So Precocious

"Mo-om, I'm do-one!"
"K, I'll be right there."
"MOMMY! COME WIPE ME! I'M REA-DY!"
"I heard you the first time! I'm coming!"

Arrives at the bathroom, baby wipes in hand, where Elan sits perched upon a Blue's Clues toilet-seat potty, a book open on his lap. Upon seeing me, he stands on the stool under his feet, his expression curious but unreadable.

I glance in the bowl behind him, only to find it empty.

"Elan? Is this a joke? You didn't go to the bathroom!"

"I knew you would 'hink that, Mommy. I knew you would 'hink I didn't make any'hing."

"But...You did?" I ask, patience rapidly evaporating, unsure of how I'd let this become a conversation rather than a simple interaction.

"Yes, I did. I made a lot of poop. But I flush-ted it while I was making, because it was smehwling sooo bad! I flushted it after each one because I didn't want to smehwl it! When you flush it while you poop, it doesn't smehwl up the whole bathroom!" he finished, his little face glowing with pride, the smile reflecting his certainty that he'd coined this trick.

A skill that far too-many adult, public-restroom patrons have yet to hone. And he figured it out all by himself.

I'm choked up.

'Rent Control

All it was was a trip home. I just got back to LA, after an unsuccessful standby attempt on Friday that involved a three-hour wait, running around O'Hare, and a really positive outlook prior to a last-minute plane de-sizing that meant 100-plus displaced passengers and no chance in hell for anyone hoping to go standby.

I went back to my parents' house, changed into pajamas, and didn't change out of them until this morning when I got up at 5 to try again to catch a plane. I will never understand people who can go to bed after midnight, as I did, and wake up chipper at 5 (as my dad did, and does all the time). I haven't gotten a whole lot of sleep since Ariel was born, but that is soooo different from this morning's process of putting on lights! and getting dressed! and leaving the house at 5 AM instead of stalking around a dark apartment, fetching "babas" while half asleep. People like my dad don't tell you that your eyes will actually hurt when you rub water into them at that hour.

Though I got back here in the morning, I just woke up from a three-hour recovery nap. I'm not entirely sure what day it is.

Why, oh why, was this little trip home so exhausting? I wish there was a simple answer. But there are, I guess, a few simple factors that worked against me:

- Ariel got croup the day after we arrived, which meant a few days of watching and listening to him pant and gasp and wheeze for air, his chest rising and falling as rapidly as if he'd run a marathon, though he was lying still.

- Elan came down with a 24-hour virus that included only high, steady fever, washing him with a fatigue so heavy that he barely raised an arm from the couch in the living room for its duration, analgesics doing little to cool his small, lithe body down, his skin so hot that even the touch of warm water made him shiver and beg for mercy.

- I had way too many people to see in too short a time, and I wasn't willing to miss seeing any of them at least once. This meant that every free moment to rest that I had was spent feeling guilty, berating myself for wasting the opportunity to bond with friends and family I rarely get to see.

- My parents were really into the day trips. And it was bloody hot.

- The post-nasal-drip I had before I left not only didn't improve, but seemed to get worse with each day of exposure to new pollens.

- Y has a new, company-issued cell phone that's more or less a Blackberry, and he's glued to it 24-7, checking his email even at 1 AM, on the short walk between the theater where we saw "The Devil Wears Prada" (cute!) and the car we used to drive there. Watching this new-found addiction develop was not only incredibly annoying, but made me tired every time.

Despite everything, I had a nice time in Chicago, and the kids seemed to have a ball with my parents, which is my main priority. They played hard, searched for LOTS of bugs (cicadas! ooh, fun!), had nightly teddy-bear picnics with my mom, caught fireflies, got soaked in Millennium Park, and generally drank and ate more Slurpees and ice cream than I'd normally allow in a two-month span of time.

But my father seemed perpetually disappointed, because few of our days there unfolded exactly as planned. I've learned to expect the unexpected with toddlers, and I thought my parents, after having raised five themselves, would have been on board. Instead, my dad, who had planned his time together with E and A to a tee, appeared upset every time they got upset, which, at their ages, could be several times a day and the mere result of one looking at the other funny (or yanking his hair, biting his arm, or trying to shove him down the laundry chute, in equal measure).

I felt like my dad kept taking his frustrations out on me, which I didn't understand, and faced more parental criticism in the microcosm of the week than I had in the almost eight years since I'd lived with them. This, among other reactions, made me "TY-URD," as Ariel would say.

Last night, before hitting the sack, I addressed the issue with my dad, and we had a heartfelt talk (crying - me, shrugging - him) in which I told him as much. He tried to explain where he was coming from, as a grandparent who had never known his own very well, thousands of miles from me, Y, and the boys, constantly feeling like he was missing out on being a bigger part of their lives. This sense of loss led him to feeling like he'd grown apart from me, which - I'm guesstimating a little here - compelled him to try and compensate by doing a whole lot of parenting in a small, condensed amount of face-time, as well as to want every minute of our week to be perfect. In the spirit of relative brevity, I'm simplifying majorly. But moral of the story: When you are close with your parents, having kids and living far away from said parents is emotionally difficult, complicated, and draining, and the toll it takes may, at times, manifest itself via uncharacteristic or inappropriate interactions with one another, when finally given the chance.

I haven't written about this issue yet, the one of living so far from my parents, although it's always paramount in my daily life. I haven't touched upon it, because, well - it's touchy. Though I'm otherwise happy in LA, being apart is tough on me and tough on them, and there is no easy solution. I was never surprised that it was this hard - I was only surprised by my parents' response.

You see, I was brought up with the mantra "You can do anything you set your mind to," as mother's milk. My parents always instilled my brothers and I with the confidence that our potential was endless, that life was huge and just waiting to happen to us, if we'd only show some interest. They think big: if you show an interest in cinema at age twelve, you're going to Hollywood one day (he did)! If you keep the frog legs from the science class dissection in a zip-lock bag to study further at home, hell, you're not weird - you're going to cure cancer one day (he probably will)! Teenage angst makes you argue with us - can you say future law-yuh? You might like Engineering? Don your purple because we hear N-O-R-T-H-W-E-S-T-E-R-N calling!

Me? I was going to be a famous artist or designer with my own company, label, whatever, probably living abroad in Europe, wearing all black and earning regular quotes in Vanity Fair.

My parents, and I give them plenty of credit for this, never judged or criticized that which we showed a propensity towards, or tried to mold those aspirations. They have always supported anything my brothers and I wanted to do, so long as we aimed for the stars in so doing. The only expectation of us was that we attempt to self-actualize, to use any G-d-given gifts at our disposal, to make life matter.

NEVER was there the stipulation, oh yeah, um, PS- you better live next door to us!

I had NO IDEA that I wasn't allowed to move away from Chicago. They'd always made it seem that the world was my oyster. I oystered, to California, some of my brothers' lives took them here as well, and suddenly "Just Do It" became "Are You Trying to Kill Us?!"

Ok, I exaggerate - a little. But I did hear things like, "Well, it's just that, the daughter traditionally stays near the parents."

This. From the least traditional couple I'd ever met. From the liberal, ex-hippies who were equally feminist, who'd always taught me that my aspirations were no less valid than my brothers', nor was their confidence in my future success.

The boys move away near their wives' families, but the daughter traditionally moves back home to be near her parents.

It was as if I'd had the wind knocked out of me. I'd simply had no idea. Nor did it really make much sense to me, as a blanket statement. Not that I didn't want to live near my parents - I adore them. But I'd never felt like it would kill them to be apart from me, either. They are both busy, accomplished professionals, with millions of extra-curricular interests between the two of them, the kind of couple that doesn't really sleep much or watch a lot of TV because there is always something more productive they could be doing, even if it's just biking 30 miles through an Amish cornfield because hell, they've got a Monday morning off, what on earth are they supposed to do with that time, go to lunch? ARE YOU MAD?!

They are hardly the sweet, feeble, live-through-their-children, retire-to-matching-rocking-chairs at 5 pm to nibble bowls of Cherry Garcia and catch the evening news while waiting for the phone to ring kind of Granny and Gramps you might expect to make such a statement. I was never given the impression that a classic dose of Jewish parental guilt was just around the corner.

But they'd taught me to be fearless - to handle changes in life with a brave smile and wide-eyed optimism, to learn, rather than complain. So when my life took me from one coast to another, where I had no personal roots or history, where I'd be starting a new chapter without a clue where it would go - I put on a brave smile and chose to be optimistic. I worked hard at getting to know the natives and, even though I sometimes feel like a fish from a different pond, I make myself focus on the good. I talk to my mom and/or dad most days of the week, we try to see each other at least every three months, and they read this blog daily, which, they say, helps.

I miss them every single day and am hopeful that the separation is only temporary, in one way or another. I hate that it sometimes gets too painful for any of us to handle elegantly. But I'm in chin-up mode.

Reese Witherspoon is "just tryin' to matter," and I hear that. I'm just trying to self-actualize. I'm so thankful for the tools my parents gave me, the ones that make that feel possible, even amid the chaos of young motherhood.

And I feel better after my nap this afternoon. I hope my daddy takes one, too. Thanks for a great week, guys. I love you.

The Storm That Wasn't

Even though my parents live far away, and Y's work schedule doesn't allow for much spontaneous vacationing, he and I try not to travel apart very often. I have friends and family who will spend weeks away from their spouses, several times a year, but I've never been able to understand how. It's not that Y and me are so mushy and gushy and madly in love that we need to be together every second of every day. We just really don't enjoy splitting up a lot. We've come to function rather efficiently as a team, especially when it comes to handling the kids, and it's tougher when we don't have each other to depend on for help.

