Damage Control

On July 19th, Elan will be turning four. Until now, we haven't done much to celebrate his birthdays other than make mini, family-only parties, and we've gotten away with it because a) he was so shy, and that was as much celebrity as he could handle, and b) his birthday is smack-dab in the middle of summer, so we didn't have to do anything at school.

Since he turned 3, however, Elan's been letting me know that he fully expects a real fourth birthday party, with friends, a homeade cake (we'll see about that), the works. His only stipulation was that we didn't sing "Happy Birthday" to him as a group. You've gotta hand it to the kid - he really knows himself. And he knows that he is NOT going to humor sitting at the end of the table, all eyes on him. He'd rather crawl out of his own skin and run through a pillar of salt all raw and bloody than be the center of attention. And he'd set his limits.

So at the beginning of the week, I suddenly realized that the big day was rapidly approaching and I'd done nothing to plan the corresponding event that my son was expecting to take place. I knew what kind of entertainment I wanted - in fact I'd known for about a year already, ever since I saw Dr. Rey do it for his kid's party on "Dr. 90210". It wasn't a success for that family, but I'm not sure why he chose it for a little, Beverly Hills girl, anyway. For Elan, the idea was perfect.

I wanted people to come and bring a petting zoo of exotic reptiles and arachnids to show the kids. Y and I kind of wanted to make a special party for our first-born, something different and specific to his likings, as we don't get the chance to spoil him very often; we generally leave that up to his grandparents, aunts and uncles.

And the last time we went to the LA Zoo as a family, Y spent over thirty minutes with the kids in the microscopic reptile house. He said he just couldn't drag them out - they ran from glass tank to glass tank, pressing their noses up against them to marvel at the scaly creatures inside. Elan would go "Amaaaaazing," in a breathy voice, and Ariel would mimic him.

He's loved reptiles ever since he first set eyes on them at the store where Y would buy his aquaurium supplies. And most of his friends like what he likes. So when Y mentioned that we should get a reptile petting zoo for the kid's birthday, complete unaware that I'd already been planning the same thing, I knew it was meant to be.

On Tuesday, I booked our team, called "The Reptile Family." They promised to bring a safari show of amazing creatures, with which they planned to wow the crowd. I'm pretty sure they live with all of these pythons, iguanas, giant milipedes, etc., so sticking them into boxes and calling it a Safari is no big deal.

Next, I went to Party City and got everything I needed for the invitations and decorations. I could already see myself going a little crazy, getting way too carried away with our theme, unable to resist tablecoths with critters printed on them, even though I knew it was going overboard.

Because here's the thing about me: I like doing things well. So if I'm given the task of making my kid a big birthday party, there are going to be bugs on the tablecloths and probably plastic spiders frozen in ice cubes in the punch. I can't help it. Details are fun.

I printed the invitations on safari-print paper, and wrote a cute poem describing the theme. Then I stuck glittery stickers all over them, frogs, lizards, insects, for the full effect. I love the invitations.

But the truth is, I am terrified about how the actual party will unfold. There's a reason I never went into education, and it's because I have absolutely no coping mechanism for anyone else's children, almost at any time. I know that sounds horrible. But patience is just not my forte.

I wasn't a baby or toddler person at all, before I had Elan and Ariel, so I've come a long way. Babies wailed and screamed in my arms, my mother had to come over when I would babysit, and I had no idea how to speak to someone under 3 feet tall. I handed them all over to Y, who was a natural, and I know that, in witnessing my floundering awkwardness, he was nervous before we had kids, that maybe I'd feel that way around ours.

I turned out to be comfortable with the motherhood thing from the second I first set eyes on Elan. It helped that he stopped crying instantly when they placed him on my chest, heard my voice, in his first few moments out of the womb. I felt, overwhelmingly, that this child would always be better off with me, that I'd be able to care for him like no one else would. The awkwardness was gone, just like that, and I suddenly loved babies, kids. All babies and kids. No one was more surprised than me. I feel I deserve some credit for that personality shift.

But I still have no interest in babysitting - in fact, I'm not sure I can think of anything worse. And Y's parents' backyard, where the party will be, is mostly taken up by a (fenced-in) pool, so there isn't a whole lot of room for the guests to spread out. And there are a whole lot of little kids coming.

The source of my dread stems partially from the fact that many of the kids in Elan's class are Israeli, and many Israeli children are - I'm not going to be polite here - wild maniacs. With mouths that talk-back. To anyone.

My family lived in Israel for a year, and during that time my younger brother had a party with his classmates for his eighth or ninth birthday, I forget. All I remember is being locked in a bedroom, every muscle in my 17-year old body straining against the door in an attempt to keep it shut. Because all of the little Israeli boys in Sim's class had decided that watching "The Never Ending Story" - a family favorite - while eating pizza was a terrible idea and it'd be much more fun to bombard Sim's sister with Super Soakers. Indoors. They were yelling, jumping, clawing at the door, threatening their attack. Sim, if I recall correctly, who is the youngest of my siblings but was always an old soul, had no idea what to do. He and my mother were powerless against the Sabra masses. I didn't leave the bedroom until every single one of those monsters was gone, and I'd never been so afraid in my life.

I'm scarred from that experience. I'm praying the party goes smoothly, that some of the parents stick around to help Y and me micro-manage the chaos. I want it to be everything my Elan wants it to be. We won't sing him "Happy Birthday" and I will try to figure out a way to shape a cake like a snake.

The good news is, I plan ahead, so I have built-in damange control: if things do go awry, I will have a couple of tarantulas, and at least one boa constrictor handy. Can't wait to see you there!

Withdrawal

I'm not sure I ever thought much about Freud before I had my sons. And I mean that in both senses - neither did I much agree with him, nor had I spent much time questioning that misbelief. But now, while I can't pretend to know that it's different with a daughter, or with an adult son, I know this much is true: baby boys treat their mothers like lovers.

My sons, I am simultaneously proud, and embarrassed to say, are infatuated with me, hungry for my every touch, kiss, caress. Daily, they take turns cupping my face in their hands, and bringing their own nose-to-nose with me, all the while telling me how much they love me. These scenes tend to occur in the morning, at the crack of dawn, when I'm still half-asleep, and the boys have risen, as full of energy as if it werre noon. Elan tells me I'm beautiful, that I'm "a princess." I love shoving that one in Y's face: "See? I told you I was destined for royalty. From the mouths of babes. Now go fetch my coffee!" (It doesn't work, in case you're wondering. He always rolls his eyes and shoves a pillow at me, turns back to sleep.)

Ariel finds my neck particularly wonderful, and I know that sounds strange, but I speak the plain truth. The boy just adores my neck. Since he was under a year old, he'd use the curve of my neck as a security blanket, a "binky," or whatever they call them, something to stroke lovingly while settling himself down, sinking into a trance, before going to sleep. Whenever I held him, his hand would wander to fit snugly under my chin, and he'd leave it there, content, until I'd tilt my head to take a little bite of his chubby fingers and he'd dissolve into giggles.

As he's gotten bigger, he's also gotten more serious about the neck thing, and he began rolling his hand around, back to palm to fist to nuckles, as if he needed to feel my throat against every part of it in order to feel nurtured, safe, loved. Other times, he simply places his entire, fuzzy, curly head smack under my chin, so I'm left choking on my tongue, my head rendered immobile. I know he'd squeeze his entire body into that curve, if he could only fit it.

When babies breastfeed, they tend to smooth their free hand over their mothers' clavicles, and faces, to twirl a lock of their hair, grasp their bottom lips, as if to claim them to the rest of the world: See this?? All of this is mine. The woman is mine. Every mother I know who has nursed a baby has spoken to me of it.

Though Ariel was weaned long ago, he still seems to want to proclaim ownership of me, and his way of doing that is by owning my neck. In the last month or so, he has suddenly begun to speak, new words and sentences tumbling out of his mouth so rapidly I couldn't record them in a baby book even if I were one of those people (No, Y's mom, by "those people" I don't necessarily mean you. There's lots of people who do baby books! I swear! I think it's great! I'm just jealous! Okay!). And with the verbal diahrrea, Ariel's ability to finally put his feelings towards me into words - the words "MY NECK!" to be exact.

Yes, he actually declares, out loud, that my neck is, in fact, his. Oh, mom, you thought that was your anatomy? Silly girl! Of course your body doesn't belong to you!

He doesn't beat around the bush or pretend to feel otherwise. He wants the entire world to know that We. Are. A. COUPLE! And if he doesn't have a varsity jacket for me to wear, no worries! I've got a neck for him to nest in. It's sure to keep unwanted suitors at bay! And when he's in the mood for a cuddle, and I'm, say, in the room next door, he just reigns me in, going, "Mommy? Ne-eck," in this sing-song voice, letting me know that while he recognizes that I am doing laundry, he'd just like to borrow my neck for a quick sec while he gets emotionally centered.

Y loves teasing him about it, which Ariel generally allows, up to a point. Y will place a fist in my collarbone, look at Ariel, and go, "Ahhh, my neck." Ariel will spar with him, fight back, with a "No! My neck!" until eventually it's just not funny anymore, I mean what if Daddy's serious, and he'll begin smacking Y's hand off of me, defending what is rightfully his. Victorious, he'll pull a full-header on me, and fix Y a "Step up! I freakin' dare you," expression. I'm not sure all this weirdness is actually healthy for such a little guy, but I like to think it's good we're teaching him to laugh at himself a bit, to not take himself soooo seriously.

