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.

Mom and the Art of Worrying

I never used to understand why my mother worried so much.

Growing up, I was forced to endure countless cautionary tales about the latest danger, disease, disaster. One false move and I was surely toast. To this day, I know that if it is in the news and it is a potential threat, I will get a detailed report about it one way or another. According to my mother, there is E-Coli on my counters, Salmonella in my raw cookie dough, ten choking hazards in my junk drawer, and a pedophile around every corner.

Okay, so I'm exaggerating. A little.

As a teenager, I rolled my eyes about her worries; infallible, impenetrable force field that I believed myself to be. I threw caution to the wind. I snuck out my bedroom window at midnight to meet my high school sweetheart. I broke the speed limit and did so without a seat belt. I smugly licked the bowl of uncooked brownie mix whenever I got the chance.

I grew up... and then, I had kids.

Now, let me be clear: I do not now, nor did I ever, worry the same way my mother worries. Perhaps that is because my mother does the fretting for me for the stuff she considers life-threatening. Bomb scares, toy recalls, pandemics... she's got me covered. I receive her phone calls and emails regarding these daily cautions with an open heart- it's part of how she goes about the business of loving me. I always wear my seat belt, and I try very, very hard not to break the speed limit. I still lick raw brownie mix though. Sorry, Mom. I obviously consider that a good healthy spoonful of it is worth a touch of Salmonella.

I think the world sees me as a pretty relaxed, breezy parent... and in truth, I am. I don't spend my days twitching about much. But when I turn out the light and settle into my pillow at day's end, that is when the demons find me. Sometimes I have to sit up and shake my head vigorously. I'm trying to dislodge the worries before they follow me to sleep.... because if I don't shake them, I will dream them. My worst fears become my most paralyzing nightmares.

My latest: I am at the beach, and have set Tucker in his infant seat among many friendly-looking strangers. (Glaring Parent Mistake #1). I leave him there for just a moment while I wrangle the rest of my family (Glaring Parent Mistake #2). My head is turned for nary ten seconds, but when I turn back, Tucker is gone. At first, there is a slight quickening of my heart as I tell myself it has to be a mistake; I simply forgot where I put him. Then, as I process the fact that he is nowhere to be found, sheer panic stabs my chest as I begin to ask the strangers if they saw anything, if anyone picked him up. Everybody says no, sorry, we didn't see anything... and I think- HOW COULD NOBODY SEE?! I begin to shout his name, then scream it, all the while running aimlessly up and down the beach, knowing he is just a baby and of course cannot respond. I scream at the top of my lungs, "TUCKER!" but there is barely a sound coming out of my throat. Somebody took my baby, somebody has him, he's gone from me forever, and I can't turn back the clock, I can't... all I can do is imagine his bright, wide blue eyes looking up in fear, wondering where I am...

I awaken with a shudder and slowly realize I am in my own cozy bed next to my sleeping husband. My beloved Tucker is in his crib in the very next room; I can hear his snuffly breaths as he shifts in slumber. Relief and sadness envelop me. Relief -because he is here thank GOD, he is safe and warm and barely fifteen feet from me... and sadness- because my dream could happen, has happened, to the best of parents. And there is no escaping the fact that the more you love, the more you stand to lose.

I was so willing to risk life and limb when I was a typical, miserable teenager. The happier I got, the less appealing skydiving became. And when my children came into the picture? Let's just say you'll never again see a bungee cord tied to my ankle.

Yes, I am relaxed and breezy by day, but invariably I will run over the course of events at nightfall and berate myself for being so careless. How could I have left Addie on the porch alone for those two seconds it took to answer the phone? What was I thinking, letting Tucker sleep on his belly during his afternoon nap? Stan is by now weary of the times I come to him after one of my sleepless nights, making him promise he will be the last car to leave the intersection when the light turns green because I just had a nightmare about being broadsided. He'll nod patiently as I ask him once again to please promise never to let Addie cross the street without holding tightly to his hand. MAYBE, if he's good, Addie can cross solo when he's seventeen.

