these things? What a waste of brain cells. I can't think of anyone I'd want to see tortured in this manner. Okay, maybe Katherine Heigl.

Funny that Jimmy and I were sitting in a restaurant called "There's No Place Like Home", talking about violence and death. Maybe we needed to provide a yang to the eatery's yin. Whatever the discussion, I always come away from Jimmy feeling a little closer to The Truth, whatever that is. Pity we can't spend a week at some culinary retreat. We could solve all the world's ills during our meals, and I'd never get fat because Jimmy's a nutritionist.

Next Friday, my hubby will be performing in Palm Springs and I'll be spending Black Friday with my two wonderful boys, eating leftovers and belching a lot. So stay tuned for the following Friday, when Freedom will be restored and Stan and I will be reunited to embark on yet another Los Angeles eating adventure.

Speaking of eating... Happy Turkey Day, everyone.

Double Feature Freedom Friday

Today I shall proudly report on our last two Freedom Fridays, since I neglected to post last Friday. What a week to neglect! We went to what had to be my favorite F.F. place so far: BeaBea's in Burbank. Stan found our destination last week, and he did it unprompted, too! He got inspired, went onto Yelp, and announced where we were going. I was thrilled and delighted! So mid-morning, we took our hungry selves to a strip mall on Pass Avenue. Tucked in the back corner was the little diner with the big menu. BeaBea's tag line is "Breakfast is Everything", and when I saw that on their awning, I already knew I was going to love it.

The joint is obviously a local favorite; it wasn't overly crowded, but we got the immediate sense that they have their "regulars". There's a counter, where customers chatted it up with the wait staff like they were all old buddies. We told our waiter that it was our first time, and he happily regaled us with his personal menu favorites.

It is a restaurant where you definitely need suggestions. The breakfast selection is massive. Under the heading "Pancakes", there are twenty options. Same goes for "French Toast", "Waffles", and "Crepes".

Do you already love this place? I thought so.

Because it was a mere three days before Halloween, I decided on the pumpkin pancakes, our waiter's very first suggestion. Stan, who is usually in a more savory mood, got the Volcano Scramble. A perfect combo, as we always go halfsies. Mind you, it was tough to pass up the specials... there was an apple walnut pancake a la mode, for example. But we went classic, simple, and straightforward for our first BeaBea's bonanza.

Wow.

The pumpkin pancakes were perfection. A light sprinkling of powdered sugar on top. I slathered on the butter because... well, because it's butter... and asked for an extra maple syrup, because I hate to run out. I've been to The Griddle before (where the pancakes are the size of manholes and I'm not complaining), but these pancakes were even better, simply because they weren't so rich that you're done after three bites. These had just the perfect amount of sweetness that kept you coming back for more until the plate was empty. At The Griddle, I felt terribly guilty that when I was full I still had enough on my plate to feed a small third-world country.

Stan's scramble was delicious too... eggs, mozzarella, cheddar, chicken apple sausage, tortilla strips, sour cream and tomatillo sauce, with hash browns on the side (Stan orders his extra crispy and they got it right). We sat, holding hands, filling our bellies and commenting about how much we love our Fridays. This may be the best idea we've ever come up with!

Today, we decided to turn it into Freedom Friend Friday and meet our wonderful amigo Jimmy for breakfast. Originally we had chosen Alcove in Los Feliz, but it's an outdoor cafe... so when the rain resumed mid-morning, we quickly re-routed ourselves to Fred 62. It's a very popular kitschy diner on Vermont. We sat in a cozy booth and basked in the excitement of a rainy-day egg delight. There's nothing like breakfast in the rain! Stan and I were both in a savory mood (Stan was shocked I did not get a pancake/waffle/french toast concoction), and this time we both opted for their breakfast burrito.

Jimmy is eating gluten-free these days, so we almost made him sit at another table. The only reason we allowed him to stay is that he really is having trouble with gluten; he's not just deciding to be a pain in our wheat-eating ass. We appreciate that. But he had to order an egg sandwich without the bread, so there you have it. I'm sure it was tasty, but who cares. Bread is everything.

What's surprising about Fred 62 is that it looks like your average greasy spoon, but what emerges from the kitchen is actually quite artful. Our burritos were beautifully coated with a delicious red sauce and perfectly drizzled with sour cream, then sprinkled with cilantro. Inside was a mesmerizing combo of scrambled eggs, chorizo, jack and cheddar cheese, and green onion.

I can't believe I ate the whoooooole thing.

We haven't really had a "miss" yet on our Freedom Fridays. I like to think it's because the world senses this is a good thing. We are in the Karmic Zone, treating our tastebuds and our marriage to a weekly treat. Even if we run into a meal that stinks, the company will never let us down. Today, we spent an hour with a true friend. We laughed, we commiserated, we shared ideas and stories and insights. Talking to Jimmy is never boring. He's one of those people you just feel lucky to have in your life.

Him, and breakfast. Because you know what BeaBea says.

Son of Freedom Fridays

Last night as I settled into our cozy bed, I must admit I felt giddy anticipation of our imminent Freedom Friday #5. I knew we would be visiting Clementine, a little cafe in Century City that boasts the best scones, muffins, cakes and cookies this side of the Pacific. Those of you who know me know I am a sucker for scones, melt for muffins, and kvell for cakes and cookies. Basically anything bread-related makes my heart beat the faster. So I was all atwitter this morning when we returned from dropping off our boys at their respective schools. We hit the road at 9:15, hit a bit of traffic, but no matter; this was our time. Time spent laughing and holding hands and playing Punch Buggy and acting like we did before our daily dialogue became "Honey, did you pack the diaper bag?"

We didn't have anywhere important to be. We just had each other.

We arrived at Clementine a little after 10, and it's just the cutest little place! It's located on a side street, quaint and romantic, complete with sidewalk tables and a colorful array of customers. We had already agreed we were going to sample multiple things, and we brought our appetites. After asking the guy behind the counter what he'd recommend, we ordered: Stan, a mushroom/basil/three cheese scramble with a side of crisp bacon and a hot buttermilk biscuit. Me, a bacon and leek quiche and a blueberry sour cream coffee cake muffin (their specialty), accompanied by a caramel cappucino.

Heaven.

