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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.