I Can Be Manipulated

Elan has many talents, but I think the most impressive is his ability to manipulate his father into agreeing with his logic to get what he wants. We call it his "Option Three" reasoning.

See, they tell parents that when you want something out of your child, present him or her options from which to choose, which makes feisty little toddlers, always striving to exert their independence, think they are actually doing what they wanted to do, and will thus not resent you for controlling them. Example: "Charlie, would you like to take a bath and then brush your teeth? Or do you feel like brushing your teeth first tonight?"

Charlie's supposed to say, "I want to brush my teeth first! Ha ha! I have control and it feels soooo good to be the boss!" While mom chuckles, "Sucker!"

With Elan, it never worked. He'd look at Y and me, while we were trying our darndest to sell him on something, to force him into making an acceptable choice, and see right through us. So he'd then throw an Option 3 at us, which was inevitably far more satisfying to him. I don't fall for it, and hold my ground. Y, however, is usually so confused by Elan's new vision of the ideal reality, that he is easily sold. The following really happened:

Elan sees Y drinking Coke.
Elan asks Y for a sip.
Y says: You can have some of my drink after you finish all of your chicken, or all of your rice. Pick one.
Elan says: Or I know...how about, you come cuddle with me on the couch, and you share ALL of your soda with me, and I'll be SO PROUD of you for sharing so nicely, and we'll spend time together. Doesn't that sound good?
Y, confused as hell: Uh...huh. Well, I guess that sounds nice. Ok!

I come downstairs, see Elan's dinner untouched, and him happily chugging Coke on his daddy's lap. "Y! What the hell is this?"
Y, sheepishly, "He just had a better idea...Hell, I am so turned around, the kid is a politician!"

I realized then that Elan had great power over Y, and that I'd have to be the discriminating one.

It seems, however, that I am not entirely immune: apparently, Ariel is the one who can work me over. Last night, I was trying to get him into pajamas, and he was cranky, fighting it. I get the dirty diaper off of him, but before I can replace it he rolls out of my grasp, lounges half-naked on his father's side of the bed. Then, of course, he starts to pee.

"Ariel! Come on! You can't just pee on someone's bed!" He starts giggling. More harshly, not smiling, I repeat, "No, Ariel! That's not nice." He stops laughing, focuses on my eyes with his own huge sable ones. "Soddy, Mommy" is what comes out of his mouth, as his arms wrap around my neck.

Say what?

"OH MY G-D DID YOU JUST SAY YOU'RE SORRY?!!!" I exclaim, smothering him with kisses. "Soddy Mommy," he repeats. "Soddy." I keep up the kissing and hugging attack, mentioning the words Freakin' Genius more than once. I can't believe my little baby is seriously apologizing to me.

Well. Young Ariel learns quick. For the rest of the night, and most of the day, whenever I change my tone of voice, whenever he senses frustration coming from me, he immediately supplies me with the doe-eyed "Soddy, Mommy" and I forget anything and everything except how incredibly wonderful and delicious and edible he is. He knows what he's doing, too -- he only apologizes when it makes sense. For dancing in bed when he should have been napping: "Soddy, Mommy!" when I enter the room and admonish him. He plops horizontal. Suddenly, I have a change of heart, decide to stay in the room, stroking his hair and singing to him until he's out cold.

And so on.

Elan is no better than me, faced with Ariel's seduction. Ariel head-butted Elan's stomach this morning, and Elan got really mad. Before he could react, however, Ariel fixed him one of those looks, placed his hands on his brother's cheeks, and offered a "Soddy, Nahn," followed by an around-the-waist bear hug. Elan was knocked off his feet, and stood there, locked in the embrace, kissing Ariel's head for a good two minutes. He had no idea what else to do, suddenly touched and confused, and he sure as hell wasn't angry anymore.

I know that maybe I shouldn't forgo all consequence just because of his likely-empty words of apology, but apparently, I am rendered stupid in the face of this child's wild-haired, wide-eyed, cherry-lipped powers of manipulation, and after each incident, like Y with Elan, am left dumbfounded, and somehow...happier than I was before.

It'll stop being cute, soon, I'm sure. In the meantime, "soddy," all you parents who think I'm spoiling my child rotten. This is one wave I'm just gonna ride out.

If We Were Mutants

Last night, Y and I went to see the third X-Men movie. Now, I'm not normally that big a fan of superhero/comic book movies, but I happened to really enjoy the first two X-Men ones, much to Y's surprise and delight. "The Last Stand," which we saw last night, wasn't as good as the first two, and Y was decidedly disappointed, but I didn't mind it at all.

In case you don't know the basic X-Men plot, it's that there is a portion of society who are mutants, each posessing a unique and superhuman ability or trait, with which they were born - like walking through walls, or changing the weather, or creating fire, etc. As with most comics, there are the good guys and the bad guys, or in this case, respectively, the mutants that want to co-exist with the rest of the world peacefully, using their powers for the greater good, and those who fear being squelched by humanity, who would rather simply take over the world.

Anyway, last night, as I was drifting off to sleep, I started thinking about which mutation I would want to posess, had I the choice. There are, obviously, noble answers to that question, ones that might contribute to a greater good, like world peace, prevention of global warming, but when I'm honest with myself, I know that at this stage in my life, I am much more inwardly focused. In fact, I think the way most people I know would answer this question, honestly, would say a lot about where they are in life right now - what they need.

So what superhuman ability would be most beneficial to my existence right now? To start, I know what I wouldn't want. I definitely would not want to be able to read minds - I'd much rather guess what people are thinking and hope I'm wrong, than have it be confirmed. And I'm ok with having no control over the weather, because I like to be surprised. That's two down.

Hmmm. Well, When my thoughts were rudely interrupted at 12:02 AM by Ariel screaming bloody murder, probably waking up from a nightmare, followed by Elan yelling at the top of his little lungs, "MOMMMMMMMMY!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ARIEL IS AWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAKE!" (no shit, sherlock), I started to imagine being able to induce sleep in others at the snap of my fingers, or the tug of an earlobe or something. Yeah, yeah, say what you want about free will. The idea was PRET-TY appealing last night.

Confronted with the sights of clothing piled up in various locations about my bedroom when I opened my eyes this morning, and a sinkful of dirty dishes when I trudged downstairs to start the coffee, I thought, well, wouldn't it be nice to be able to wave my hand over a room and make it instantly clean? Not just neat, but clean? Wow. My life would change. Literally. I guess if word got out, friends would start calling me over to clean up their houses, too. But I could charge a lot! Maybe not. I'll have to think this through.

Anyway, the heal-any-cut quality that Wolverine has is definitely enviable, but I don't know if I'd need it on a daily basis. It's one of those things that would come in REALLY handy once in awhile, but I'd probably feel like I wasn't getting enough use out of it on an average day.

Enough procrastinating. I need to get to work. But I'm throwing the question out there, dear readers: What mutation would you choose? And what does that say about you?

By the way, by round two of Ariel and Elan, at 4:21 AM, I felt pretty certain about the sleep thing.