We lingered over our creations at our adorable wooden table, sharing everything. The best thing on our plates was the quiche, followed closely by the scramble. Both incredibly savory, decadent and dee-lish. Stan's buttermilk biscuit was also awesome, especially smothered with butter and raspberry jam. Truth be told, the least interesting thing we tasted was the muffin. It was mighty good, but apparently the LA Times raved about it, and we thought there were other things behind the counter that looked more my speed. Like the gingerbread cake. Thick and dark and amazing. Shoulda gotten that. Next time.

Bellies full and hearts soaring, we made our way back to the valley and stopped at Target. We went in for two things and came out with twenty... but it was bound to happen; our moods were too jovial (note to self: never shop Target when feeling celebratory). We bought Super Mario pajamas for both kids, a Sonic T-shirt for Addie, and a sweatshirt for Tucker that says "Save Ferris". He'll be clueless, but it'll make me happy. We bought Halloween candy and a spooky brownie kit for the kids. We mused about all the women who wear jeggings five sizes too small and then walk around hiking them up every five seconds.

We had a ball. We entered the elevator with our loot and rode in silence up to the second floor, where our car was. For a moment the elevator was silent, then I looked at Stan, smiled and said, "I love Target." The old woman standing in the elevator with us looked at me rapturously and said, "Isn't it WONDERFUL?!"

Then we went to get our boys. All in all, a perfect day. And a great kick-off to our ten-year wedding anniversary, which happens to be tomorrow.

Life is awfully sweet.

Revenge of Freedom Fridays

Today Stan and I stuck close to home, lunching at Charlie's Pantry in Studio City. It's a kind of mini-Dean and Deluca... small marketplace, coffee, muffins, scones and a lovely sandwich, soup and salad menu. I am a die-hard egg salad fanatic, so I tried theirs, and it was mighty tasty. I usually prefer my egg salad minced, so there aren't any huge chunks of egg white... and though theirs was slightly chunkier than I am used to, the seasonings and celery made it scrumptious. It comes on toasted brioche bread with iceberg lettuce. Stan got the Studio Club with organic chicken breast, and that was very straightforward and quite good too. We'll definitely go back; I'm anxious to try more things on their diverse menu! They serve breakfast all day every day, and since that's my favorite meal, I'll be trying their stuffed french toast. They also have homemade matzo ball soup! All of this is served in a very bright, cheery room with marble tables and ceiling fans. Ahhhhhhh.

So far, the grilled cheese truck wins for Best Freedom Friday Lunch so far! Stay tuned. Next week... Clementine.

Freedom Fridays Part Deux

On this, our second foray into the world of Child-free Culinary Cuisine, Stan and I took the food truck plunge and sought out the famous Grilled Cheese Truck! I have been Twitter-following this elusive truck for many months now, hoping to hear it was in the vicinity; well, the Gods must have been with us, for today- our second official Freedom Friday- they were in Sherman Oaks. We got there right when it opened at noon (which I heartily recommend; a half-hour later, the line was thirty deep!), and since each sandwich is made to order, we cheerfully stood aside to wait for our creations.

They were worth the wait.

Stan got the Bayou Melt: Habanero Jack cheese, chicken Andouille sausage, sauteed onions and peppers on french bread. I went classic, with the Cheesy Mac Melt: sharp cheddar, carmelized onions and macaroni and cheese on french bread. Did I say mac and cheese inside the sandwich? Oh yes, I did. After all, why have plain old grilled cheese when you can have grilled cheese and mac and cheese all in the same bite?

In order to do it up right, we each ordered a "shot" of tomato soup for fifty cents. Once our sandwiches were up, we rounded the corner, where they had a nice little alcove all set up with paper tablecloths and fake autumn leaves sprinkled on each table. We think this might have been set up for the workplace that ordered the truck, but no matter. Nobody was sitting there, so we stretched out and removed our works of art from their aluminum sacks.

First of all, mine came wrong. There is a "fully loaded" version of the Cheesy Mac Melt, which comes with BBQ pulled pork. I am not a pork person, so I would never have chosen it... but they put it on anyway. At first I was disappointed, but then I figured the grilled cheese Gods must have wanted me to experience my first melt exactly as it came, so I took a leap of faith and dug in.

Oh. My. GOD.

The best thing about this sandwich was that all the things they pile in there- and they have many choices and add-ons to choose from- meld to create one delicious, perfect bite. Nothing slides out the side or drops out onto your sack. The onion, cheese, and noodles were so artfully fused, no texture overrode any other. It was, bite after bite, an absolutely perfect grilled cheese sandwich. I experienced the first half with the pork, then pulled some of the pork out of the second half for Stan to enjoy while I tried to experience what I actually ordered. Both ways were scrumptious.

Stan's sandwich was also excellent. An entirely different, equally delicious melt that was extremely spicy, and definitely needed the tomato soup shots we ordered! The shots of soup were piping hot and had just the right amount of kick. The truck always has a daily special (today it was a cumin chicken, gruyere and basil concoction), lots of different taste treats to choose from so you can create your own if you like. We'll definitely be going back for the dessert melts; they have a s'mores sandwich... marshmallow fluff, graham crackers and chocolate melted into sweet brioche bread. Come ON.

I'm liking this Freedom Fridays thing so far. A LOT.

Tricky

I remember, before I was a mom, thinking that I would be awfully good at answering kid questions. After all, besides being pretty smart, I am also a very reasonable person- meaning that I am quite good at using common sense (something I feel our society is sorely lacking these days). I also knew I'd never talk down to my children or cause them to feel they were less than a whole person, even though they may be half my size.

But boy, it's a whole lot trickier than I once thought.

Case in point: Saturday night, a neighborhood baby shower was thrown for one of my dear friends, who happens to live next door. The party was thrown right across the street, and a bunch of us hired two babysitters to watch the gaggle of kids while we celebrated. Addie has always been very dramatic about goodbyes; he makes sure to hug me at least fourteen times, and then there's the kiss-blowing, followed immediately by the "I Love You" sign with his fingers. This ritual, when done exactly to his liking, can take about 15 minutes. Lately, he's been extra-sensitive about my departures, and thus my exit Saturday night was a three-act Shakespeare play. I had to explain to him that the party was strictly for adults, and that all his friends would be playing with him at our house and won't that be much more fun?