Anyway, I bring all of this up now, this week, because this week has been a milestone in my younger son's life - he started camp, and with it, his career of spending a portion of the day out of the house, away from his comfort zone, away from me. And, of course, my neck. I'll admit I'm a teeny bit emotional about it, though I can recognize that overall, socialization is a good thing - especially for a natural social butterfly like himself.

And call me crazy, maybe it truly is in my head, but since he's been away from home these past three days, since he's started this outside life of his that involves friends and counselors and unfamiliar surroundings - there's been a dramatic decrease in the amount of neck-time he seems to need. I would have expected the opposite. I guess kids never cease to surprise.

It's never tickled me, but it has gotten a bit irritating from time to time, and more than a little inconvenient to have to stick my chin up on command, no matter where I am or what I'm doing, so that a small child could crawl underneath it and feel instantly secure.

But now I miss it. I miss him! Does my sweet boy not need me anymore? Does he love me less? Was he always going to leave me and never look back? I hear my own thoughts and know I'd laugh if anyone else were voicing them. I know what I'd say in return, I know how I'd think they were crazy, melodramatic, overbearing, obsessed.

I know how I feel when Y's mom dotes on him, as she claims never to have done when he was living under her same roof. I tell her I'll never treat my boys that way, I'll never yearn so much for their demonstrable love and physical affection that I'll whip up a fresh corned beef on thirty minutes' notice just to please and nourish them.

I think about how - forget the princess - my parents treat me like a queen when I'm in Chicago, sleeping till 11 when they're up with my kids at 6, sitting around the kitchen gabbing with my mom while she cooks and cleans - and me not lifting a finger. She places sandwiches in front of me without saying a word.

It's easy to make judgement calls about other people's parenting skills and weaknesses before you have your own kids, before you know what having them feels like. I know I'll miss my kids whenever they are away, but I guess I can't yet fathom how much.

Except that, maybe I have a small idea.
'Cause I'm not sure that I'm relieved to have my own neck back.

Managing the Return

I started taking tennis lessons when I was about eleven. Edens Tennis Club was prestigious, air-conditioned, and best of all, right across the street from the elementary school I attended. A bunch of girls from the two grades above and below mine went once or twice a week for a group workout and a great time. There was no competition, everyone cheered each other on.

Slowly, however, girls began dropping off, until there were only a handful of us left. I wasn't going to be entering any tournaments, at the infrequent rate at which I practiced; day school didn't get out until 4 pm. But I wasn't terrible, either, and when I played, I concentrated with everything I had. I think most people have one sport they are naturally best at - for me, tennis was always it.

As evidence to my devotion, my bat mitzvah party was at the tennis club, which was run by a too-tan, too-old-for-the-tennis-minis-she-favored, leathery-skinned, Jewish woman named Diane, and a very small, fit, Asian man, Bob, who doubled as a slave driver. My gift from them was a hot-pink titanium Prince racket, the sweetest one on the market at at the time.

By the eighth grade, Andre Aggassi, not Luke Perry, was scotch-taped on my bedroom wall, and I'd found my ideal partner, who was also one of my best friends. In addition to lessons, our parents would drop us off at the club at 6 AM several times a week, to get in an hour or so of volleying, a shower, and change of clothes before heading to school. As it now takes wild horses - or at least two very short and one very tall boy - to drag me out of bed by eight in the morning, and on top of that I am now an adult, I have no idea how I managed this at such a young age. I suppose the love of the game justified the means.

After my freshman year of highschool, lessons seemed so not cool, so I took to just playing with my friends and parents when I had the chance. Playing with my dad today is the same experience as it was back then: fun until he decides that he can't believe how terrible he is, and then spends the rest of the time cursing his every miss. He's actually quite good, but frustrates easy.

My mom has unbelievable control of the ball, so she pretty much stands still, dead center at the baseline, for the entire game, and just places it where she wants it. She always looks kind of bored, smacking her gum and blowing bubbles, checking her watch while I race all over the court, trying to manage a return. And to cap it all off, she remains cool as a cucumber, skin dry and unflushed, yawning dramatically, like she has NO IDEA why her opponent is dripping, face on fire.

Once I beceame a mom, tennis was pretty much out of my life. Something that I had been good at, something I'd loved doing, something that I'd previously made room for no matter how short on time I was, was just...gone. And with it, apparently, the part of my brain that had allowed me any hand-eye coordination in the first place.

And then I married Y. Y is athletic, one of those jerks capable of picking up pretty much any sport within a couple of tries. When we lived in Irvine, our complex had a few tennis courts right on the grounds: glorious, spotless, smooth-turfed, night-lit tennis courts. In our backyard. Never a wait. I figured we'd be out there daily and I'd be going pro within months. Ok, I never told Y of that plan - I wasn't sure he'd approve of my new course in life. But I told him I expected to play, and often.

Instead, we might have played three times that year. Y, it turned out, wasn't "so into tennis." And even though he probably should have just played because I was into it, because I wanted to, it was like pulling teeth. When we did, of course, despite my years of training and his utter lack thereof, he would wipe the floor with me, and we'd get deathly competitive, talk a lot of trash. Keeps the spark alive. But the occasions was so few and far-between that eventually I gave up nagging. Once in awhile I'd agree to play basketball with him instead, but he never took me seriously when I tried to shoot, and truth be told, neither did I. I'm "not so into" basketball.

We moved to the Valley, I had Ariel, and I began thinking about tennis again. Y prompty took up, and became obsessed with, raquetball. When I asked him to play tennis, he countered with wanting me to join him at the smaller court. I had played raquetball once before, years before I met him. I lasted about 15 terrifying seconds before collapsing to the floor, fetal position, hands over my head, praying for the mad green ball bouncing everywhere I looked ALL AT THE SAME TIME to stop, just stop, and let me be. I was never going back.

Y would go to raquetball, (now basketball,) twice a week, come home exhausted, soaked with sweat, and completely elated. He'd tell me every. single. riveting. detail. of each game, highlighting his successes. Once he came home clutching his manhood, in devastating pain, after accidentally smacking the area with his racket on its downswing. Even then, through unpreventable tears, he was smiling.

I was jealous. Sports were looking appealing

I knew I had to find my own partner, but I couldn't think of anyone around here who might be interested. Then, a couple of weeks ago, my NEXT DOOR NEIGHBOR mentioned in passing that she was looking for a tennis partner, so if I knew of anyone who played...

It was a happy moment. Those were happy words. Today, for the first time, despite humidity heights uncharacteristic of this part of the country, I pulled out my hot-pink Prince, and we finally met at the park for a game. It was wonderful. We turned out to be a perfect match, and I had the feeling we'd improve quickly with a little regular effort. Exercise always makes you feel good afterward, but sports, on top of all that, are fun in their own right.

I came home exhausted, soaked with sweat, and completely elated. I called Y at work and told him every. single. riveting. detail. of each game, highlighting my successes. We're going to play again Thursday morning.

And why is all of this finally possible? Why am I finally able to pull it together to do something extra, just for myself, something that I enjoy so much that it feels indulgent, decadent, like it's got to be bad for me, like I OD'd on Tostitos Mexican Golds?

Because both Elan and Ariel started camp this week. For the first time in years, I am home alone for hours at a time.

At the beginning of the week, I had major doubts about sending Ariel, my baby, to camp albeit with his brother. He's doing beautifully there, loves it. No adjustment period - a different kettle of fish from Elan's early days in school. After today, all I can say is it's one of the best decisions I've ever made.

A few chips never hurt anyone.

Legroom

Well, Y's fish tank is gone. Off to Yuma, Arizona, to be exact. Though we sold it weeks ago, moving day was only last Thursday, so I'm still coming off of a weekend of moving furniture, purging our apartment of clutter, general belated spring-cleaning.

The actual move was surprisingly smooth -- the eBay buyer showed up with three young men to help him out, and they emptied the tank of its livestock and water assembly line-style as if they'd done something similar myriad times before. Y, Elan, Ariel, and I basically just watched - watched years of time, money, frustration, mess, and yes, beauty and entertainment float piecemeal out our front door.

Elan took his chicken lo mein to the couch, and parked his striped-pajama'd body to eat dinner with a full view of the goings on. Ariel confirmed that each of the movers was, indeed, a "man?" pointing them out one by one, over and over again.

And Y helped the guys a little bit, pointed out his favorites and gave caretaking tips to Rich, the buyer, all the while looking like somebody had shot his beloved dog right in front of his eyes. When they were through, our place looked incredibly strange, and not just because of the deep, probably-permanenent dents in the carpet where the stand had lay. I, of course, liked this kind of strange. Y kept up the droopy-shouldered face-making.

He quickly threw on shorts and a t-shirt, heading out to play a couple of hours of basketball. I guess he needed some distraction. Before he closed the door behind him, I gestured at the now-empty space against the stairs. "So, Y, how do you feel?" I asked carefully, aware that I was treading dangerous waters.

"How do I feel? I feel like I just sent Ariel off to college is how I feel!" The door shut with a click.

Oh, the drama. I should have expected it. Over the next day or so we would argue in all seriousness over my apparent lack of consideration for the loss he was suffering, my lack of appreciation for him agreeing to give it up, his lack of appreciation over my having PUT up with everything that came with two years' ownership of this tank.

