Beeg Mess

First day of school. First day of a new era in Ariel's life. I'm emotional and excited. Suddenly, getting my baby out of the house is less appealing. He's so...Well, he's snuggly. But I have to work. And I'm relying way too much on Dora to keep him occupied. It's time for Ariel to start school.

Elan? He's a pro. He's been in nursery for the past two years, and while I wouldn't say he's the class clown, he's definitely comfortable, has achieved social status. If I was always more of a funny girl, Elan is like his dad, the strong, silent, leader type. Although he's come out of his shell a lot more lately.

Ariel adjusted to camp this summer SO well, and SO seamlessly, that everyone figured he was just the stereotypical, easier-to-adjust second child - that an intro to school would be a breeze. He's so outgoing and social that I, too, didn't count on much of a struggle. I'd struggled with Elan, in the beginning.

Ariel was so excited this morning, walking around the apartment with the strap of his first lunchbox over his shoulder, talking nonstop about how he'd "got lunchbox!" and begging, "Can we go?"

In the car, Elan - always thinking ahead - let me know that he suspected Ariel would be very sad that Mommy had left, and so it was okay with him if I picked up his younger brother first in the afternoon. Everyone's not you, you know, I thought, smiling.

We get to school. Greet the familiar faces. Hugs happen, intermittently. Elan goes to class, his teacher seems great. Kind of hands-off, which both my son and I can appreciate. He doesn't respond well with smothering, tends to withdraw. Understandable. I kiss him, say goodbye. Kevin's there, and they're already situating themselves, happy to be together, playing.

Next stop: Ariel's class.

I should have realized that Ariel thought he was in Elan's class - that he, too, was four years old. Why wouldn't he? He played with all of Elan's friends, went to camp with them...Why on earth would he assume that they thought of him as a younger brother and not a peer? When it became clear that he was to be in one classroom, and Elan and Kevin another, Ariel wasn't thrilled. For a few minutes, he stood glued to the window, pointing to Elan's classroom and asking to go back there, "to tool!"

But he seizes the day, so eventually, he moved on, explored the classroom, checked out his classmates, scoped the toys. All good.

Some of the kids are already crying because their mothers have left, and the teachers look overwhelmed. I decide to stay awhile, get Ariel acclimated, leave once their hands are less full. We head outside to the playground, I watch him climb and slide awhile. Noga, the teacher Elan had had at this age, and the one I'd wanted for Ariel but didn't get, asks me why Ariel's not in her class. I tell her they thought he was too young, but I was working on the switch. She scoffs at the notion that he isn't as mature as her kids, and seems sincerely disappointed that she doesn't have him. I agree.

Ariel's teacher, Roya, tells me I could probably leave then. I say goodbye to Ariel, and walk away. He screams bloody murder. And doesn't stop for twenty minutes, which I know because I stayed around, out of sight, listening to each heart-wrenching sob. I'm fragile, near tears myself. I hadn't expected this. I go to the office, ask if I should go back in. He's still screaming, and I hear people asking whose child that is. He's a wreck, hasn't settled down at all. They ask the teacher. Yes, please, she answers. We could use your help.

Ariel and I reunite, both of us crying now. I had gone through this with Elan and thought I could handle the emotion with Ariel. Apparently, it hurts just as much when the second child is miserable. Just as much.

But you doubt yourself less.

The teacher asks me to stay for the entire 3-hour orientation and she doesn't have to ask twice. Okay, so I won't get anything done this morning. But Ariel will be happy. Obviously, he needs easing in.

Once he realizes I'm sticking around, though, Ariel's regular, playful nature returns, and he becomes the star of the show, entertaining teachers and students alike with constant, pipsqueak chattering. He points out every color in the rainbow from a chart on the wall, and counts two and three balls, much to my delight and the amazement of Roya. I'm hoping she sees, that she'll understand and maybe even agree with me when I push to have him moved to the older class.

Because the other kids in his class do, as anticipated, use pacifiers, and don't seem to talk much, if at all. Elan wouldn't be pleased, I think.

The other children seem to think I'm one of the teachers, and even though many spend the day alternating between whimpering and full-fledged, bodies-thrown-against-the-door tantrums, they seem to like me. I'm always surprised when kids other than my own take to me, think of myself as more of a "tough" grownup, a disciplinarian, than the kind little kids love. One child, though, seems to think I'm his mother. I made two seconds of eye contact with him, during which, I believe, I either winked or stuck out my tongue, and the kid was on me for the rest of the day like white on rice. He plopped himself down on my lap, stroked the back of my hand, played with my hair, gazed at me attentively at all times - generally gave me more lovin' than I usually get in a week with my husband. He even cried when I left. I felt badly, but not badly enough to stay. Anyway, he was pissing Ariel off.

During lunchtime, Ariel desperately wanted Rachel's meal, which was pasta shaped like little ears. I'm not sure how to describe the assistant teacher, Iris/Ida (she told me her name was Iris, but Roya continually referred to her as Ida), who was helping the little girl eat, but the best I can tell you is she was a cross between one of the very first pilgrims, and an Irish nun. In Amish clothing. And a bizarre hat. And an even stranger voice.

As little Rachel ate her noodles, Iris murmured softly, to nobody in particular, "My grandmother used to make Orecchiette when I was a little girl...She had this particular recipe for it, like little ears on a plate..."

Where did they FIND these people? I wondered.

Finally, time to go. Ariel won't kiss his teacher goodbye, but he really wants me to, which is nice and incredibly awkward. She says, "See you tomorrow," which he repeats, verbatim, all smiles now. The kids seem depressed to see me go. Many haven't stopped sniffling since their mothers left. As I've been the main teacher for the day, I'm depressed for them, too. But I've had enough. I lack a trained teacher's stamina.

We pick up Elan: "It was great! I loved it!"

Thank G-d. Ariel hugs Kevin goodbye. We get in the car, and I tell Elan how he was right, how Ariel was very upset when I left, how I ended up staying the entire time. He nods, sagely: "Yup. I was right. I knew I was going to be."

I make a mental note to trust his judgment more often.

Elan asks his little brother how school went. Ariel says, "Fun!" Elan asks what he did there. Ariel replies, aptly, "Made a beeg mess!"

In more ways than one, my sweet, I think.

And then: Will speaking truisms get him into Noga's class?

And Whether You Smoke

"Ariel, guess what?"
"What?"
"You're going to start school tomorrow."
"Tool?"
"Yes, school. Mommy's going to take you and you're going to be in a class with friends and a teacher."
"Fends?"
"Yes, friends. Isn't that cool?"
"Yeah."

So far, so good. Now for the bomb: "And Mommy's going to drop you off and then leave, and then come back for you later."

"No. No Mommy yeave. No tool."
"No school? School is great!"
"No tool. HATE tool!"
"You can't hate school..."

"HATE TOOL. HATE IT. TOOL IS BAD."

(Hoping he has no idea what 'hate' means...:) "School is lots of fun. And Mommy will only be gone a little while. You don't hate school, silly..."
"NO. YIKE. IT. TOOL! NO-YIKE-TOOL!"

And finally, for my benefit: "Hate tool."

So he does know what it means.

Ariel's learned all kinds of special words this summer, words I just can't wait to show off to his school's administrative staff.

Last night, we had a meeting with a life insurance salesman, with the goal, obviously, of putting some monetary value on our otherwise (apparently) worthless lives. It was fun, despite the fact that both Y and I were struggling to keep our eyes open (Margo, you may not simply rest your eyes for a minute while this man is speaking and looking at you...it's not okay to yawn violently in his face...stay awake...stay awake...) while the agent told life insurance story after life insurance story after life insurance story - did you know that one anecdote illustrating the potential benefit of a policy isn't nearly enough to get the point across?

It was fun, though, because Y and I had the chance to, once and for all, define ourselves on paper - "Super-Preferred" or merely "Preferred," Worth a Million, or a Million-Five. I'm just too excited for the day they send someone into our home on a bright Sunday morning to collect urine samples.

But tell me, when else do you get the validation that you are, indeed, among the Super-Preferred members of society?

And I'll let you in on a little secret: as we've always suspected, it's all about height and weight, in the end. And whether you smoke.

Anyway, the connection here is that I am so happy we're applying for life insurance because IF THE SCHOOL YEAR DOESN'T START SOON I WILL PROBABLY HAVE TO KILL MYSELF. And at least this way, my death will be worth a little something to the kids.

No yike it? Take it to the board.

Pincushions and Pacifiers

I'm not sure that anything is as rewarding to a parent as the moments in which you get the validation that you did a good thing by giving your child a sibling. This is especially true because when your kids are still small, when most of the interaction you witness between them involves the younger one's head being sat on/stomach sucker-punched/hair pulled/body covered in blue marker and used as pincushion. Maybe it doesn't matter if your kids are small, actually - maybe that's always true.

So in those fleeting instances in which your kids show genuine love for each other (and let's be honest, we'd settle for like), it's just about the warmest and fuzziest thing for us. It temporarily puts to rest the guilt you typically feel for having born a child into a world of ongoing torture, and nobody likes to feel guilty ALL the time.

From the get-go, Elan was into Ariel. The little one's birth tapped into this very nurturing and protective side of Elan's nature, and we never had to guess when he might be feeling jealous or slighted because he knew how to articulate it: "Mommy, you need to stop hugging Baby Ariel now and hug me." Or: "Do you love Baby Ariel and do you NOT LOVE ME AT ALL?!" I think this ability of his to put his feelings into words, and mine, therefore, to respond them immediately, prevented any long-term resentment forming between them.

More than that, though, Elan's always seemed to feel ownership over Ariel, an ingrained sense of responsibility for him, and to about the same extent that Y and I do. He is constantly telling us how he plans to "bite the ears off" and "kick the face in" of any "bad guys" that might try to harm his younger brother, and we choose to look at the positive in those statements, rather than stress over his disturbing choice of violent behaviors.