Also, Y isn't one of these fathers who see the children as primarily the wife's domain. Even if I am the one to do most of the tush-wiping and feeding, he feels just as much ownership over them as I do, and as much connection to them as well. So for him to spend a few days away from the boys is just as painful as it'd be for me to - if not more so. After all, I'm the one to do most of the tush-wiping, feeding...

When I started to itch for Chicago at the beginning of the summer, I figured I'd have to go without him. Then, miraculously, his company decided to send him to a conference in Chi-town this week, which meant that we could tag along, be with him, and still only pay for two tickets. I decided I'd stay two days and one night longer than him, to give my parents more time with us, and be back in LA with Y before the weekend. It seemed like a foolproof plan. He left Wednesday morning.

Last night, my flight was canceled. There were no flights, on any airline, going to any airport in or near Los Angeles all night long. Everything for today was already re-booked solid. Which means the boys and I are here until Sunday morning. And Y will spend the weekend alone [sob!].

This wouldn't be so unbelievably aggravating - I mean, normally I'd be thrilled at the chance to spend more time with my family - if it were for a good reason. But I'll tell you about the reason: yesterday evening, for about 10 minutes max, a dark cloud settled over Chicago. There was a 10-minute tornado watch. It did not rain. The wind didn't howl. There was no hail, fire, or parting of the Red Sea. The cloud simply passed, just as suddenly as it had appeared.

But OH MY GOD! CANCEL EVERY FLIGHT! THAT'S RIGHT - YOU HEARD ME CORRECTLY - I SAID EVERY FLIGHT! This is weather-related, baby! And with weather-related delays, we don't have to give out any vouchers! Cancel 'em, cancel away, then do a little jig, go home and get drunk because THERE WAS A CLOUD! And we all saw it.

This is kind of what I imagine took place over at O'Hare last night. Actually, that's exactly what I imagine. Because every agent on the phone, for which, by the way, there was a 90-minute estimated wait-time, mentioned the "terrible weather." Yet all I saw was clear skies. How terrible.

We went to the airport last night, because we had been re-booked on another flight, that was, by the time we got there, eventually cancelled as well. Of course, we had to wait in line for two hours to be told as much. With both kids, hitting and kicking each other, way past their bedtime. It was a thing of beauty. Then we were sent home.

Last night, after a hellish day that didn't begin with missing my flight, I didn't sleep a wink. Virgos don't like messes very much, and the whole airport saga was messy. In the middle of night I realized that severe nausea was to blame for my tossing and turning. For the first time ever, a mixture of fatigue, dehydration, and stress took a physical toll on me. I threw up upon waking at 6 AM.

All this, to be with my husband for the weekend. I also have no clothes left here, as I sent all checkable bags back with Y so I wouldn't have to deal with baggage claim on my own.

I'm off to the airport to try standby. I've got nothing else planned for today, other than R&R, so I have little to lose but time. We'll see what happens.

Elan's re-cap of the reason we couldn't fly?

"Because the cu-loud Saba (my dad) showed me was just SO BIG [hands cupped together, like, uh, I'm guessing, a cloud?] that the air-pu-lanes [Russian? Polish?] just couldn't go around it, or through it, and so they just couldn't come pick us up? Because of that big cu-loud? And THAT'S WHY?"

My thoughts exactly, Elan. Wish me luck.

Here's Hoping They Don't Grow Up Stupid

I said I'd only write while in Chicago if something inspired me to. I figured I'd want a break from the computer, and in all honesty, the tendonitis in my wrists is significantly better after just a few days' withdrawal.

Truth be told, since leaving LA Thursday night, there've been a number of occurrences worth writing about, and I've been trying to wrap my head around each one. But for now, I'm going to stick with the most recently compelling event, which took place last night.

My parents like to take off work when I bring the kids to town and plan real daytrips and outings, usually involving the outdoors, to ensure that we don't spend our limited time together zoning out in front of the TV. It's tiring, but usually fun. Yesterday, we took the boys to a mini-amusement park during the day, Kiddie Land, which caters to the least-pretty clientele I've seen in a long time, I'm just saying. And every single ride for "kiddies" the height of mine is simply a variation on the last, revolving in a strict circular motion. There was a roller coaster there, but Y said it looked too "splintery" to go on, and I kind of agreed. There was also a pirate ship that rocks back and forth until you're almost upside down, and I took one look at it and was instantly eleven years old again, there with my day camp, vomiting into a garbage can and sipping 7-Up afterward. I remembered that pirate ship all too well.

Kiddie Land wasn't our most informed daytrip. But nonetheless, we had a decent time, picked up burgers and ate dinner on the beach in Wilmette - a really suburban, preppy, white-bread area. The weather was incredible, and at 6 PM, the lake was still crowded with teenagers and families. Elan and Ariel are never happier than at a beach, and I like that I can relax a little bit when taking them there - with so much space for them to run and play, I don't have to worry constantly about losing them.

So once we'd eaten, we headed towards the edge of the water. Y looked out at the lake and commented on how calm the waves were, compared to those in the ocean at home. I hadn't been to the lakefront in Chicago for many years, and I'd forgotten how pristine they keep the sand here, how well-kept and organized the bathrooms and patio tables were. It was really lovely.

We stood ankle-deep in the water, talking, and watching Elan meticulously fill a bucket with water as each wave rolled over his feet, and then run to pour it into a hole he'd dug in the sand nearby. We talked about how he was a man on a mission, how, in fact, he was always on some sort of mission, how seriously he took every task he engaged in.

Behind us, Ariel was leading a wild game of Frisbee with my father and brother, diving into the sand and rolling around in it with abandon, and we talked about how tactile he was, how he was ruled by his senses, how he couldn't resist the pull of trying and feeling something new against his skin.

Ariel giggled and shrieked with delight, running over the disk he'd himself thrown.
Elan furrowed his brow and focused on timing his trips to the hole with the pace of the tide.

Next to us, four teenagers were laughing and leaping into the waves. Two boys, about fifteen years old, one thickly built and the other so thin that from a profile view, we wondered if he was even there, attempted to show off for two younger-looking girls, likely sisters, in green, tight sweatpants with the label "Hollister" plastered across the butt. The boys belly-flopped and pushed each other, and the girls rolled their eyes and giggled, and Y and I smiled at each other, as if to say, "Yeah, they look dumb, but who can't relate?"

I turned my attention to my feet for awhile, rolling the wet sand between my toes. When I glanced up again, I noticed that the two boys had swum really far out, past the buoys, and that one was flailing his arms, his head appearing and disappearing from the surface of the increasingly-turbulent water. His friend looked to be about ten yards away from him, and was treading water steadily, his gaze on the other kid. The girls, still on the sand, were smiling and pointing, but their smiles were rapidly fading.

I shaded my eyes with my hand and peered more closely. "Y?" I asked. "Is he okay?"
"No...He isn't," Y answered, his voice worried.

At the same moment, a lifeguard came tearing into the water. We could tell she was female, and she sprinted through the waves at incredible speed, with remarkable strength, swimming when her feet no longer touched earth. By now, the boy was really falling under, out of view, and his friend was still frozen, useless.

The lifeguard reached the boys, and single-handedly towed the heavier one to the shore with a float, screaming "CALL 911!" as she got closer. For a weird second, nobody did anything. Then I told Y to dial.

911 got the fire department on the phone, and the lifeguard dragged the boy's body onto the sand next to us. I noticed that his face was the color of the water, a blue-ish green that faded at the neck. He was conscious, but lay limp, his eyes rolling around. A crowd had gathered, the beach's emergency services arrived, we were told to hang up with the ones we'd called. They huddled around the boy, gently slapping his cheeks, asking questions.

Y and I backed off and tended to our own kids, who were blissfully unaware of the chaos a few feet away from them. Elan was still hard at work, and Ariel had taken the drop-and-roll to a new level. With a gesture of the chin, we silently agreed to pair off, each of us watching one of the boys, making a barrier between them and the suddenly unfriendly water.

Eventually, paramedics came and decided to carry the kid off the beach on a stretcher. We watched as the lifeguard breathlessly recounted the rescue again and again for the captive audience - I couldn't hear her speak, but the way her arms flew about, I got the gist of it. We went back to playing with the boys, who never noticed a thing, and I toyed with the idea of pointing out the kid on the stretcher to them, to scare them good about the dangers of being reckless in water. I looked at how happy they were, just-four and not-even-two, and decided against it.

As the sun started to set, my family talked about what we'd witnessed, each confessing that we'd thought it looked like the boy was faking it, trying to get attention. We'd watched him defy rational thought, as he doggy-paddled out too far, clearly an amateur swimmer and with too much paunch to pack a lot of endurance. The consensus: He was an idiot.

"And what was the deal with his friend?" Y asked. "He wasn't even trying to save the guy. He wasn't moving! He was, like, two feet away!"

"I know," I said. "I think he was frozen - terrified. And not too smart."

As we were leaving, we passed the lifeguard who'd saved Idiot's life. From far, from the way she'd charged through the lake, she'd appeared Amazonian. Up-close, she proved to be a tiny girl, tanned, blond, with bright aqua eyes. Her T-shirt was drenched, her hair hanging in strings over her shoulders, and her face was still beet-red from the effort. We applauded her, congratulated her rescue. She thanked us, told us in a thick Chicago accent that we were "so cute," and related the story from her own perspective - from the weight and listlessness of his body, she'd thought the boy she was hauling in was dead.

"How old are you?" My mom asked her. "Eighteen?"
"Seventeen." She replied.

Seventeen. Maybe a couple of years older than the boy in the water. Than the girls in the Hollister pants twisting strands of hair nervously next to their crush's oxygen-deprived body. Adrenaline had kicked in, aging the lifeguard immeasurably, taking a child to heroic proportions. The skinny boy, the pointless friend, hadn't the same response.