By Saturday morning though, we'd had enough sniping and griping, finally talked it all out, apologized to one another, vowed to make efforts to understand and appreciate each other more from then on. His mood improved after that.

By Friday morning, however, I had already completely rearranged our apartment, and the amount of space that we were now able to enjoy is nothing short of what I had expected. Because of where the tank had been placed, my at-home work station was left sort of jutting out into the middle of the living room, and the TV was as well. I hated the arrangement from the beginning, mainly because I'm not the most graceful person, and the maze I had to maneuver to get to my desk meant knee and thigh contact with multiple sharp corners. In turn, this meant perpetually-bruised shins seriously reminiscent of an eleven-year-old boy spending the summer in little league.

Now, however, our living room seems large, spacious. The room is absolutely silent - no running-water sounds over which you have to raise the TV volume and curse the dilligence of your bladder. Just - quiet. Which, when my sons aren't home, is really all I want to hear.

I know Y and I are different. I'm a person who likes space. I clear surfaces, throw things away (yes, Y, I remember when I threw out your medicine, adamantly denied it, and subsequently dug it out of the trash), neaten piles, arrange by color and size. I enjoy a good bit of silence.

Y loves background noise, a good, comfy mess, throwing wet towels on the bed after a shower, leaving things out so that they're readily accessible when he wants them. He's made some headway in the cleaning up department, and I do believe he tries, and that the aversion to clutter just doesn't come naturally to him, as it does me.

But I'll never understand how a man with legs as long as the ones dangling off his 6"3 frame, didn't mind lots of large, boxy furniture in the center of a room.

Love - in this case for a coral reef - has us making sacrifices we'd otherwise never.

For 610 days, I've been waiting for the purging of the fish tank, for the simplification of our daily routines, to feel physically comfortable while working at home. Since Thursday night, life, in general, seems more carefree - reckless, even. The experience was cathartic beyond explanation.

The buyer himself was actually a pastor, which we knew because of his church email address even before he showed up. I don't know what I expected an aquarium-hobbyist pastor to look like, honestly, but I was certainly surprised at the slightly-punk crowd with tattoos and trendy jeans of which he was part.

He told us how he'd been something of a bad boy in the past, but changed his ways, and now, as a man of family and God, he led about a thousand young congregants in fighting against the Muslim oppression that churches in some third-world countries had to deal with. He, and his young friends, traveled to the far corners of the world to support the underground Christian communities, to strengthen their forbidden churches, to give them chizuk. He was certainly passionate about his work, and we were duly impressed. He went on and on and on about the lack of value for human life in these places, of the rampant suicide bombing that went on, of the blind hatred the Muslims dealt the Christians on the sole basis of religion. "It's very, very sad," he concluded.

We stood there, brows furrowed, nodding our heads, as if we'd never heard of suicide bombing, of racism, in our lives, until I felt the need to state the obvious: "We're Jews," I shrugged. "So we're no strangers to sadness."

Now, Y had been wearing a yarmulke, we have mezuzahs all over the place, so I didn't think this would come as a shock. In fact, I was really just trying to point out that we could relate to what the guy was saying. The pastor and his crew nodded solemnly, murmuring "Right, right."

But it got kind of quiet after that, kind of back to the business of moving.

Y claims this was one of my like-clockwork social slip-ups, that it sounded like I was getting defensive, minimalizing the man's nobility. He said that everyone was uncomfortable, and that later, Rich had confided that we were the only "real Jews" he'd ever met.

I, of course, don't think what I said was strange. I thought it would have been weird to not at least allude to the millions of our people who've been victims of religious persecution in the last century alone. Was the mention inappropriate? Was, as I suspect, Y just picking on me, because he was grumpy and I was the closest ready scapegoat?

I'm leaving the phone lines open. Remember, only one vote per household. That means couples have to agree upon with whom they agree.

Because, though yes, Y and I may argue amongst ourselves, we want to send a message of peace.

Objectivity

Elan's last day of school was on Tuesday. In fact, they had 10:30 AM dismissal that day, which means that he had exactly two hours of school - I suppose for maximum insurance that each parent, between dropping the kids off and picking them up, would get absolutely nothing done that morning. Thanks, school.

So he's been home with me most of the week, I've had to actively parent and entertain the kiddies, which leaves me working at night, after they're asleep, and which is why I've had considerably less time to blog. Yes, I've also started Cardio Kickboxing in the evenings - how did you guess? So that's taking up precious more of my freetime, but at least I got my ass moving, right?

When you have two toddlers, active parenting means taking the kids on daytrips, unless you like to plan structured, at-home activities, and I've never been that good at the whole art-project thing. Don't get me wrong - I am AMAZING at doing art projects - I can twist a pipecleaner into a flower like nobody's business. But I'm terrible at planning them, getting the materials, etc. I'd rather just throw the boys into the car and take them somewhere stimulating where they can run free. Or play soccer or tag with them. You get the idea.

As to what happens when I inactively parent, right now, for instance, Ariel is wearing a pot of lip balm. He's happy. Cleanup will be a bitch.

Yesterday, after an unbelievably aggravating morning involving trying to get airline tickets to Chicago, an idiot customer service rep at the credit card company, and a client giving me an unappreciated earful, I called my sister-in-law, the lovely RacLA, and asked her to come with me to a children's museum in the city. I not-so-subtly bribed her with pizza, so she was game.

We put her baby and my two monsters, side-by-side in their respective car seats in the back of Tory, two diaper bags and a stroller in the trunk, and headed for the canyon. By the time we got moving, however, my niece decided she'd had ENOUGH OF THIS CRAP and began to wail. And sob. And scream. And generally let us know that she wasn't planning to stop. As long as we were in the car. ALL DAY.

RacLA was reasonably distraught. Baby HH did sound like she was suffering, though we knew she was rested, fed, dry, and being entertained by her two cousins. She was, in other words, fine in that her basic, most primitive needs were met. But she's a girl, and we girlies tend to get dramatic, and babies don't often like the car at her age unless you are moving fast and steady - no small feat in Los Angeles traffic.

I understood all of this, and to be honest, the crying didn't bother me in the least. The boys didn't mind either. I was happy to put on music and coo to her and otherwise kind of ignore it all. But my sis was visibly upset, and the look on her face brought me back to EVERY SINGLE incident of Ariel and Elan as babies, screaming uncontrollably for no apparent reason on lengthy car rides. I remember how upsetting it was for me, though my mother was always telling me, "He's fine, don't worry, he'll fall asleep soon, there's nothing you can do, just drive."

And I would promtly ignore her, pull the car over, lift the kid out of the seatbelt, and stick him under my shirt to nurse. Which would work for about five minutes. But as soon as they were back in their seats, the tears would resume.

I told RacLA that I'd be happy to pull over whenever she wanted, but she stuck it out till HH eventually nodded off. And while I felt sorry for the little pup, didn't want her to be miserable as she was, I was able, for once, to just not worry about it. Not because her mother was there, and it wasn't on me to resolve the situation, but because I just naturally wasn't worried. For the first time, I felt I was able to be objective about baby-raising, to look at it from the outside-in, and not agonize over those awful gasps and choking sobs the way I had, endlessly, in the past.

Ok, I'll admit. There was also a teeny, tiny bit of "Not my problem," in there. But it was more like, "Not my problem! Oh my gosh! For once, it isn't MY kid!" Which made me realize that I am SO not ready to add to my litter just yet. I was relieved to be in the toddler stage, when the kids can actually tell you what's wrong, and yes, with the talking comes talking back, but overall you are able to reason with toddlers, and that alone is of infinite value.

I finally understood how my own mom must feel when I call her in tears, needing fast and direct advice for a mothering setback I'm having, feeling like the biggest failure to have ever attempted raising children, certain that no other mothers are going through the same thing. She always soothes and tut-tuts, sympathetic in tone, offers suggestions. But I'm never satisfied because when I call all frantic like that, I want her to give me hard and fast answers. I want her to tell me what to do. And she always tells me there are no hard and fast answers, that every kid is different, that I'm a great mom and she knows I'll figure it out. I usually hang up with my frustration with my own shortcomings re-directed at her, but now I realize that she's just able to feel that level of objectivity. That she's been through this with five different kids herself, and she knows that both the kids and I are really okay. That we would get through this bad day and countless others in the future. And maybe a little piece of her, as the grandmother now, and not the mother, gleefully thinks, "It's not on me." Who can blame her?

Yesterday wasn't the first time that I've felt relief at not having a little baby right now. I was at a meeting with the parents of the children attending the backyard camp my boys will be starting on Monday, and I was the ONLY ONE THERE who didn't have a baby under six months old at home. One clung to its mother's breast right there at the table; the others had been left home with their fathers, mommies in equal measures relieved for the break and panicked over what they might find when they got back. They walked into the house like living zombies, caring little about the details of the camp. Instead, they spoke incessantly of severe sleep-deprivation, a bit of depression, how their weight-loss had stagnated, their views on Mendel vs. Ferber.

And I, who'd left the boys tucked under their covers at home, felt - for the first time in awhile - that I had it easy. That despite my struggle to manage both work and mommyhood, while most of these women weren't trying to work, that in a way, I was out of the woods. The MAJOR unknowns of babyhood were behind me - at least until the next one, please G-d, came along. And I sat back, listening to everyone talk, completely able to relate, yet from a small distance. I smiled, popping slices of watermelon in my mouth, and thought, "Not my problem."

No, my problem, right now, is coping with the capes.