It's not all talk, either: Elan can't stand to see Ariel hurt, or upset. When I put Ariel in a time-out, and he begins to cry, Elan just breaks down, gets close to tears himself. He'll beg me to let Ariel out, claiming he just "can't stand it" to listen to the boy cry. When I refuse to yield, Elan runs to Ariel and tells him, "You can come out, you're free!" and helps him to his feet.

Then I have to put both of them in a time-out. Granted, it doesn't end well and messages are mixed. But I'm still secretly proud.

And when Ariel gets injured, Elan is the first to his side, stroking his hair, taking his hand, giving him a hug. Ariel takes advantage of the affectionate outbursts, reveling in the attention from his idol, and hugs back with all of his might. And when Ariel threw up on Friday night, Elan lovingly offered him a popsicle as soon as we got home.

Even nicer, Elan is just as proud of Ariel's developmental successes as we are, and cheers each new skill alongside us. Ariel tends to try and pee on the toilet before his bath (hell, he's naked anyway, right?) for the sole reward of the praise his older brother lavishes on him for it, along the lines of: "Oh my GOSH, Ariel! You are so great! You're such a big boy! You pished on the toilet just like me! Mommy, did you see that? Ariel gets a star for sure!" Insert hug here.

Of course he was just as encouraging when Ariel removed his diaper in his crib during a time-out, and peed on his blanket in a desperate attempt to get my attention. "You took off your own diaper? Good boy!"

At the beach over the weekend, when Ariel ran too far away from my comfort zone, and I yelled for him to head back, Elan took charge. He marched over to Ariel, leading him back to me with one hand on the small of his back, and I could hear the lecture poor Ariel was being subjected to from far: "It is dangerous at the beach! There are some bad peoples who try to take little kids and steal them and if you are not close to Mommy and Daddy and me we can't protect you. Okay?"

But I really think yesterday took the cake. I'd been waiting weeks for the letters from the boys' school letting me know which classes they were placed in this year, to find out which teachers they'd be having. So when the envelopes finally arrived, I ripped them open immediately only to find that neither child had been placed with the teacher I'd requested. I'm a reactor, so I probably said something like:

"G-d dammit, WTF! The school can't give me ONE good teacher? What the HELL??!" As I collapsed on the sofa in fury.

Elan was there, unfortunately, and immediately bombarded me with a series of, "What? What's wrong? Who's a bad teacher? WHAT, Mommy?!"

"Nothing," I muttered, and called the school.

The administrator explained to me that Elan was put with all of his friends, and that the teacher he'd been given was a strategic decision based on her understanding of Elan's personality from the past two years.

"Fine," I relented, sighing. The school staff always manages to out-talk me, to make me feel about as big as Ariel's pinky toe.

"And Ariel's class was divided by birthday," she went on. "The teacher you wanted for him has all of the older two year olds, and Ariel's teacher has the ones with birthdays falling in September and after. He's a September, right?"

"But he's used to hanging out with older children all the time," I protested. "He might not be two yet, but he went to camp this summer with three and four-year-olds, and held his own perfectly. He speaks circles around lots of other two-year-olds. I want him to be challenged!"

"There are areas of development and preparedness other than verbal that we look for," the woman replied. "We look for different things than the parents do. But I'll tell you what - give it a week with the younger class. I'll keep an eye on him. If we agree that he's not being challenged enough, we'll switch him to the older class. Okay?"

I agreed, but none too happily. My brother and sister-in-law were there, and when I hung up, they were looking at me, expectantly. "So?"

"Whatever," I grumbled. "Ariel's just going to be in a class with babies walking around with pacifiers who don't talk."*

"WHAT?" Elan demanded, eyebrows skyward, clearly furious. "What happened with the teachers??"

"Nothing," I explained. "You're in a class with all of your friends. You'll like your teacher. It'll be great."

"BUT ARIEL IS GOING TO BE IN A CLASS WITH BABIES WHO USE PACIFIERS AND CAN'T TALK???" He yelled. Like, not acceptable!

I couldn't help smiling. The other two were fully cracking up, hands covering their mouths. Elan didn't notice, and continued:

"He CAN'T be in a class like that. Ariel is NOT a baby. It's not fair! He can't be with pacifiers! What are you going to do?"

He just wanted Ariel's first year of formal education to be educational! Was that too much to ask?!

"Calm down, babe," I began, in as reassuring a voice as I could muster. "Bernice said if the class turns out to be too young for Ariel, she'll switch him to the other class. To Noga, the teacher you had when you were his age."

"She'll switch him? If they are all BABIESWHODON'TTALKANDWALKAROUNDWITHPACIFIERS?"
I suppose he felt the point needed to be repeated, for maximum impact. To make sure I, too, wasn't okay with this, that I realized the injustice of it all. That I'd do my job, as a mother.

Later, we went to the Tar Pits, and Y left his office for a few minutes to meet us there and say hi. After a running-across-a-field, open-armed reunion, Elan breathlessly filled Y in: "Daddy, you won't believe this, I'm in a class with all my friends but they might be putting Ariel in a class with babies, with pacifiers, who can't even talk yet, but Bernice said if it's really like that he can switch to Noga!" Y looked at me, the corners of his mouth quivering with the effort to control them. Trying to take Elan's concern seriously.

I thought about how nice it was not to be the only drama-queen, the only world-is-coming-to-an-end fatalist in the family anymore.

And I knew someone else, someone closer to his own age, would always have Ariel's back.

---

[*For the record, I have NOTHING against pacifiers. My kids just never took to them, though I often wished they would. I was just angry and that's what had popped out of my mouth.]

When Less Is More

There are things you don'’t really appreciate, or even notice in life until they're gone -– everyone knows that (if they don't, though, Joni Mitchell will tell them). Like when you get sick, you suddenly appreciate your normal state of lack of sickness, namely, health. When you have an ear infection, you look at every moment in your life that was untainted by excruciating, mind-numbing ear pain, and think, I was spoiled, man. And when you have the stomach flu, you watch people eating cheesy, greasy pizza and fresh, lightly-toasted bagels with cream cheese and lox and think, there was a time when I ate like that, too. And I DIDN'’T EVEN KNOW WHAT I HAD. It's all put into perspective.

And when you watch your almost-two-years old bundle of joy suffer the stomach flu, and comprehend his inability to even verbalize his agony to his primary caretakers, you suddenly value basics like knowing how to talk.

Today, I'm in that state -– that condition of hyper-awareness of every little, tiny, normally-taken-for-granted gift for which I should be glad. Because over the weekend, I had the stomach flu. And so did Ariel. And today, I finally feel like a human being again, and he seems to, too.

This weekend, I was fortunate to have three out of my four siblings in town, plus my sisters-in-law, one of whom I rarely get to see. When you grow up with only brothers, you appreciate sisters-in-law- they're like hard-earned rewards for handling your only-girl position with such aplomb for so many years. So I was really happy we were all going to be together, as grown-ups (shut up) this time, even though we were missing the youngest sib (we did miss you, Sim).

We were doing Saturday lunch at my house, a crowd of fourteen, once you counted Y's family and my sister-in-law's cousin, and though I got my cooking done early on Friday, I was NOT feeling well. Which I was NOT happy about. I had woken up nauseated and dizzy, and despite sticking to clear liquids throughout the day, things weren't looking up.

To make matters worse, Ariel, who'’d been acting perfectly normal, threw up in his bed just before his nap, leaving me suspicious that we were dealing with the same virus, and not food poisoning from the incredibly good sushi I'd taken out on Thursday night.

But he seemed okay for the rest of the day, I started to feel better, so my visiting brother and I concluded that maybe he'’d just been playing a little too hard with the kids, maybe Ariel was just a bit dehydrated, and we decided to stick with the plan to go to my local brother's house for dinner.

By the end of the meal, Ariel was acting weird, like he wanted me to put him to sleep, but couldn't get comfortable anywhere. He just kept putting his head down on stuff, and then picking it up, sitting down in his stroller, and then making me take him out, lying down in my arms, and then running off. Then, he puked again. All over my brother and sister-in-law's hardwood floor (thank G-d for hardwood). I carried him to the bathroom where he finished the job over the toilet.

This little, snugly, pajama-clad body standing and heaving over the toilet, me holding his puffy hair back, like a miniature adult bearing the consequences of a night on the town -– I could hardly stand it. When he was through, he collapsed in my arms, buried his face in my neck, and, through teary eyes - grinned. Up at me. And said, "Ariel all better."

He couldn'’t verbalize that he'’d been feeling crappy, but he knew the words for the relief he felt just then. We all know the words for that kind of relief.

I should have seen the signs, though. Because it wasn't the first time that kind of thing had happened.

About a year ago, we ate Friday night dinner at some friends'’ house. Towards the end of the meal, Elan started begging me to leave: "Can we go home now? Can we just go home? I really want to leave..."” and so on. I'’d been a little embarrassed and quieted him down, though he continued to persist. I pulled him onto my lap, and just before dessert made its way to the table, he threw up all over me. And our friends' floor (hardwood, people! We are blessed). And my white skirt, which made its way to the trash shortly after.

The present company sat, shocked, for a moment before springing to action. But before anyone could move, Elan, utterly spent, turned and looked up at me with glassy eyes and asked in a brown-sugar voice, "Now can we please go home?"

So apparently, I didn'’t learn enough from that experience to guess that Ariel's strange behavior indicated he'd be sick the other night. But I did decide to move forward from there, so when Ariel announced that he was feeling better, I looked him in the eye and calmly explained, "“You threw up, Ariel, but Mommy'’s here and you're going to be okay. Do you need to throw up anymore?"” I wanted to give him words.