Questions of Science

I've been entertaining a visitor from another country all weekend. C, the wife of my first cousin, left her three kids and husband behind for a week to come, on her employers' bill, to a conference in Long Beach. She was going to be spending the weekend with us in Los Angeles, and though she emailed me to let me know months ago, somehow the date just crept up on me and I didn't feel totally prepared before she arrived. To start, I didn't know her all that well, and, as my brother is in Chicago at his ten-year high school reunion, I was going to be solely responsible for her having a good end to her trip. I was worried she'd be missing her family terribly, that we'd have nothing in common, that the days would seem long.

Why nothing in common? I'll explain. My brothers are certainly no slouches. But cousin S, the eldest grandchild on my father's side of the family, is legendary among us for being so brainy. Eight years ago, he met his match, married her, and rumor had it, C could give him a run for his money. She was on her way to becoming an ACTUAL rocket scientist. Her professors would borrow her notes.

Now a PhD in physics, she works in a government nuclear research lab, and is the first woman in her position in the history of the facility. As she repeatedly points out, she is a woman in a man's world. Before you get all excited, she claims to have only very low-level clearance because she was born in America, so she doesn't actually know what the lasers she creates are used for (suuuuuure, C. We won't tell.).

When she first arrived at my place, she told me about her work. I was so darned impressed that for the next two days I introduced her, without fail, to everyone we came across as "My cousin C, from XYZ, she's the first female physicist ever in her nuclear research lab where she makes lasers from scratch." I felt it reflected well on me to be related to someone so smart. Everyone was duly impressed, I could tell.
They asked lots of questions, most of them starting with: So, like, what kind of security clearance do you have? Americans.

At first, my kids were kind of freezing her out, which is how they treat everyone new, but she doesn't know that, and it's not very hospitable, so I was a bit annoyed. But we were sitting around, building things out of Legos, and Elan makes a formidable gun, points it at her, and goes "Now I'm going to shoot you with my LASER GUN." And C, without missing a beat, replies, "Oh yeah? Well I MAKE laser guns. As my JOB. I spent all week learning about laser guns." Elan looked doubtful, but like he wasn't sure enough to mess with her again. He showed a little respect after that. I thought it was awesome.

We spent a lot of time together in the last couple of days, and pretty much talked and talked right through it. Without the distraction of her kids around, it was much easier to get an understanding of who she is. And, as I suspected, we are VERY different people. She lives a life completely untainted by the influence or awareness of pop culture, whereas I could discuss, in depth, Chris Doughtry's performance with the band Live at the American Idol finale last week (did anyone not think Live was fan-freakin-tastic, even if it was a little creepy how they both had shaved heads?).

It's totally fitting that C is a scientist, is utterly defined by being a scientist. Because I think of science as creative at its very core, I wouldn't call her uncreative, exactly, but I have observed that she doesn't enjoy venturing outside the box very much.

For example, she watched me cooking on Friday, and like many Jewish mothers and grandmothers before me, I use recipes only for reference, never measure my ingredients, season by feel and taste, throwing in whatever appeals to me at the moment without much regard for possible consequence. I enjoy cooking, revel in taking the extra time to chop fresh herbs and garlic finely, to blanche the green beans and then throw them in an ice bath to lock in the beauty of their color.

C was nervous as hell, watching me fly around the kitchen. She didn't know how the food would turn out. I was doing too many things at once. Was I sure the meatballs would hold together without the breadcrumbs that I was inconveniently out of (she wanted me to use oatmeal-- on second thought, maybe she is kinda creative. There was no way I was putting oatmeal in my meatballs)? Did I really want to broil them before boiling them in the sauce? Would that be good? What was "an extra layer of flavor?" Why was I cooking the soup for so long? She only does it for one hour! I heard the panic rising in her throat, saw it on her face. HOW THE HELL COULD I BE SURE THE MEAL WOULD TASTE GOOD IF I HAD NEVER DONE IT EXACTLY THE SAME WAY BEFORE? Where was the guarantee without the test tube??!

We talked about our kids a lot. She was clearly missing hers, and filled me in on every detail of their little lives, which I welcomed. As she told over the woes of the poor appetite of one, the aggressivenesss of another, she was quick to then retract any overtones of complaint, to defend them by telling me of the simple, scientific explanations she had come up with, the ways she fixes their unpredictable behaviors. If I, as I tend to do, openly admitted I didn't know what to do about Elan's occassional bouts of defiance, or that I doubted I spent enough time playing games with my sons, she was quick to suggest the obvious answer, which put me on the defensive at first.

But she doesn't know. She doesn't know that I remember.

A year ago, her entire family came to America for my brother's wedding, and I witnessed her kids create sheer chaos at every outing, jetlagged and confused by their new environments, I watched S and C run about, as frazzeled as parents come, trying to create schedules, meal rotation, some semblance of normality, and to NO AVAIL. Her kid was beating up my kid, she was worried that they weren't eating healthy food, neither parent could relax for a moment's time, it was all extremely...normal. Not scientific, yet it made plenty of sense. A family vacation in a foreign country with three kids under seven. No easy answers there.

And listening to C this weekend, who is a great mom, an admirable member of the workforce, a pioneer in many of the things I believe in, yet someone to whom I was sure I couldn't relate- listening to her, after one week away, forget the bad and remember only her successes as a parent, relay only her childrens' strengths- I felt such a strong sense of common ground, such an understanding of what was making her tick, the very same things that define me in my better moments, too.

Because when you have kids, there are no true artists or logicians, though we may think so on the way in. There is only trial, error, and then the sheer chaos of throwing individuality, that wildest of variables, into the mix. In trying to cope, and come out on top, all the while looking like we know what we're doing, the very fibers of our beings are united.

Smashing The Piggy Bank

I've loved clothes for as long as I can remember. I always know exactly what I like when I see it, and when I love an article of clothing, I love it well. I can classify memories by what I was wearing, and what was in my closet at the time.

I used to be kind of a big shopper, back in the days before I got married. This was especially true in college, for two primary reasons:

1. I went to a very high-fashion school, where backbacks were unheard of, unless you counted an $800 Prada tote large enough to fit another student - where sneakers meant collecter's-item, limited-release Nikes that you could only get on eBay, express from Japan, and spiked stillettos were just as common a sight in an 8 AM class. I doubt there is a soul alive who'd be immune to clothes-envy in such an environment. Y firmly maintains that one woman will always give another a dirty look if she likes her shoes. I always disagree just as firmly, claim that clothes-envy simply fuels inspiration, it's motivational.

I was seriously inspired back then.

2. My walk to school, a hop and a skip down 5th Avenue from 23rd to 14th Streets, was basically a crash-course in mid-tier fashion retail, beginning at Club Monaco, ending at Anthropologie, and taking pits stops everywhere you could think of in-between. I don't think I even once took the sprint without making a single detour.

Can I add one more reason? It's a rather significant one:
3. I had "emergency" access to my parent's credit card. EVERYONE I know considers a good sale an emergency.