Phases and Callings

The other day, I was sifting through photo albums and found some pictures from the hospital the day Ariel was born. We got some great shots of that time, especially those with Elan checking out his new competition, and they're some of my favorite pictures of all time. The few days that followed Ariel's birth were less smooth, as he turned bright yellow (or as the hospital staff put it, had a Hawaiian tan, ha ha), and apparently it's not the best thing for babies to be so colorful when they leave the womb.

It was kind of a rough week, and it coincided with Rosh Hashana, which complicated matters further. In homage to yesterday's blog, I did get to glimpse Steven Spielberg while roaming the Cedars Sinai lobby, waiting for test results, but I was too hormonal to care.

So I like looking back on these pictures, which are happy and bright, and help me remember the easy part of bringing my baby into this world. I pulled Elan onto my lap to have a look.

"Do you remember when Ariel was born, honey? And I had to stay in the hospital?" It was half a lifetime ago for him.
"Yeah. He was tiny. And he gave me that present in that hospital, that toy truck."

I look at the picture he's referring to. We had, indeed, wrapped and given Elan a present "from his new baby brother," to help ease the transition and sibling resentment that was sure to follow my pregnancy. We were told this was a good idea, a way to put a positive spin on things for the older kid.

"Why did he give me a car, Mommy? Did I like cars then?" Elan muses.
"Yes, babe. You were really into toy cars."
"Did I not know about Power Rangers?" Elan is incredulous at his own naivete.
"No, you didn't know about any superheros back then. You were just a little guy. You liked cars."

"First I liked cars, then I liked dinosaurs, and NOW I only like superheros. And I will NEVER LIKE ANYTHING ELSE AGAIN. I WILL LOVE POWER RANGERS FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE!" he vows for posterity.

It's as if he can't believe he wasted so much of his youth on pointless interests such as cars and dinosaurs, but he's willing to accept his past, now that he has discovered the ultimate meaning in life: the Power Rangers.

I know I really shouldn't be surprised by Elan's one-tracked mind. I am, after all, married to the larger version of him. I am not much of a phase person myself, but Y moves through them like I do shoes. And whatever his special interest or hobby at a given time, he delves completely into it. When he moves on, he typically doesn't look back.

To name a few that we've been through together in our years of marriage:
- Cooking (my personal fave)
- Fishing (the worst)
- Baseball cards (yes, I'm aware that he's no longer 14 and it's weird)
- Basketball
- Building things, like cabinetry
- Aquarism (I don't know if that's a word, but you've heard plenty about it)
- Raquetball
- Poker
- Basketball (yes, revisited. The current phase.)
If I've forgotten any, Y, please feel free to comment.

Through each of these obsessions, I have watched Y purchase Barnes and Noble's entire inventory on the topic, invest countless hours of time, and endure straining physical labor just to indulge his love.

And now Elan. The dinosaur phase, which lasted from age 2 to 3 1/2, was, to put it gently, intense. He memorized the names of the various species and their respective eras, as well as their individual traits. He knew the words "carnivorous" and "herbivore" before he was speaking in full sentences. His clothes? Had dinosaurs on them. His pajamas? Dinosaurs. His chicken nuggets? Shaped like stegosaurs (I'm embarrassed to say that I'm quite serious about that). Every Friday, he took out ten books - as many as it allows at a time - from the library, all from their Natural History section. And he could imitate a T-Rex like a stage actor with a theater degree.

When he heard someone had gotten him a gift, he would nudge me in my side, and whisper through his teeth, "But does he know that I ONLY like dinosaurs?" I began taking him to the La Brea tarpits fairly often, because its right across the street from Y's office, and it's a small and easy museum to navigate. He loved it because the gift shop has amazing toys related to prehistoric life, and I soon heard him letting all four grandparents know, individually, that if they ever wanted to get him something, they should go to the giftshop at the La Brea Tarpits, where his daddy works."

Yes, he thought Y was a palientologist, which I had explained was a kind of doctor. He still thinks that, actually, no matter how many times we tell him otherwise. One day, when I was sick and in bed, he came into the room to check on me and give me a kiss. On his way out, over his shoulder, he casually called, "You should call the palientologist!"

But now that he's moved on, our conversations less involve fossils, and focus instead on the Big Questions of Life: How do the Power Rangers compare, in terms of omnipotence, to G-d? Who created who? It's a little hard to believe that G-d made the Power Rangers, so just tell him the truth already. G-d probably can't fly, but Shadow Ranger can!

And he's taken to wearing a cape, leftover from his Purim costume, everywhere we go. The beach? What goes better with a swimsuit than a cape? The movies? You never know when you might need to protect your parents from evil - better bring it along. He puts a smaller one on Ariel, and the two of them run through the apartment, fighting imaginary villians, scaling imaginary walls. He has taught little Ariel to shout, "Emergency!" while raising a fist to the air.

Though it's foreign to me, I give Elan space to do his thing. I know it won't last forever. But the cutest part about it all is that - just like his dad with basketball - he thinks it will! He can't imagine EVER LOVING ANYTHING ELSE as much. In his mind, he has found his career, his calling: saving the world. At not-even-four years old, he should be feel pretty good about that.

Because Lord knows, I don't think I'm quite there yet.

A-List in My Book

My older brother moved here to embark on his career in "the biz" while Y and I were still living in NY. For about a year, until he met my now sister-in-law, actually, he boarded at my in-laws' house. My mother-in-law claims that she loved it, because for the first time in her life, she had a son who would load the dishwasher before going to bed. Such is my lot in marriage. But anyway.

One week, Y and I were in LA visiting, and my brother was out doing an errand or two in the very Taurus I now drive. He called the house from his cell, reporting that he'd been in an accident. He assured us that he was perfectly okay, but agreed to let my mother-in-law and I come meet him at the scene because he wanted a camera to take pictures of the damage and the broken glass in the street. He wanted proof for the insurance company that it hadn't been his fault.

"Oh, and Mag?" he said, just before hanging up. "I think that the person who hit me is Paula Abdul."

When we arrived, I spent about a second making sure my brother was whole before heading to check out who was sitting in the dented Jag convertible a few feet away. It was, indeed, Paula Abdul. And I wasn't excited because of her American Idol fame - in fact, this occurred a few months before the show first aired and became a smash hit. No, I was shaking in my boots because I had spent the ENTIRE span of time between eleven and twelve years of age choreographing "Straight Up," and "Cold-Hearted" in various friends' basements - and then forcing the parents to applaud these performances, an hour later, up in the living room.

Paula in the flesh was, to say the least, disappointing (to say more, she was borderline-disturbing). For starters, she was sobbing and heaving uncontrollably, trembling like a leaf regardless of the fact that this was little more than a fender-bender, and nobody had gotten hurt. Her face was covered in runny mascara and pancake makeup, her jewelry and hairstyle way too young for it, and she was half-strangling a hideous Hollywood Chiwhawha, in CLOTHES, for moral support. If I may say so, the only sight more unsettling than one of those scrawny, squirrel-dogs peeking out of a woman's purse is that of one of them dressed like a mini-human. It's very upsetting. I'm willing to bet she'd also been driving with the thing in her bra, which probably hadn't helped matters.

Paula was obviously having an anxiety attack, and could barely manage to hand my brother her insurance information. My mother-in-law had no idea who she was, and had little patience to suffer spoiled fools who had done damage to the family car. As only a Jewish mother can, she ever-so-sweetly-and-ever-so-condescendingly asked if Paula would prefer for her to take the phone, speak to Paula's manager, hammer out the details, so P wouldn't have to worry her pretty little head about it all. I winced, but luckily, any patronizing was lost on Paula, and she surrendered her cell. Her irritated manager apologized profusely, explaining that this happens every so often.

When he mentioned that it was nice meeting her, despite the circumstances, Paula grasped my brother's hand in both of her own, tears streaming down her Botoxed cheeks.

Such was my first experience with - and impression of - running into celebrities in Los Angeles. Since then, Paula went on to explode in popularity (and laughing stockdom) on national television, I moved here, and have run into countless famous and semi-famous people on the streets of this city.

And here's the thing: in LA, you are never supposed to publically acknowledge that you recognize anyone in any way. Real Angelenos treat a run-in with Jack Nicholson the same as they would the guy behind the cash register in the gas station, and raise their eyebrows at the touristy types punching the air and yelling, "'You can't handle the truth,' man!"

Personally, I'm not a celebrity worshipper. I don't read US Weekly, or Life & Style, and I certainly don't admire or envy the lives of almost anybody I see on the silver screen.

But that aside, I am also NOT a native Angeleno, and I AM someone for whom seeing a celebrity in the flesh is UNDENIABLY THRILLING. There is just something surreal about looking at the face of a person who is a national or personal icon - offscreen. They never look the same up-close, and it forever changes the way you view them in a movie or a magazine afterwards. I'm endlessly curious about the experience. So when I do run into a familiar face, I have to try really hard to be cool and NOT say anything.

When "The O.C." was in its first season, and its cast became teen idols seemingly overnight, my sister-in-law (remember, Ray?) and I ran into Mischa Barton at a mall. She didn't disappoint, at first: she was tall, beautiful, and striking, dressed in Chanel, and making out with her greasy then-boyfriend. Since we were addicts of the guilty-pleasure show at the time, we decided to tell her. She, all 18 years of her, brand-new to fame and fortune, looked at us like we were scum stuck to her totally-inappropriate-for-Sunday-afternoon-at-the-mall silver stilletos, rolled her eyes at the greaseball, flipped her hair back, and went "Thanks," with the enthusiasm of a kid greeting the aunt who gives sloppy kisses at Thanksgiving.