Once I was at the party, however, I noticed that many of the neighborhood kids that were supposed to be over at my house with the babysitter were running around enjoying the festivities. Only the babies were left at our house... and Addie. After about an hour, I decided to make his day and go back home, offering to let him come over and visit the party for a few minutes, since the other older kids seemed to have permission. Addie was over the moon.

Unfortunately, I walked him into the party right when all the men had just been handed their celebratory cigars, and had retreated to the backyard to enjoy them. Addie, scampering about the party with the other kids, saw his father smoking a cigar and came to me instantly, tears welled in his eyes, talking a mile a minute. He gets very philosophical when he's falling apart on the inside.

"Mama." (He says this in his best authoritative tone, hands on his hips.) "Daddy is over there SMOKING A CIGAR. He's going to DIE. He's going to get cancer and DIE. Are you going to let this happen? Wow, Mom. Wow."

His lip is trembling. He's very shaken up. And why? Because ever since he was old enough to ask about smoking, I have told him that it's VERY, VERY BAD and CAN KILL YOU.

Oops.

Well no, not oops, right?

I realize I am a rather dorky cigarette-drug-and-alcohol-free anomaly in the world. I never liked the way being under the influence of anything even slightly addictive made me feel, and always felt quite giddy and ready to have fun without the extra help. But I also am fully aware that part (not all) of the reason I always stayed away from the stuff is that my mother SCARED THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF ME. She regaled me with stories of a party she went to, where a high school friend of hers smoked a joint that she didn't know was laced with PCP, fell into a coma and never woke up. That was enough for me. Got it. When I was a teenager, theatre was my high. I didn't need to combine that drug with anything that would put me at risk for indefinite unconsciousness.

When it was clear to my mother that I probably was going to stay away from drugs (sometime in my mid-thirties), she casually informed me that she may have exaggerated the events of the PCP-laced joint. Her friend never slipped into a coma. I think she felt sick and her mom picked her up.

Now, it remains to be seen whether I will fabricate stories of comas with my boys as they get older, but I would be lying if I said it hasn't crossed my mind. I will do anything to keep them safe. And when Addie's questions started about the people he saw smoking cigarettes, I did not waver when I told him cigarettes were BAD BAD BAD for you. They give you LUNG CANCER and lung cancer can KILL YOU. There was no gray area in my admonition. I can't afford gray areas, especially in the formative years.

Which brings us back to the baby shower. I looked down at Addie's stricken face, and started to try to explain.

"Addie, yes. Daddy is smoking a cigar. Tonight is a special occasion, and this is the only time Daddy is doing this."

"But he's inhaling all that smoke!" Addie pleased. "He's filling his lungs with cancer! You can't even breathe over there, the air is so smoky!"

"I know, buddy. But listen to me. Daddy is not going to get cancer if he smokes one cigar."

As I'm speaking, I'm hearing myself and realizing I am hedging... going back on what I said before, if only a little bit. And perhaps I'm sending Addie the wrong message. It's only okay on special occasions? If you do it once it's okay? But I don't want him to do it, not even once. Once leads to twice leads to Addie dressed up in a leather jacket leaning against a motorcycle without a helmet, cigarette dangling from his lips, flask in his free hand, telling his mom to go fuck herself.

AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!

How to explain the subtleties of cigar-smoking to a six-year-old, who isn't going to be able to grasp them? I try again.

"You know what, Addie? You're right. What Daddy is doing is bad for his lungs, and you're right to be concerned. But I want you to trust me when I say that when babies are born, it is a tradition for the dad to pass out cigars and for all his friends to smoke just one. It's like a ritual. And one cigar, in Daddy's WHOLE LIFETIME, is not going to give him cancer. Does that make sense?"

Why oh why did I pull him away from the babysitter?!

Addie would not let it go. I didn't think he would. No amount of convincing would deter him. He kept going to check on Stan, coming back and giving me the minute-by-minute update, hands on hips: "Still smoking. He puts it up to his mouth, like, every FIVE SECONDS."

I suppose I feel slightly more comfortable erring on the side of "Well, Daddy might just get cancer from this" than "Don't sweat it, Addie, it's fine"... but I don't want Addie worrying about his father's lungs either. These are the moments when you realize that there is no perfectly right answer. There is only "doing the best you can". Because some of the neighbors saw Addie's upset, they started offering their comfort... but everything that came out of their mouths was only complicating things. One of Addie's friends said, "Don't worry, Addie. It's only for special occasions. You can smoke once, or even twice, or however many times you have a baby. And it's okay."

Shut up kid.

I approach this dilemma, as I do most parenting snafus, with a sense of humor. But it's hard when you can see your kid in turmoil. He eventually calmed down and enjoyed the present-opening. And I know this too shall pass, like yesterday's cigar through the lungs, with hopefully very little damage.

It's just a reminder to me, to take ultimate care with the things that come out of my mouth. As Stephen Sondheim so beautifully wrote:

Careful the things you say
Children will listen.
Careful the things you do
Children will see... and learn

Children may not obey
But children will listen
Children will look to you
For which way to turn
To learn what to be
Careful before you say, "Listen to me..."
Children will listen...

Freedom Fridays

In honor of the fact that my hubby and I both have Fridays off, and because Tucker has now started pre-school three days a week, both our kids are in school between the hours of 8am and 2:30pm, we have decided to officially instate "Freedom Fridays". Sound the trumpets! What are "Freedom Fridays"? Glad you asked. They are: a weekly grand culinary celebration sans booster seats, one meal per week dedicated to the celebration and enjoyment of kid-free food-fests.

It is doubly-exciting to be embarking on this adventure because these days, almost every single meal we ingest is cooked in our kitchen and eaten at home (or toted to school or work in a lunchbox). As many of you know, I used to be the queen of the restaurant. Not that I frequented anyplace inordinately expensive (Sharky's, Daphne's and Poquito Mas were about my speed), it's just that I considered dining out a treat, something to share with another human and therefore a bit of an event. However, times being what they are, I adjusted my ways. And I was spectacularly pleased to find that I actually started to look forward to our home-cooked meals in as a family. It's really fun to peruse recipes, shop the farmer's market and Trader Joe's for new things to try, plan the weekly menus.