During that time, I also managed to squeeze quite a few pairs of shoes and articles of clothing - the more expensive ones that I couldn't get away with without asking first - out of my parents under the guise that I would likely soon be going for LOTS of interviews for VERY important and impressive design jobs. Hey, the future was wide open when I was starting Parsons. My parents were proud and excited. I milked it for all it was worth.

Then I met Y. Y dressed really nicely. All of his clothing was expensive. Whereas I was a member of retail therapy/buy-cheap-and-often school of thought, he felt that quality was way more important than quantity, and that making occassional investments was far more cost-effective than shopping disposable trends. It was easy to agree with his line of logic when someone else was footing the bill. [He sounded very intelligent at the time, but might I mention that he later went into Economics on a graduate level and then dropped out of the field? How you like them apples?]

This was fine at first, but then I married Y. We no longer could call upon our generous parents to fund our "investments" in quite the same way. We were, rightfully, embarrassed to. So I became very cheap very quickly, made good use of my purchases from years past.

Y, however, was slower to adapt. And though he didn't buy clothing often, not until he really needed something, when he did, we generally wouldn't be able to eat for a week. If there was something I couldn't resist, he would always encourage me to buy it, even if it clearly wasn't the responsible thing to do. Cut us some slack. We were 21. We weren't doing drugs or partying hard -- living large was simply a matter of smashing the piggy bank.

Now we are out of school. LA is all about who has the coolest sweatpants, so I can happily leave the peer pressure of East Coast haute couture behind. Y is working his ass off at his job. I'm doing my best at the multiple roles I juggle at any given moment. Despite our efforts, we are clearly not rolling in it - yet (dare I dream)- and it feels like all of our income goes towards paying bills, running the treadmill instead of the track.

Some days I can still spend an hour in front of my closet - three-quarters of its contents already strewn on the bed - declare that I have NOTHING I like, that I hate ALL my clothes, but I've learned not to care too much about them anymore, and seldom do I have time to shop even on the days before our tax refund is spent. I've always liked to browse alone, with nobody there to give me an opinion or raise their eyebrows and glance at their watch, and as I'm always on a time constraint, the thrill of the chase is mostly gone. The sight of my children's faces is more or less that of a GIGANTIC WATCH, and since they're usually where I am, I skip all unnecessary shopping, focus on getting groceries in the fridge.

Since he started working steadily, Y has become EXTREMELY tight with money, and anyone who knows him can appreciate what a metamorphosis that is. Watching Y move from boy to man has become a bit of a recurring theme in my posts - same principle here.

That's all good, right? I should be really happy that we're on the same page, right? I know. I mean, I am. Pretty much. But now, whenever I do want to treat myself with something small (and by small I do mean relatively inexpensive, but I'm a girl and GIRLS HAVE NEEDS), I feel so incredibly guilty.

I went to Target today - TARGET - and Y caught me. I really loved the brief Luella Bartley run they had there, and I just wanted to check if there were any of her pieces leftover. And this Isaac Mizrahi skirt I got there fits me really well so I wanted to see if they had it in black, too. And Elan really needed more Power Ranger underpants, because he's only got two pairs and he refuses to wear any others EVEN IF THE FAVORED TWO ARE NOT CLEAN, and that is a fashion/parental crisis if there ever was one, right? So I went, knowing my real reasons, but feeling somewhat justified because of the underpants. I was supposed to be working.

He called my cell during the one hour I was there (I swear, he has cameras on me or something) and the conversation went like this:

Y: Where are you?
Me: Oh...Target.
Y: Target? Why? What are you getting?
Me: Just some junk.
Y: I'm so glad my wife believes in paying good money for "just junk..."
Me: Uh...entering a parking garage...losing reception...CALL YOU LATER, KISS KISS!

As my brother-in-law would say, "The TABLES have TURNED."

The Rain in Spain

On the eleven-o'clock news last night, there was enthusiastic coverage of the "storm" that has hit Southern California. No, the rain was not actually visible on TV, but the newscaster did helpfully point out that her jeans were wet from the knee down.

Innocent bystanders were interviewed. My favorite was:
"Yeah, I, like, didn't think it was going to rain this bad, or I probably wouldn't have come out to the golf course. The problem with it is it makes you cold. And wet."

The caption:
- Bill Smith
Surprised By Rain

Amy Sheperd, Surprised by Rain, also contributed.

Judging By the Neighbors

This morning I witnessed a sight that I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemy, were they- as I was - about to eat lunch: an old, old woman - maybe 95, or 100, even - skeletal and shapeless, save for the enormous, Notre Dame-esque hump of her shoulders and back, in raggedy, torn clothing, pouring a large bucket of what I can only describe as "vomit-like substance" onto her lawn for a fleet of hungry and impatient pidgeons.

The scene unfolded directly outside my balcony, on the huge, mostly-empty lot with a tiny, run-down shack in the very back of it next door to our building. At first, as I watched her slowly shuffle up the dead grass, bucket in hand, towards the pidgeons, I thought, ok, so another old lady feeds pidgeons leftover bread because she's lonely, or whatever. I said, look Y, there she is, our very own Boo Radley. He went, "What, you've never seen her feed the birds her bucket of slop before? It looks like throw-up, she does is every day." I said, why it's not slop, it's only a little bit of bread OH MY G-D SHE IS POURING A BUCKET OF VOMIT ON THE GROUND!!!!!! It was about the most disgusting, and supremely disturbing things I've seen in awhile, and that includes "Derailed," with Jennifer Aniston.

L, my mother-in-law, had the likely reaction of every market-minded So-Cal property-owner: "That's who owns that enormous lot?! It must be worth a couple million! What on earth does she do with that space??"

I'll tell you what Boo does with that space. She rents it out to dilapidated-car, boat, and RV owners who have nowhere else to park their hideous monstrosities when not in use. On any given day of the week, there are five to ten of the ugliest, dirtiest creatures on wheels decorating my otherwise not-unpleasant view of the Rite Aid and Pizza Hut down the block. Before Y and I moved here, on of our visits to his parents, I remember taking a walk, the weather being heavenly, and noticing all of the fragrant and lovely fruit trees abloom everywhere. Humbled, I remarked how true, and accurate were Rousseau's famed jungle paintings of orange trees, how the reality of them was even better. And I thought, hey, if we live here one day, I could get used to this.

An orange tree indeed overhangs the very balcony I just mentioned. It's lovely and fragrant. But it is neither lovely nor fragrant enough to disguise the atrocities sitting and taking place upon the sprawl of its backdrop.

I wish I could tell you these were our worst neighbors. Truth be told, the woman is quiet, and if she wants to spill the contents of her and whoever-she-might-be-hiding-in-there's stomachs onto her goldmine of a property in her last years, well, then, that's her prerogative. I gaze out other windows.

Across the street, however, sits the "Whitsett Capri," or what my father likes to call our "Section 8 Housing." Most of the apartment and condiminium buildings in Valley Village haven't been updated from the outside since they were built in the late Sixties, and have similarly cheesy "names" emblazoned in tacky pastel script across the front. The "Whitsett Capri" looks like the motel Y and I were once forced to stay at somewhere in Hicksville, Pennsylvania, when we got into a snowy car accident in the middle of the night en route to Chicago from New York. It looks like most of the hotels you'd find in Hicksville, USA, and its patronage is right in line. Actually, the residents of the Capri are much, much worse than your typical redneck. All kinds of drug deals go down there, drunken brawls occur nightly - it's a scene.