Funny how happiness can make you hold on so tight. My mother has been teased mercilessly for her worrying. She's been berated for it, told to let go a little. But how does one let go just a little? Worrying is my mother's way of holding on to her children, to her husband, to her whole world, to her happiness. I feel her holding onto me every day, whether I talk to her or not. I know she is there, searching ever-vigilantly for the latest crisis she will help me avert, and I thank God that someone is clutching me that hard. How lucky am I, to be held so tight? To be loved that much?

Parents say, "When you have a kid, you'll understand." We kids all rolled our eyes, every single one of us.

I look at my boys now, and I feel sick about the times I drove without a seat belt. I feel sick mostly because if I did it, that means they might very well do it too. There it is; my punishment for having done it in the first place. I put it into the world. I made it real for myself that smart kids can be awfully dumb sometimes. And like my mother before me, I will have no choice but to caution my children about it when they're teenagers, and hope they use their heads. I will have no choice but to sit in my bed waiting to hear the car pull in the driveway, waiting to breathe that sigh of relief knowing they are home safe and I can go to sleep now. And when they come to kiss me goodnight, I will smile and act sleepy and never tell them how I worried.

They'll know soon enough.

Addie

My son Addison can break your heart.

There is something truly magical about him, though I cannot explain exactly what I mean by that. I think you just have to know him. My neighbor Joe recently said, "That kid needs a theme song." If you know Addie, you know what he means. Addie is funny, quirky, and ultra-cool. He is his own man, with his own unique dance through life. I'll watch him as he leads his friends into a world of imagination, boundless in possibility. I wish I'd known someone like him when I was young. We would have been the best of friends.

Addie has always been extremely verbal. When he was not yet two years old, he turned to Stan and said, "Daddy, could you lift me up onto the counter because I want to grab three apples and give them to Mama so she can juggle them."

That ought to give you some idea of what we're dealing with here.

He is dedicated to the pursuit of full disclosure; that is to say, he can explain his every emotion, yours too; he assesses every situation and reports on it throughout the day; he doesn't miss a trick. He has a rare gift for communication. A cupcake isn't just "good", it's "delectable". If he can't be pulled away from an art project, it's because he's "putting the finishing touches on it". And if he's sad and doesn't want to play, he will explain he's "feeling fragile". At a party last month, the neighbor kids were playing too rough in the bounce house. He came to tell me that they were "torturing and torturing" each other, and then announced that he was going to let them know their folly. He marched right over to the bounce house, stuck his head in the net opening, and began to reason with them in a slightly raised voice. None of them heard him of course, but it did not deter his efforts. I was his only listener (devoted mom that I am), and kept looking around to see if anyone else thought this was as precious as I did.

Nope. I guess they were all too busy watching their own little geniuses.

Is it just me, or does every mother do that- look around every five minutes to see if everybody noticed the adorable thing their kid just did? I admit it, I get that dumb look on my face- that idiotic mix of pride and love and disbelief- and glance around after every moment I deem noteworthy, be it miraculous or mundane. It's pathetic. I'll be at the playground watching him climb the jungle gym, and if he so much as utters a slightly precocious phrase, I'll glance proudly and furtively around... "Did you all hear THAT?!" Stan and I have both mastered the art of shameless offspring admiration, so when we're together watching our kids, forget it. It's out of control, because we'll simply glance at EACH OTHER for the appreciation. A fan club of two.

What always cracks me up is listening to Stan brag to the pediatrician. From the time Addie was a baby, Stan's unabashed pride was off the charts.

Two months old:

Doc: "So, is he holding his head up yet?"

Stan: (scoffing) "Is he holding his head up. HA!"

(Doc grabs the tiny fists and lifts. Baby's head lolls back lifelessly.)

Stan: (incredulous) "Well, THAT'S a first! Come ON, Addie..."

One year:

Doc: "Is he talking yet?"

Stan: (scoffing)"Is he TALKING YET."

Doc (to Addie): "How ya doin' there, buddy?"

Addie: (blank silence)

Stan: (incredulous) "Oh come ON, Addie! Doc, ya gotta believe me..."