Besides, let's face it: we are also willing to admit that it's easier to eat at home these days, for a variety of reasons. Tucker is not exactly fun to have at restaurants. He's a pretty well-behaved two-year-old, but he's done eating in about thirty seconds and then either he wants to run around, or we have to hand him one of our cellphones to play on so he'll stay put while we all finish eating. I strongly object to this on principle, but all my principles go right out the window when my stomach is growling... and before I know it Tucker's playing Scooter Heroes. Right on cue, Addie, our "old soul" six-year-old (who always sat perfectly still at mealtime when he was two and usually participated in all the adult discussions; in fact, I distinctly remember him weighing in on the whole weapons-of-mass-destruction debate), wants to know why he can't play with a phone too. We say, "Because, Addie, it's rude to sit with people in a restaurant and have your head buried in cellphone games", but our admonition loses its punch when his brother is sitting right next to him toggling away at Bejeweled. Then their food comes, $6.99 for two chicken fingers and fries. Which they each take two bites of and they're done.

We're better off eating (or, in Tucker's case, NOT eating) at home.

But at the end of a long week, Stan and I wholeheartedly feel we've earned one coveted meal cooked by someone other than us. For years I've made lists of places I've read about, reviews in the LA Times or Westways, little out-of-the-way cafes and bakeries, fun new twists on old classics, even gourmet food trucks. But up until now they've all stayed tucked away on a list in my computer, waiting for their moment. Well, ladies and gentlemen, their time has come. Freedom Fridays began in earnest last week, when we chose our first restaurant. The only rule is that we must choose a place we've never been to. Last week began modestly, with a trip up the street to King's Road Cafe. Stan was very pleased with his steak quesadilla... and truth be told, I was also very pleased with his steak quesadilla because my salad was just OK. But we were off and running...

This week, we hopped in the car after dropping off both kids and headed to Eagle Rock to go to Auntie Em's Kitchen. This place really is an odd little hole-in-the-wall if there ever was one. Limited seating, jams, jellies and aprons for sale in their tiny marketplace area, and motorcycle rock playing over the loudspeakers.

But oh, what good food.

We went because we had read that their pancakes were out of this world... but unfortunately, they only serve them on weekends. Now, it seems to me that if your speciality is pancakes and pancakes cost about a penny to make, you should probably serve them all the time... but we didn't argue. We went ahead and ordered their open-faced breakfast sandwiches. Stan got the applewood smoked bacon sandwich and I got the cajun turkey sausage one. His was better. They cook a fluffy mound of scrambled eggs and pile it on top of the bacon, which all goes on top of a gruyere-smothered thick slice of french bread. Yu-um. The cajun sandwich was good too, but the sausage had a thick casing on it that was pretty hard to chew through.

No matter. We feasted to our heart's content, unabashedly people-watching as we noshed. There is an outdoor seating area, and perched at one of the frilly flowered tables was a young guy with a bright red ZZ Top beard that extended to his belly button. I noticed that he ordered the french toast, which almost had been my choice. I decided on the savory sandwich last-minute, and was glad I did because I eyed ZZ's plate, and they make their french toast with the same crusty french bread the sandwich came on, and I'm adamant that french toast should be made with soft challah or thick cut white bread. I returned to my sandwich with renewed vigor.

Our bellies full and happy, we paid the bill, then got a homemade peanut butter cookie on the way out, which was kind of perfect. Big and crispy and crumbly. We are definitely going back for the weekend pancakes, but that won't be on a Freedom Friday, so you might just have to see us in person to hear about them.

What will next week bring? Stay tuned! Long live Freedom Fridays!

Errand Girl

It's been quite a while since my last post! I'm not sure exactly what happened; there was plenty to write about... but not enough time to create grand philosophical essays each time. And let's face it; not everything that happens in my life is essay-worthy. Some events don't even warrant a Facebook status update. But I started this blog to chronicle daily life- the good, the bad, and the ugly. So from now on, I vow to write less, more often. If that makes sense.

Addie started first grade yesterday; Tucker began his pre-school experience at Briarwood a week ago. Yesterday for the very first time, I looked around my house at 10:00 am and realized there was no one in it. I wasn't exactly sure what to do with myself. I took off all my clothes and ran around in a circle a few times. When the excitement of that had subsided, I put my clothes back on and ran some errands.

Sounds less-than-thrilling, but any mom can attest that running errands by yourself can be an uplifting, even slightly orgasmic experience. Oh, the illicit thrill of walking into Target without having to visit the toy aisle for twenty minutes. The elation of spending quality time thumping cantaloupes and not just grabbing the first one that falls off the display in a mad dash for the check-out line before your two-year-old turns into Houdini and twists himself out of the cart seat belt.

Yesterday I began my revelry with a trip to Actor's Equity to get a flu shot. I then drove to the pediatrician to get some medical forms filled out for school, then tooled on over to the thrift store to sell my used clothes. While they looked over my stuff (they almost always pick only one or two things out of twenty, causing me to ponder just how ugly and unstylish my wardrobe must be), I actually got to peruse the racks of second-hand clothes and try a few dresses on, something I haven't done since 2003. I found a cute little sundress and traded it on the spot. I ended my ecstacy with jaunts to the bank, dry cleaner and grocery store. All the while, I blasted my favorite music in the car, and never once did I hear a request from the backseat for "Kung Fu Fighting".

I haven't had such a beautiful day in ages.

The irony is that the entire time I drove around, I was thinking of my boys. Addie, so confident on his first day. He wore the most handsome blue shirt, and looked so grown up. Even though he has a few good friends in his new class, he entered his new classroom in Serious Mode, and sat by himself on the carpet, away from his friends. I think he was intent on making a good first impression. Tucker still seems like a baby to me, so it's quite amazing to drop him off at school with his little lunchbox. It's a brave new world for both of them, and my heart was full of pride watching them navigating it. Everything I picked up at Vons was for them... mayo for their sandwiches and ketchup for their hot dogs, fruit and cereal for breakfast, celery and cream cheese (Addie's favorite after-school snack), ice cream (Tucker has inherited his mom's sweet tooth). It sounds silly, but as I stocked our kitchen with these foods, I found myself experiencing a "mom high", my heart as full as my cupboards. I never felt this much pleasure shopping for myself. But now, I feel a rush as I put away a brand new EZ squeeze bottle of Heinz. Taking care of these three men makes me truly happy.