So one Friday, L was supposed to drop Elan off at our place, when she called first, her voice rich with concern: "Um, I was about to take him home, but I passed by your place and there are two like FBI officers standing on your front steps aiming the largest rifles I have ever seen in real life across the street. And there's a few more across the street, kind of hiding behind Rite Aid? I'm thinking I should just take him back to my house..."

I looked out my bedroom window - things were as described. Sighing, I asked, "Are you sure they're not filming an episode of "24" or something?" Because once Y was leaving work late at night, and when he got to the lobby he saw tons of people scattered about, just sobbing hysterically, faces in their hands. He stood there, dumbfounded, for a few minutes, and was about to approach one of the criers when a security guard pulled him away and informed him that they were filming something. It was only then that he noticed the camera crew. Gotta love LA.

But they weren't filming anything. I hung up with her, and clicked back to my father, who had been holding on the other line. I told him what was going on, and he said, "Maybe you and Ariel shouldn't go outside for awhile, ok? Maybe just stay away from the windows, too." The only other time my father told me to stay put was on the morning of 9/11, when I was about to leave my Brooklyn pad for school in lower Manhattan, flipped on the news with breakfast and saw the first clips of chaos ensuing at the Towers. Like every good little girl, I called my daddy in Chicago for advice, and he told me, "Maybe skip class today. Stay home, and keep your cell on."

He turned out to be right that day, so I stayed inside and tried to ignore the SWAT operation taking place a few yards away. Besides, Y had ordered me and Ariel to lay flat on the floor, under the bed, until it all blew over.

After an hour or so, curiosity got the best of me, and I peeked outside the front door. Well. Apparently I'm the last to know that like freeway car accidents, crime busts are a major Angeleno spectator sport. The ENTIRE building was standing outside, huddled together tossing popcorn into their mouths, watching seven armed, uniformed men wrestle a single muscular, mohawked, tattooed, and half-naked one onto the ground on the porch of the Capri, into handcuffs, gagged and TIED onto an awaiting stretcher. He was fighting them all the way, legs and arms flailing, mouth spitting, until they stuck him with a needle and he collapsed. We never found out what he had done, but it was obviously something bad to warrant a small army of the nation's top law enforcers taking down ONE MAN. Everyone was cheering, trading stories of how long they'd been out there so far, a few holding crying babies in their arms, haphazardly covered in blankets. Screw the babies, right? We got our very own "Cops" episode!!!! And we were there!!!

Need I mention that I NEVER had any such experience during my years in Chicago?

I am not sure why, in a neighborhood, and market, where a two-bedroom, 1-bathroom house goes for three-quarters of a million - and NEVER MIND a home that might actually serve a family - a little gem like the Capri continues to exist. I would think developers would have a bidding war over the rights to knock it down and create shinier, more expensive housing, serving a similarly shiny clientele.

But for the time being, Wysteria Lane it may not be, but if tonight's Elvis impersonator butchering the classics from yet another neighbor's backyard party is any evidence, Whitsett Avenue provides more than enough drama for your average Sunday eve.

The Worst Pet-Owner Ever

I should probably mention that I lost Mr. Turtley on Monday evening. After a day of being cooped up in front of the computer monitor, I was itching to get outside at around 5 pm, so I gathered my kids and the turtle and headed for the long, narrow, weed-covered strip of dirt that we residents call The Backyard. I'm supposed to let the turtle get "exercise" at least once a week, but I actually do it every three months or so. Go on, judge me, SEE WHAT I CARE. You know you wouldn't be any better.

News of a turtle on the loose drew a bit of a crowd, including three more adults, a seven-year old, two four-year-olds, a five-year-old, and another 18-monther. I felt like a celebrity (note: I live in the Valley, not Beverly Hills; the definition of "superstar" is more generous is these here parts). Things were going well. Mr. Turtley was on the move, shaking his little booty up and down the yard like he just couldn't believe his good luck. The kids were all over him, I was chatting with the other tall people. I ran in to stick some chicken in the oven for dinner, asked the bigger kids to keep an eye on Sir Reptile, they said sure.

BIG MISTAKE. When I came back out, he was nowhere to be found. The kids shrugged, a few said they had to go and sauntered off. Damn little opportunists. Ankle-deep in weeds, I began a frantic search of the backyard, but the clever little guy was camoflauged perfectly and COMPLETELY GONE.

I started to get a little panicky. You all know how I feel about that turtle. But did I really want to become the kind of person who loses one? I mean, how pathetic a pet-owner must you be to misplace something that moves slower than that movie, "Shopgirl"? Also, what on earth would he eat, out in the wild? You and I both know that that little snob ain't gonna be nibbling on weeds.

Elan, like the little dog that he can be, sensed fear. "Mommy, I'm scared," he begain mentioning in five minute intervals. And I was all, oh please. It's fine. Mr. Turtley is gonna be fine. He's an animal, for G-d's sake! Everything is absolutely fine.

Things were SO NOT FINE.

Desperate, I offered Asher, the seven-year-old elder among the midgets, a dollar as prize money. His eyes flashed dollar signs, like a little stockbroker, it was kind of freaky. He was a man on a mission. We all kept searching, quietly, Elan reminding me every few minutes how nervous he was. Asher, wheels always turning, asks, "Who gets the dollar if you find the turtle?" Crap. So smart. "Um...I guess you will still get a buck for helping me look...but you'll get two if you're the one to find him." Asher looked at me with pure, and utter love. "I never knew such a nice mommy before. My mommy would NEVER give me two dollars!" Ah, to be seven again.

A few minutes later, he approaches me again, eyebrows raised. "You know, I'm just saying, I'm being REALLY nice that I'm out here helping you look when I could be inside doing homework." Now, I may be awfully generous, but I am nobody's fool. "I completely understand, honey. If you want to go inside and start your homework, it's really ok. I'll find him without your help, and you've been so nice." He gestured, like "DOH!" "Uh, it's okay...I don't mind...I'll help..." he muttered, and was off.

In the end, as it began to get dark and I was considering breathing into a paper bag to get a little more air, Asher's mom found Mr. Turtley, covered in leaves and sound asleep behind a tree, and I gave her the $2 to spend however she wanted. She kindly divided it among her two children, and I think everyone went home happy.

What a scare. I gave that thing such a lecture before I put him back in his tank: Did he know how afraid I was? Was he completely insane? He could have been anywhere! Anyone, anything could have gotten to him! Was he trying to torture me??!

I can't even imagine how people must feel when they misplace their kids.

Can't Fool the Genes

Y and I come from very different schools of thought when it comes to worrying. I was raised in a "Just call if you have time, but we won't worry unless you give us reason to," kind of environment. Y's family is more like "Call the second you get there, and until you do we will assume your plane has crashed and you are lying helpless, bloody, and near-death in a 120-degree desert somewhere. So do us a favor, and call immediately, so we don't worry ourselves gray because of your negligence."