He shook his head, saying, "“No, no,"” with his eyes half-closed, like Do you think you might give me a moment'’s peace now that I heaved everything short of my small intestine into my uncle'’s duck-rug-padded toilet? You know, before grilling me some more? And I backed off.

He was okay after that. I, on the other hand, was feverish most of that night, and my dry heaves continued through Sunday morning. Of course, I found plenty of metaphors and synonyms to describe the way I was feeling ("You know when you sort of just pray for death rather than deal with the room spinning at a violent speed and your stomach twisting itself in knots in a fashion normally associated with knife wounds and swallowed explosives? That's kind of where I'm at right now..."), with which, to be honest, Y seemed to grow a little bored. But I'm just guessing from the constant rolling of his eyes and continually decreasing responsiveness to my complaints.

Which makes me wonder: as adults, if we really want sympathy for being sick, should we skip the dramatic preludes, and head right to the public climax of the play? If impact is what we're after - forego the sprint to the bathroom altogether, and hope for a hardwood floor?

Pull a Now Can We Go Home?

---

PS - Ariel just used the word "actually" in proper context - be still my heart.

PPS - Why did none of you mention that frogs croak at night? And that it sounds nothing like "ribbit?"

The Real World

Job hunting. Every once in awhile, I get fed up with the ebbs and flows of freelancing, and decide to start looking for full-time jobs. This behavior is typically inspired by anxiety over money, sudden panic over the thought that we might never have enough to get out of an apartment, and, being a problem-solver rather than sit-and-sulk kind of person, the resulting decision that I need to be pulling more weight.

I grew up watching my mother work full-time while raising the five of us, so I took for granted the fact that I'd be juggling career and motherhood as well. Once I had my boys, I didn't experience that which I've heard other mothers mention - a feeling that I didn't need to be doing anything else to feel fulfilled, purposeful, that I was stretched to the max with my new role alone. I got married very young, so I didn't have the luxury of relinquishing earning potential - but more than that, I still felt the need to be exercising my creative juices in order to feel, here's that word again, fulfilled.

Problem was, when I had my boys, I DID experience something else I've heard other mothers mention - the feeling that I really didn't want to be physically away from my kids for longer than, say, two or three hours at a time. When they were younger, it was more like one hour. I was addicted to their presence, if not to the glamour of changing diapers, then certainly to the locking of eyes, meshing of souls that would take place when I nursed or rocked them to sleep. To watching them growing sleepier and sleepier, their eyelids drooping but fighting to stay open, until I could close them myself with the lightest brush of my fingertips.

I didn't want to miss any of that. Cliche, perhaps. But cliche for a reason.

But I still wanted to work when they were sleeping, when they were gurgling happily in the exersaucer. I wasn't going to watch daytime TV, and, let's be honest, I wasn't going to take a nap.

Thus was born the title of "freelancer." Work for yourself, charge what you want, work the hours that fit your schedule, not the other way around. Do it at home, with your kid right next to you. Take your laptop on vacations to visit the grandparents. No being a gimp to a boss you don't respect, no sitting idly in a cubicle somewhere feeling utterly bored, like your skills weren't being utilized, the way my friends complained.

The problem with being an independent contractor is that your income is only what you make of it - meaning, if you don't aggressively seek out new jobs and clients, they don't just find you. You can rely on a certain amount of word of mouth in your favor, and, if you do your job well, a certain amount of repeat business. But if you really want to make money, you've got to Be! Aggressive! Be! Be! Ag-gressive!

Which can Be! Be! Exhausting! And terrifying. After all, when you put yourself out there, when you present something you've created, your artwork, to the world - it's hard to separate yourself from the experience. It's hard to think of it as Just Work. It's like putting your whole being on display, for judgment, critique, approval. To get design jobs, you've gotta open yourself up to that. You need to be confident enough to talk yourself up, to be your own cheerleader, whether you feel it or not. Parenting requires a certain level of humility as it is - I'm not always in the mood to risk extra beatings.

So when things get particularly slow, my first response is often to convince myself that I can't afford to keep working from home, I should suck it up and find a full-time job with a set salary that I can count on. I hit Monster and apply for jobs for which I'm overqualified, in neighborhoods I can't logically commute to, with shit salaries if you were to calculate the hourly rate they actually worked out to be, because I'm used to measuring my self-worth by the hourly rate I can manage to command. Sick, I know.

Sometimes I get interviews, which I inevitably blow, I think because I inevitably mention my kids. Bottom-line: not many employers are looking to hire someone who feels equally committed elsewhere - like to their babies. At least that's what my gut tells me.

It could be I just suck at interviews. Y says I can, at times, give off the impression that I think I'm too good for a lot of these jobs, these people, who run corporate America. He's not criticizing - he feels the same way. But he thinks that it probably seeps into my interviews, that I'm only indulging them by answering mundane and idiotic questions, like what is my biggest weakness ("Why, that I'm too much of a perfectionist, of course!" *bat eyelashes here*), that I refuse to kiss ass.

I'm not saying he's wrong.

The other day, Y and I had a Big Talk about our finances, our budget. Our intentions to really try and save money, for the first time in our lives. Until now, we told ourselves we simply weren't able. Now, if we're careful, we can put away a few dollars each month. If we're careful, and if I work.

Ariel is going to start attending Elan's nursery school this Fall, which will leave me plenty of time each day to get back to the grind. Which means I need to find clients to fill that time. Which, really, I know how to do - I've done it for the past five years.

But for the past few weeks, I haven't been working at all. I've had both kids home with me, and there hasn't been a moment to spare for anything else. RookieMoms is a great site, full of ideas and activities to do on a daily basis when raising your kids, to keep stimulated on an adult level. Had I not taken this month off, I don't think I'd have fully understood WHY you'd need structured activities, and structured breaks, as a stay-at-home-Mom. I'd have thought it was just fun.

I get it now, though. It's because otherwise, playing kid ALL the time, while nice for the child, can get seriously boring for the parent.

Like I said, I won't be hard-pressed to start working my brain again, in addition to kicking a soccer ball around the park in 100-degree heat.

But I guess I'm feeling rusty, nervous about getting back in the swing of things, though I am excited to. This week, the nerves turned into panic. The panic turned into one of my old standbys - the full-time job search.

Recently, I've been doubting the long-term viability of the whole graphic design thing, leaning more towards - if you can believe it - writing. Why do we choose a major in college when we are too young to know what it is we really want to do with our lives? Only to face the quarter-life crisis of trying to decide what it is we are really best at, what it is we're meant to be doing? I know I'm not alone in this.

Getting writing jobs ain't easy. Methinks a Masters in Journalism would help, which, unfortunately, I lack. So, I figured, I'd look for design jobs at newspapers and magazines - at least that way I'd be around the written word. I found an opening at the largest local Beverly Hills newspaper and sent off a kick-ass cover letter. Granted, it was more production art than real design work, but the salary wasn't bad, and like I said, the thought of working at a newspaper was undeniably appealing.

I got a strangely formal email back a few hours later from the main publisher, stating that if I wished to be considered for the job, I should call a certain someone whom we'll call Shirley Dorn, to arrange an interview. A response the same day. Hooray!

I locked myself in the bathroom so my kids wouldn't be able to interrupt, and dialed the Beverly Hills phone number. A female voice answered, already sounding annoyed.

"Hi, I'm looking for Shirley Dorn?"

"Speaking."

"Oh, um, hello. My name is Margo and I'm calling to arrange an interview for the production artist position? I was told to call you?"

I could HEAR this woman roll her eyes, the boredom in her voice palpable. "Yeah, can you come Thursday afternoon?"

I hesitated. Best just to be honest, I decided. After all, I didn't NEED this job, and already I wasn't sure I wanted to work for this person.

"I'm not sure I have babysitting then. See, my kids aren't back in school yet."

Pause.

Then Shirley spoke, in the most condescending of tones: "And you don't think that's going to be a problem with this job?"

"Well, they start school next week!" I replied, surprised.

"Yes, well, you think you could handle 8:30 in the morning until, sometimes, very late in the evenings, when you have...kids?"
She spoke that last word the way most people talk about household pests like mice or roaches. With disgust.

She took my moment's shocked hesitation as a sign of confusion. Or weakness.

"You don't think that kind of schedule could be a problem?" She repeated thickly for emphasis, clearly growing more and more bored with each passing second that I tested her patience. I imagined her glancing at her watch.

"Well, I didn't know anything about the job schedule," I answered lamely. "It could very well be a problem. None of the details were mentioned in the ad."

"This is a newspaper," Shirley said shortly. "And it's a production job. When the paper needs to come out, you have to work as long as it takes to get it ready. Period."

I was done with this woman. Hated her. Period.

"Do you think it's still worth an interview?" I asked, forcing equivocal boredom into my voice.

"Probably not."

Seriously, I thought. Don't bother sugar-coating anything for my sake. Tell me how you really feel!

Well, then.

"Thanks for your time." I clicked the line dead before she could beat me to the punch.

Okay. Maybe I hadn't thought the newspaper thing through that carefully. Maybe I could have guessed that the hours would be too strenuous for a young mom. Maybe I could have guessed that Beverly Hills, in general, would pack too much snobbery for my Midwestern likings. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything about my kids, if I wanted the job.

Which makes me wonder if I had really wanted the job. I mean, I'm not normally loose-lipped to the point of self-sabotage. I don't get nervous on the phone with strangers and lose my ability to think clearly, to choose my words carefully.

If I'm going to get a full-time job, I concluded, it's going to be under the clear understanding that I have kids, and I'm going to behave as such.

Realistic, or not.

I stood in the bathroom, leaning against the sink, the cordless phone trembling. I looked at it for a shell-shocked second before processing the fact that it was my hand that was shaking, and not out of disappointment or humiliation, though Shirley had definitely done her best, intentionally or not, to humiliate me.