We walked away, first mortified, then pissed at ourselves for letting the little slut mortify us, and alternated between telling everyone we knew how tacky Mischa really was and being too embarrassed to tell them that we'd spoken to her at all.

That incident, combined with my brother's with Miss Abdul, scared me out of speaking to anyone remotely famous, no matter how big a fan I was, for a few years.

But in the Valley, you see lots of TV actors. Not the ultra-famous, ultra-chic A-listers that you find in parts of Beverly Hills, not the types who live in a gigantic lavendar-scented bubble with absolutely no recollection of what life was like before they became more important than the President. Here, you find lots of B-list, semi-normal, family folk who happen to be the stars of hit TV shows and the like, and they are, generally speaking, worlds more approachable. So when Mark Moses, who plays Paul Young on Desperate Housewives - and who was solely responsible for the wonderful creepy-crawly overtones of the entire first season, if you ask me - walked into Tony's barbershop to get his kid a haircut alongside Elan, I spoke to him. And he was incredibly friendly and upbeat, utterly unlike his character on TV, and the thrill was brought back for me.

Today I ran into Walgreens to buy a bunch of Father's Day cards at the last second, and saw Leslie David Baker, who plays Stanley on "The Office." In case you don't watch it, "The Office" is only THE funniest show on today, with one of the best casts in history, and my extended family and I have spent countless meals together quoting our favorite episodes ad nauseum.

"Stanley" was getting a price check on The National Enquirer (he'd already decided that US Weekly was a definite yes) and his voice sounded nothing like the belly-deep, rumbly one he uses on the show, which - as Mark Moses had with his warmth - simultaneously threw me off and impressed me. I told him that I was in serious deprivation mode over the summer, complimented his work on the show. He assured me that they'd be back on in the fall, and seemed genuinely pleased and flattered to have been recognized. Very cool. He even said an extra goodbye to me when he left the store.

Lots happened today - a bridal shower speech that made me cry, seeing my gorgeous 4-month old niece, a movie with the kids, dinner out - but for me, the highlight was talking to Stanley. Because at the end of the day, while I'm not exactly star-struck, I do appreciate quality artistry combined with normality in the personality department.

And say what you will about living in Los Angeles, but I don't think the coolness factor of seeing a face that takes you to an imaginary world and context on, say, a weekly basis, shrouded in sunglasses at the drugstore checkout - I doubt it'll ever wear off completely.

For me, anyway. I'm so from Chicago.

Like Water for Zithromax

I know how annoying it is to listen to someone complain, in detail, about how they are sick. I really do. I even know how it's that much worse when the kvetching is about a cold, and your friend is relaying symtoms as if you've never had one before and have NO IDEA what suffering one is like.

We all pretend to be sympathetic to one another, but let's be honest - nobody really cares that much about someone else's sniffles and sneezes, and it's just about the most boring thing to discuss, particularly when on the receiving end of the conversation. Hell, doctors go through something like ten years of schooling just to nail the coping skills required for listening to people complain on a regular basis.

I know all of this. And so I've been good all week. I haven't so much as mentioned to you, my pretty friends, that I've been dealing with THE COLD FROM ABSOLUTE HELL that came and ate me alive on Monday night, after the whole Kodak Theater soiree.

In fact, I believe I've been super-efficient in handling the situation. I suspect it's a sinus infection, which I get a few times a year, and I'm guessing that the bizarre spikes and dips in body temperature are due to fever, as it's a tad early for menopause. But I haven't taken my temperature, because I'm not a baby. And I haven't asked my doc for antibiotics, either. I'm being really responsible, and am taking nothing more than Tylenol Sinus during the day, and around-the-clock doses of Mucinex, an expectorant my father swears by.

Because doctors nationwide seem to have come to the unanimous decision that antibiotics are being way over-prescribed, and they do tend to give women nasty infections that I know you brothers out there don't want to hear about, I'm game in taking the longer road to recovery. After all, I work at home, so it's not like I need to take a paycut just because my throat stings and my nose is running a marathon and my head feels like someone is simultaneously pounding on the inside just above my eyes while drilling a hole from the outside in and I keep breaking out in cold sweats and chills and I can't sleep because of the congestion and my muscles and joints ache incessantly though I've yet to join the gym.

Crap. Did I just let the details of my ailments slip? TOTAL accident, honestly (but dammit, that felt so good to put on someone else).

So let me tell you about the treatment now. Everybody loves talking about medicine, comparing notes or whatever. So Mucinex is this over-the-counter chalky horse pill that you take every twelve hours, and on which - to Y's delight - I always gag. I was not born into a family of smooth and cool pill-takers. Ask my brothers.

Mucinex loosens up any congestion from excess fluid you've got goin' on, and makes it ALL come out. Through your nose. Kind of non-stop. So you feel a little better, and after a few days, your infection is gone entirely, but in the meantime you go through tissues like my children do babywipes. For the past three mornings, I have had to spend the entire first hour after rising blowing my nose. Sometimes I swear a baby is going to pop out through there, the experience is so intense. And before you go, "Oh, gross!" on me, tell me you haven't been there yourself. Go ahead: look me in the eyes, and swear you have never wondered if maybe just a little bit of brain fluid was mixed in with that post nasal drip because if one more person told you that misery to such a degree was nothing more than a COLD, you would lose your mind entirely. Yeah.

I'll write again in a few days. When I can see the computer monitor again.

Handling the Truth

We're trying to get Elan to understand the importance of honesty, of telling the truth instead of the giant whoppers that tend to pop out of his mouth from time to time. It's all age-appropriate, I'm told. These romantic tales are usually woven when he feels cornered - when he knows he's done something wrong - and they are delivered with flourish: his eyes gazing upward and over to the left, the dead giveaway that he is, as you suspect, fabricating in a big way.

When Y and I aren't looking at the kids, and Ariel starts spontaneously screaming in pain, we usually look at Elan, who in turn looks upward and leftward, the gears in his little head turning feverishly as he tries to come up with something fantastic, yet believable. His stories usually involve heroic efforts on his part to save his brother, like having wacked Ariel's head in order to sweep off the massive, deadly spider that was preparing to snack on the little one's brain.

So lately we've been saying, when confronted with a weeping Ariel, "Elan? Can you please tell us what happened? We are sure it was an accident, and as long as you tell us the truth, we won't punish you or get angry." At this point, he usually makes us promise, swear on a bible that we mean what we say, and eventually a reasonably accurate explanation - shaved of a few further incriminiating details, I'm sure - comes out.

It's tough, though, because then we can't punish him, no matter how reproachful his actions. We make him apologize and everything, but I'm not sure he's learning more than one lesson there.

Anyway, because of a recent increase in lying, Y and I have had to step up our "Telling the Truth is Important" lessons, to keep up. Elan's noticed. And the other day, he came home from school telling me about how one of the assistant teachers in his classroom was leaving for the rest of the school year, and so she had given each of the kids a little goodbye gift.

Elan's gift, in his eyes, couldn't have been more fabulous: an old, obviously used ballpoint pen. Or as he affectionately referred to it, "penny." Elan likes nicknaming. I wanted to squeeze in another hour of work while the babysitter was still around, so I told him he could go play with the pen, so long as he only scribbled on paper (there've been incidents in the past). He gave me his word.

Things were quiet for about an hour, while I tapped away at my keyboard. Then, Elan appeared at the stairs, a terrified expression on his face. With the trembling hands of a recovering drug addict, surrendering his stash out of fear of a relapse, he thrust "penny" in my face.

"Um, Mommy? You need to take this pen from me. Um, can you just take it away from me, NOW? Please?"

"Why, hon? What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing. It's fine. Just take it! I'm, um, afraid I might draw with it if I keep it." With that, he raced back up the stairs and out of sight.

Now, I may get distracted from time to time, but I wasn't born yesterday. I marched upstairs after him, bracing myself for the damage. He led me to his bathroom. The last coloring incident had occurred in my bathroom, so I knew to be worried. But I saw...nothing.

"Elan? Let's have it. Tell me the truth. Did you color on the floor somewhere? The walls? Just tell me."

[Eyes wide, gaze heading up and left] "I didn't color anywhere. Really, I didn't. Look, see how the floor is all clean? And the walls? I didn't color on them at all!"

He grabs my hand, pulling me out of there. There's no evidence of a crime.

Except...

The toilet seat is closed. Elan normally doesn't even put the seat down after using the toilet, let alone the cover. Suspicious. He tries to stop me, but I'm quicker than him. I lift the seat.

The ENTIRE underside of the toilet seat is covered in ink, a graphic pattern somewhat reminiscent of Picasso's Blue Period, spiraling its way down the base of the toilet, and curving around the back. How hadn't I noticed this at first? Clever little deceiver, my son.

Elan sighs heavily.
"Well, then, you should probably also look at my legs, Mommy," he starts, defeatedly. He lifts his pant legs. His skin is heavily tattooed.

"Oh, Elan. Whay did you do this? What were you thinking?" I ask, dampening a washcloth. I'm too tired to be angry.

"I don't know. I just had the pen, and I just don't know what happened."
All he remembers is finding the forgotten drugs in a back pocket somewhere, the inward struggle that ensued thereafter so heavy and draining that his subconscious blocked it out of memory.