We'd thought the ocean beaches were dangerous.
But stupid is as stupid does. You can never account for the will of G-d, but when your brain is on the fritz, any situation, any environment, any body of water is an ocean of danger.

I scrubbed Elan and Ariel clean in the bathtub when we got home, looked into their unphased, sleepy eyes, and immediately thought of Idiot's hysterical ones, lying on the sand. I thought of his parents, and how they'd feel when they heard about their kid's brush with death. Would they think it was a fluke? Would they know he'd chosen badly? Would they yell at him, through thankful tears, and call him stupid?

I looked back at my kids, recalling their intelligent, thoughtful play at the beach, and then tilted my face up to the ceiling, issuing a quiet, fervent prayer: Here's hoping they don't grow up stupid.

A Sorry Excuse

I'm guessing the same people who read blogs probably also like reality TV shows. My hypothesis is based loosely upon the notion that blogs are typically journals of sorts, and those who read them are - in a way - peeping Toms. Now before you go all hostile on me for that statement, please bear in mind that I include myself in this group, I'm an avid, and in some cases daily reader of several blogs and I also love many reality shows.

That said, I also hate big, epic movies, especially period ones that use a major Hollywood celebrity to portray the leading role. And I know why. I lack the ability to look at someone like Russell Crowe all gussied up in armor and loin cloths and believe that he is, for all intents and purposes, a Roman gladiator. Or even that Kiera Knightly is Elizabeth Bennet, though I've heard that Pride and Prejudice is really good. Instead, I look at those films and the only thoughts running repeatedly through my head are: That's Russell Crowe, that's Russell Crowe, he looks absolutely ridiculous, this is the 21st century, and how on earth does he take his job seriously when this is clearly a set and though we can't see them, there are cameras everywhere? Doesn't he feel like a ten-year-old playing dress-up?

It's terrible. It bothers Y to no end, because as soon as I see a preview for one of those HUGE movies that everybody can't WAIT to see, all I want to do is yawn and maybe even laugh. I can't suspend reality for two or three hours - it even annoys me.

I'm not saying I need a documentary, I LOVE fictional movies set in the present day, particularly if they offer an accurate glimpse into human nature. Y claims those bore him. They are the only kind of movie that entertain me.

So, it probably comes as no surprise that I like blogs. After all, reading them is like eavesdropping, right? You get to observe bits and pieces of self-reflection that might have absolutely nothing to do with you, but from which you might be able to learn something. It's good, clean entertainment - like watching a home-improvement show on HGTV.

But reality TV serves a completely different purpose, and it's primarily because they tend to scrape the absolute bottom of the barrel of homosapien samplings to choose apt contestants. And the editors and producers are really good at their jobs, so they know how to cut and snip pieces together to reflect the worst possible sides of these (all-too-eager-to-be-humiliated) 15-minutes-of-famers.

I like smart movies, sitcoms, and blogs, written by smart people. So why can't I miss shows like "The Bachelor," and even (YES I AM WHITE-TRASH THANK YOU FOR ASKING), I'll admit, "The Real World?"

Because they make me feel so good about myself.

Granted, there's the aspect of watching a train-wreck - it's so horrible, it should be upsetting, and yet you can't look away. But the biggest pull is the urge to boost my self-esteem, to establish that there are many, many people in this world dumber than I am, and while I know objectively that's not a great thing for mankind - on certain days, it's all the affirmation I personally need.

Like when a client wants ten-thousand revisions to a layout I had thought to be perfection, pixelated. And I think I'm a terrible artist.

Or when my kids try my patience until I snap and yell at them and pledge to give them up for adoption and am immediately plagued by guilt so heavy and misleading that I become sure that the DCFS will knock on my door momentarily.

Or when Y and I have a fight and I am convinced that our relationship is dysfunctional.

Or when I think I'm a bad daughter...Or a bad pet-owner...Or an absent friend.

You get the idea. Everyone's got their down-days - they should flip channels awhile.

My latest obsession, fittingly, is "Supernanny," led by British nanny and child-expert Jo Frost. At least I think she's an expert. She's damn good, in any event. And I learn little techniques from her, which, for a few days after watching the show, I'll employ when disciplining Elan and Ariel.

For the most part, she tells me stuff I already know, like "Parenting 101" stuff. But the families they get to be on the show! My G-d. In a nutshell: trainwrecks. The most disillusioned parents, the most devilish of all children. They make my kids look like pussycats, and me like the soccer mom/PTA parent/Stepford wife of the year. I look good blond!

I know where I lack as a mother. I don't need Jo-Jo to come in to my home, videotape me, play it back (so I can become smaller and smaller and smaller on national television), and then shake her pointer-finger at me, for emphasis.

I know I spend way too much time at the computer, I know I sometimes lose my temper, and with it, my control, and to hell if I don't know that I shouldn't put my kids to bed with sippy cups.

But you'll never hear me say something like, "I don't discipline him because, well, I just don't like doing it," which is a recurring theme on "Supernanny." And my kids might not be pussycats, but they've never given me a bloody lip and then called me a bitch, the way a kid in England did two weeks ago (Jo was really upset).

So when I turn the show off, no matter what kind of day I've had, I can take a deep breath, smile at the sleeping Y (he hates "Supernanny," natch), and tell myself, "It could be soooo much worse, and you could be soooo much worse at this." And I'm relieved, motivated - albeit temporarily - to do my best to bring out the best in my own precious devils. I'm even a little proud.

Creative types don't take criticism that well, but we get nauseatingly parasitic over the teeniest amount of positive feedback. For me, reality TV is indirect but lavish praise: You're not one of these people. Even if you are, you're not at the level of willingness to air your dirty laundry for all the world to judge. So by default, you're one of the better ones on Earth. Let's just be honest: you rock.

Maybe it's a sorry excuse for feeling good. But "Supernanny" groups my kids and husband in there with me. All four of us, looking swell, from one show. So think what you will about me, but what could be so wrong about that?

____________________________________________________________________________________

"Of Fish and Family" is going on vacation! Unless something inspires me while I'm away, I kind of doubt I'll write much this week. But don't forget about me. I need your love. And when I come back I'm gonna expect it. Ok?

Pretty please?

Plain Speak

You know how sometimes you have an insecurity, one that you are pretty sure is a dead-accurate self-appraisal, but about which you also hold out hope that maybe you're wrong?

And your whole life, you choose carefully to whom you confess it, and these lucky few are - completely coincidentally, of course, wink wink! - the kinds of people who will tell you you're insane, that your thighs are actually tiny! and your eyelashes are really thick! and your pores are invisible! and you should probably be a model! you crazy, blind, beautiful fool!

And you know how sometimes, all at once, someone instead confirms that which you've always believed inside to be true? Do you know how much that sucks?

Some examples:
When I was a kid, I didn't know that women idealized full lips. And my lips were kind of puffy, or as I called them, misshapen. And I always hated them, so I never wore lip liner because I didn't want them defined, not even during the fashion-makeup-must phase when liner was SO important that it was meant to be the star of the show - the dark, brownish outline of paler, white-ish lips - a phase that we girls remember all too well. I skipped it, thankfully. I did, however, go ALL THE WAY into the blue-eyeliner-on-the-inner-rim one, expertly applied by a friend in the girls' bathroom in eighth grade.

Then, one day in high school, my friends and I went to a makeup counter at a department store to get mini-makeovers, and the woman doing my face said I had nice lips. And I nearly had a heart attack. I probed her, trying to ascertain whether or not she was kidding, and she said they had a great shape or something, and I was OVER THE MOON. And immediately dove head-first into the shimmery-copper L'oreal Bronze Coin phase that defined ages 16 and 17.

Then there are the other times I mentioned, the times when you find out that you were right about what you thought stunk about you. For instance, I've always had the hunch that I'm a little mean, sometimes, in my cynicism and sarcasm. Growing up, it was the only way to survive in my house. But I've suspected that other people sometimes don't get me, that they doubt I'm joking when I am. A friend whom I respected very much once told me, gravely, that to every joke there was a bit of truth. And I thought, "No there isn't!" I panicked, assuming I was vastly misunderstood.

When Y and I lived in Brooklyn, we were close friends with the couple across the street. And the guy of the two liked to bother me, much in the same way my brother-in-law does now. Anyway, we were once having lunch at their place, and I was extremely pregnant with Elan, a mess of hormones. And the guy, who I'll call Joe, was, for some reason, pointing out negative sides of my personality, and doing it in this really passive-aggressive way where he'd insult me, but then say, "But you know that about yourself, right? Everyone knows you're a mean bitch. You know that! It's nothing new! Ha ha!"

And while I know that objectively it wasn't funny, maybe if I hadn't been pregnant I could have laughed it off, or come up with a fitting comeback.

Instead, I burst into tears, in front of everyone. I had to hit the bathroom, calm myself down, wash my face, and then come back to the table, mortified, like a little baby. Because I'd always thought I was a mean bitch. I just hoped no one else was noticing. Apparently, I was the one in dark.

Our friendship with that couple deteriorated as soon as we left NY. I forgave Joe immediately, but Y never treated him the same way after that. In fact, I'm not sure Y really spoke to either of them again.

Anyway, such is the principle. But generally speaking, normal adults are polite. If you ask if you're fat, chances are, they're gonna say no. And you're gonna go on eating the leftover snake cake - or, uh, something else that's fattening. It's the viscous circle of life.

Then you have kids, who are, by nature, impolite, and are also utterly unaware of social norms, so they just tell it like it is. Whether you wanted to hear it or not.