It shook out of anger. And a touch of relief.

Clarity dawned and I devised several plans to generate freelance leads, once the kids are back in school. It didn't seem so scary anymore. In fact, it seemed a hell of a lot less intimidating than owning up to the Shirley Dorns of the world.

Anyway, I comforted myself, I doubted I could sneak any blogging in under her regime.

With a Cherry On Top

Sunday brought another birthday party for another friend of Elan's, and by "friend," I mean they have been in the same class for two years, and Elan calls the kid "my friend," and yet I've never witnessed a word spoken between them. Actually, they just kind of ignore each other. But who am I to profess to understand the depths and nuances of toddler friendships?

I was slightly apprehensive about this particular party because the birthday boy's mother has mentioned to me, on several grocery-store run-ins, how "cliquey" she finds the kids' class, and I know she's said the same thing to Kevin's mom, and I've a sneaking suspicion that she's talking about the clique of Elan and Kevin. My nerves were doubled when Elan informed me that if Kevin was not at the party, he didn't plan on participating in any of the fun.

Luckily, the birthday boy's mother also told me to feel free to bring Ariel, and since none of the parents seem to leave their children at these events, out of apprehension of another, more social kind I managed to convince Y to come as well. I don't have much to talk about with most of the other parents, somehow, and always find myself standing around awkwardly in his absence, eventually succumbing to the magnetic pull of major faux pas.

The entertainment turned out to be another inflatable waterslide/moonbounce on the front lawn. We'd come prepared with swimsuits for the boys, but Elan took one look at the millions of wet, dirty, bouncing children, and shook his head.

"I am NOT going on that 'hing," he said. "I'm going to find Kevin."

Ariel immediately made his way to the snack table, filled his palms with Ruffles and Mike n' Ikes, shoving them into his mouth at a rate that suggested he might never have another such opportunity again. Y and I looked at him, then at each other, and decided to let it be.

We stood back, watching the little bathing suit-clad bodies jump and slide, jump and slide, in vivid contrast to Elan, who stood fully-dressed, his arm slung across Kevin's shoulders, whispering conspiratorially in his ear.

"Those kids," I asked Y, gesturing towards the moonbounce, "They're normal, right? That's what normal kids do, right? They just dive into the 'kid' thing and have fun?"

"Yes, they are normal," Y replied. "But I get where Elan's coming from. I'd never have fallen for that thing when I was his age, either."

Great, I thought. It's not even a fluke. I'm busy manufacturing stand-outs with, well, a stand-out. What did I expect?

We found our way over to a 4-inch patch of shady (and muddy) grass and plopped down on it, making polite conversation with other parents. Ariel, emboldened, perhaps, by the massive amount of sugar coursing through his veins, had decided to change into his Hawaiian-print trunks and venture into a kiddy-pool, so I focused my attention on him.

Soon, however, I heard commotion to my left, and the high-pitched voice of one of the other mothers going, "Hey! Excuse me! Stop that. Put that down. Whose kid is this??!"

I didn't have to look up to know that she was asking about Elan - I just had a feeling. But I did look up, and what I saw was Elan, Kevin, and Kevin's siblings squatting on the sidewalk near where the parents and babies sat, football-huddled around some overturned rocks surrounding a bush.

At a swim party, Elan had convinced his cronies to look for bugs instead. And they'd found a dead, perfectly-conserved dragonfly corpse, which Elan had raised in the air, prize-fighter style, to garner some well-deserved kudos. In the face of the yelping mom.

To me, it wasn't scary. I mean, it was kind of beautiful, all red, and shiny and stuff. But the other parents appeared not to be accustomed to that sort of thing, so after a moment of pretending to have never seen Elan before in my life, I realized I was expected to step in.

"Elan! Kevin!" I admonished. "That's disgusting!"

"It might be diseased..." I heard one parent whisper.
"That's dangerous, what they're doing..." Another murmured.
"What kind of parent lets their kid..." Okay, I might have made that one up. Such is the doing of intense paranoia.

These parents were obviously a little spoiled, and I didn't really understand the HUGE fuss, but I got the boys to stop turning over rocks in shrubbery that didn't belong to them and move on. The poor, mummified dragonfly wound up in the street.

Soon, it was time to cut the cake. I was pleased to see that Elan wasn't too shy to elbow his way to first-row positioning, that he was compelled by some part of tradition, although I knew he didn't like cake. We sang Happy Birthday, me standing behind my son, hands on his shoulders, Y and Ariel still splashing in the pool. The birthday boy's mother started handing out slices of cake, the kids wrestling for their shares, and I noticed she looked just as harried and distressed as I'd felt when doing the same at Elan's party. I noticed, too, that Elan was standing directly in front of her, his hand waving just like those of his friends, politely but repeatedly asking, "Can I have that piece? Can I have some? Could I have some cake?"

And I thought, well, the kid might not be that adventurous when it came to leaving the house, he might not even be willing to play at his best friend's place unless I stay the whole time, but hey, he's certainly not shy! And even though you're supposed to embrace however it is that your child turns out, I was relieved that while a little different, maybe, Elan wasn't afraid to speak up for himself. One less social hurdle.

My reflections were interrupted, however, when I realized that Elan still hadn't been given any cake, even though he was standing right under the cutter's nose. I watched as kids came up to her out of nowhere, never waiting in line, asking for specific pieces in specific sizes as well as ones for their mothers, and were rewarded immediately. Elan was still asking, but he wasn't shouting, and he wasn't whining, and while I was proud of that, I felt myself getting more and more pissed off as this woman seemed to deliberately ignore him.

I couldn't help thinking about how diplomatically I'd handled cake distribution, how, though terrified of the mob-mentality forming around me, I'd handed out slices in the order in which they were requested, and I CERTAINLY didn't discriminate against the "cliquey" kids.

I quickly derided myself for reading so much into the situation. Told myself I was crazy.

Then, watching the excitement on Elan's face fade into bewilderment, I got mad again. There were only two or three kids still hanging around the table - it had quieted down! Yet she was still ignoring my child.

Sometimes you have to take matters into your own hands. I pushed in front of Elan, about to make him heard, when the mother decided she couldn't possibly handle the madness anymore, and handed the knife to one of the other dads. Who, bless his heart, handed Elan a paper plate full of the now-tainted cake right after serving his own kid.

Maybe it was irrational, maybe it was all in my head. But it's hard to stay rational when it's your kid you imagine is being affected. Too disgruntled to be near the other parents sitting the lawn, I parked on a chair at the cake table, soon joined by Y and Ariel, and we helped ourselves to the remainder of the Thomas the Train-frosted confection. As expected, Elan only ate one bite before surrendering his plate to me, but, I reminded myself, that wasn't really the point.

Whatever, I thought, immaturely. This blows.

We left, and once buckled into his booster seat, Elan sighed happily. "Mommy? I really loved that party."

Thank G-d, it occurred to me, resting my foreheard on the car window, It's the adults who carry the burden.

From Bad to Not Quite Good

You've all said what you needed to about The Great Snake Debate: To Keep Or Not To Keep. And I've considered your opinions. Sort of. What I mean to say is, I've seriously considered the opinions of those of you who advised against keeping the snake.

Yes, it's small. Sure, it's low-maintenance. Granted, my son thought he'd died and gone to heaven. Maybe, to some (freaks), it could even be called cute.

But all I've heard is story after story about friends-of-friends who owned a snake and it somehow got loose and it was missing for months and it finally turned up in the middle of the night slithering across the body of the friend-of-a-friend, drawn to the warmth of his/her blood. I've heard, minimum, five stories like that.

And frankly, they scared me shitless.

Plus, I decided that if I'm going to be the sole female in a house (well, apartment) of boyish-boys, then I've gotta set some ground rules. Establish a sense of reasonable autocracy. You know, veto-power. Otherwise, I know - I just know that a singular, small snake will expand, eventually, to ownership of a large, alligator-consuming one.

Just like I know, just know that the frog I bought in substitution for the singular, small snake I returned on Friday - will get lost. In my house (well, apartment).

To my credit, I gave Elan plenty of warning that the snake was, indeed, going back at the end of the week. And in return, he gave me plenty of notice that should he go along with such a plan, he expected a different pet, preferably reptilian, in exchange. Some people claim life is made up of moments - mine's more like a series of negotiations.

Friday morning, I woke up and breathed deeply for the first time all week, smiling as I brewed coffee, pleased with the knowledge that I'd be heading to the pet store, snake in tow, as soon as I could get the kids dressed and in the car. When we parked in the back lot of the Aquarium Center, however, I found myself faced with an unanticipated setback: Elan got sad. His face crumpled, his lower lip trembling, shoulders hunched, rising and falling slowly with silent sobs. Big, fat teardrops left streaks down to his chin as he looked steadily at the ground.

I crouched down, putting an arm around his shoulders. "Honey. It's going to be okay. Snakey wasn't the right pet for us, that's all. I couldn't handle having him forever. But it was cool having him for a few days, wasn't it?"

Elan shrugged, still refusing to meet my gaze. Ariel, too, placed an arm around his shoulder. "You sad, Enon?" he asked, in his signature broken English.

My heart broke. Right then and there, I felt like the meanest mom ever self-deluded enough to bear children. But an inner voice reminded me that none of it was my fault. It was Y's! He should never have put me in this position in the first place.

Of course, while certainly true, the realization didn't do much to help me in that moment. Sighing, thumbing the tears from Elan's cheeks, I heard myself saying, "All right. We'll see if there are any other pets in the shop that I don't mind having."

Apparently, this was all the kid needed to hear, because he grinned, tugged his short sleeve down far enough to wipe his nose on, and darted off ahead of me into the store.