I have to be supportive. After all, he had reached out for help.

"Ok, sweetheart. Help me clean this up. It's not good for your skin and it makes our house look messy. Please DON'T do this again."

There's a pregnant pause. Then:

"Well, are you even proud of me that I told the truth?"
"But you didn't, really."
"Yes, I did. I told you about what I did on my legs."
Leave it to this child to find the one positive in his behavior and glorify it.

Fine. "Yes, I'm proud that you told me the truth about that."

"So can I have a popcicle?"


Maybe not an exercise in honesty, but Elan could teach a course in opportunism.

Of Just Family?

Well. Do I have news.
We have sold the fish tank.

Yes, you heard me correctly. Oh, you need me to speak up? I said, WE SOLD THE FISH TANK! WESOLDTHEFISHTANKWESOLDTHEFISHTANKWESOLDTHEFISHTANK!

I really have to hold myself back from putting in a thousand exclamation points right now, but I'm trying my hardest since I abhor! excessive! exclamation! points! in other peoples' writing.

Just let me say it one more time, for my own ears:
WESOLDTHEFISHTANKWESOLDTHEFISHTANKWESOLDTHEFISHTANK!

Thanks. I'll stop bugging you now and explain.
At the last minute, on our third try, just when we were beginning to give up hope, we got an Ebay bidder. Not my Russian, no. Someone new, someone who paid with Paypal ON THE SPOT, someone with an American name, someone not apparently shady at all. This is wonderful news. Our fish will, hopefully, have a happy new home, and it WON'T BE HERE. I'm going to rearrange the furniture like crazy.

Now, here's the sad part: Y is totally depressed about the sale. Not because we got a little less than we wanted to make off the tank - because he is sorry to see it go. After all of his strong, responsible decision-making, he is having a bit of cognitive dissonance.

Last night, we went to a school banquet at the Kodak Theater. We were really excited because a) it was at the Kodak Theater, and come on, how cool is that, and b)Wolfgang Puck was catering, and this was probably going to be our only chance to eat his food. I was, I'll admit, also hoping that old Wolfy might make a teeny tiny surprise guest appearance there, in which case I would completely freak out and fall at his feet in worship, but he didn't show. Obviously. Whatever. His people will be hearing from my people, is all I'm saying.

On my way to meeting Y at his office to go to the dinner, he calls my cell, and says, in the SADDEST voice I have ever heard, "By the way, we sold the fish tank." I was like, "Ohmygosh, hooray! That's the best news ever!" and he is all, "I am so depressed." So I say, why? We weren't going to make more than that anyway, think of all the money we're going to save monthly on electricity! I might even be able to use my blowdryer from time to time without blowing a fuse!

And he says, in all seriousness: "You can't put a price on friends."

Maybe a more sympathetic wife would have understood. I, on the other hand, said, "You sure as hell can. And those were some PRET-ty pricey friends. We'll get you drunk tonight and you'll forget all about it."

The dinner was fun, and it was set up on the stage, which was strange, but cool. After a couple (alright, maybe a few) glasses of wine - our kids were sleeping at Y's parents' for the night, cut me some slack - it was ALL I COULD DO not to grab the microphone and plop down on the floor to treat the attendees to a McPhee-esque rendition of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." Y's best friend offered me lots of money to do it, but I guess I'm not as young and ballsy as I used to be (hey, A!).

And then there was a comedian. This is where I begin to get serious, and I'll jump right to the moral of the story, which is "Grief Over Sold Reef Aquariums, Heavy, Delicious Food, and Alcohol Consumption Should Not Mix."

Rewind. The comedian was pretty good, and, slightly drunk, I was laughing my head off. Y, on the other hand, stopped laughing midway through the guy's performance, and started muttering, "I've heard this stuff somewhere before," over and over again. As the guy finished, and everyone applauded, Y goes "Ray Romano! Ray Romano does this EXACT routine! I have it on my iPod! This guy is a fraud!" And I'm going, I'm sure it's not exactly the same, relax. And Y relaxes, but apparently doesn't forget.

Then he does something I have never seen him do before. When the comedian passes by our table, Y pulls him aside, compliments him on the performance, and says: "Have you ever worked with Ray Romano? Because I thought I sensed some similarities in your, ahem, styles."

All at once, things got extremely awkward. The guy mumbled something about having indeed worked with Ray before, looked at his shoes, and excused himself. I couldn't believe Y had called him on it.

Later, in the car, I said as much. Y was like, "Really? You think it was rude?" and I'm like, "Oh my G-d, yes, and it was so unlike you!"

Because I'm usually the one to make the social faux pas - in fact Y always claimed I'd unintentionally make at lease one per social outing, like inadvertantly insulting our host's mother, or something, at the table. I'm not going to say he's completely wrong about that. But last night was Y's night, and it's remarkably unsatifying.

I'm sad that he's sad. He's put a lot of work into that tank, and in a way, it's one of his babies. He fed, nurtured, and symbolically changed the sheets in the middle of the night for those coral and anemones with an attentiveness normally reserved strictly for his family. I'm proud that he has achieved such a healthy aquatic environment, and that he did it entirely on his own, on his first attempt. And I know it's hard to want to put your accomplishments in a drawer, or in this case, in Phoenix, Arizona, instead of keeping them on display as a reminder that you're damn good at something, just because it's a bit expensive and space-consuming to do so.

But I won't lie. I am SO not sorry to see this thing go. And hopefully the loss won't do permanent damage to Y's personality, and last night was just a fluke, because I swear to G-d if he embarrasses himself - or someone else - like that one more time, I will grab that mike and sing my American Idol heart out just to take the focus, and some of the sting, off of him.

Not Above a Little Revenge

This morning, though the sky was overcast and the air a bit chilly, Elan begged us to take him to the beach. We tried reasoning with him, explaining why it wasn't a good day to be where it's ten degrees colder, but he wouldn't hear of it:
"You never take me to the beach, and I LOVE the cold." Neither of those was exactly true, but it had been awhile, so Y shrugged and said, "Sounds ok to me. We'll bring sweatshirts."

Elan turned out to be right, because we didn't even need our sweatshirts once we hit Malibu. It was gorgeous and warm and breezy and we wiled away the better part of the day building sandcastles and trying to escape the tide. And thanks to Chabad, Malibu is that much more lovable, because there is a kosher restaurant right on the coastline. I got to munch on a fantastic Mexican salad complete with rice, beans, guacamole, corn salsa, and grilled chicken. The only thing I love more than being at the beach is having something good to eat there.

Anyway. Y and I were standing in the shore, jumping waves with the kids, and watching people attempt to surf and kayak. I'm always talking about getting away to the beach alone with Y for a weekend, and though it's yet to actually happen in the five years we've been married, I still like to plan. So I said, "Doesn't kayaking look like fun? Let's totally do that on our vacation."

Y's response was: "Really? Kayaking appeals to you?"
"Absolutely. But if you're not into that, we could try water-skiing..."
"G-d, no. That sounds awful. You know I hate skiiing."
"Oh."

Later, I gave it another whirl. "So what about horseback riding? Would you want to do that?"
Y, with feeling this time: "Hell, no. It's gotta be a killer on the balls!"

Point taken.

"So is there anything you'd want to do, if we went away to the beach for a weekend, besides sitting still?"
"I could go for jetskiing. Yeah, I might want to jetski."

Motorcycles on water. So freakin' male. So freakin' NOT my dream day.

It was one of those moments when I pondered how on earth Y and I get on so well, considering how little we sometimes have in common. Our actual hobbies and extra-curricular interests couldn't be more different, and every now and then I am unhappily reminded of just that. I felt kind of down.

After awhile, we headed home. At this point, the boys were both over-stimulated and over-tired, and were on the emotional descend. Elan was upset about the sand stuck to his feet and the fact that he didn't have any more dry shirts to wear. Ariel didn't want to be told "no" about his rock-climbing efforts.

But once we started the windy, scenic drive through Malibu Canyon, the evening sun giving the mountains all around us a warm glow and Enya soothing our saltwater-stung senses, a strange quiet fell upon us. Sunburned and silent, we cruised with the car, the boys' eyes half-closed. Bliss.

Then, it was over. Elan's voice punctured the calm: "Mommy? MOMMY! DID YOU PAUSE POWER RANGERS MYSTIC FORCE WHEN WE LEFT?????" He's still trying to wrap his head around the whole concept of DVR (PS - did you know that Power Rangers only airs at 10:30 PM? Who the hell is watching the Power Rangers late at night? Suddenly my parenting doesn't feel quite as delinquent).

From then on, the drive home was mayhem. Once on the highway, Elan found a blow-up toy with a rattle/bell thing inside and began shaking it nonstop, the ringing blocking out any other - more preferable - noises entirely. Next, Ariel pitched in by screaming- and I mean screaming - a series of "MOM-MYDADDYMOMMYDADDY"s that were clearly meant to indicate that although he had nothing really important to say, he was kind of tired and dehydrated and cranky and he hated his seatbelt and he wanted some attention, dammit!

Y and I, heads pounding, did our best to placate, cajole, and ultimately threaten them into shutting the racket up, but to no avail. We were going about 65 MPH, seemingly to Hell.