I've always known I have too many freckles. It's the thing about my skin I have always hated, and yet have never been able to do anything about, other than wear hats in the sun. I used to wish for acne instead, because at least if I had that, I could take that medicine where they scare you on the label by showing you the most hideous, nauseating, inhuman cases of acne that there ever were - and it'd be gone. Not so with the freckles. They're covering my face for life.

But, of course, I've tried to keep vanity in check by promising myself that nobody notices them as much as I do, and that they're probably not even that bad. This is what I tell Margo when she starts going all depressive on me. This is what Y assures me of, when PMS hits and I start complaining.

Then I had Elan. Elan, who, from a baby, loved me with a love more pure and unadulterated than any I'd ever known. He just loved me for who I was, and it never mattered what I looked like, whether or not I'd blown my hair dry, or wore contacts over glasses. It was all the same to him. Right? Isn't that how babies work?

But one day, when he was about two, he gazed up into my face, running his hand over my cheek, and earnestly asked, "Mommy? Are these buggies all over your face?"

It was completely innocent. He really just wondered. He wasn't judging - I mean, to each his own - but he had to know. Once and for all.

Was his mother's face just covered in tiny insects? It seemed the only logical explanation.

Y fell off the bed laughing. And laughing and laughing. I'm not sure he stopped at all that day, tears streaming down his cheeks, clutching his stomach in effort to snag a breath. Finally, when he calmed down, I forced a straight face and answered Elan just as seriously: "No, honey. Those aren't bugs. They're just freckles."

"Oh, fuckles?" Elan replied, obviously relieved. "I hought they were buggies. But they're just fuckles," he finished, nodding, talking it out to himself. As if both possibilities were equally plausible.

Okay, I thought. So my freckles are as obvious, and as upsetting, as I'd originally suspected. Okay. No biggie. So what if they scared my toddler into thinking they were ants? Or ticks? So what! Looks don't matter anyway! I'm a grown-up now. I found someone who'd marry me. Who cares?

I congratulated myself on having handled the situation so maturely (compared to Y, who, for the next few days, tried to get Elan to say "fuckles" as often as possible), and frequented sunglasses until I felt brave enough to re-expose the world to the science experiment between my jaw and hairline.

Unfortunately, it didn't end there. Elan decided that, now that he could finally sleep nights again, he'd better let everyone else know that things were okay, too. So no matter who it was, if I was having a conversation with them, Elan would interrupt suddenly and say, "See those hings on my Mommy's face? They're not buggies. They're just freeeckles!" (We'd corrected him, finally)

Like, I know what you're thinking right now. Hell, I used to think the same thing! But you thought those were nasty little bugs multiplying on her face? Like maggots or something? I was in the same boat. I thought she was just disgusting, too. Anyway, DON'T WORRY. No need to freak out. Because I finally confronted her about it? And they're just these ugly spots? Called Freeeckles? So they're gross, yeah, but at least they aren't alive!

I was so appreciative for the disclaimer.

Since then, the years have passed, and Elan has become my staunch advocate, my ultimate defender, when it comes to my freckles. So when Y feels like pissing him off, he'll go, "Look at those buggies on Mommy's face!" And Elan goes, "THEY. ARE. NOT. BUGGIES. They are FRECKLES!" and then proceeds to kick the crap out of him. Which Y loves. And is fun to watch.

Nevertheless, I do sort of wish that the laughter wasn't all at my expense. After all, I've spent hours of my life wishing the butt of those jokes away. So when Ariel came up, recently, with the same question as Elan with regard to my freckles, I was less than pleased.

When Y informed little Ariel that I was, indeed, covered in bugs, it made perfect sense to him. It was like, HELL YEAH my mommy wears bugs. She can KICK YOUR ASS too! While I appreciate his unconditional acceptance, his unwavering support of anything me-related, I'm less thrilled when he fixes me one of his smoldering stares, ready to go in for the bear-hug, and then suddenly his face goes quizzical. And much like his brother before him, he runs a finger over my cheekbone, sighing, with sweet resignation, "Mommy da buggy face."

I love my children. Even if I didn't, we can't just cut them off for speaking the truth. And I know that, coming from Elan, a "buggy face" is probably the epitome of beauty. And coming from Ariel - who the hell knows what goes on in that crazy little head, anyway?

But insecurities can run deep. So the shades are back on.

The Icing On The Cake

Ok, so there weren't plastic spiders in the ice cubes. I got a little lazy, and as my Polish nanny used to say, "I chave two hands, only!"

But here are the highlights of Elan's reptile safari birthday party:

1. Spending two hours last night frosting a snake-cake with Y, after the kids were asleep, covering the coffee table and much of the rest of the apartment in lime-green frosting, each of us attacking one end of the curvy shape with a knife in hand:

"Is there any way to make the frosting look smoother? It looks so shlocky..."
"I don't think you can expect a perfectly-glazed surface. But you've definitely got to smear it on MUCH thicker. Be generous! See, look at mine...Doesn't it look great?"
"No, actually, yours looks terrible too."
"Really? I thought it looked professional."
"It doesn't."
"Hmmm. We should probably add more gummy frogs."



2. Elan coming into the transformed yard, just as I finished hanging streamers in shades of green and cursing myself for working so hard on the decorations in such hot weather. His entire face brightening, jaw dropping open, as he hugs me and tells me it "looks great!"

3. A guest who worked for years in the restaurant business looking horrified as I place sour cream dips on tables outside in party area:

"Are those sour cream-based? Because if they are, you need to put them in ice bowls or everyone is going to get salmonella."
"Do you think? In two hours? I doubt they'd spoil so quickly..."
"Oh, they'll taste fine. But everyone will get salmonella, no question."
"Shit. I'll get ice-bowls." (Runs to prepare them. Upon returning, frantic:)
"Did I say sour cream? I meant mayonnaise. With mayo you get salmonella in the heat. Sour cream dips are fine. And the ice-bowls you brought are insulated, so they wouldn't have helped anyways."

Thanks. Or as Elan used to say, "Nu nu, pish pish."

4. Finding out that the super-tan, blond, safari-clad Reptile Man's name was Thor.

5. Elan's face when presented with a set of Power Ranger pajamas and Spiderman underwear from his aunt and uncle before the party began - as if he thought he might actually swoon, right then and there, from the weight of sheer ecstasy. He told me he'd "never had any'hing like them before," which isn't true at all. He already has Power Ranger underwear and superhero pajamas. Apparently, though, there is no comparison to getting them on your birthday.

6. Thor's face when pulling enormous, and sometimes fearsome reptiles from wicker baskets, explaining their natural habitats, defense-mechanisms, and Elan's best friend Kevin asking, at every pause: "But what will it do if we try to kill it?"

7. Thor punctuating each sentence out of his mouth with an exaggerated, "For sure!" Each and every sentence. For sure! For an hour. Imagine it. There are witnesses reading this blog who can back me up here: 'twas good.

8. Elan assuming that any question beginning "Will the birthday boy.." naturally included his portable security blanket, Kevin, with the affect such that Kevin appeared to be his twin brother, or alternately, his right leg.

Y and me cringing at how cliquey Elan is turning out to be, as Thor asks Elan to choose another child from the crowd to join them in holding a snake, and Elan proudly answers, "Only me and Kevin. Or Joey. Or just me and Joey. Or me and Kevin. Or me, Joey, Kevin and nobody else."

9. Y holding me back from smacking Elan out of embarrassment for myself, and sympathy for the rest of the attendees.

10. Assigning the cinematography to my brother, The Stooge. He's always been the designated filmer, is fine with the role and the best at it. Today, while Thor whips out a three-foot-long iguana, I glance at the LCD on my bro's camera to confirm that he's getting Elan's priceless reaction shot, and instead, I see the screen is zoomed-in and filled with the beautiful mug of Stooge's baby girl, gurgling in her mother's arms, yards behind the captive audience inside the house.

I elbow him in the ribs, startling him. "FO-CUS!" through gritted teeth.
"Oops!" He whips the camera back to the birthday boy. "There's just only so much I can take!"

Fatherhood has changed him. He shouldn't quit his day job.

11. Me, trying to cut and serve the enormous cake, which I've made in portions of Devil's Food, vanilla with sprinkles, strawberry, and plain white. The twenty-some kids shoving their plates under my nose and shouting out their orders:

"ChoCOLATE! Choooooocolaaaaaaaate, over here!"
"Strawberry! I WANT STRAWBERRY!!! CAN I HAVE STRAWBERRY?"
"Didjou hear me say vanilla?? ELAN'S MOMMY! DIDJOU HEAR ME SAY VANILLA?? BUT THE ONE WITH SPRINKLES??"

Me, scrambling to fill the orders, green frosting covering my forearms and half my skirt, terrified to slow down lest the monsters get too impatient, decide to forgo the cake, and simply eat me alive, the way they seem about to.

Ariel saving the day by suddenly deciding that he needed to be held by his mommy, establishing his sanctuary amidst the chaos, forcing me to delegate the cake-cutting to someone else.

12. Y and me in the car home, exhausted and laden down with presents, and him telling me in Hebrew, so that Elan won't understand, that the Reptile Man neglected to bring everything they'd promised. Me, not understanding Y's rusty linguistics, until he mentions the word "millipede," in reference to the Giant African species that didn't show up with Thor.

Elan immediately catching onto our conversation, and letting us know that while he "loved the day," he was sad that some "'hings", like scorpions and millipedes, didn't make their anticipated appearances.

13. Elan then deciding that since the cat was already out of the bag, there was no point in holding back any other complaints he might have, and informing us that he was also expecting the snake cake to be much larger than it actually was. Sensing my hurt (Blood sweat and tears, baby - that's what went into making that cake!), though, he was quick to admit, that he did "'hink it was cool, anyway."