Running errands for them... by myself... is sheer heaven.

Velcro

My son Tucker won't let me go.


I mean, anywhere.


If I go to the computer, he wedges himself between my chair and the desk, reaching his hands up to block my ability to type.

If I try to go to the store, he waits until I open the front door and then runs out to the car to block my ability to get in. When I open the car door, he climbs up into the car with me. When I carry him inside and hand him to Stan, he screams in protest.


If I'm cooking, he grabs onto my legs so that I have to shuffle slowly one foot at a time so he doesn't fall over while I'm getting plates and utensils.


If I get up to go to the fridge for a snack, he follows me and gets inside the refrigerator the second I open it. If I pour a drink, he has to have it. He is undiscerning; he wants my lemonade, my Diet Coke, and my coffee. I think he only wants it because he knows it's MINE. And he is making it known that NOTHING belongs to me anymore.


If I get up to go to the toilet, I have to wait until he's momentarily distracted so I can make a beeline for it. I always hear him coming after me, his little feet pat-patting on the hardwood floor. It's a race to see if I can slide the door shut before he gets to me. And if I am victorious, he will plant himself directly outside the door and bawl inconsolably until I am finished. Same thing happens when I try to take a shower. Not exactly a relaxing atmosphere.

Moms of teenagers remind me to enjoy this time, because before I know it, this same boy will be pushing me away, telling me not to touch him and never to come in his room. I take this advice to heart, and relish the fact that I am so valued, so inexpendable, so needed. I love it. No really, I do.

85% of the time. The other 15% is going to drive me straight into the loony bin.

I've been known to hide in my house. If I don't open any doors (the noise alerts Tucker to my possible departure from his immediate vicinity) and slip out of the den unnoticed (while he is watching Pooh's Heffalump Movie, perhaps, I might have a sporting chance), I can possibly get into my bedroom without his knowledge. I might be able to buy five minutes in the bathroom or the closet, reading my Oprah Magazine. Oh, the sheer heaven of it. But it isn't long before I hear the familiar, "Mama! MaaaaMA!" and my time is up.

I do wait until he finds me, however. I won't come out until then. If I can find a really good hiding place- say, the laundry hamper- I might get another full ten minutes.

Graduation Day

Well, it's official: Addie has graduated from pre-school. Oh, the pomp, the circumstance! Briarwood pulled out all the stops for the graduation ceremony... right down to caps, gowns, music, entrances, songs, poems, announcements. Kleenex boxes were passed around. There wasn't a dry eye in the house.

There Addie stood, hair freshly cut the night before at Chandler Salon (translation: our bathroom... I've become quite the home hairstylist), looking impossibly handsome and confident as he marched in to the swelling music. He filed in to his seat, a proud and self-conscious smile playing on his lips as he surrepticiously glanced at me. Me, with my video camera and my tear-stained cheeks. I've never seen him so proud. He was placed front and center, and we soon discovered why; every song they sang, every announcement they made, he spoke clearly and without hesitation. He knew every word of the Pledge of Allegiance. He sang "God Bless America" and "United We Stand" with flair. My favorite selection was a rewritten version of "New York, New York", aptly re-titled "Kindergarten" ("If we can make it there, we'll make it anywhere, so here we come, Kin-der-gar-tennnnnnn!") complete with the required kick-line and big arm finish. Addie didn't miss a beat. The choreographer in me was not disappointed.

I watched my boy, this kid named Addie who has grown before my eyes... from the beginning, so very much his own person. Verbal and expressive at eight months; by eighteen months, speaking full sentences with the maturity of some five-year-olds. Addie, whose huge pools of blue eyes were keenly observant from the moment he was born, and whose eyes continue to see the world in all its miracles. I am honored to get a glimpse of the world through those eyes. They never fail to notice a full moon or the first twinkling star, a homeless man, a pretty girl, a scary billboard, a perfect grey morning. They fiercely protect his baby brother, they notice anytime something too small or dangerous gets in his hands. They burst with excitement. They flash with anger. They fill with tears that he tries so hard to hold back. They break my heart. I fall into them when they look at me with love and devotion; I never want to leave them. Too often, I let him stay up late, just so we have our famous "snuggle time", and those beautiful, deep eyes are all mine... just for a little while.

It does seem as if five and a half years has passed; I can't exactly say it has gone by in a flash, because I cannot imagine a moment when Addie wasn't a part of my life. But I also recognize that I will blink and he will be ten, blink again, fifteen, blink again... I cannot even bear to think how empty I will feel when he is not stumbling into the family room to greet me each morning. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of Addie at the breakfast table, his long, spindly legs dangling from the chair as he slurps his Cheerios, and I wonder when it was that my child got so impossibly LONG. When did his feet get so big? Perhaps all this is made more pronounced by the fact that he's so skinny... now more so than ever because of all his recent illnesses. But the lack of meat on his bones makes him seem even more lanky, like a piece of taffy stretched before my eyes. I hold him, and he is all arms and legs. He still weighs so little (35 pounds!) that I can easily hoist him up and cradle him, and I simply rejoice in the feeling of this amazing child. It will not be long before he will stop asking me to hold him. A few years after that, he'll even request that I don't. So I drink it all in now. I kiss and hug and try to bottle the feeling of these young cheeks, so soft and sweet, before they give way to pimples and roughness and resistance.

I see how eager Addie always is to share his accomplishments, his emotions, his everything... with me and with his father, with all those he loves. There are times when the last thing I want to do is hear how many Droids he has won in his Wii Star Wars game. I do not care in the least about Droids. But God, he wants me to know, and that is reason enough for me to drop whatever I'm doing to become his rapt audience.

I relish his profound communication skills, and watch his effect on others. He has an uncanny ability to draw people in and captivate them. He considers many of my friends his own best friends, insisting that they are invited to his birthday parties and special events. He cares deeply about his relationships. He strikes up conversations at Target with people in line ahead of us. He shows genuine interest in their lives and shares his own life with abandon. Every once in a while, he will run into someone with no interest in connecting. It throws him for a loop every time. I can feel his heart sink, as surely as if it was my own.

Now, Addie moves onto the next milestone... forging his way through the trials and trevails of elementary school. I know I have to let him find his own way. He did it with aplomb in pre-school. He'll do it again. I wish I could shield him from any hurt. I know I cannot.