The teen behind the counter was the same one who'd sold Y the snake five days earlier, and he was obviously disappointed that I wasn't a fan. But he brightened a little when I asked, reluctantly, "Do you, uh, have anything else that might be appropriate for a four-year-old, that's, uh, perhaps a bit less" [whispering] "gross? Like a frog?"

I've always found frogs rather cute, so I didn't scream, rather liked it, in fact, when he placed a large, neon-green one in my hand. Elan scrambled to take a turn.

"This guy's perfect for you. He doesn't hop that much, so you can play with him, and he's totally harmless."

"He's adorable. I love him. Elan, do you like it?"

"YES YES MOMMY CAN WE HAVE HIM? CAN WE KEEP IT?" He was shrieking, overcome with excitement, yet caressing the frightened body with a tenderness I'd only before witnessed him use with Snakey.

I checked the price. It was $26. We'd get a refund from the snake. Perfecto.

"It's done," I smiled at the kid with the mop of dark hair framing his pubescent face. "So can I just keep it in the same 5-gallon tank I had the snake in?"

"Oh no. He needs a big tank - like at least 25 gallons. Oh, and he can't be in temperatures under 80-degrees, so unless you don't use A/C, you'll have to get a heating lamp. And a UV-light one. Total, it should all cost under $120 - that work?"

No, it didn't work. Aside from the monstrous, needless expense, I didn't want a large tank anywhere in my home. Remember - I'd just recently managed to divest of a 100-gallon aquarium, and Mr. Turtley's home was 40-gallons. I'm not willing to forfeit space. Not again.

"Crap. It's not gonna happen. Unless I get rid of our turtle, and put it in that tank."

Elan swore he wouldn't mind giving up Mr. Turtley (kids...Where's the loyalty?) so long as he could take home this frog. Snakey was already a distant memory.

"Your turtle could live outside, in your backyard - mine does!" the kid informed me. For a moment I considered it. But Mr. Turtley? Come on. He's a wimp. I doubted he could survive the elements on his own, like weeds, and Roly-Poly bugs. And I felt terrible about the thought of trading him in. I mean, there's borderline cruelty. And then there is Just Plain Wrong.

"Ok. Big Frog isn't for us. What about something smaller, a frog that doesn't need such a large, warm environment?"

The boy came up with a nice little tree frog, but not before suggesting a "little spider," along the lines of a tarantula.

"He doesn't bite!" he swore. "Only thing is, if he gets away, he's gone. You'll never find him."

"If he gets away, in that case, I'll have to move," I replied, still smiling, always friendly. He's just a kid, I reminded myself. Clearly, he wasn't getting it, but still, just a kid. With a turtle living in his backyard.

"No spiders." Smile.

"Be careful with the tree frog," he said, placing it into Elan's cupped hands, "'Cause this one is a jumper. He'll jump all over the place when he gets scared, and he's fast...Oops!" The tiny, bright-green thing had leapt from his hands, and landed on Ariel's forehead, who, in turn, giggled, then screamed.

"YUCKY! COCKY! GET OFFFFFFF!" Ariel yelled, brushing the frog back into flight. So different from his brother.

I laughed, and told the dark-haired boy to wrap it up. At $8.99, we finally had a sale. Elan chose a plant and some carpet for what used to be the Corn Snake's little home, and insisted on holding the taped-closed paper bag full of frog in the car ride home. He never stopped chattering excitedly, repeating every word of the experience to Y over the speakerphone of my cell, including the part in which the salesboy recommended a "tarantula that doesn't bite but if we lost it it would be gone just like that gone forever so fast and we'd never find him ever so Mommy said NO SPIDERS."

I didn't realize he'd been listening.

I asked him what he would name his frog, and he said, "I don't know yet. I need to 'hink about it." But I suppose a couple of seconds proved enough time to mull it over, as he soon declared he'd call it Froggy. "Because I always name my pets like what they are, like my turtle is Mr. Turtley, my snake was Snakey, and now my frog will be Froggy."

Admiring his bullet-proof logic, I gently encouraged him to be more creative. I gently reminded him that Froggy was, well, a sucky name.

"How about Green Bean?" I suggested.
"No, his name is Sally," Elan stated definitively.
"So it's a girl?"
"Sally is a girl's name?"
"Traditionally."
"Oh. Then my frog's name is Hoppy."

I didn't remind him that Hoppy, too, was a sort of sucky name. After all, I was supposed to be the adult in the situation. I just took Hoppy out of the paper bag, set up his new home, and chased him around the apartment with a delighted Elan, as the animal proceeded to live up to its name.

Once the kids were napping, I cleaned out Mr. Turtley's tank - a task I usually leave for the housekeeper - feeling remarkably guilty about that which he couldn't have known: how, today, albeit briefly, I'd bargained with his life. Or did he know? For shortly after I filled his feeding dish with lettuce, he left me a less-clean souvenir smack-dab in the middle of the recently freshened tank.

I cursed my pointless guilty conscience.

Hoppy is very cute, though much harder to handle than the snake was. I think I might like him, impractical as it might be.

-- He doesn't eat live mice every two weeks.

-- He does, ahem, eat live crickets. Every two days.

I know, nice iron fist. What the hell is wrong with me?

---

It's the next morning. Did I say we had one frog? So silly of me. Because what I really meant was three. We have three frogs. Y and Elan went to the store to pick up crickets to feed our ONE frog and I, once again, stayed in the car, and they came out with two more little guys in a tupperware poked with holes. Moral of the story: NEVER stay in the car. Never stay in the car. Never stay in the CAR.

On the other hand, I did clean it out while I was waiting.

Zero Tolerance

I've referred to this August as the month of Nothing Official to Do, and the truth is, I can't decide if I like it or hate it. On the one hand, I'm spending a lot of time with my kids, quality time, face-time - not one-hand-on-the-keyboard-one-hand-one-the-stove-one-hand-in-a-diaper time. Nowadays, when I change a diaper, that's all I do. And when I read my kids a book, that's all I do too.

Kammie, from Passion Meets Purpose, writes about enjoying the summer in her post called "Balanced Living or the Teeter-Totter Effect," about being like a kid again, and while I can't claim to be quite there yet, it's a goal of mine. Not to feel like hanging out at the park or beach on a weekday is the kind of behavior only excusable when you are a kid.

I know it might sound a little like I'm a repentant Worst Mom in the World bragging about being as focused and in the moment as most of my friends always are with their children. I'm not proud of myself - after all, with so much togetherness comes that much more interaction of the less-appealing kind, like tantrums and time-outs and migraine-inducing car rides and loss of patience. Like the moments when you question why you can't keep your cool as a parent and what that says about you.

However. I'm pleased to announce that my protective maternal instincts ARE all riled up, the result, perhaps, of lugging the boys into public places and large crowds day after day of the last few weeks. I've become hyper-aware of the dangers unique to each new locale, and then can't really relax until I've left for home. No matter how much fun the kids are having. I know - lucky me.

It's funny because I can now recognize what seems to be my number one public-place concern, and it's not something I'd ever thought much about before having children: namely, junkies and needles.

When I was in high school, I didn't do much rebelling. I liked music, went to lots of concerts, wore a lot of hideous, grungy, thrift-store clothes and hemp necklaces, and plenty of my friends did drugs, but I never tried a thing. Still haven't. I'm a control freak, so the thought of being out of my element never looked romantic to me in the least. Plus, when you hang out with people who are high, and you're completely sober, you see how dumb they look and act. It wasn't a draw.

But I wasn't judgmental, and I let my friends do what they want, save for the occasional deeeeeply-adolescent interventions about how they should really quit. I wasn't really uncomfortable around the presence of a little pot, which was pretty much all anyone was doing.

Now, though, when I'm with my kids, and I see someone obviously under the influence - or, heaven forbid, I see the actual drugs themselves - say, sharing the same COUNTRY as us, I freak out. I gather the boys close and can't focus on anything except the threat. The threat of what? Namely, discarded needles. Of disease.

A few weeks ago, I took the boys to a local park with my sisters-in-law. It wasn't the park we usually go to, but seemed like a nice enough place nevertheless. And it wasn't that crowded, which was nice (read: not a good sign). I soon noticed some men strewn about the grass around the restrooms, in various unnatural stances, not speaking to one another but occasionally mumbling to themselves. And trembling. And looking generally like they couldn't control the movements of their heads.

When Elan started running in their direction, chasing a ball, I ordered him to stop in a tone normally reserved for officers chasing murder suspects: "FREEZE. DON'T MOVE AN INCH. TURN, LOOK AT ME, AND SLOWLY WALK TOWARDS ME. DON'T MAKE ANY SUDDEN MOVES."

At the sound of my voice, the first junkie looked up at me, met my eyes momentarily, before drifting lazily back into his trip.

"Did you hear about the park where a kid recently found a needle?" My sister-in-law whispered to me. I hadn't. But suddenly, I saw potential needles everywhere I looked. My kids played with other children on the playground, supervised by my husband's youngest sister, eleven years old. And I decided to call the police.

I called the non-emergency line, and reported the presence of men who were clearly under the influence of narcotics at a children's playground. I confessed my fear of needles. I stated in what I hope sounded like a firm, non-nonsense, maternal voice, that these guys had no business hanging out near kids, in the middle of the day.

"Did you actually see the narcotics, Ma'am?" The officer on the phone asked. At the word "narcotics," my stomach did a mini-flip. I'd never called the police before and it sounded very serious. I was reminded of all the recent ads warning against wasting the time of the LAPD with false alarms, and got nervous. What if I was wrong about the guys, about the narcotics? Would I get in trouble? Could I get arrested?

I decided to stand my ground. "No, I didn't see the actual narcotics. But I know enough to be able to recognize when someone 'isn't quite right.'" I didn't tell him I'd lived in New York, had taken the Q-line subway for four years. He didn't seem like he'd be all that impressed with my Bachelor's degree in "street."