14. Ariel wanting to open a Power Ranger sword present that Elan had already decided he was saving for Purim (in March), throwing a tantrum at Elan's refusal, Elan attempting to appease Ariel by tricking him into thinking a toy screwdriver was another P.R. sword, and Ariel letting him know that he wasn't going to be "falling for that F---ing S--t any F---ing longer, did he look like an F---ing Idiot?!"
At least, that's what Y and I thought it looked like he was thinking.

15. Tucking Elan into bed tonight, leaning down to wrap him in a hug, kiss him and whisper, "Goodnight, Birthday Boy."

Him, smiling up at me sleepily, arms still around my neck, whispering back, "Thank you, Mommy. Because I am a birthday boy." His smile widening. "Because I'm 4 years old."

16. Me, knowing full-well that his actual birthday isn't until Wednesday, and seeing no reason at all to tell him.

Taking Turns

This morning, I had to drive Y to work, as my wretched excuse for a car was in the shop. We dropped the kids off at camp and hit the canyon - morning as usual for Y, except that I was in the car next to him.

It hadn't been a good night: we ate way too much after yesterday's fast, and the heartburn and indigestion woke us up on the off-hours that Ariel didn't. So we were tired and didn't talk much in the car.

Y is a devoted listener of The Jaime, Jack, and Stench morning radio show, which can get pretty raunchy and more than a little boring for my tastes. But it was his morning commute, so I left the radio alone, lay back, and wished a cup of coffee would miraculously appear in my hand.

At the commercial, I flipped stations, pausing on one. Y, from the control on his steering wheel, immediately flipped back to his show. It was still at commercial, so I browsed again. Shooting me a truly dirty look, Y went back to 98.7.

Hoh-k, I thought. Point taken. He'd been a little annoyed with me when we had left the house because I'd bitten his head off over eating Fruit Roll-Ups for breakfast and giving the kids the same. I need those Fruit Roll-Ups, or Elan's snake cake isn't going to have a tongue at the birthday party. Certainly you can understand my aggravation.

When we got to his office, he still hadn't spoken to me, and I hopped out of the car with him to grab some java before heading back into the Valley. I nudged him in the side. "Is everything going to be okay?" I asked, smiling. "Will you survive this terrible morning?"

"It's only about the radio, Mag." He replied sternly. "You can't just flip the radio station when I'm in the middle of listening to something. I listen to this show every morning on the way to work."

"Clearly, I've overstepped my boundaries, huh?" I replied, eyebrows raised. "First, by joining you in the car, and then by - dare I say it aloud - switching off Jaime, Jack, and Stench? I've intruded on your rituals."

Y finally smiled, because that was, indeed, it. It's an argument we have often enough, incarnated several ways: who holds the remote control, who plays DJ, and worst of all, who is the Master of the Thermostat. Sometimes, when especially freezing, I've wondered if it might actually be worth getting pregnant over and over again just to get the sympathy vote in the air conditioning wars. Nobody in their right mind - even Y - messes with a pregnant woman.

It's why a lot of people are so afraid to get married - the fear of having to compromise your personal comfort, and preferences, time and again, because you've been forced to share your space with another, entirely different, human being. And there's something to that, no question. Once you become parents, and spend most waking minutes tending exclusively to some very short person's needs, ignoring your own, it becomes that much harder to want to compromise even an iota of whatever freetime is left.

And yet, in order for your marriage to succeed, you've got to. Sometimes you've got to watch crap on TV because your husband can't miss "Remember the Titans," whenever TNT airs it [note: every three days], even though he knows, but just can't admit, that the locker room scene in which all the white guys and black guys sing "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" in unity is actually really gimicky and canned and not good at all.

And sometimes you have to put on two sweatshirts and pairs of socks over your nightgown and throw a duvet in your lap to eat dinner even though it's 75 degrees outside.

Compromise. Two generations ago, the wife was always the one to do it. In ours, however, women have come to expect more even ground from their husbands, as much take as give. And men have risen to the occasion, mostly, relieved from years of pent-up resentment from their martyr wives. It's progress - a good thing. It's compromise. Everybody's happy, I think.

But we should probably also qualify "compromise", calling it by its proper name: "taking turns." And since I'm leaving in a few minutes to pick up Y in West Hollywood, and I'll be the one driving, it'll be my turn to choose the station. And that, my friend, is what we call happy.

____________________________________________________________________________________

With congratulations to Marnina and Noah on the birth of a baby girl today! I can't wait to meet her next week.

Bring It On

Tory and I are having relationship issues.

The girl has always had to work a little harder in the summer, fighting to keep herself motivated against the denseness of the Valley heat. But she's also always done a good job - showing off just how cold she can make the a/c, starting right up, like she'd been waiting, just waiting, for me to come and rouse her. I've mentioned before that I doubt she'll ever pass on - that at ten years old, she's still kicking like a newborn.

Apparently she feels taken for granted. At least, that's what I'm gleaning from the atrociousness of her behavior lately. To call a spade a spade, she's acting really immature, and my patience is wearing thin. If she's got a bone to pick with me, she ought to be a little more direct.

Instead, she's acting like a spoiled adolescent.

On Monday, my mother-in-law picked the boys up from camp in the afternoon, and since my sister-in-law is home for the summer, we are all juggling and sharing cars to get to and fro, so she took Tory. She called me from the house where the camp is held, because she'd gotten locked out of the car. She had left the keys in the ignition, gotten out, and closed the door behind her - and supposedly, Tory just popped the locks down for no reason at all. It took awhile, but because she'd left a window slightly cracked, they managed to break in with a hanger.

When my mother-in-law told me the story, I didn't really believe her. She was tired, and later got locked out of her house, too, so I assumed she was just having an off-day. I mean, a car doesn't typically do anything on its own initiative, let alone play tricks.

So when it did the exact same thing to me, the very next day, I was understandably humbled.

Yesterday, I got out of the car to get the kids, and I heard a low rumble that sounded a hell of a lot like, "Ha ha, I'll show you who's driving who around - you'll never underestimate me again!!" When I turned around, Tory had locked up, engine still running, parked half in the middle of the street. She was smirking. Luckily, the children were in good moods: Elan had a quick anxiety attack about us being "loaked out," but was easily shut up with a second popsicle, and Ariel decided that then was the perfect time to move towards the bushes, and take a little dump. Because, naturally, I had just thrown out the membership form for AAA, we had to have my mother-in-law leave work to meet us there with her motor club, so they could break in, an hour later. I hadn't thought to leave any windows open, so the hanger didn't work a second time.

Driving off, I silently cursed Tory. I mean, she wasn't looking good, she was acting up - in public - and it was getting embarrassing. Drugs, I wondered? Maybe she was mixing with a bad crowd in my apartment parking lot - there was a shady-looking Volvo hanging around two spots over that I didn't remember seeing before. Maybe it was just menopause, hormonal overdrive, hot-flashes, causing her to occasionally lose her normally-amicable mind. Whatever the case, it was really inexcusable, and I was pissed.

And then, as if reading my thoughts, she started locking and unlocking the doors, over and over, while I was driving! Like a woman possessed. I could have sworn I heard her roaring with maniacal laughter, as I floundered to regain control. Honestly! There were children in the car!

I always assumed that Tory was appreciative that someone as young as me still drives her, and that she'd aim to please me, as a result. But you know what happens when we ASS-U-ME.

They say there are always warning signs. Evidently, it's a slippery slope from when they first flash that "Service Engine" sign at you. And the "Door Open" light, when all the doors are tightly shut. And when you neglect to nourish them when they're low on oil. And when you ignore the new stubbornness of the power-steering, as well as the sporadic lurches and lunges forward, despite your lack of acceleration.

And when, I suppose, you forget to give them the positive reinforcement, the pats on the back, the telling-them-they're-pretty that becomes so much more necessary, the older they get.

These were the indicators. And I did nothing. Too little, too late. And now Tory is in rehab, at Kastore Body Shop, and I'll have no communication with her for days. She's getting a full work-up. And I'm terrified of the diagnosis.

Because, quite frankly, I don't want to put one more cent into that ungrateful bitch.

Hook, Line, and Sinker

Y never really set out to be his field of work, which is internet/search engine/business-development-related. He does a lot of sales, works at wooing big potential clients, and is surprised that he's good at it, because he never thought of himself as the salesman kind-of-guy. He can be pretty quiet, it's true, and is generally more of a social-observer than the center of attention at a party. He's also good at giving the impression that he's mysterious, that there's a lot more under there than meets the eye. Salesmen are typically more transparent.

But the truth is, we both should have known that he'd be a natural salesman, because he is very convincing, and even though I never considered myself gullible - hey, I grew up with fours brothers! - Y has managed to sell me on some of the most major decisions of my life.

When I look at the last seven years, all I see is a whirlwind of change and progress that I never saw coming. I certainly never anticipated being in this stage of life at age 25, nor did I plan for it. And it's all come as the result of meeting Y.

When we first met, he barely spoke to me. I was visiting a highschool friend at Brandeis University in Boston, had driven in for the weekend with my NY roommate to see what college life was like outside of the Union Square-to-Washington-Square-Park radius. Over in Waltham, Massachusetts, Y was the third wheel to the friend I was visiting and her boyfriend, and though I'd heard his name before, I hadn't given him a second thought.

Then we met. Lots of eye contact, lots of obviously-mutual attraction. But not a word between us. We had dinner together, in a group of people, and then all went our separate ways. Later that night, my friend asked me what I thought of her new boyfriend. I said he was great. Just as casually, she asked what I thought of Y. "Isn't he awesome?" she gushed. "He is really cool," I agreed. "There's something refreshing about him."