With a family-practitioner and diagnostician in the house, we didn't get to indulge "possible" health issues much. The first time I had to deal with different doctors and varying opinions was when I was in the hospital giving birth to Elan.

At Y's house, possibilities became likelihoods. If you had a headache, take two Advil. If you've got one two days in a row, you see a neurologist, because chances are, you've got a brain tumor. If said neurologist claims you're fine, question his qualifications. Get second and third opinions. Better safe than sorry.

They are, in other words, major worriers. And Y - though he tends to get instantly claustrophobic when anyone nags him out of concern - is an allstar in the sport. I made it clear early on in our relationship that I can pretty much look after myself, and that gave him an emotional break for a short time. But as soon as we had children, he began anticipating every single possible injury, every single possible worst-case scenario, every single day. His anxiety on overdrive, and my Virgo logic intact, his constant checking and re-checking and making me re-check to make sure the child-gate by the stairs is locked, began to drive me insane. And with his mother assuring him that not only were his fears valid, but rational, and had he even thought about XYZ?, I did what I believe most daughters-in-law would do: I blamed her.

Nature vs. nurture, the age-old debate, right? Y's mom swore to me that while perhaps when he was young and already exhibiting classic chronic-worrier symptoms, she might have encouraged Y to be less clingy to her, in general he was just naturally this way, that she was naturally this way, that her own mother, may she rest in peace, would consider her reckless. In other words, the problem was mostly trans-generational, genetic: that I had no idea what I was up against.

When Elan came into this world filled with anxiety over every new situation that confronted him, over-thinking each step and confronting me with lengthy and seemingly logical explanations about why "different" is actually REALLY TERRIFYING AND RARELY NECESSARY, I could not relate to him in the least. Still can't. Y, however, claims to understand but-exactly how Elan feels when he clings to me like a fish to water, when he breaks down over the thought of going somewhere new with his grandparents without me, or like today, when he refused to go to school because they were going on a field trip (the first ever, granted), on a bus, for which he has no frame of reference because he's never been on one before and survived. While Y has his opinions on how much and how little we should indulge Elan's nerves, and we try to talk to him, to soothe him, as best we know how - we don't always have a choice because the tyke has Iron Will - sheer determination runs rich in his blood.

Y always laughs that while Elan resembles me, and Ariel him, their personalities are reversed. He always complains that I'm too spontaneous, too impulsive, but he seems to enjoy that young Ariel exhibits the same take-on-the-world-and-don't-look-back kind of attitude. And I get Ariel - the bruises on his shins from a dance around the coffee table gone-wrong are ALL TOO familiar to me.

Like me to Y, Ariel is a natural counterpart to his brother, and the two of them are already quite close. For example, Elan tries to get him in trouble, gets excited when I threaten to put Ariel in a time-out, but then can't cope with the sight of Ariel crying [*he does this when he knows he's being punished, face collapsed in hands, even though the "punishment" is nothing more than me placing him on the couch for a minute - oh, the drama], and will inevitably "free" him, end the time-out in a panicked hurry to soothe Ariel, wipe his tears away, make him laugh instead. I allow this measure of parental-interference, because, frankly, nothing makes me prouder.

And I am often woken in the morning to Elan, rising a half-hour later than Ariel (who is already making headway on Sesame Street), noticing that Ariel's crib is empty, rushing into my room yawning and bleary-eyed, the concern in his voice palpable: "Mommy! Do you have Ariel??!"

Like father, like son. My Grandpa Mel used to say you can't fool the genes. I say, nurture needs to put up a damn good fight in the face of nature.

If You Want Something Done Right...

Last night I did something I hate: I asked Y to do something for me, and then I criticized how he did it.

We spent the day with the boys, swimming and barbecuing, and then had plans to chill out and rent a movie alone at night, so I really wanted to get the kids to sleep early. We came home and I informed Y that he was going to give them a bath, even though I usually do it, because it was Mother's Day and I wasn't in the mood.

He threw them in the tub. I wanted them chlorine-free, PJ'd, and in bed, pronto, so when I walked by the bathroom ten minutes later and saw Y sitting there, just hanging out, and the boys splashing away, hair dry, I snapped, "Go ahead and wash them already, they don't need to play, they've been playing in water all day and it's getting late." He went, "Oh, ok," and got on it.

Six minutes later, I'm washing dishes, and hear "Maaaaaa-aaaag??! Ariel wants yooouuu to rinse the shampoo out of his hair!!!" from upstairs.
Rolling my eyes, I bellow, "I don't CARE what he wants, just do it yourself, he screams when I do it, too!"
"Ok!"
Five minutes later: "What PJ's do you want him in???"
"I. DON'T. CARE. JUST GET HIM IN THEM!"

I take off my dishwashing gloves and venture upstairs. Y is lovingly moisturizing a now-diapered Ariel's chapped, pruny skin, while playing Marco-Polo with Elan, who is still in the tub, hair still dry, face still popsicle-stained.

I fume, "So Elan isn't even washed yet?? Come on, Y, this is ridiculous! The floor is all wet, you've been at this 20 minutes and only one child is ready for bed so far! I have them both clean and under the covers in SEVEN MINUTES EVERYSINGLENIGHT!!! Why does it take you so long? Why can't you use the bathmat? I'm going to have to clean up after you now!"

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them.

Y just looks at me. His words are to-the-point: "You know, you can be a real bitch sometimes."

He tosses a now towel-wrapped Elan over his shoulder and heads for the bedroom.
I follow, ashamed.
"I'm really sorry. That was uncalled for. I know you were trying to help, and probably were doing the best you can."
Him: "Fine, forget it."
We forgot it, got the kids to sleep, ate leftover pound cake, watched "Capote" (Y fell asleep half-through, I thought it was wonderful).

But the whole episode left a bad taste in my mouth. I really, really do want help with the kid chores, but I really, really also think I do a better job of them than anyone else. With everything I do, I clean up as I go, I multi-task, I wash one child's hair while scrubbing the other's armpits, I move quickly to save myself having to do more work later. It's just my way. Then, once the boys are finally off dreaming, I let myself relax for the rest of the night. I cook dinner, listen to music, watch TV with Y --- slow down. The system generally works for me, but I'll admit I'm occasionally left with nagging questions at the end of the week:

Did I move too quickly? Miss the opportunity to feel relaxed while WITH the kids, not just once they're tucked away? Am I too concerned over a puddle of water on the bathroom floor?
[P.S. this one I'm pretty sure I'm right about, because anyone who has ever stepped on a wet rug in socks knows how that can ruin an otherwise good time.]
And finally, when I let Y do more to help me, could I just let him do it his way, and not do damage control afterwards? Is it worth it?

Is it better to do something yourself to ensure that your standards are met, or to outsource the job and accept the imperfections that come with not having had to get your own hands wet?

I'm still working on this one.