Long story short, a police van eventually drove straight into the middle of the park, questioned and patted down my surprised friends, and left with them in the backseat. When the van first pulled up, the other mothers clamored forward curiously for a better look. I shielded my face, grabbed my family, and made like a bat out of hell.

All I can say is I never thought I'd be one to spend an average Tuesday getting some probably-harmless losers arrested. Parenthood takes goody-two-shoes to a new level.

Yesterday, my mom and I took the boys to Venice Beach. We didn't actually intend to go there, ended up in Venice by accident after getting lost in Santa Monica, but I wasn't disappointed because I had good memories of Venice Beach. I'd last gone when I was twelve, visiting my aunt and uncle who lived in LA(!). In retrospect, I also came home from that trip wearing bright-red, Esprit-brand, canvas, Converse-knockoff hightops, so maybe I shouldn't place the experience on such a pedestal. The details you remember once it's too late.

Anyway, Venice Beach today is, simply put, some scary shit. There were a few tourists on tandem bikes, but mainly the boardwalk exploded with some of the creepiest, high-as-a-kite-on-definitely-more-than-pot, I'm-not-sure-you-can-call-them-people on the planet. They were everywhere. There was no sign of the bohemian but clean shops and things to do I remembered from thirteen years ago. I don't know if the place has changed, or if we just weren't far enough South, but it wasn't fun.

We got off the boardwalk and spent time on the beach, but my mother and I couldn't stop wondering what, exactly, we might contract if we stepped barefoot on an unfortunate patch of sand. While I might have felt more secure had I been walking around with just Y, all I knew yesterday was that I didn't want my kids sharing the same pavement with anybody I saw. Or the same planet, really. We left fairly quickly, had lunch at a Santa Monica Coffee Bean, a sub-par substitute for an old-fashioned shower.

They say you get more fearful, or at least less tolerant of feeling afraid, as you get older (and by "they" I mean "my mom," who said exactly that yesterday). I used to ride all the roller coasters, dream of skydiving, jog alone in poorly-lit parts of Chicago in the middle of the night.

I don't even know who that person is anymore. The New Me, apparently, can't even go to the park without making at least one call to the cops. Maybe I should just embrace it?

Today we aren't venturing as far as Venice. We decided to do something low-key, local, like try to fly our new Superman kite at the park.

The other one, of course.

That Which Turns Me Green

I can count on my friend Sarah for lots of things, but most notably to make me laugh. Right now she's on a trip to Europe - Prague and Russia, specifically, with her mother.

Today, I received the following text message from her screen name:

We are leaving Mother Russia.
We have waited far too long.
We are leaving Mother Russia.
When they come for us, we'll be gone.

I'm guessing:

a) There aren't many movie theaters in Russia.

b) The chick is sitting on the curb outside a local pub, knocking back shots of Moskovskaya vodka and pints of borscht while sharing drunken folk songs with some elderly, nostalgic, bearded Ruskies - while her mom snoozes unknowingly, six stories above them, back at the hotel.

You already know how warmly I feel towards Russian men, so you can rightfully label me Jealous that she's busy basking in the glow of their attentions.

Eat it up, girl.

No Escape

Marriage is a funny thing. You can go from such emotional highs to such depressive lows in such a short span of time that it's actually remarkable. For example, hypothetically, a wife might experience that kind of dramatic mood swing on a day that begins with her husband's terrific idea of taking a hike in the canyons - and ends with that same husband buying a pet snake.

That needs to be fed baby mice.
Without discussing it with the wife first.
And say the wife doesn't like snakes.
Or baby mice.

Ah, marriage. Ours is a good one, but boy did we test it out today. We started out with a hike in Coldwater Canyon. I'd never done that before, and had always imagined it being difficult and complicated to find the trails or something. But Y brought it up with Elan, the goal being to find more interesting bugs than the ones in our miniscule backyard. It was warm but breezy, and I never realized how pretty it is in the mountains, how true nature really exists just beyond the border of bumper-to-bumper Lexus SUVs and black Beemers that lines the paved part of the canyons. And I'm pretty outdoorsy, grew up camping regularly, so I was very pleased with the find.

We walked and walked, raced when the kids began running out of steam, petted dogs on leashes, pointed out Blue Jays and dragonflies. The four of us were in great spirits, having the best time together as a family than we've had in awhile. Sundays are our days together, our bonding time, and this one didn't disappoint. I made both mental and verbal notes to start jogging the trails once the kids were back in school and actually believed I might do it.

When we returned to the top of the hill, we began a search for more of the small, well-camouflaged lizards we'd spotted at the onset of our hike, because Elan, naturally, was desperate to bring one home with us. We wandered towards the tree nursery, which seemed more lizard-abundant than the trail. After several hushed minutes of search, we had only seen one, and it was much too fast to catch. Elan was growing less hopeful, the complaining had begun.

We sat down to rest on a very large pile of cut tree trunks and realized it was practically teeming with the little guys we'd been looking for, so Y and I began a frantic attempt to follow and capture at least one lizard for our son. They were so tiny and harmless-looking, it seemed like a humble enough goal.

Unfortunately, Y and I turned out to be shameless wimps and whenever either of us had an easy grab, we froze. I'd be going, "Just do it, Y! Just scoop it up!" And his hand would be an inch away from the thing's tail, trembling, and just stop there. I'd be all, "Come ON! He was in the palm of your hand!" And then Y would tell me to take a turn, my three boys as my cheerleaders, and I just couldn't go through with it. Elan, who was more than brave enough, was just too quick-moving, too harsh, and inevitably scared the things off.

Y and I mused about how neither of us could just handle an animal in its natural habitat like that, how it was totally different than touching or holding one at a petting zoo, or, say, Elan's birthday party.

Ariel was mainly concerned with finding a tree trunk just the right size for him to park his little fanny on. He really likes little chairs.

Y kicked one of the trunks over, and several lizards scurried off. Suddenly, something much larger, scalier, and with a white rattle attached to its tail slithered under the logs too.

"HOLY MOTHER F---ER DIDJOU SEE THAT IT'S A RATTLESNAKE!!!!!" Y and I screamed simultaneously. I threw Ariel over my shoulder, Y did the same with Elan, and we ran for the car, the sound of Elan's harried questions echoing in our footsteps. We threw the boys in their car seats, started the ignition, and stared at each other, frozen, panting from the sprint.

"Oh. My..."
"I know. Holy crap. Holy crap holy crap holy crap."
"We were right next to it..."
"The kids were right next to it..."
"The whole time, the whole hour we were looking, it was under our feet..."
"How stupid are we? Are we retarded?"
"Of course a snake would be in there. Of course. How could we have been so...so...moronic?"
"Oh my god, the boys. Sitting on top of a rattlesnake."
"I even knew, I'd read not to poke around off the trail, that there were rattlesnakes here..."

Elan, meanwhile, wanted to go back. "I missed it!" he wailed. "I didn't get to seeeee it! Pleeeease can we go seeeeee it?"

Ariel went, "Snake ees bad. I'm 'tared! Candy, peez!" (We keep licorice in the car.)

Elan was disappointed about leaving with his paper cup both lizard- and snake-free. Y was tempted to go back, to poke around out of sheer fascination, and I'll admit, I was too. But we thought better of it, slowly regaining our senses with the bloodflow to our faces, and sped off, still chattering about our brush with venom.

A couple of minutes down the road, Elan was fast asleep.

"Hey," Y whispered to me, glancing back at Elan, his face mischievous and excited. "Wanna go to a pet shop while he's sleeping and get him a little lizard to surprise him with when he wakes up?"

"Yes!" I replied immediately, also smiling. "A cheap, little one that can live in Mr. Turtley's tank. He'll totally flip!"

Some women might not have been so into such an idea, but I, for some reason, have never minded lizards. My brothers had them as pets when we were kids, several chameleons and at least one Spike Tail, and they never really creeped me out. I'm okay with turtles, okay with lizards. They're small, low-maintenance, don't seem slimy to me.

I'm NOT okay with any form of rodent-as-pet, including guinea pigs, and I am NOT okay with snakes. But I guess Y and I didn't discuss the intricacies.

When we got to The Aquarium Center, Elan was still asleep, so I stayed in the car with him while Y and Ariel ran in to make the purchase. I couldn't wait to see Elan's face when he woke up, and cranked up the radio, thinking happy thoughts while waiting.

Soon enough, they emerged from the store, a smallish reptile tank in Y's arms. I leapt out of the front seat to get a better look, but Y held the tank high over my head.

"What kind of lizard did you get?!" I exclaimed. "Why won't you show me?"
"Well, for starters, it isn't a lizard. The guy at the store said that none of the lizards would make good pets for kids, they all bite."
"Um," I said carefully. "Then what is in there?"
"Dat NAKE!" Ariel yelled.
"It's a little snake," Y was proud. "They said it's totally low-maintenance, harmless, much better for a kid like Elan! Look at how cute he is!"

I have to tell you, it was one of those moments in which you actually feel your heart stop for a moment. I ordered him to march right back inside and return it.

Y was confused. Why was I fine with a lizard but not a snake? He'd seen me and Elan's party, I had touched the snakes, why on earth would he have suspected that I would prefer one reptile over another? After all, a snake was just a lizard sans feet!

"The feet MAKEALLTHEDIFFERENCE." I replied tersely, through clenched teeth. The butterflies in my stomach were rapidly turning into nausea.

I looked at the snake. It was tiny, cute almost, but snake-like nonetheless. I didn't want to own it. I didn't want it in my house, where I sleep. Where Ariel sleeps.

"Harmless, Mag. It's harmless," Y soothed. "Doesn't bite, doesn't sting, doesn't do anything really. Just give it a chance."

Maybe it was the shock, but I stayed silent for a moment. I thought about giving it a chance.