Unbeknownst to me, my friend immediately told her boyfriend, Y's best friend there, what I'd said. It went straight to Y. Who disappeared for the entire next day.

Saturday night, he still hadn't made any kind of move. I was still pretty sure he was interested, but didn't want to make a whole big deal out of it, and he was really giving me nothing to go on. We were leaving the next morning, so time was at a premium. Who was this freak? And why was he giving me such a hard time?

We were planning to go out that night separately - just the girls, and just the boys. As we sat around a dorm room discussing where we'd go, I noticed that Y was at the computer, IM'ing with someone. Still ignoring me.

I'd recently ended a somewhat long-term relationship, and I no longer had any patience for games. I had enough confidence to go for what I wanted, but lacked the requisite finesse to come out of it looking cool. And patience has never been my friend. So, with no idea how, I decided I had to take matters with Y into my own hands.

I approached him at the computer. "Why don't you check if I'm online?" I asked, cursing the words for popping out of my mouth so lamely. It was my way of giving him my screen-name - the computer-geek's equivalent of a cell phone number. But Y doesn't like making anything too easy. I was out on a limb.

"Why would I do that? I know you're not online - you're sitting right here," he replied, his face innocent. Damn.

"Right. Forget it," I rolled my eyes and started walking away.

"Wait," he said, finally. "What's your screen name?"

I told him, annoyed. I really didn't enjoy having to be the one making all the effort. We didn't speak a word to each other after that, and I left early the next morning.

In the car-ride home, my roommate and I were quiet for awhile. Then she spoke:
"What did you think of that guy, Y?" she asked.
"Kind of cute," I answered.
"Yeah," she agreed. "But seemed like an ass. Really full of himself, you know?"
"De-fi-nite-ly. Thinks he's hot stuff. I hate that. He's probably a real jerk."
Mortified, I didn't say a word about my big come-on.

The truth is, Y didn't really think he was hot stuff. He was just doing things in a way that is now all-too familiar - slowly, methodologically, thoughtfully. Biding his time, making sure that whatever he did was right, bound to succeed (he's always late for things). He didn't think the setting was right, that weekend, with everyone around, to start chatting me up. He says he would have asked my friend about me after I'd left, and worked from there.

But I'm impulsive. I hate waiting.

The next day, on a Blueberry iMac in the computer lab at Parsons, I got an email from Y saying something about how nice it had been to meet me, and that he was sorry he didn't get a chance to say goodbye. I made him grovel a little after that, but the rest is pretty much history. Our relationship was never casual; he asked me to marry him on our first real date. Though I had known he was the one that weekend at Brandeis, I suggested we wait a few years until we'd gotten out of school. He suggested Thanksgiving weekend.

My friends had always said I'd be the last in the group to get married, because I was so uninterested in domestic life. I didn't have a vision of my wedding at twelve, like some girls do. I did, however, have a vision of myself living as an artist in Paris. I had big career ideas and plans, I wanted to travel, and I was never the kind of girl who needed to have a boyfriend tagging along anyway.

When I met Y, all of my prior conceptions about how my life would play out flew up in the air, got mixed up with someone else's - some girl from Nebraska who worked at the local Walmart - and came floating back into my hands, revised and unrecognizable. Somehow, I didn't panic. I felt safe with Y, who encouraged me to pursue all of my dreams except the one about dating-around, and I accepted that man plans, while G-d laughs.

Marrying Y initiated a series of moves - geographical and otherwise - of newness, growth, and of throwing all caution to the wind. And though I can be spontaneous, I usually temper the impulse with a large dash of pragmatism, so sometimes I can hardly wrap my head around the married-with-two-kids thing myself.

Back then, I figured: Fine. I'll get married young. We met, we knew it was right, there wasn't much point in putting off the inevitable. But I'll wait to have kids. Till I'm out of school. Till we have money. Till it makes sense, logistically.
No question.

10 months after our wedding, 9/11 happened. I was vulnerable. Y saw opportunity, looked it in the eye, smiled, and welcomed it in.

"You know," he began, carefully (babysteps...babysteps...), "The world is a mess. 9/11 just happened and none of us know where we stand anymore. Everything could be gone tomorrow. We could all be killed tomorrow. I mean, this is a war. Who knows if we'll ever get the chance to have kids, to start a family? If we wait forever, we might not have forever."

How did I fall for that one? I have No. Freakin. Clue. But I guess some part of me must have agreed, because even Y was shocked when I tossed the rest of the pill pack out. I waddled through my classes at Parsons, pregnant with Elan, throwing up on the subway home, forcing Y to run out and fetch the Caesar salad dressing I was craving most midnights, and I was never happier.

Good one, Y.

I bring all of this up because last weekend, I was sitting and nagging my gorgeous sister-in-law about when she's gonna start providing me with some nieces and nephews to spoil. She said it had been just the two of them for so long, that she just couldn't imagine what it would be like to be so tied-down by the third wheel that is a baby. She said that she was scared, because when she and Y's brother witnessed an incident involving a stranger with a baby or young child, they'd both come away from it going, "Did you see that?" But her next words would be, "What an unbelievable brat!" while his are typically, "Awww. SO cute." Her fear of the unknown acted such that she could only fathom it going awry.

And while I've always been immeasurably thankful that I met Y for the joy that he, Elan, and Ariel bring into my life, talking to her made me realize how immeasurably thankful I am that I met Y for the ability it gave me to see the possibilities in the unknown, and the fearlessness to seek it out.

But I'll tell you one thing, between me and you.
This broad ain't gonna be falling for none of Y's little lines anymore.

She is SOLD OUT.

Mystery Solved

It's always a good day when you find out that the dirty diapers being left on your front doorstep weren't born of malicious intent.

Reeeewind. Thursday night, Y comes home from work, and on his way in asks me why I've left a stinky, poopy diaper sitting atop the 5-gallon jugs of Sparkletts water just outside our front door.

"Well I didn't, of course. Why would I? The trash chute is inches away."

Y goes, "Seriously? It wasn't you? Are you sure?"
"100 percent. Positive."
"Well then..."
"Right. Who? Who would do such a thing?"

Y and I wrack our brains. We think about who in our building has kids. We're good friends with three out of the four possibilities. Which left us with...

"Them!" We answer, simultaneously. The couple we are both thinking of is a little bit COMPLETELY STRANGE. And occasionally inappropriate. But generally benign. Certainly not the kinds of people you'd peg to toss human waste around as a cute gag. In other words, they aren't aliens. Though we have, at times, wondered.

"Would they...?" I begin.
"Would anyone...?" Y finishes.

"Ok, let's calm down. What could they, or anyone else for that matter, have against us? Where's the motive?" I wonder out loud.

"Well...I didn't go to their baby's shalom zachor," Y suggests, a little fearfully, as if the scope of it all is too much to bear. "And we both forgot about the bris."

"Ok, but isn't this kind of response a little OUT OF PROPORTION? I mean, even if they were upset at us?"

Empty of answers, Y and I try to put it out of our minds that night. After all, maybe it was a fluke. Maybe I had, temporarily, lost my mind and memory, and in so doing, put one of Ariel's diapers out there. Maybe it had fallen from the sky. That's all it was, we decide. A very bizarre, mildly-horrifying fluke.

Fine. Next morning, I'm leaving to take the boys to school, when I notice a large, empty, cardboard box said to contain the Costco generic brand bottles of drinking water. It's right on our doormat. It's trash. And it's most definitely not ours.

I call Y at work, frantic. "Ok, this is sick! THEY are sick! Talk about passive-aggressive! Who puts their garbage on their neighbor's walk just because they are miffed that they didn't participate in celebrating the birth of their baby?!"

Y says, "I don't know. I really don't get it. So obnoxious. But do you really think it's them?"

"I do," I respond. "Because I remembered a couple of more reasons why they'd hate us."

The first has to do with our vaccuum cleaner. The female of the couple in question, whom we'll call Jane Doe, had come over on the Friday before the shalom zachor, asking to borrow our vaccuum. She said theirs had broken, and she was trying to clean up before people came over to see the baby. I, obviously, obliged. But by the middle of the next week, when there was still no reason for me to believe she was ever planning to return it, I walked over there to pick it up. Jane was one the phone at the time, and thought I had come to oggle over the baby.

"Can you come back in five minutes?" She mouthed, leaning the receiver on her shoulder. "Um...sure." I mouthed back. "But could I just grab my vaccuum cleaner while I'm here?"

She asked whoever was on the phone to hold on. Then, turning to me: "Do you mind if I just use it first, and you could come get it in like twenty minutes?"

I looked around the room. It could certainly have used a good cleaning. But I thought five days had been ample time for her to get around to doing it, and for me to be left without the option. Plus, my housekeeper was there that day, and I really wanted her to do the vaccuuming, as long as I was paying for it. And, it just wasn't good form. When you borrow something major, you return it readily.

I told Jane about the housekeeper bit. She said ok, I took my Hoover Windtunnel (highly recommend it, btw), and split, feeling mildly guilty but less subtly annoyed.

I told over the story to Y. He said I was mean. Newsflash. Then I told him the only other possible motive:

When a baby is born in this community, some of the other mothers will organize a schedule to take turns cooking and dropping off meals for the family of the newborn, so that they won't have to worry about it. It's very nice to be on the receiving end of this generosity, I'm sure. I say "I'm sure" because somehow, when Ariel was born, everybody forgot. But I'm not bitter. I've cooked lots of lasagnas for lots of friends and friends-of-friends since.