Then, at the exact same time, saying nothing to one another, Y and I reached for the window controls and lowered all four windows, and the sunroof, all the way. Blasts of air came soaring into the car and straight into the backseat. Elan and Ariel were in a windtunnel. Ariel's long, crazy hair was flying into his eyes, uncontrollably, and Elan's hand were flailing about trying to protect his own. They both screamed bloody murder for us to make it stop. We looked at each other, grinning. Then we started laughing.

Like mad, evil villains, we kept it like that for maybe thirty seconds. But when we sealed the car back up, the kids were utterly silent, beaten at their own game. Together, and by means, admittedly, just short of actual abuse, we'd won the war.

And I felt so much better, because I remembered why Y and were together, what we most definitely had in common.

All we really need is the same, occasionally-viscous sense of humor, and a couple of rowdy little kids to torture.

A day well spent.

Quietude of Mind

My relationship with exercise has always been a warm one. I've pretty much stayed active my entire life, and though counter-intuitive to the degree of slapstick to which my body loans itself on a regular basis, I'm not completely unathletic.

Though my true love is tennis, I haven't had real success in finding a partner since the ninth grade (what up, T.G.!), so in the past few years, I've surrended to the allure of air-conditioned gyms.

Don't get me wrong -- I am not hard-core. And since I had Ariel, I've really done no formal exercising whatsoever, save for an intense, week-long "trial" at the gym Y belongs to (for raquetball purposes only, don't get excited) a year ago. Somehow, I never formally joined after the week expired. Instead, I got a double jogging stroller, which I adore, though I don't jog, and starting walking Elan to and from school.

Now, the walk is probably at most ten minutes long. But this is LA, and nobody walks ANYWHERE here unless they have to. So when I first started showing up at his school on foot, I got so much positive feedback in the form of "Good for you!"s and "That's why you're thin!"s that I became disillusioned into thinking it was a serious cardiovascular workout, as opposed to the stretching-my-legs-after-sitting-in-front-of-the-computer-all-day exercise in not being paralyzed that it really was.

Recently, however, I started to feel really fatigued, a little light-headed, and got daily headaches. When I reported my symptoms to the doctor (my dad, of course - why would I call a local number?) he asked if I was getting enough regular exercise. "Well, I walk to take Elan to school and back," I began. "Oh yeah, that's great honey. That's definitely enough - IF YOU'RE OVER 80!" was the response. Sarcasm is a family trait. He told me that young moms, especially, benefit immeasurably from real cardio - doubling your hearbeat for at least 30 minutes at least three times a week - and mentally, as much as physiologically. Apparently, we mommies need the endorphins, the stress-release more than most people.

For a good year, breastfeeding had been my major cardio. I burned an extra 500 calories a day without being much hungrier, and with a tiny bit of swimming and a lot of walking to supplement, I managed to lose my pregnancy weight without a whole lot of effort. But I am no longer breastfeeding, and my appetite, which has always been healthy, has resumed its reign of terror on my life. Plus, I want to be stronger. I had to step up the routine.

So I vowed to join a gym again. That was at the beginning of April. Since, on top of the other symptoms, I've been looking and feeling a little, uh, "rounder" than I prefer to keep myself of late, I went for the first time yesterday.

I did a little cardio, and then treated myself to a yoga class, which I enjoy almost as much as tennis. I've been to many yoga classes in as many different yoga centers over the years, and though it is always a slightly different experience, the general feeling I get from it -- all the frou-frou fluff aside -- is empowering.
Yoga forces you to become accutely aware of muscles you never even knew existed, to control your breathing while strengthing the core of your body.

And before you male scoffers scoff (you know who you are), answer me this: if it's so easy, and it's just stretching, how come none of you heteros ever show up to make us geriatric stretchers look bad?

Also, yoga does more for calming my mind than any forty-five minutes on a therapist's couch ever has.

That said, you meet some interesting characters. My mom taught me the names and moves to the basic yoga positions when I was very young, and I used to do it with her in the living room after she got home from work for fun. I now realize she was combining something she had to get done for herself with spending time with me, but like mother, like daughter, because Elan knew the term "Downward Facing Dog" at age two, and Ariel can currently execute a mean Warrior One. Our sessions usually end in both boys tackling my back and tickle torture retaliation, but I understand fully how the attempt is born from necessity.

So in college, when OM Yoga, in the Village, offered free classes to students at the New School, my clique and I gave it a whirl. I was the only one of us who kept it up. But that place was hard core. At OM they practiced the kind of yoga where you are in an extremely hot and stuffy and dark room, to induce sweating and cleansing of the impurities your body absorbs - or something. I'm a sweat-er to begin with, so I was drenched during those classes, and it smelled like feet, and though the class itself was remarkably challenging, the experience was too generally demoralizing to stick with for longer than a few sessions.

I tried a women's gym closer to home in Brooklyn. At the Sunday morning yoga class there were at least thirty attendees, leaving little physical space for each to do her thang. But the worst part was the commentary. These were middle-aged, slightly-overweight, Jewish yentes, trying to feel virtuous after a shabbos of stuffing themselves. It was not uncommon to hear, in a heavy Flatbush accent, hands on hips and gum smacking: "MY GAWD. She wants me to do that? Ha! Do I look like a teenager? Do I look like a gymnast?! I don't THINK so? What-EVAH! I'll be standing this one out, ha ha! Did I tell you about the gefilte fish recipe they all went crazy for yestahday? Grab a pen..."

Needless to say, it was hard to feel my breath in such surroundings, much less control whether it wandered through my diaphragm or lungs.

Then there was Irvine, where Y and I lived before moving down here. For those of you who are unfamiliar with Orange County, Irvine is the safest, and cleanest city in America. Literally. They brag about it on the local news all the time. Y always said, even the homeless there dressed well and were polite. The country-club style apartment complex where we lived offered $3 yoga classes twice a week, with the only male instructor I've ever had: a tiny, Hindu man, with a high voice and strong opinions. He insisted on calling every position by its proper name, and since they all sound equally like "Chicka-runga," I was perpetually lost.

I'm not Madonna, but I've never been the worst in a yoga class, either. For some reason, this little man hated me. He informed me that I was the least flexible person in the class, and stood nose-to-nose with me to make sure that he could hear the necessary whistle that indicates you are breathing deeply enough. I towered over him. I also never came back.

After two years' abstinence, yesterday's class was completely wonderful. I worked my ass off, yet felt such a total sense of calm and inner peace when I left that I shut off the radio in the car on the way home. I just wanted to hold on to that feeling as long as possible, knowing that a hectic evening of feeding and bathing little bodies, getting them to sleep at a reasonable hour, and putting together a dinner for Y and me lay ahead.

At the end of most yoga classes, the teacher kind of puts you to sleep. After an hour, and sometimes an hour and a half, of bringing your shoulder blades together while pulling your abs into your tailbone while altogether folded into a triangle and consciously breathing alternatively through your belly and your chest, you get to lie on your back, relax every muscle in your body, and listen to soothing music for five minutes. It's marvelous. At the class at Body Rush, yesterday, Stephanie murmered things like, "Empty your mind...when thoughts come, let them pass through you like clouds...don't connect with your thoughts..." during our nap.

And even though I was practically asleep, I couldn't do that. My thought process went like this:

"I am so relaxed...I am so happy I finally did this...let that thought go, dammit! Is this working? Am I really not thinking? Are my thoughts just passing through me like clouds? They are! I am so not connecting with the fact that I am thinking about thinking. Ho.ly. Shit. I am starving. No, the thought has passed. I'm light. No, I am ravenous. Is anyone else in this room thinking about food right now? Oh my G-d, I might not make it home without eating something. When was the last time I ate? Hours ago? Yesterday, probably! A bowl of Multi-Grain Cheerios? That's hardly called eating...SHUT UP! SHUT UP THOSE THOUGHTS! SWEET G-D, LET THEM PASS THROUGH LIKE CLOUDS ALREADY!"

Then, we were slowly brought back to life. The teacher told me I had done really well, and she was glad I hadn't pushed it too hard. Um...ok. I mean, it was the hardest I had worked in two years, but thanks for making me feel like I'm one of the elderly women doing aqua aerobics with two-pound waterproof weights, in their swim caps, in the POOL.

Them fighting words. I will be back to that class. I will show Stephanie how hard I can push it. But today my goal is try out Cardio Barre, the ultra-trendy LA workout of choice that just happens to take place a couple of blocks away, and a few friends of mine swear by.

And maybe a good massage will help me better achieve quietude of mind? Because my shoulders feel like I've been in a train wreck...

Russian Men

One of the first people Y insisted on introducing me to when I first came to LA was Tony, his barber. This gave me the distinct impression that Y came from a small, close-knit neighborhood not unlike Stars Hollow, and I was quite terrified.

Once I did, however, I quickly understood why Y wanted me to meet Tony. A petite Italian with a thick accent, a shock of brown hair that fell across his forehead, and the owner of the "Modern Barbership," which quite obviously hasn't been updated in a good fifty years, the man was easy to love. He fluttered through the shop, light on his feet, sweeping up shorn hair and brushing the strays off a client's neck. He was also kind and caring, and had an utterly devoted, largely Jewish clientele, families for which he groomed multiple generations.

He always cut Y's hair too short, but the actual haircut was just a byproduct of the real point in visiting Tony: to see an old friend.

I came to understand that while women tend to tell their life stories to their hairdressers, to talk and shmooze straight through their blow-outs, those relationships were as transient as that between a woman and her lipgloss: inseparable, until Lancome comes out with Juicy Tubes. Then she's moved on to the next best thing, with nary so much as a goodbye.