But I will tell you now that if any kid ever bullies him, that bully is TOAST.

In a couple of months, my firstborn son will start Kindergarten. He's ready. I may not be, but he is. The passing of time is never experienced more acutely than through the world of your children; these hallmarks, these landmarks, these moments, captured- and gone. My heart tries to hold on, but I cannot stop the growing up. So off he'll go, unleashing his spirit on a new set of humans. I hope they take care of him. I hope he takes care of himself. I have a feeling he will.

As the song said... if he can make it there, he'll make it anywhere.

A Matter of Death... and Life

I don't really know how to make sense of all that has happened this week. It feels like sadness is everywhere. A member of Stan's family committed suicide... and nothing anyone can say or do will bring him back. I saw so many Facebook postings this week from dear friends who have lost someone close to them, or are having "the worst week of their lives". A colleague was called away from work because one of his family members is dying. It seems that every once in a while, bad news comes in tumbles. Giant heaps of things too overwhelming to process. All at once. Why does life do that?


I'm not one to immediately leap to the "lesson"... in fact, sometimes I think our world has gotten so New Age-y that we are overly anxious to skip about ten steps to get right to the relief. For those left behind, there isn't relief. There just isn't. Maybe grief will de-intensify over time, but maybe it won't. Maybe they learn to live within the grief. They'll carve their lives around it, build their ships around the anchor of it.


I've always been someone who treasured life, clung to it even in my unhappiest of moments. A part of me has always inherently understood that even heartache has its place in the grand experience. I can't imagine choosing to leave this wondrous place. I know its troubles, I know its tragedies, I know its cruelty and I fear its evil. But I have lived its incredible beauty in so many ways, and those far outweigh the bad things.


How could anyone want to leave the smell of snow in winter, the sound of a bat connecting with a baseball, The Beatles, fresh-squeezed lemonade, the twinkle of Christmas lights, bowling, rollercoasters, the sound trees make in a breeze, the memory of a first kiss, pumpkin pancakes, cinnamon rolls, a really good slice of pizza? Wherever they think they're going when they choose to leave this world, I would venture a guess there is not a good slice of pizza to be found.

Where DO they think they're going?

If it has proved too painful to be here, what relief do they suppose is waiting on the other side? If there is a God, do they think He or She is waiting for them on the other side of that suicide, congratulating them for giving it all up? No, I suppose if it all has gotten too bad for them here on Earth, they don't much care what anyone thinks anymore. Certainly they have proven they don't much care about devasted mothers, heartbroken sisters and brothers left to pick up the pieces...

What if reincarnation awaits them? Oh goodie, guess what? You tried to take yourself out, sir, but get back in line, because now you're starting over! And just for a little karmic comedy we're gonna throw you into a third world country! Then maybe you'll appreciate how nice you had it last lifetime. Have fun! Back to the same lesson, until you get it. You escaped NOTHING.

And what if all they're after is the nothingness? Just silence from their unbearable pain? Are they counting on the nothingness, praying to GOD there IS no God to receive them and hold them accountable? Praying reincarnation is just a figment of Shirley MacLaine's imagination? And if they are right that there is nothing beyond death, HOW could the nothingness be better than the living? I'll take the heartbreak, every time. The glorious heartbreak is proof that I'm alive. And oh, to be alive...

There are a few instances where I understand a choice to leave this world. Disease, unbearable physical pain... the loss of a child. I don't even like to entertain these horrific thoughts, but perhaps the closest I can come to understanding suicide is to realize that for some people, their emotional pain might be akin to those extremes...? I don't know.

This incident has catapulted many of us right back to the darkest hours of our pasts. We've all had them; moments of being a quivering fetal mess, bathed in worthlessness. Moments where the pain seemed insurmountable. But as Stan so eloquently said to me, "If I had thrown it all away back in my darkest hour, I wouldn't have you. I wouldn't have these two beautiful children. I wouldn't have this life. I wish I could have told him to just hang on. Tough it out. Look what can change. Look what can happen."

I think about a friend of mine who is currently battling breast cancer. She's fighting to stay on this planet for all she's worth, enduring chemo, radiation, overwhelming nausea, fatigue, baldness. There are days where she can't leave her bed or hug her kids. She's forced to cut off both her breasts. This is what she must do if she is going to stay alive. But she is willing to pay that price, ANY price, for the gift of seeing her children graduate high school, college, to someday hold their children. What a stark contrast to the example before me of a perfectly healthy person who took himself out of this world by choice! What would my friend make of this? Would she consider it a personal affront to her?

I am filled with questions, and not many answers. In this time of desperation and uncertainty, I can only cling to the things I do know: that I cherish my own life in all its messiness, its joy, its anger, its boredom, even. Oh, for the luxury of being bored! I am grateful. I hug my children extra hard and send a prayer to God, to Karma, to Darkness: please keep them safe and happy and healthy... and PLEASE let me help them understand what a gift life is.

Valentine's Daydreams

My husband has never bought me flowers or chocolates for Valentine's Day.

Anybody who knows me is well aware that I am an incurable romantic, filled with all the typical preconceived notions of how holidays as potentially luscious as these should go. I have scripts in my head that put Shakespeare to shame, romantic dinners plotted from soup to fondue, years of daydreams logged. Many of these daydreams once involved blood-red roses and a hefty box of nuts and nougats. But trips to the local florist and See's Candies don't even enter my husband's consciousness. I have had to let those dreams go. Instead, I have been forced to wrap my heart around the gifts I do receive. Here is a glimpse of what I get instead:

My husband wakes up with the kids every other morning, without fail. He often decides it doesn't matter whether or not it is "his day" to sleep in. Without a word he is pulling his robe on to answer the baby's waking cries... and I am free to snuggle back into the deep covers and catch another hour.

My husband pulls me up to dance, and suddenly I am whisked away to the Catskills, my name is Baby, and nobody's putting me in a corner. He takes total command of me with ease and grace. He isn't a trained dancer, but when I'm on the dance floor with him I would swear he was the master instructor from Arthur Murray. The world falls away in a blur, I am spinning and completely surrendering my body to his movement, his steps, his rhythm. He carries me away, and I scarcely remember returning to earth.