Anyway, I guess my designated day to cook for the Does was the Fourth of July. When I realized the date, I didn't stress out too much planning what I'd cook. I figured there was a really good chance the family might not even be home, and that I'd think about it later. Naturally, I forgot altogether. And only remembered when I saw the cardboard box.

When I told Y about that, he said, "Well of course they hate us!"

I still didn't think the garbage dumping was deserved. I mean, come on. Crap? It's extreme, no matter how called for. I took the box, marched over the Does doorstep, and plunked it down, my heart thumping threateningly in my chest.

Sim, my brother, was there to witness the madness, and innocently suggested I just go over there and apologize for neglecting to make them a meal. He regretted that, undoubtedly, by the time I finished my OFALLTHECRAZYINSANENASTYANDMANIPULATIVEPEOPLEIHAVEEVERMET monologue. He said he wanted no part of this, anymore - that Y and I were on our own.

Ungrateful, the younger generation is. Ungrateful.

Desperate for a little backup, I called Y again, and told him what I'd done, along with my rationale: "If it is them, as we suspect, then they'll know that we know. And if it isn't them, they'll just be confused. No harm, no foul." He muttered something about how crazy is as crazy does.

Why was I so wound up? To be honest, I may talk tough, but I really don't like being disliked. I've never been comfortable knowing that someone thought badly of me, or misunderstood me, and I've always been anxious to smooth things over and get back to the comfy cuddliness of knowing that there isn't anybody out there sending negative energy my way. My grandmother always says, "You don't have to like everyone, and everyone doesn't have to like you." And everytime she says it I pretend to agree, all the while screaming "SOOOOO NOT TRUE" inside.

I'm not a conflict-avoider in any way. But I might be a pathological conflict-resolver.

Still - even I have my limits. And if the Does wanted to play crazy, I'd be playing crazy.

Because I was having a crowd for dinner on Friday night, I asked a different neighbor if she had a folding table we could borrow, to make more room for my guests. She didn't, but said she knew that the Does did. Why didn't I go ask John?

I hesitated, then explained why I couldn't. She was shocked, but agreed that if anyone in the building could be responsible, it was them.

"Plus," she added, as tears of relief pricked my eyes, "You should see their fridge. It's crammed! They've got food for months in there. They aren't starving on your account."

Thank G-d. I found a table elsewhere.

Saturday morning, Y left for shul, while I had coffee and cereal with the kids. Minutes later, having decided to change into more comfortable shoes, he reappeared.

"Margo, come here," he ordered, his face grim.
"Why?"
"Just come. Look."

Mug in hand, I joined him at our front door. There, nestled among the Sparkletts bottles, baking in the hot morning sun, was a wrapped-up, reeking diaper. With poop. Clearly. In it.

"Alright," I sighed, ready to take the higher ground. War is exhasuting.
"Enough is enough. This is rediculous - disgusting, and rediculous. You're going over there - now! We need to talk to the Does. I'm not taking anymore of this."

Miraculously, Y agreed. He was upset as I was. "Ok," he answered, his fighting voice on. "I'll go talk to them."

But before he lifted a foot, the door across the hall from us opened, and our friend, Joey's dad, greeted us, still bleary-eyed himself. "Morning, guys," he started. "Joey heard you talking and wanted to say hi to Elan..."

Y cut him off, pointing at the diaper. "This isn't yours, right?" he asked, grasping at straws. I smacked him, mortified that he'd even suggest it. "Of course not," Friend answered, confused. "Why?"

Y explained. Friend continued to appear perplexed. Then, suddenly, clarity loomed on his face.
"Unless...Joey?" He asked.
"Yeah?" said Joey, adorable in skin-tight Ninja Turtles PJs.
"When we aked you to throw Alex's diaper down the garbage chute, you did, right? You didn't get lazy and drop it over at Elan's house instead, or anything...right?"

Joey's sheepishness was transparent. "Um...may-be..." he sang, smiling.
Elan grinned back. Hilarious, bruttha!

"And the other day, too?" Friend implored, embarrassed.
"May-be," Joey repeated, his smile now ear-to-ear.

"Oh my G-d." Y and I looked at each other. "You have no idea how happy we are to hear that.

"I was ten seconds away from walking over to the Does, and accusing them of repeatedly dumping shit on our apartment, and they'd have had nothing to do with it!" Y can't believe our mistake.

"That would have been awful. AWFUL." I confirm, overwhelmed with gratitude that not only hadn't he done that, but that nobody had really been that moved to upset us in the first place.

Timing.

Anyone who doesn't believe in God, please, tell me. How do you explain Friend's timing? And then I think, God in mind, about how, in our religion, you're supposed to give people the benefit of the doubt.

And then I think, thank you, G-d, for that kick in the behind.

The Carpet Guy

On Wednesday, I had my carpet and sofa cleaned. If you've looked at any of my Flickr photos, you've seen our couch, you've seen our carpet, and you know how desperately overdue they were for a cleaning. This, coupled with the fact that I'm still in this strange nesting mode, constantly attempting to better my living space without actually spending much money, ever since we said goodbye to the big ole' fish tank.

Because I'm so enjoying the amount of physical space I now have around my "home office," as well as the emotional cushion provided by the backyard-camp my kids have been attending these last two weeks, I find myself forever compelled to fix and improve stuff: replace lightbulbs, put pictures in frames, toys in compartments - all the little things I had no motivation to do before. I guess it was like, what's the point? There is still going to be a GIGANTIC fish tank taking up 90% of my apartment, who really gives a shit if those magazines should really go in a rack. It couldn't have helped much anyway.

Sorry, sorry Y. I know that was a bit unnecessary. Love ya! Call me!

In this frame of mind, you see, I managed to finally call James, our carpet cleaner. I first found him through my mother-in-law, and was blown away when he charged me $30 to clean my entire carpet a year ago. I'd never met a carpet cleaner willing to step foot inside a residence for under $80 a room, so I thought it must have been a mistake. But James was really just that nice - and inexpensive.

But you don't get anything for nothing. James's real price? He's chatty. To an extent I'd never before witnessed in a human being over the age of five. The Man. Can. Talk.

I think I've mentioned in other posts that I'm something of a noise-phobe. I have really good hearing, thankfully, and with it comes - tell me if you can relate - an exact, ideal listening volume for each kind of sound. The level of loud, but not too loud, above which the too-loud factor becomes excruciatingly uncomfortable.

I think I've also mentioned that when I'm home alone, I like a little music, sometimes, but otherwise dead silence. I'm able to manage the whole working-at-home bit because I'm motivated to work and I work best when I am utterly undistracted. This means I NEVER watch daytime TV, I have to remind myself to eat breakfast and/or lunch because otherwise I'd forget - that when I'm working at home, I just work. Unless I'm plugging through something tedious and mindless, any and all background noise disrupts my regular time-efficiency. I'm a freak.

So James. The carpet guy. He came in the morning while I was out taking the boys to camp, but my brother who is visiting from Chicago let him in, and apparently James began "Shmooze Fest 2006" long before I got back. Which might be why, come to think of it, when I get home Sim gave me a "look" and retreated upstairs for a two-hour nap.

Two hours later, I was begging the good Lord for a nap myself. I'd been trying to work, had a new client I wanted to impress, but James was working hard on the twenty-some loose cushions of our 1950s-era inherited couch, and he had a lot to get off his chest. Sometimes, when I get a bit talkative, Y will smile at me suddenly, and ask in an incredibly patronizing tone of voice, "You having lots of thoughts and feelings tonight, honey?" Which annoys me to no end.

But now I get it. Because James has lots of thoughts. And feelings. And because it would be pushing the boundaries of hideous behavior to be curt with someone who is painstakingly tending to popcicle- and quite possibly vomit-stains created by your own children, I had no choice but to act equally engaged in our conversation.

The guy is kind of an oddball, besides, so we were never on the same wavelength. I devoted three long hours to agreeing with everything he said, or at least trying to, so that it would seem like I was obviously hanging on every word. Admittedly, it wasn't always that convincing.

James: "So my wife used to listen to all this teen-pop music, like Backstreet Boys and stuff, and now my ten-year-old son listens to it, she made him some CDs, and he locks the door to his room and blasts it and dances around singing along."
Me: "Mmm. That's awful. Such terrible music. It'd drive anyone nuts."
James, clearly taken aback: "Uh, yeah, well...I mean actually, I just meant...it's pretty cute, you know?"
Me: "Mmm? Yeah! So cute. Love it. Kids are cute."

So he wasn't complaining? G-d help me.

I didn't get much work done that morning. I listened, instead, to stories about James' church group, his regular poker game, the problem with poker these days, ways to make my computer run faster, the cost of summer camp, the heat, and worst of all, hourly wages.

He was kind of feeling me out, I think, to see how much I charged per hour for web design. We by-the-hour types are always trying to figure out who's making more than us. When I gave him a roundabout number, I could tell immediately that it was way higher than whatever it was he charged to clean carpets. Ok, I told myself. Fair's fair. I've put in plenty of hours of schooling and self-teaching to justify my price. And it's still too low! And mind work can't be comparable, compensation-wise, to physical labor.

I felt awful anyway.

Particularly when he gave me the bill: $75 for over three hours of intensive, sweaty effort. And he asked me if that "sounded fair." He even left me a gigantic, professional-grade fan, to help speed up the drying process before my kids got home, which he drove all the way back today to pick up. Who does that?

So, while I'm still a little sick over how little I paid for it, my apartment does look worlds better, and, to be honest, my ears are still ringing from so much nonstop stimulation. Which kind of makes me feel like I paid fairly. Or that he charged appropriately. Or that I'm getting old and intolerant.

Or that, as I've always suspected, I'm just a terrible person.