A Mother's Day Poem

I received a little Mother's Day card from Elan, he made it in school. This is the poem his teachers pasted inside:

"M" is for the million things you gave me,
"O" means only that you're growing old,
"T" is for the tears you shed to save me,
"H" is for your heart of purest gold,
"E" is for your eyes, with love-light shining,
"R" means right, and you'll always be.

Ok. I get it. His teachers are foreign.
But still, among all the questions I have, WTF?? reigns supreme.

The Price of Cool

I drive the least-cool car on the planet. And I'm not talking about one of those so-uncool-it's-kind-of-cool ones, like an ancient Mustang or a beat-up VW Beetle that just exudes irreverance.

I'm not even talking '86 Toyota Cressida cool, like the one that my parents surprised me with on my 16th birthday, the day I got my driver's license and my first diamond (necklace, that is, from my grandfather), the car that symbolized everything fun and free about being a teenager, like cruising along Lake Shore Drive myself on the way to art lessons Sunday mornings, or picking up my friend who lived 45 minutes away in Buffalo Grove (hi Marn) whenever I felt like it -- the car that, on two separate occasions, I let run out of gas to stall in the middle of the road when my friends and I were supposed to be in class but were instead heading to my house to waste the afternoon making pancakes and watching soap operas on the couch.

That car wasn't shiny and new, but man, was it cool.

No. The car I'm driving nowadays is very seriously NOT COOL.
It's not even really mine. It's actually my in-laws' third car that nobody else needs to use on a regular basis, the car from which my brother-in-law has since upgraded to a sleek Accord with a wicked sound system and Y to a G35 with peppy brakes and a cute butt.

What do I cruise around in, you ask? Let me paint you a little picture:
The year is 1996.
The Ford Taurus is all the rage among the yuppy set.
The hottest color? A cross between teal and forest green, with a hint of shimmer.
The dashboard? Teal.
The steering wheel? Teal.
The seatbelts? Teal.
The upholstery? You guessed it. More teal.

The year is now 2006.
The Ford Taurus is all the rage among those hangers-on who bought it ten years ago, and NOBODY ELSE.
The hot color? Nauseating.
Miles? 111,000 and counting.

The car has an unpleasant, sweet-ish smell, like burnt sugar, for which I take absolutely no credit, and it's mysteriously worse in the trunk. The windshield-washing mechanism is broken, so I peer through layers of grime unless I've visited a gas station or car wash in the past week. The door-light is long gone, so it's pitch-black in there at night. There is a sizable dent near the front left tire, for which I do take credit, but which I am unwilling to pay to fix, because the finer points of aesthetics don't mean much anymore. Oh, and the car makes strange screeching sounds when it rains.

This is Los Angeles, the la-la land in which you are defined by what you drive, where your car symbolizes what your handbag does in New York. Growing up in Chicago, I had never even heard of a "Hand Wash"; here, I have yet to find more than one drive-through. Remember "LA Story," where Steve Martin drives to his next-door neighbor's house? Y's family REALLY DOES THAT. On this special planet where your car equals your self-worth, I am currently measuring up as a decade-old, dusty, moldy, creme brulee.

It's become kind of a thrill, really, tooling around the Valley and waiting, just waiting, for the moment when Tory finally gives in to the throes of old age. In fact, I encourage her to retire, to bring me one step closer to the pale-gold Toyota Highlander Hybrid that I secretly covet but could never stomach paying for while Tory is still running. Speed-bump? I speed up. Puddle? I splash through, despite her startled wailing. But NOT ONCE has the car so much as stalled, or refused to start. On the contrary, the thing seems to be in great physiological shape, and is giving no indication that she ever plans to slow down, take some time off.

And you wanna talk gas mileage? Are you kidding? People are outraged about the price of gas. Yet I cannot remember filling up once since at least the beginning of April! Tory is stretching every gallon for me, and while granted, I don't do that much long-distance driving, I do a lot of stop-and-go, and I've come to believe that the only real, possible reason I should have to fill up so rarely is that...this is how my car is cool!! It's got a cool soul. Cool isn't vintage charm, hot looks, treasured symbolism, or a sweet ride, but...a generous heart! An enduring spirit! An arthritic pole-dancer!

A cool soul. Oh yeah, and it's free.

The Puppetmasters

Ariel totally respects the fact that his father has a job. The little guy gets it -- we need money from somewhere, his mommy ain't the best gig in town, and his dad is willing to step up, be the main provider, at least for the time being.

So every morning begins with Ariel waking up first, Y getting him from his crib and plunking him down in my bed to curl up in my neck and watch Elmo while I try to snooze a little longer and Y gets showered and ready to leave for the day. Then Y kisses him goodbye and Ariel says "whur daddy go bye?" and Y answers "I'm going to work, sweetie." Throughout the day Ariel asks me again and again where Y is, beats me to the punch with the answer, like he knows but just to confirm, "Daddy whuk?" To which I say, yes, he is at work. Sometimes he will point to one of Y's suits hanging in the closet, or a lone necktie strewn over the back of an armchair, and proclaim, "Daddy whuk!" with pride.

Whenever he tries distracting me from my day-job, however, and I calmly explain that Mommy can't play Legos right now because she is working, he just rolls his eyes and gives me a look like, When you gonna get real, Woman?! Wearing a suit and tie and rushing out the front door means work. Sitting at the computer wearing polka-dot pajamas at 2 PM while attacking a plate of nachos and blasting iTunes is not working IN ANYONE'S BOOK. Quit fooling yourself! Now, like I said, peeeez...LET'S. GO. PLAY. LEGOS.

Every other Wednesday night Y goes to meetings for the Neighborhood Council of Valley Village (A.K.A. "NCVV," to the hipper set), on which he sits as one of two Renter Votes. Yes, that's right- the handsome young Y has begun a foray into politics, filling the all-important role of opining on such pressing issues as what kind of flowers shall we plant on the new island on Laurel Canyon near the entrance to the 101?? THESE MATTERS AREN'T GOING TO SETTLE THEMSELVES! The bi-monthly meetings last 3-4 hours each, and let me tell you, the occasional fist has been known to fly when things at NCVV heat up ("Hydrangeas, dammit!!! I said HYDRANGEAS and I'm allergic to tulips and I'm not going to change my mind and AS A HOMEOWNER I have SENIORITY, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!!!") -- or if not actual fists, at the very least, feisty words.

But I digress. The point is, when Y tried to leave for the meeting after we all had dinner tonight, Ariel said, or more like whined, "No daddy whuk! NO DADDY WHUK!" It was clear that he had had enough of these departures of Y's, and suffice it to say that Y just melted. He was putty in the little guy's hands. When Ariel then whimpered, "Dino tee-bee," complete with puppy-dog eyes, Y flew into a frenzy, throwing things about, looking for his "The Land Before Time" DVD, suffocating my protests that he'd already watched it twice today with a vehement the-child-will-get-whatever-he-wants-right-now! and a large side order of guilt.

And I had this sudden mental image of Y and I as silly puppets with blank faces and Ariel and Elan our masters, predicting our every wiggle and move with the yank of a string.

How young it begins.

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

My. Coffeemaker. Is. Broken.
Anyone who knows me knows that this is no trivial matter. And to find out about it in the morning??? Is that some kind of sick joke?