My husband writes poetry. He fills the most elegant cards with words and images that make the angels weep. I have piles of these poems, I have kept every one; over the years, he has described his singular devotion to me in a thousand different ways.

My husband calls me "My Dear". He calls me "Honey". He calls me "Mrs. C".

My husband lets me put my freezing cold feet in between his legs every night. He never compains.

My husband can fix anything. He can unclog a drain, open a jar of pickles, paint a room, mow-and-blow a lawn, build a closet, sew a button, core an apple, sharpen a knife, fix my glasses, find my keys, polish my shoes, sump-pump a flooded driveway, and stencil a glow-in-the-dark milky way on our son's ceiling. I challenge anyone to hand him a household problem he doesn't know how to remedy.

My husband cooks for me. He knows how to look in our fridge and pantry and throw random ingredents together to make a savory feast. My husband awakened my passion for food. He encouraged me to taste- and savor- more of life than I ever was willing to before I met him.

My husband is my best friend. We commiserate, we debate, we laugh, we daydream, we cry (well, okay, mostly I cry). We share sodas and cake. We look at menus and decide what two meals we're going to share. He reads me politics. I read him the advice columns. In the safety of our cozy companionship, we are free to gloat and to cower, to brag shamelessly and to admit our deepest sadness.

In a world where I hear too often all the ways a spouse "brings his partner back to reality", my husband unfailingly thinks I can do whatever I set my mind and heart to. No matter what the job or task, he thinks I am the woman for it. Doesn't matter if it's teaching, choreographing, performing a role that's completely out of my range, writing for Oprah magazine, or joining Cirque Du Soleil. "You'd be great at that", he says.

My husband has never tried to change a thing about me. If anything "bugs" him, he has never let on. Imagine that.

My husband stared at me while I was pregnant like I was the most amazing human on the planet. It didn't matter that billions of women had successfully done this pregnancy thing before me. To him, I was the only one who could ever pull it off.


My husband gave me the gift of our two precious little boys. He held my hand as each of them came into the world. My husband has been to hell and back with me. We've navigated the trials of parenthood, the short tempers, the sleeplessness. We've argued, we've listened, we've grown, we've clung to each other through the worst of it and reveled together in the best of it.

My husband often wanders into the bedroom while I am putting on makeup. He turns to our son and says, "There she goes, gilding the lily again. It's just unfair to all the other women of the world, Addie. Because you see, the moment your mom walks in the room, nobody else exists." I stare at my reflection- at my nose that's always been just a little too big for my face, at the early stage of crow's feet around my eyes, at my often disheveled hair... and I smile because I am beautiful in my husband's eyes and that is all that matters.

My husband makes me want to be this extraordinary woman he sees.

My husband has never bought me flowers or chocolates for Valentine's Day. It's not his style.

Yes, I have had to let that dream go. There was a much bigger dream awaiting me; my husband wakes up each morning intent on giving me his very heart. And because of this, as the song goes...

"... each day is Valentine's Day."

Remembering ONE

I cannot believe you are a whole year old, Mr. T! Where did the time go?! The first year of Addie's life (and our new life as parents) was a bit of a haze much of the time, marked by long, drawn-out hours of no sleep, paralyzing fatigue, emotions high and low, adjustment to the new normal. But that change- the overwhelming transition into Life With Kids that had me reeling- happened long ago, and now, amazingly, it is simply who I am and what I do. Thus, I spent the first year of your life relaxed and embracing every moment, hyper-aware of every precious memory we were creating with you, relishing every one of your passing fancies. I was able to feel the whole experience from a more centered place, free to drink it in and savor every drop. Maybe part of the reason I held each moment so dear is because I'm pretty doggone sure you will be our last baby... a thought that fills me with sadness for so many reasons. But whatever the cause for my revery, it all flew by in a flash.

I look at you, and can hardly fathom that you were that little peanut inside me when I had my bleeding scare at nine weeks, and Stan rushed me to the hospital in tears. After hours spent waiting and worrying, the nurse finally came in to look and listen, to see if you were still with us. That was YOU, Tucker... you on the ultrasound, that tiny, foggy clump with the super-strong heartbeat that seemed to shout, "YES YES, I am still here!" That was you seven months later on February 1st, 2009, pressing relentlessly on my cervix, scoffing at epidurals one and two, making your presence known as I begged for mercy and the anesthesiologist panicked at my off-the-chart pain levels. And then when I was finally allowed to push, that was you at the ready, popping out effortlesly in a minute and a half... a Chandler record (Addie took three minutes). As soon as the door was open, you plowed right through. You're still doing that, to this day.

You are very different from how I remember Addie at your age. He seemed more adult somehow, what people like to call "an old soul". You, in contrast, are a bundle of exuberant, youthful energy. Addie was already speaking words, calmly calling out for me from the crib each morning, already verbalizing his needs with one-or two-word announcements. You are more demonstrative, full of noise and babble, but aren't in any hurry to make words yet (though I admit you've said "Mama" in passing, you've started saying "Ada" for Addie, and today I could have sworn you reached out and said "apple").

Here are some of the glorious things I don't want to forget about you at age one:

You motor-crawl around the house at lightning speed, evoking the image of a wind-up toy on overdrive. You are usually headed for your favorite play areas: the refrigerator, where you love to hang out and remove all the salad dressings from the door, the pantry where you remove all the pasta boxes, my desk drawers where you remove all the envelopes, and the toilet, where if we're lucky there is nothing at all for you to remove.

You love the shower, absolutely adore it. I take you in there with me most nights, and sing songs to you (how about that? The most singing I do these days is in the shower! I must say, the venue has its perks; so far, no critics). You have no trouble at all getting soaked, face and all (note to new parents: dump buckets of water on your baby's head daily! I avoided this with Addie, and he still hates water in his eyes to this day), and there is nothing more amazing to me than staring at your sweet baby-face when it is soaking wet, your big blue eyes blinking up at me under glistening wet, long, dark eyelashes. Sometimes you put your soapy head on my shoulder while I sing. Heaven on Earth.

When you are falling asleep in my arms, you put your hand on your head and twirl your hair... then you reach up and twirl mine. I look forward to this at every nap and every single night before bedtime. I already know I will ache for this when you stop.