On Second Thought

Yesterday, in the company of millions of Americans, I'm sure, I went to see Superman (is it Superman Returns? Who can remember? Who even cares?). Y and I brought Elan along, which we'd been promising to do since the first trailor ever aired, and it was not our most impressive parenting decision.

To be honest, I hadn't really liked the idea from the start - the movie was meant to be 2 1/2 hours long, and looked a tad intense, if not scary, for a young child. But Y had watched the Spiderman movies with him, Harry Potter, and Jurassic Park, and nothing seemed to ever scare or upset or even phase Elan, so he was sure we were in the clear. And in all fairness, he had asked several other relatives (ahem, you know who you are...), who'd already seen the film, if they thought it was okay for him, and they all neglected to mention the amount of death, drowning, and plane crashing it depicts.

Joey, Elan's good friend, came with his dad, and as my younger brother came in from Chicago yesterday, we were meeting him, another brother, and my sister-in-law at the theater. This was a big deal because it was the first time the two of them had really left my neice with a babysitter, and my sister-in-law was rather shaky. When I told them that Elan was coming, and so was his friend, my brother groaned. "Oh, great. Does that mean the two of them are going to be calling back and forth to each other and laughing through the whole movie?" he asked.

Said brother is a movie buff. He takes his cinema very seriously, has since he was a little boy. Once, as a teenager, I asked him - also then adolescent - for a rental recommendation for a quiet night alone. He sugggested Little Man Tate. I think I watched five minutes before actually disintegrating from boredom into a heap of individual molecules and cells right there on the sofa.

But seeing a movie with him is a much richer experience than otherwise, because he notices and appreciates nuances that the average Joe wouldn't. And he's generous about sharing and explaining them, his enthusiasm contagious when he's pleased with what he's seen.

I learned that when you went to a movie with him, you didn't talk, or ask questions, lest you get the Stare of Death in return. Instead, you save all inquiries for the end of the show, when you may have an intelligent discussion in which he gives you any and all necessary background to understand what you've just seen.

He learned to only see a movie with me when he's already seen it several times, so my constant interruptions wouldn't bug him quite as much. What can I say, I'm a simple mind. Action movies, especially, tend to baffle me.

Anyway, when I realized that this was probably his first movie out since his daughter had been born, and that his wife was a nervous wreck about being away from the baby, I became even more concerned about our taking Elan. But hell, it was a day to celebrate America, and it's a free country. If we wanted our kid with us, he'd be there.

Elan and Joey were OVERCOME with anticipation and excitement, squirming in their seats, giggling, and solemnly promising not to make a peep when the actual movie began. When the previews started, and the first two were for horror flicks, my stomach began to ache. Elan was sandwiched between Y and Joey, and before the words were out my mouth, Y clamped one hand over Elan's eyes, the other arm wrapped around both ears, shielding him from the madness unfolding on the big screen.

We glanced at each other nervously. I couldn't believe what a bad move this had been. I couldn't believe we'd become one of them - one of those couples who decides that having a baby doesn't have to affect their nightlife in the least, that they'd just tow their half-asleep, thumb-sucking toddler right along with them to sit in the front row at a 10:30 pm screening of Closer, if they couldn't find a babysitter. No biggie! I'm forever glaring at those parents, willing my eyes to burn holes in their backs so it'll sting and remind them that they are planting very vivid and confusing images in the innocent and impressionable minds of the future of this country. Silently, I urge them to meet my gaze, to feel embarassed and compelled to take their kids home, tuck them safely into bed where they belonged. They never do.

So yesterday, though granted, it was hardly Closer, and it was 3pm, not late at night, when the previews began - one R-rated after another - I felt that I'd become what I loathe. So I decided to dive in, head-first.

If I was going down, I was going down swinging.

Though I'd do my best to keep Elan calm and quiet, I'd make no apologies to any obnoxious shushers. I'd stuff my kid with candy, if necessary, and let him run down the steps when he needed to use the bathroom. I might be jaded, but Elan was thrilled about being in a movie theater. And I'd be damned if I was going to be the one to take that away from him.

Plus, I'm suddenly reminded of going to see Pretty Woman with my mother when it came out - I must have been about eleven. Sometime in the middle of the movie, I remember nudging her shoulder and whispering, "What's a prostitute?" And her whispering back: "I'll explain after the movie."

If my own mother was guilty of taking her kid to a too-adult film, was there ever any hope for me in the first place?

Truth be told, my Elan was pretty good during the movie. Everytime he got bored, which, I'll admit, was often, because Superman is waaaay too long, he'd lean over towards Joey and ask, in a whisper-shout, "Isn't this just the cooooooolest movie?" Joey would firmly agree. When Elan started to cry from boredom, I asked him if he wanted some candy. He did, curled up in my lap, and turned his attention to the sour sticks and Kevin Spacey. What a success! So that's why parents are willing to pay for cavity fillings! I smiled to myself, feeling like mother of the year.

Stop judging me. Now. Stop it! I STILL HEAR YOU!

At one point, after a particularly exciting triumpth on the part of our favorite superhoero, Elan turned to me and began to speak. "No, Elan," I whispered quickly. "No more questions. People are getting annoyed."
"It's not a question about the movie," he hissed. "I just want to tell you something."
I knew there'd be no shutting him up until he'd said his piece, so I gave him the go-ahead.
"When I grow up, I'm going to be Superman!" he breathed, like many before him. "Because I really like him," he added, for good measure.

When we left the movie theater, walking to the car, the air was still balmy, and it was good to get some. Y and I breathed enormous sighs of relief that our little inquisitor hadn't bothered to question some of the more disturbing sequences, and that nobody - my brother included - had given us any lip. Several people smiled and pointed in Elan's direction, who, of course, donned a cape. We didn't bother to tell them that the cape wasn't exactly in honor of Superman, that, in fact, it was a Power Rangers cape, and that he wore it everywhere we went.

What was the point? Spirits were high, it was the Fourth of July. And when yet another little boy, in yet another generation, announces to the world, in all sincerity, that he intends to one day be Superman - on a day like that, it just feels wrong not to let anyone believe what they want to.

The Proud Moments and The Less So

Hightlights of today's day trip to the Santa Barbara Zoo:

1. Ariel falling asleep immediately upon hitting the highway on the way there, Elan staying awake for the entire 2.5-hour traffic crunch, doing his amazingly-life-like impression of the "are we there yet" kid we see on family road-trip horror films.

2. Y tolerating the entire playlist I'd hurriedly burned for the car, as well as me singing along to every single song, at the top of my lungs, with my feet on the dashboard.

3. Y's moment to shine when my CD finally ended, we flipped to the radio, and Kenny Rogers's "We've Got Tonight" comes on with fuzzy reception. Y grins, takes his turn singing at the top of his lungs to his kind of music. I feel sudden burst of affection for my nerdy, crap-music-loving better half, and lovingly massage his neck.

4. Y ruins the moment by insisting I continue the massage for the remainder of the drive, tapping the back of his head whenever my arm aches and drops, taking me to unprecedented heights of both annoyance and eye-rolling. To hell with spontaneity.

5. Elan washing his hands, on his own initiative, after a mad-dash to the restrooms immediately upon arrival. I didn't have to fight him or nothing. So proud.

6. Elan insisting upon waiting in a 15-minute line to feed the giraffes and have them lick you in return, jumping up and down in anticipation. $3 later, he panicks once it's finally our turn, engulfed in terror at the sight of their heads at arm's distance, and will only approach the creepy animals in my arms. Giraffes lick me, instead of him, it's way grosser than it looked from afar, and the hand-sanitizer dispenser is conveniently empty. I feel violated and dirty. Giraffes are no longer my favorite animal in the zoo.

5. One giraffe has a broken neck, bent at a 90-degree angle, three-quarters of the way towards the head. Zoo staff hastily defend its honor, claiming it was born that way. It's horrifying, likely to induce nightmares in the entire family. I don't believe zoo staff and begin to imagine there is a giraffe conspiracy going on among them. Paranoid, am I? Or so incredibly right THAT IT TERRIFIES YOU??

6. Black-and-White Lemurs, showing off their swinging abilities, become suddenly agitated while we gaze at them, and all at once begin jumping frantically, letting out scary shrieks in high-pitched tones. Onlookers are shocked, confused, upset - especially Elan. The lemurs finally stop, stare menacingly at a frozen, silent crowd. A brave little Ariel breaks the silence by marching right up the the cage, shaking his finger at the animals while scolding: "NO NO NO, Zaboos!" Zaboo is short for "Zaboomafu," a 6:30 AM show on PBS about a black-and-white lemur. Lemurs look appropriately ashamed.

7. Ariel believes the elephants are dinosaurs. His request to "touch" the Kong-sized gorilla is denied.

8. Ariel demonstrates evidence that he is beginning to learn to count. Unpromted, he points to one "monster" (sting-ray) in the aquairum house, and then to another, calling it "two monster." He later repeats the one-two count in the car, with regard to his feet*.

9. Elan falls asleep immediately upon hitting the highway on the way home. Ariel stays awake for the entire 1.5-hour traffic crunch, resuming his screeching-in-the-car method in the hopes of forcing entertainment out of his mother. When his toy snake gives him a boo-boo, I do a show of chastising the snake, putting it in time-out, while it begs for mercy. Ariel finds this hilarious, and insists that I keep it up for twenty minutes straight, lest he resort back to eardrum-busting.

10. *Bored with the snake show, Ariel insists that I take off his socks and shoes and smell his stinky feet, then dramatically shriek and fake a faint from the outrageous odor. He believes that his feet stink because Y has been telling him so since he was born. It's not entirely untrue, though I believe the condition has improved since it got warm outside and he stopped sleeping in fleece onesies with footies attached. Ariel thinks it's hysterical to for