Necessary background: my parents are coffee-divas. They don't splurge on much, but they pretty much will only buy top-rate coffee. My dad grinds the beans each morning, around 5:30, and there is a consistent flow of java in that house throughout the day. This is where I spent my formative years. I was an addict by 15.

And to this day, I truly look forward to (and yes, rely on,) my morning cup, though the amount of caffeine I'm doing is prone to fluctuation--at the moment I'm half-caffing each cup. I am not and never have been much of a morning person, love a good sleep-in, and Y knows the one thing that can get me up and moving is if he brings me my mug in bed or at least puts it up for me (as he has often left for the day before I've let natural light hit my face). Though once in awhile I'll be in the mood for a change, my daily standard is Chock Full Of Nuts. Cheap and classic. I make it strong. Sugar? Ew.

Now, I know there are varying opinions about the health factors related to caffeine addiction, but frankly I don't drink that much and nothing I've heard has really scared me into going decaf. And with two toddlers and a restless sleeper excuse for a husband, I rarely sleep soundly or consistently enough at night to even entertain the notion.

When I complain about my kids' poor sleeping habits, or of my lack of appetite until 2 pm when I eat way too much, or a 4 PM headache, most people in my life (save for my equally you-call-it-defensive-we-call-it-logical parents) suggest, a little fearfully, that maybe? I should cut out caffeine? -- a theory that, I'll admit, made some sense when I was breastfeeding. But no matter how desperate I became to make those monsters sleep, I was never willing to give the stuff up entirely. It's just too imperative to my success. And so I try not to explode when people make the recommendation. To me, the proof is in the pudding. I'm a productive person. And yes, I know that speed-users are too, and no, it's not the same at all.

I don't do instant unless absolutely necessary. In college, Y, who didn't really like the taste of coffee but during finals needed the boost, once went so far as to swallow raw grinds. I'm into taste, savoring, and instant doesn't do it for me. And though I did when we lived in NY and there was a vendor on every corner, I don't really go for takeout anymore because of the inconvenience of having to wait in line while balancing 25-lbs. of kid on my hip.

I'd been meaning to replace this particular coffeemaker (Black & Decker, btw--I'm just saying) soon anyway, because the timer mechanism had given out long ago so I could no longer program it the night before to be ready and waiting pleasantly for me to wake up. But this morning I put in the filter, coffee, and water, went to change a diaper, came back expecting a full pot, and saw -- NOTHING. No amount of fiddling helped. I put on the hot water and had a crappy cup of instant.

I can only conclude that the machine knew of my plans to get rid of it. And it decided to beat me to the punch, to avoid getting hurt by being the one doing the hurting. To devistate me when I'm at my most vulnerable.

Well, IT WORKED. HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY, YOU UGLY, GRIMY THING, BECAUSE WE ARE SOOOOOOO OVER. I will replace you today, filthy traitor. And I will probably UPGRADE. Anyone try that Gevalia business? Sounds intriguing...

But let me tell you, it is not going to be easy to let myself trust again.

Everybody's Got an Opinion

Have I mentioned that we have a turtle? Yes, in addition to the monster fish tank, we have a "little" 40-galloner at the top of the stairs containing one
clinically-depressed Russian Tortoise. He was a birthday present when Elan turned 3. He really wanted a dog but we live in an apartment and there was no way I was going to get one anyway considering I already have two perfectly good pups, so we settled for a turtle.

When I was a kid we had a California Box Turtle that lived for 13 years, and all we had to do was feed him a little corn or a strawberry every two weeks or so, throw in an occassional worm-snack after a rainy day, and he was fine. So I knew turtles were low-maintenance. Sometimes we would let him out for "walks" in the front yard, and most of my memories of him involve watching Helen, our live-in housekeeper/nanny scramble to find him, camoflauged and hidden in the bushes, before the sun had fully set.
Good times, good pet. We had a whole funeral for him when he finally passed on (may his memory be a blessing).

Anyway, that turtle's name was Herman, honoring the late and legendary Herman the 1st, the spunky turtle my father had as a child who would only accept kosher meat, which came at a premium. When it came time to name Elan's turtle, I wanted to go with something cool like Boris, or Vlad, out of respect to his heritage. Elan, however, really wanted to go with...Mister Turtley, "because he is all turtle-y". Who can argue with that logic?

Me. We argued. I insisted. He cried. Guess who won?

Elan quickly realized how boring Mr. Turtley really is, and lost interest. He's at school all day anyway, so I'm pretty much in charge of the damn thing now. Can I just tell you that this is the most irritating reptile on the planet? For starters, he likes to be fed a minimum of 5 times a week--not once every two. And what does he need to eat? G-d forbid should it be anything that I would normally just have in the pantry! No, it's high-quality greens or nothing, like romaine lettuce, mustard greens, dandelion greens...at least that's what they told us at the pet store. In actuality, he hates dandelion greens, mustard greens, collard greens, etc. and favors fancy green- or red-leaf lettuce, which I can only find at Ralph's, a place with beautiful produce that generally costs an arm and a leg.

Next: how do I know when he's hungry? Because he does a SUICIDE MARCH up in that tank where he tries his hardest to climb up the walls and throw himself out and it sounds like someone is smashing furniture over their head upstairs. I'll be knee-deep in website coding when I'll suddenly hear "BANG-BANG-BANG-CLOMP-CLOMP-BANG-BOOM-BAM-BOOM!!!!!" and I'll have to run to the fridge, rinse and chop his lettuce and throw it into his foodtray while he looks at me threateningly, like "I'm gonna do it!! I can't take it anymore! I am so bored and I hate it here and on top of that I am effing STARVING and I'm going over! I swear, I am just ending it all because I am DONE WITH THIS KIND OF LIFE!!" More than once I've had a client here and they're like uh...is someone upstairs? Is everything ok because there is quite a racket coming from up there and I go oh yeah it's just our turtle and I'm off running.

Halfway through scarfing it down Mr. T. just falls asleep amid the pile of greenery, mouth half-open with a leaf hanging out like he was just so wiped out from the emotional highs and lows of his day that he couldn't even eat without taking a little nap.

When I tell Y all of this, begging him to let me get rid of the animal so I can work in peace, he gets this condescending smile on his face and says, "You know what I think, sweetie? I think you are clearly very invested in this turtle to have thought so much about what he must be thinking, and maybe, just maybe- that means you love him? He's really yours now, after all. And I happen to think you're crazy about him."

I'm reminded of how taking care of our Airdale always became my mother's responsibility when my brothers and I were little, how she ended up doing all of the walking and feeding, and he loved her the most of any of us, and she would complain and ask for help but then you'd see her being so tender with him when she thought no one was looking and you knew that she really, genuinely grew to love him from caring for him so dilligently.

I do NOT love Mr. Turtley. Y is dead-wrong. I could never see him again and be perfectly happy. I think Theresa, the woman who helps me with Ariel while I work, senses my general disdain by how I've learned to ignore the suicide march and so she has taken it upon herself to feed him and coo to him on the days she's here.