But at a men's barbershop, where little is spoken, and a sense of complete calm paints the atmosphere, tight bonds are formed. And these bonds are not lightly broken.

So when Tony, who must be in his sixties, recently decided he'd had enough twelve-hour days on his feet, and sold his shop -- his legacy -- to a Russian man named Alex, and only came to cut hair 3 days a week, the neighborhood men were understandably heartbroken.

Things wouldn't have been so bad if Alex didn't seemingly have the Worst Personality In History. But he was cold as ice, completely unwilling to customize his service for his clients, and gave everyone the same Russian Step haircut that hasn't been cool since 1991.

My first encounter with him was when Elan was still terrified of haircuts. But he had grown to trust Tony, who let Elan sit on my lap to cut his hair. Yes, we were both covered with itchy snippets by the time he was finished, and we are thankfully past that stage, but it got the job done at a time when it was necessary. We came to the shop one day to find only Alex there. Elan wasn't happy about Tony's absense, but agreed to have his hair cut so long as he could sit on my lap. Alex wouldn't hear of it, and when I informed him that Tony never had a problem accomodating us, he encouraged me to leave. Livid, I spun on my heel and marched out. We came only on Tuesdays and Fridays, when Tony was there, from then on.

But I came to notice that on the days Tony was working, there would be a line of men patiently waiting their turn for him, while Alex sat idly, nobody wanting him near their ears with a scissors in hand. And on the days Tony wasn't there, I'd walk by the shop and find it completely empty, Alex napping or reading a magazine. Yes, he was a generally unpleasant person to be around, and I tried to remind myself of that when I saw him. But depsite my greatest effort, I felt myself softening. I mean, who knew why he was such a grouch? And everyone was talking about how much they disliked him. He was the underdog, and I decided to root for him.

One day, I witnessed him cutting a fellow Russian's hair, and he was chattering away in Russian with the man, animatedly, chuckling and smiling. He was a different man. I realized that he probably was simply not well-versed in American friendliness -- maybe he needed to be taught.

My plan was simple: chip away at Alex's paper mache exterior until it all crumbles and the flesh and blood part of him reveals itself. I started slowly- when I came into the shop, instead of calling "hey Tony!" as per usual, I'd go, "Hey Tony! Hey Alex! How are you guys?" At first, Alex looked like he'd been smacked in the face - he just didn't understand my greeting him. He grunted and nodded in response. But the next time I came in, in addition to greeting him individually, I addressed him directly while chatting with Tony during Elan's haircut. I'd make a comment about the boys, roll my eyes, and look straight at Alex with a smile: "You know how kids are!"

It wasn't easy, and I won't deny there were setbacks. But I was making progress. For example, I noticed Alex watching us like a hawk while Elan helped himself (and everyone else in the shop) to endless cups of water from the cooler while we were waiting our turn, and I knew those looks meant that he didn't approve. But instead of glaring back, I fixed him a huge smile and said something like, "At least he's being quiet, right? And water's healthy!" And Alex gave a confused half-smile, grunted something, and turned back to his magazine. Ah, how sweet the smell of victory.

I kept this up over several haircuts, and eventually Alex's half-smile became full-blown. One day, a few months after I had launched Project A, something happened. I came into the shop, both kids in tow, and even before Tony did, Alex immediately smiled and said hello. Then he did something he had never done before: he SPOKE TO MY CHILDREN. In A NICE VOICE. He yanked lollipops out of a drawer and thrust them at the boys, who bore the familiar bewildered expressions of having been smacked in the face. While Tony, equally pleased, hacked away at Elan's mop, Alex began peppering me with questions about my kids' vaccinations, and which reactions they did or did not have because his grandchildren, twins, had gotten fever from the Hep shot and you know now that he thought about it in general the boy is a little slower than the girl who is really very smart but as he gets older the boy seems to be catching up develpmentally and how old was Elan when he started walking and did I know they get so excited to see him and they called him a nickname for Grandpa in Russian and his daughter was about my age, actually, and...

OH. MY. G-D.

Tony looked as stunned as I felt, though I tried to act like this sudden comeraderie between Alex and I was actually perfectly normal, so as to not scare him off. I had, indeed, uncovered something that was most definitely human, in Alex. Since that day, we've all been fast friends, and I felt that I could handle any Russian men that might grace my future.

As I've mentioned, we have yet to sell our fish tank, though we've had lots of inquiries about it. The most interest we've garnered, however, has come from a man who we've never met, but by the language in his emails and the sound of his name, we've pegged him as most likely Russian. Because he kept trying to bargain down our asking price, and in such a patronizing way, Y, testostorone summoned, refused to sell to him.

But then, nobody else bid. So I begged Y to let me contact the Russian, to sell to him. After all, I figured, I could certainly work my magic again.

Finally, I got Y to agree to letting me email and re-offer the tank to the Russian. I drafted a really nice message, but a week later, he still hasn't written back, and I don't know how to take this. Is he playing mind-games with us, to find out how desperate we are and what minimum price we'd accept? Does he no longer check his email? Is he just not interested, and isn't polite enough to let us know? How do I access the humanity under this paper mache facade?

I'm at a loss about this one, and am as desperate to get rid of the tank as I've ever been. Maybe I should ask Alex?

Bring in the Clown

I seem to be developing a habit of making a fool of myself at children's' birthday parties. It's getting a little ridiculous, and more than a little physically painful.

It started at Elan's friend Joey's 5th, which was a bowling party. Now, I'm not sure his parents, friends of ours, didn't later regret the decision to willingly place large, heavy objects in the hands of twenty maniacal little people in a public forum, but I also doubt they planned on the one accident of the day happening to ONE OF THE PARENTS.

Elan wasn't so interested in bowling -- he preferred the licorice jar. But Ariel took one look at the bowling alley and thought he had died and gone to heaven.

Everyone was in a good mood, and I offered to take Ariel bowling. He chose a gorgeous, shiny, pink ball, and together we tossed it at the pins. Then, Ariel SPRINTED DOWN THE LANE AFTER THE BALL. I didn't have time to think, but my maternal instincts kicked in quickly. I ran after my boy. Before I could catch him under the arms, though, my three-inch-platform-sandaled feet ("Nah, you don't have to wear bowling shoes, none of the parents are!") flew up in front of me in a move I have only seen the likes of on episodes of Tom and Jerry. I landed on my butt - HARD. Ariel came down a second later, his head smashing onto my knee, which would later bear testimony to the incident in the form of an enormous circular welt that changed color bi-daily thereafter.

We sat there, stunned, my body smarting. Ariel began to cry. Soothing him, I felt good knowing that I prevented his head from smacking the lane floor, the way my rear had, until I remembered that the entire party was taking place behind me. Everyone, by default, had to have witnessed my cartoon-style fall. Superb.

After a moment, a bowling alley attendee appeared, eyes wide, helping me up. "You know, those floors are waxed! You really shouldn't go past the line!"

Um, thanks.

Then, the birthday boy's grandmother: "Wow! Did you pass out? Are you ok? It really looked like you passed out there!"

Seriously -- terrific.

Y, to my supreme irritation, was grinning ear-to-ear. "Only you, babe. Only you and Ariel - my two little impulsive children!" Like it was my choice to follow the ball. I flicked him off.

The host of the party was very sweet and called me later that night to make sure I was okay ("Oh my gosh, it was nothing! Ha ha! I'm completely fine. Such a klutz!" I ached from head to toe.) and attempt to reassure me that nobody saw it happen.

I was hoping I could handle today's party without any major embarrassment.

It was quite cute, actually, the invitation said to bring the kids' bathing suits but it didn't say why. It turned out that they had set up an enormous, blow-up water slide in the front yard, with lots of little kiddy pools strewn about, and the kids were having a blast. Elan was too afraid to try going down the water slide, which didn't particularly surprise me, but he was convincing his best friend not to go down either and this seemed to be bothering the other kid's dad.

I felt sure that if they both just tried it once, they'd have an amazing time, and would enjoy the party that much more. They kept climbing up the inflatable stairs, and then wimping out near the top, where a rainstorm of cold water sprinkled the entry to the slide. Everyone was trying to convince the boys to go down, several fathers (Y was home with Ariel) offered to climb up and give them a push, but I knew Elan, and I knew he wouldn't go down unless I was the one to push him. So, in a moment of true temporary insanity which I can only explain as what happens when you stand baking in 100-degree heat for a half hour, I decided to climb up the stairs myself, shove the giggling Elan down the slide - myself.

Though the "stairs" were pretty narrow, I managed to get up there without falling, and without popping and deflating the whole thing. But I was soaked and dirty, and the landing at the top was tiny, and when I tried to get the boys to go down they became terrified and resisted with all of their strength. Willing to concede that this hadn't been my most informed idea, I figured I'd just go back down the way I came and hope for the best.

But by this point all of the other children, slippery in wet bathing suits, had scrambled up the stairs behind me, and were bouncing around, waiting their turns. Suddenly, they got tired of waiting, and just started stomping up, around, and over me in one big sunscreen-scented mudpuddle AS IF I DIDN'T EXIST. By the time the coast was clear, and I half-climbed, half-slid back down, I was a sopping, stringy-haired, grass-stained monster.

I tried to laugh it off for a little while, but after an intense encounter with the crudite and dip, I bailed.

I swear to G-d, Y is handling the next party.

At least I remembered to bring a gift this time.