"What does it eat, then?" I asked.
"Oh. Well that's the on-ly thing..." Y began, just as Elan started to stir.

He placed the tank on Elan's lap, whose eyelids fluttered and then opened completely, wider and wider with each second of recognition.

"Is that for me?"
Y nodded.
"I can't believe it!!! How did you get it??" Elan managed to squeak out, his face threatening to break from the strength of his grin.

Y got behind the wheel, I returned Ariel to his car seat and repeated my question: "What. Does. It. Eat?"
"Oh. Baby mice."

Before I could react, Elan asked, "Is it going to die if we take it home?" to which Y responded, "No, it's going to live a very long time."

"How long?" It was my turn to squeak.

"Up to fourteen years."

It was at this point that I began to cry.

I actually cried. I didn't want to ruin the moment for Elan, but there was no way I was keeping a snake, who needed to be fed baby mice every two weeks, in my home. No way. I think I'm pretty easygoing with all of the boy stuff I put up with, but even I have my limits. And if the thought of owning something makes me cry? I'm not keeping it.

I said as much to Y, who assured me that I'd never have to touch the thing, that he would handle all of the feeding and "play time." I assured him he wouldn't have to, because we would be returning it to the pet store before we ever had to feed it.

He apologized profusely for not having checked with me before making such a monstrous decision, promised he'd never have done so if he'd had any inkling I'd be this upset.

"But honestly, Mag," he pleaded. "You need to calm down. There's no way it can get out, just give it a chance. We'll keep it a few days and if you still feel the same way about it then, we'll return it. I'll blame it on myself, I'll tell Elan something, make up a reason. It won't be on you. But at least try."

By then we were home, Elan rushing upstairs to lovingly place the tank on his dresser, Y helping him hold it ever so gently - the snake that was curling around his fingers like the curly, creepy little thing it was. Elan was ecstatic. Ariel, his mother's child, just wanted some freakin' chicken nuggets already because he CAN'T THINK STRAIGHT WHEN HE'S STARVING! He and I headed downstairs together, where I began throwing the ingredients for pizza dough into the breadmaker, dinner for Y and me, still tearing up and sniffling uncontrollably. Ariel didn't notice.

Eventually, Y and Elan joined us. Elan had caught on that I wasn't very happy about the snake, had heard me begging Y to take it back to the store. As he settled himself into a chair at the table, ready to tuck into his dinner, he said to me, "Mommy? If you don't want to keep the snake, we can return it in a couple of days. It's okay with me. I won't be angry or sad. Because anyways what if it gets out and slithers down the balcony and gets lost while we have it? It might want to go home. And anyways, I will still have pets - I'll still have Mr. Turtley and my ant farm."

I wrapped my arms around him, burying my nose in his Baby Shampoo-scented hair, breathing in the sweetness that was this boy, this little man. He smiled up at me, kissed my cheek, and repeated, "I'll still have some pets."

"I was thinking I could get you a little fish or something to put in that tank instead?" I suggested.

"Great," he replied, happily dunking his chicken in ketchup. "If you get me a fish, then I'll still have three pets, even without the snake!" He had tacked on basic math skills to Being a Damn Nice Guy.

I was proud, but still depressed. We would keep the snake for a few days and then return it to the store, before it needed to be fed, but knowing that didn't make me feel much better. I curled up in Y's lap, needing confirmation that I wasn't the devil.

"I just can't have it around," I explained.
He'd had enough. "Alright. Just leave it alone for a few days, and we'll see how you feel then."
"I just don't want you to think I'm going to change my mind," I answered. "I know how I'm going to feel."
"Shhhh," he murmured.

I put the kids to bed, had dinner, watched some TV. Y went to play basketball, leaving me alone with the snake. I'm not looking at it, pretending it doesn't exist.

Just as I started writing this post, Elan appeared at the top of the stairs.
"Mommy? I can't fall asleep," he whispered. He went on to explain the vivid daydreams he was having about snakes popping through holes in his bed, biting him, getting loose, appearing everywhere. I held him, carrying him back to his bedroom, assuring him that there were no other snakes in the house, that nothing could hurt him, that his imagination was simply on overdrive after such an eventful day.

And I felt great about my decision to return the damn thing.

Just as I bent down to drop Elan back into bed, however, he touched my cheek, whispering, "And Mommy? I really want to keep my snake, I really don't want to return him. Can we please just keep him? Please?"

I said we would give it a few days and see how I felt then.

And What Did You Have For Breakfast?

The results of the Power Rangers ban have shown more quickly than I would have expected. Elan and Ariel still play with the toys, still dress in the costumes a few times a week, but the interest level - especially for Elan - is clearly way down from where it was two weeks ago or whenever it was that I decided they could no longer watch the show.

Of course, that doesn't mean Elan has gone obsession-less for two weeks. Quite the contrary: he's stepped full-throttle into...wait for it...wait for it...BUGS.

Every mother's dream, I know. The truth is, he's always enjoyed a good bug hunt, but something happened when we were in Chicago. Sometime between when he first stepped onto the lawn at dusk, clad in pajamas, and the moment when he caught his first firefly - well, something must have clicked for him. A connection was born, Elan and insect. We don't have fireflies in L.A.

Since we got back, he spends most of his time finding bugs, nurturing them with Cheez-Its, and setting them free "so that they may find their Mommies and Daddies before bedtime so the Mommies and Daddies won't be wondering where their babies are." You understand.

And though I'm not much of a bug person myself, I'm also not one of those girls who freaks out at the sight of one. So I don't mind this new phase too terribly. It takes my kids outdoors, and we have plenty of soap around to undo things once they come inside. Plus, there's nothing like free entertainment: give Elan a plot of land, he's busy for hours.

When Elan did the dinosaur thing, we'd take weekly trips to the library, and he'd head straight for the natural history section, where he would choose ten science books on the topic. Lucky for us, the animal and insect non-fiction for kids sits just opposite that shelf, and it's our new home. We sit on the floor, prying through the pages, painstakingly limiting ourselves to just ten books out of the hundreds we want. Ok, that he wants. One book on cicadas is plenty for me.

So last night, after Ariel went to sleep and Elan's teeth were brushed, he and I cuddled on the sofa to make some headway on the stack of bug books. These aren't story books - he seems to find those pointless. Page after page, we examined each detailed photo, me quoting facts about each variety of insect to Elan, who mentally recorded every word. After each description, he'd get to the point: "But is that one nice? Or will it bite?" Read: if I happen upon such a creature in my travels from Magnolia to Chandler Boulevards, can I pick it up or will I die if I do?

He's nothing if not practical.

I explained to him the molting process, though I'm not honestly too clear on it myself, and he grasped it right away. We talked about metamorphosis, how a caterpillar encloses itself into what Elan calls a raccoon, before becoming a moth or butterfly. We learned the differences between moths and butterflies. Elan, recalling what Thor said at his birthday party, pointed to a picture in a book and immediately recognized that it was a tarantula shedding prickly hairs on the wolf attempting to kill it. He talked and talked and talked about the wonders of the underground world and I listened, yawning, enjoying every minute nonetheless.

The kid went to bed happy. This morning, Y was bringing the boys downstairs for breakfast, me still half-asleep, when I heard him call out, "Elan, come here! You won't believe this!"

Elan, sensing the urgency in his father's voice, came running. "What, Daddy? What is it? What did you OH MY GOD. OH. MY. GOD. THAT IS AMAZING."

Apparently, there was a gigantic centipede on the wall over the stairs. The kind he and I had read about just last night. Elan couldn't believe his luck.

"Quickly! Daddy, HURRY! Go get my bug-catcher! NOW! GO FIND MY BUG CATCHER!!!"

Y's best friend had gotten Elan this bug-vacuum thing that allows you to safely catch them. It's become his right arm.

Y asked Elan where it was, Elan told him, shouting, "HURRY, PLEEEEASE! IT'S GETTING AWAY! IT'S GETTING HIGHERONTHEWALL!"
Then, he remembered what we'd learned about centipedes: they bite. They aren't nice.
His first thought, remarkably, was for his brother.
"Ariel! Get away from here! I'm serious! This bug is dangerous: it could bite you."

Ariel, of course, was thrilled at the adventure, didn't want to be held back. "Da buggy bite Ariel?" he kept repeating, skeptically. It was going to take more than that to get him to abandon ship.

Y still couldn't find the bug catcher, and Elan was in a full-blown panic over the possibility of losing his treasure, so he stationed Y in charge of monitoring the poor, miserable centipede's position while he ran off to search for it himself. Moments later, he returned, empty-handed. "What are we going to do???" he wailed.

There are moments when I adore Y. This was one of them, because Y captured the centipede in a paper cup. What you should know, however, and what Elan doesn't yet know, is that, unlike me, Y is petrified of bugs like that. He really is. If he manages to step on a cricket, he asks me to clean it up, because the thought of scooping up the crunchy corpse in a tissue makes him vomit on command. He's a big guy, too, which makes it that much funnier.

But he saw how excited Elan was, so he rose to the occasion. Together, the three of them released the leggy thing outside, onto our balcony.

Elan came running into my bedroom to fill me in on what I'd (blessedly) missed. "Oh, Mommy, you wouldn't believe it, it was just like the ones we read about last night!"

You know how sometimes you'll randomly mention someone who you never see, and you never about, and then you bump into them for the first time in ten years the very next day? You know how you kind of feel like you made that happen?

Well that's how both Elan and I looked at the situation. Amazed that our little classroom work had been followed up with a spontaneous lab. Shocked, because we've never, ever had a centipede in our apartment before this morning. Thrilled (me) at having slept through it.

Nothing can compare to watching your kid learn something new, something that he enjoys so fully. I love that he loves things - even bugs, that he is so passionate about anything at all, at such a young age. I love watching his brain at work, filing away new facts for later recall and application.