Do you think she loves him? And if so, might she want to keep him?

"Lost" bugs

Re: Last night's "Lost":
Holy crap. What was that? [spoiler alert, if you Tevo'd it and haven't watched yet, skip the next few paragraphs] Um, Anna Lucia is dead? And the creepy mental-institute-Hurley-stalker chick Libby? Just because they both just got arrested in real life for drunk driving in Hawaii? I mean, isn't that a little harsh? And fast??

Also, I was kind of hoping they would develop the Creepy Libby storyline a little, I was kind of into it. And Anna Lucia had slept with Sawyer and knew Jack's dad...there were a whole bunch of ends to tie up before killing them off.

Y and I always say that the writers for "Lost" don't actually know what they might do the next week anymore than we do, because the plots have gotten so random and often bizarre and unconnected in this last season, but man,, when that show is good it's GOOD and there is a reason it's so addictive. The stuff with Michael now is cra-zy--in a good way.

Y spent much of his college career watching TNT's "Drama in the AM"--I won't specify which shows to spare him some embarrassment. TNT would do these commercials where they would ask their actors, What is drama? and someone like Abby from E.R. would answer, in all sincerity, "Drama is...when you never know what's going to come slamming in those emergency room doors..." and Y would be like, really? You don't know? You don't have something like a freakin' script in front of you to give you a little CLUE?? But still, he watched. He sucked it all in.

I would walk by the TV, coffee in hand, see what he was watching and be all exasperated, and say something like, "So, Y? Is it really dramatic??" And he'd be all, "Oh this is DRAMA in the AM, all right...this is drama!"

Well "Lost" last night is what he and I like to call "Drama in the PM"-- bigtime.

In other news, Elan is still really into finding bugs and bringing them into the house and mourning their deaths an hour later and trying to figure out what he did wrong. Especially those water-bug/rolly-polly things, he just adores them--yet can't stop killing them inadvertently. I was giving the boys dinner tonight when I noticed a little paper bowl next to his plate of chicken nuggets, potato, and peas, with a LIVE WRIGGLING CREATURE ON ITS BACK inside. I almost threw up.

My older brother was similarly into insects as a kid, and now he's a molecular biologist at UC Berkeley (hi, B), so I'm hoping the seeds are simply sown early.

However, Ariel decided that the time was finally right to find out what muddy rocks ACTUALLY TASTE LIKE, and I probably didn't notice Elan wooing his latest victim because I was too busy SCRAPING MUD AND GRASS OFF HIS BROTHER'S TONGUE.

On that note, maybe I should be careful what I wish for.

How I Like 'Em

Freelancing can be rough. Especially when you work at home. Don't get me wrong- there are lots of good aspects to both, which is why I do what I do, but sometimes it gets so challenging to fill and then manage my time amid the assignments, housework, and child-rearing that seem to build up that I wonder if I shouldn't just throw in the towel and get a steady job with one company as an art director or something onsite-- something where I leave at the same time every morning, come home at the same time each evening, get a consistent monthly paycheck...the 9-5 thing.
Then I look at my kids' little faces, like here- tonight-
and I think well heck no, not if it means I could miss out on some of those moments. Truth be told, I know that sounds very cheesy, and lots of the time I feel like I WISH I could be someplace else, but kids have a way of looking when they are tired or sleeping that makes you forget all of the more aggravating moments.
I know loads of women (and plenty of men, though I'm not sure it's their right) have loads to say about the working vs. stay-at-home mom, and that the debate is the subject of thousands of current blogs-- but I truthfully have no real stance on the matter. I'm of the different-strokes-for-different-folks point of view, and believe that women have to do what feels right to them, while recognizing the fact that not everyone has the liberty of making the choice, for myriad reasons.

All I do know is, I would not feel completely right doing either-or, so I found a reasonably-gratifying and often-frustrating "happy" medium, where I work as an independent contractor from a home office. Elan's in school and I have at-home help with Ariel and housework 3 full days a week. It pays the bills, I like not having a boss, I like teaching myself new skills, but every now and then I get the feeling that I

Where's The Beef?

Warm and Sunny have officially returned to Los Angeles. What they don't tell you about LA is that there is a winter here, or at least a significant change of seasons. I know, I'm from Chicago, who am I to complain, but frankly, I've been here two and a half years, and I'm not as impressed with the weather as I expected to be. Last year it rained enough to break records, and it's been chilly and gray and more or less damp for the past several months now.

True to my roots, I do my errands on foot most days, regardless of the weather because let's face it, at most I wear a warm sweater, and it's a good bet that whatever it's like outside, it's probably better than it is in Chicago at that moment, and I feel a sense of loyalty- of responsibility, to make the most of it. Chicagoans are a city-loyal bunch. We're hard to de-sensitize.

Anyway, the boys and I recently visited my family for a couple of weeks and the weather in Chi-town was phenomenal- warm, sunny, and breezy for 12 days straight (my dad tells me it's now crummy again there). We must've had an angel on our shoulder, because now that we're back home the cold-California phase seems to be gone, and it's back to being in the 70s and sunny almost every day.

In fact, it's a funny thing. In the morning it starts out very overcast and gray, and I think well, this sucks, and then come 11 AM the sun comes blasting out of nowhere, the clouds and fog completely gone, like "JUST KIDDING! AW, COME ON, DID YOU REALLY THINK I WAS GONNA MAKE YOU BEAUTIFUL GROUP OF ACTORS, SCREENWRITERS, AGENTS, MODELS, PERSONAL TRAINERS, AND GENERAL WANNABES DRINK YOUR COFFEE INDOORS TODAY?! As if! As if! There is too much hedonism and too many varying degrees of tan to be accomplished and ONLY SO MANY HOURS IN THE DAY! So go ahead- bake, revel, roll down the hard-top, get that pedicure and whip out the new open-toed stilettos, layer your tank-tops, but whatever you do, don't forget to slick on your coolest pair of shades because...HERE COMES THE SUN, BABY!"

So yesterday we worshippers took the kids to the park to run around and afterwards out to dinner at this yummy Mideastern place. The good news is, Ariel's food strike seems to have ended. For the past few weeks, all he's been willing to put in his mouth is Quaker Oat Squares cereal and tuna, and yes, I know about the mercury issues with tuna, but when you're a Jewish mother and your 19-month-old is looking scrawny, this is extremely stressful and you'll give him just about any source of protein he'll eat.

Well. I can't tell you how proud I was to watch him CHOW DOWN on PITA AND CHUMMUS. Now that is the stuff if you're a baby, huh? He's no fool- and he's not going to accept American cheese slices any longer. Not since he found out about the PUREED CHICKPEA! Y and I just watched and marveled, really, as he enjoyed his exotic meal. The kid even dipped his fries in chummus, and hell, I'm not even sure that's legal, but you weren't going to find either of us stopping him.

A little chummus was apparently all he needed to get the ol' appetite back: today he ate three full meals- even dragged me by the hand, from my computer screen and to the fridge, saying "please, Mommy, come Mommy," pointing at his final destination.

I was as proud as had he said, "I'm famished...where's the beef?"