I still think our pediatrician thinks Stan's a big liar, since it's the only place Addie has decided to clam up. He also still speaks to Addie a bit slowly, like he's Forrest Gump.

Strangely enough, one of my favorite things about Addie is watching him work his way through anger. From the time he was a toddler, he could take that angelic face, lower his chin, and glare up at you from under deeply furrowed brow. You would swear he was wishing you into the cornfield. You would find the sudden urge to mutter, "It's GOOD that you feel that way, Addie. It's REAL good. And tomorrow's gonna be a REAL GOOD DAY."

These days, the only time Addie displays any real moodiness is when he hasn't eaten for a while. Blood sugar plummets, and he becomes a bit unreasonable until we manage to get a little nourishment into his stubborn stomach. Last week the family went to Disneyland, and a swell time was had by all. But all the fun had delayed our midday meal, not to mention you seem to need a Fastpass for the lunch lines at peak hour. So there we were outside Soarin' over California after a long wait for food, trying to get our temporarily crabby Addie to take a bite of his burger so his mood would normalize. He wasn't having it- the burger, or our admonitions to eat it. He began to make quiet, idle threats, which he is an expert at: "I am not going to eat that cheeseburger, now or ever, Mama. I am going to go back to the car and sit there and not ride any more rides with you, Mama. I am going to squirt this ketchup in your eye, Mama." To which I always calmly reply, "No you're not, because you know what will happen if you do."

But this time, instead of mulling this response over and giving up, Addie looked at me, lowered that chin, wished me into the cornfield, and then it happened: his right hand came up into a fist in front of his face. He stared intensely at his own fist, and then I saw him slowly, oh so slowly and with great effort, lift his ring finger up. He stared at the picture he had created, and as he examined it he instantly realized: wrong finger. With equal effort, he put his ring finger back into the fist and then with great concentration began to raise the correct, offensive finger, all the while looking at me with a mixture of anger and sheer dread.

Before you judge the boy (or his parents) too harshly, you must know that the reason he knows this gesture, and its meaning, is because about a year ago he once used that finger to point to something. I told him we should always use our index finger to point, that putting up our middle finger all by itself was not nice. "Why?" he asked. "Because," I explained, "People will think you're telling them to, uh... go jump in a lake."

Which brings us to the burger moment.

Now I know I am supposed to instantly put him in the Designated Disneyland Naughty Chair for attempting to flip his mother the bird, but the look of consternation on his face- mixed with the great effort it took to muster the courage to lift his middle finger out of his tightly clenched fist- well, I burst out laughing. I had to turn my face away, because I didn't want him to see that I found this funny. I took a deep breath and tried to turn back to scold him, but there he was with his middle finger half-up, waiting to see whether he wanted to commit to the full, extended length of finger and perhaps suffer the consequences... and I lost it again. I simply couldn't contain my glee... or my love.

I hereby humbly apologize in advance if someday my boy Addie gives you the finger. You can blame me. Clearly I am a terrible parent and have inadvertently taught my son that this obscene gesture is just about the funniest thing in the world.

Every day, Addie provides me with another story... another moment I'll want to bottle up and preserve forever. Yesterday, he didn't want to go to school and thus was making our exit quite difficult. He ended up losing a star off his achievement chart, and he was heartbroken over this. It's very hard for me to punish him, because he cries just like I do; his lip quivers, he tries to be brave and hold it all in, and thus he can hardly speak through his tears. I put him in the car as he sobbed, telling him maybe he could earn a star back that evening by helping with dinner. These words of encouragement didn't seem to help, so I buckled his car seat and kissed his forehead goodbye. But he wouldn't let me go. He clutched me tightly, pulled me back to his tear-stained face, and sputtered out the words, "Mama... this... is... not... easy."

That's Addie- summing it all up so simply, so profoundly. I held him tight, and said simply, "I know." It sure isn't easy- these lessons learned, this life navigated. My son and I see the world through similar eyes. He feels the joy and the pain as deeply as I do. He reflects back to me the rawest and most wrenching emotions I possess. I'm not sure if I should thank him or punish him for this... but I do know one thing: I am so lucky to know him.