And yes, I say this all well-aware that this unnervingly deep affection of his can go two possible ways for Elan: he could become a Nobel-prize winning scientist one day, or simply one of those freaky, 45-year old exotic bug collectors who can never, for the life of him, convince anyone to come over for a cup of tea.

I know.

Gap, On Sale

Every once in awhile I'm reminded how undeniably glamorous Los Angeles really is. You know, compared to the rest of the United States. Yeah, New York has its thing going on, but it's subtle, understated sophistication. L.A. isn't sophisticated - nor does it aim to be. It's actually anything but subtle or understated. L.A. style, rather, is about in-your-face beauty, the kind of physical perfection usually reserved for the silver screen, that's a daily reality on the streets of these here parts. The kind that is very expensive to obtain, and, I'll bet, about as exhausting to maintain.

I've been here for two years, and I'm not even close to used to its ubiquity.

I'm only occasionally reminded, because, frankly, I don't do a lot of shopping anymore, nor do I hang out in restaurants and coffee shops for longer than it takes to get a half-caff latte to go. And the pretty people? They're shopping. And eating (tofu). I think they do it for a living. [note: The park and playground crowd looks pretty much like the kind you see everywhere else. Phew.]

Today was The Middle of Week Two of Being Home With Both Kids Throughout August With Nothing Official To Do. I've done my best to keep things organized around here, to prevent the boys from quite literally biting each other's heads off, to take them to the park and allow them to search, endlessly, for bugs to torture. I've spent hours each day applying sunscreen, removing dirt and grime from various crevices in their bodies, and trying not to pass out from claustrophobia.

On this day, The Middle of Week Two of Being Home With Both Kids Throughout August With Nothing Official To Do, I had to get out of the Valley. It's ten degrees hotter here than anywhere else in the city, so escaping the heat was my final motivation. I called one of my best friends, a fellow Chicagoan with whom I grew up, who also married a guy from here and lives in Beverly Hills. She's AMAZING with my kids, never makes me feel like they are a burden, and fully understands that they usually come with the territory of spending time with me. Love her.

We decided to meet at The Grove, after a quick stopover for a kiss at Y's office nearby. The Grove is one of the best malls I've ever been to. It's outdoors, not too big, and has all the right stores (like Apple!) to browse without necessarily buying anything. They also have live music and Haagen Daz, which, to me, is pretty much the equation for perfection. What can I tell you? I'm a sucker for cross-sensory stimulation.

The Grove also has the most glamorous, youthful clientele of any actual mall in the surrounding area. You always see somebody "in the business" over there, at least once per visit. Today's specials included cameos by Tyra Banks (shooting a segment mimicking a Beyonce video for her talk show) and Nicole Richie (hitting a movie, yes, in that headband and ugly, oversize shades). My friend saw both of them, a minute before I arrived, frenzied by paparazzi. I only got to see the guy who played Marissa's bad-boy boyfriend on the last season of The O.C. (cuter in person!). Less exciting.

But nearly everybody there looked famous. Everyone was dressed well, sunglassed to the nines. And I had one of those moments where I went, what is this place? Am I in an alternate universe? After all, I'd just been in Chicago, and the contrast was heavy. Growing up in the Midwest, the girls who represented the ultimate in chic wore full-price J. Crew or Banana Republic rather than The Gap, on sale. For me, it was the $156, steel-toe, Doc Marten combat boots I somehow convinced my mother I couldn't survive another day without (I know, Mom, "don't say I never bought you anything!").

Nowadays, in case you're wondering, I'd choose the J. Crew.

Anyway, when presented with so much eye-candy, you can't help but become acutely aware of how you measure up. And I probably needn't state that as a mother of male-variety toddlers, my life is hardly glamorous. Unless you count cleaning up the results of Ariel's post-canyon-in-the-Taurus car sickness upon arrival at Y's office, which was part of my day, or emptying a sippy cup filled with OJ on the parking garage floor, under the car (discreet!) to refill it with, you guessed it, the juice of apples. Or squatting on the floor of Barnes and Noble to sort and put away the entire stuffed animals inventory, which my boys had thoughtfully redistributed throughout the children's section. Or being force-spooned unwanted, melted, vanilla ice cream with rainbow sprinkles by Ariel, who can't fully enjoy a meal unless he's sharing it with me, too.

We picked up Y from work on the way home, this evening, and I sent the kids in his car so he could bond with them and I could hear myself think for 45 minutes straight. Instead, we played games the entire way home, rolling down the windows and calling to each other at the tops of our lungs, waving as we sped past each other, the kids clearly thrilled at the sight of me in the car next to theirs. It was good, old, slightly-dangerous fun, and when we got home, both boys bear-hugged me, laughing, as though we'd been apart for days.

And I thought, who the hell needs glamour. My boys don't care what I look like nor compared to whom, they just like a girl who can be silly and have fun with them and still wipe their behinds, as needed. And these are the kinds of people who matter in my life. A nice, relaxing feeling.

We came into the apartment, shutting the door behind us, and I kicked off my shoes, pulled my sweater over my head, revealing the cuter, but more, well, revealing, little top I'd been wearing underneath. I don't show very much skin at all when we're out and about, so I guess that's why Elan's head turned, his eyes wide. And he said, "Wow, Mommy, you look so beautiful! I love that nice shirt, how it goes with your hair and every'hing."

So there you have it: Men.

Regardless of age, they're almost all the same. Up the glamour-quotient a notch, and suddenly "silly and fun and baby-wipe-bearing" are about as sufficient as a trip to The Beverly Center.

The Thief Within

I don't often ask Y to do the grocery shopping. For one thing, he always buys way too much, and it's always the wrong stuff. He stocks up on whipped cream, pudding, lemonade, tortilla chips, and steaks, while skipping necessities like paper towels, diapers, bananas, pizza bagels, fish sticks, string cheese - you know, the air that my kids breathe.

It doesn't help if you call his cell while he's at the store to refresh his memory of your list, nor if you write it down: whatever it is you wanted will somehow manage to slip his mind the minute he sees the frozen French toast sticks he's been missing all his life.

I know it's not deliberate sabotage, because nobody would choose to be chewed out by their wife upon returning home the way I do him. French toast or not - it ain't worth it.

He's just a little inept at the job. For the reasons above. I never anticipated, however, that there'd be a new, even more compelling reason not to send him without me, and one that holds at stake my very integrity as a person. Namely, that if he shops, I become a thief.

Here's what happened, and in all fairness, it's not Y's fault at all. It's Elan's. Or maybe mine...You can decide. I sent Y to the store on the morning of the Fourth of July to collect what we needed for that evening's barbecue. I asked him to take Elan with him and he did.

Apparently, upon approaching the checkout, Elan asked if they could just steal everything instead of paying. Audibly. And the cashier was paying attention.

Embarrassed, Y went, "Of course not, Elan! We never steal! Why would you say that?"
And Elan answered, just as seriously, "Well my Mommy steals at the grocery all the time!"
Like, what are you, chicken?

Now the cashier was REALLY listening.
Y: "Of course your mother doesn't steal. You must be confused about something."
E: "No, I'm not. She does - she steals! We go to the grocery store, and she takes stuff without paying for it. We just take it! We don't pay."
Patiently, indulgently. Spelling it out for Y, who clearly just didn't understand what stealing was.

By now the cashier was beyond benign eavesdropping - she was onto making judgments. Glaring at Y, gripping his credit card and examining it carefully, looking from the card to his face to Elan to the card again, one hand on her hip, silently demanding an explanation.

Y knew Elan had mixed something up, but couldn't put words in his mouth in front of the angry clerk. He pressed, once more, hoping for salvation:

"What exactly do you mean by 'your Mommy steals at the grocery?'"

"Well, sometimes when we are shopping, Ariel and me will want something, and she will take it off the shelf and open it and give us some. Without paying for it first. At the store. She just steals it, and we eat it in the cart."

Get it now?

Y let out his breath, without realizing he'd been holding it. He smiled up at the Israeli cashier. See? Told you my wife isn't a crook. We can still shop here.

"Oh Elan," he explained. "Mommy might open a snack to keep you quiet while she shops, but she always pays for it afterwards. Some stores don't mind if you do that." He looked pointedly at the woman behind the counter, who looked right back at him, as if to say, Well, don't get any ideas, because we do.

"And that's not stealing?" Elan was finally catching on.

"No, babe, it's not. Mommy wouldn't ever steal. She pays."

He told me later how relieved he'd been when Elan had clarified on his own accord, because if Y had guessed the truth before Big E said it himself, it would have appeared more than a little suspicious. After all, don't kids always speak the truth when you least want them to?

But I must confess, I don't look bad in a beret, and the whole Bonnie-and-Clyde-badass thing has always kind of appealed to me. I can almost respect a really good thief.

From a good distance, though. Because people call me many things, but badass just isn't one of 'em.

Imitation, Flattering and Otherwise

Ariel will turn 2 next month, and this summer he's taken monumental developmental steps. I think I might baby him a little more than I did Elan, or at the very least, I might think of him as more of a baby than I did Elan at the same age. It's probably got what to do with his long hair, his fine, baby strands, which we've yet to officially cut. We cut Elan's hair early on, at around 15 months, because he had a ton of it and it was straight, already hitting his shoulders at a year old. Once I cut it, he looked more like an older child, and he was also incredibly articulate, which led me to expect a lot from him.

I recognize, too, that Ariel's baby-appeal also stems from the contrast between him and Elan, who towers over him and relates to him in that love-hate way only an older sibling can. I had nobody to compare Elan to - we were living in Irvine during his second year of life, and had no local friends. So he and I spent most of our time together, while Y was hitting the books, taking nature walks and debating the virtues of Jamba Juice over Baski