You are a chowhound. There is nothing you won't eat... including some rather unsavory items like dirt, rocks, and tissue paper. Your favorite foods include cantaloupe, baked potato with sour cream, chicken breast, halibut, grapes, yogurt, peas- and today, for the first time, you wolfed down your first peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

You have six teeth- two on the bottom, four on top. They look like mini-Chiclets.

Not long ago, you turned yellow from a little condition called carotenemia. Apparently, some babies react to having too many yellow or orange vegetables, so for a while it was sayonara, sweet potatoes. Lately we've been plying you with peas, string beans, spinach, zucchini and broccoli (lucky for you babies don't turn green). You're less yellow now, but I kind of miss it; everybody thought you had been to the Bahamas.

You're sleeping through the night- finally! It took a full year, but we've strung together two solid weeks of eleven-hour stretches. Hallelujah!

You adore Addie. And he absolutely adores you. My sister-in-law Sharon once told me that one of the best things about having two children is seeing how they love each other. She was right. Watching Addie wrap his [amazingly careful, gentle] arms around his baby brother fills me with a joy I could never have imagined before.

You flat-out REFUSE to lie still for a diaper change. I have never encountered such a struggle. You flip, you fuss, you will not be restrained. Things can get awfully messy if there's poop involved.

You love people, and are easily held by others... but you always look to me first for "friend approval". Someone will approach you, and you'll smile tentatively, look right at me with inquisitive eyes that wonder, Is this person OK? Yes, I'll nod. I approve this friend request. Your whole body instantly relaxes and you're free to have fun.

You're needier than Addie was. More physical. More stubborn- and that's saying something. I've got two very strong-willed kids. I am glad.

You give the best hugs. Your face melts me. Your animated eyebrows make me laugh. You can lift one up so high, it looks like someone snagged it with a fishhook.

Though your spirit is young, you have a light in your eyes that is impossibly bright. You draw people in; they turn their faces to you like the sun, and you happily shine your light on all of them. How lucky I am to be bathed in that light every day! You are a miraculous little soul, Mr. T... and I am so honored to know you.

Happy First Birthday, Tuckerman. What an adventure this life with you will be.

Resolution Solution

Inevitably, the start of a new year brings on all those thoughts about self-improvement. Some folks look forward to the feeling of a new beginning, others find resolutions debilitating, some have sworn them off for life. Me, I'm a dyed-in-the-wool list-maker, so I relish the idea of making resolutions each year. I make them (and take them) with a grain of salt, hoping each year to make good on them as best I can, knowing full well I will break some and also trusting I will not beat myself up for it. I approach resolutions with the same whimsical spirit I keep when I read my horoscope. For the most part, the resolutions - like the predictions - are there for entertainment purposes only. I approach them with reverence, interest... and a healthy dose of humor.

It is with this spirit that I continually resolve, every single year, to stop drinking so much Diet Coke. I fail this one every year, miserably. And yet with each fresh January, I write it on my list, almost scoffing as I do because I know I am doomed to disregard it. My dear friend Bonnie calls Diet Coke "the Nectar of the Gods", and I couldn't agree more. The two of us are dangerous with the stuff when we're together, a couple of addicts who can't be in the same room without using. We'll go for a walk around the block just to justify the need for a thirst-quenching beverage. "Diet Coke?" I'll say innocently. Her eyes will roll back into her head, and I'll know I have my cohort in carbonation. We'll sit on the sofa drinking together in silent reverence; in the can or on ice, there is absolutely nothing like it. But the resolution to kick my habit is there at the top of my list year after year, decade after decade. I'd like to think it keeps me to the one-soda-per-day limit I've imposed. But really, the one-a-day rule goes to hell when I'm face-to-face with a good pizza or a bowl of Cheetos. Hit me with the salt, and I can gulp down four cans without blinking.

I used to resolve every year to stop picking my fingers, something I've done since I was four years old. I was trained well by my thumb-bitin', skin-pickin' mother. She's worse than I am, God love her, and she sure made it look fun. Besides, I had alot of nervous evergy to burn off early on; Bio Dad gone AWOL, different home every few years, new father to integrate... I had to find an outlet for all that anxiety. Other addictive behaviors have been shed, but this one remains, and in 2010 for the first year ever, I wrote a different resolution: instead of promising not to pick, I promised I'd stop giving myself a hard time about it. I'm forty-one, for crying out loud. There are worse things. I've done this for thirty-seven years, and I've come to realize it actually doesn't bother me. The only time it's a drag is when, as my husband says, I "go amateur" and draw blood (he considers me such an expert at the art of finger-picking that he can't imagine I'd make such a rookie mistake). It's the only thing he ever says about it, by the way. Never once has he told me to stop, and never once has he (God forbid) yanked my hand out of my mouth (word to the wise,: if you are in my presence, you will never EVER do this, or you may get a couple of shredded fingers shoved up your nose). Yet another reason why I adore Stan. He utterly accepts me, rough cuticles and all.

Where new year's resolutions are concerned, I find them helpful because they serve as gentle reminders of what I'd like to do to become a better, more efficient human. It's a way of checking in with myself. How'm I doing? Where can I improve? I resolve to have more patience as a mother; it remains to be seen whether I will remember this when I'm on the phone and Addie starts in with his steady stream of "Mama. Mama. Mama. Mama. Mama. Mama. Mama", but it's there, and I've written it. It's in the world. I resolve to cook in more, and eat out less. This is a tough one for me... but if it cuts just three trips to Cheesecake Factory out of our annual expenses, it will have done its job. I resolve to stop dwelling on that which cannot be changed - events, past or present, which haunt me because I wasn't able to right them then, or I have no control over them now. HUGE. But with every passing year it gets easier, and I figure by the time I'm fifty, I'll have this one aced.

I think people tend to forget what a resolution is. To many, it's a duty people are supposed to execute at the beginning of every year, an annoyance, a curse even. But a resolution is a living, breathing thing; it cannot exist in a vacuum (Oh! Vacuuming! But I digress). The things that I consider to be my truest successes came with a great measure of resolve. I've looked inward all my life, but that is not enough. To understand oneself is not enough; my father taught me this. No, it took sheer resolve to transform the qualities in myself that were intolerable to me, for whatever reason. I've found that I have great strength in this area when I want to. And when I don't...

Pass the Diet Coke.

Paging Dr. Ferber...

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.

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.

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.