Everybody's Gotta Eat

This morning at work, my hard drive passed away. Considering it belonged to a year-old, 24-inch Intel iMac without which I'm utterly inept, the whole thing was pretty disturbing. The drive itself, of course, is replaceable, but it's a little more time consuming to try and have my data recovered first.

So I left work early. I had two and a half hours to kill in the neighborhood before I'd need to pick up the boys, and I really, really, should have headed to Y's office to get a little work done for his company over there. But somehow, I ended up in a nail salon. I couldn't explain it if I tried.

Okay, I could. It's been forever since I've had a manicure and my disgusting, cracked skin and flaky cuticles were...disgusting. Maybe they wouldn't offend a stranger on the street, but I was at my limit. So I took advantage of time when I could have been getting paid in order to pay someone else instead. Surely you can understand.

Since it would be who-knows-how-long until I was back again, I upgraded to a paraffin treatment, which, if you've never had one, is weird and cool. You dip your hands in very hot, moisturizing liquid wax, which quickly hardens into creepy gloves, then bundle them in saran wrap, and settle into some gigantic oven mitts for the better part of ten minutes. If you're lucky, you'll get a massage. I did.

While I'm waiting, I hear another customer enter. She is obviously a beloved regular, because all the technicians hug her and call out her name in excitement upon her arrival. My back is to her, and I lean my head against the wall and close my eyes to relax for a few minutes, my terry-mitt covered hands poised awkwardly on my lap.

However, it proves hard not to eavesdrop.

"It's this nail, honey," Customer says in a thick, unmistakable New-York Jew accent. "I don't know what to do! It won't stay put. It's unwrapping. It's such a mess. Whattya gonna do to help me?"

She's clearly anguished.

"Oh-kay," the manicurist replies in a soothing, sing-song tone. "I take care of it. I re-wrap all the nails. I have to because your nail grow back underneath and it's no good."

"So you're going to re-do all of them?"

"Yes, I have to."

"DO. WHAT YOU HAVE. TO DO."

"Oh-kay!"

I smile to myself. Women at nail places inevitably crack me up. I am all for grooming and self-indulgence if you've got the time for it, I love the perfect shade of almost-black red as much as the next girl, but some people take it so seriously, you'd think they were discussing life-or-death open-heart surgery. For their only child.

I close my eyes again, happy not to put a face to the voice yet.

"Can you put the TV on? Quickly? Channel 7!" Customer demands, gesturing to the large flat-screen suspended high on the far wall. (Nobody can say LA isn't stylish.)

I'm a little surprised. That's a bit pushy, even for a nail place. The technicians hurry to fulfill her every desire, but they chatter away in Korean to one another, unable to keep their lips from curling up at the corners. It's obvious they are trying not to laugh, and I wonder what they are saying, just as I always do.

It's hard not to be paranoid. Once, a couple of years ago, I had my nails done while a younger manicurist gestured towards me, whispering wildly behind her palm to the woman patiently buffing my fingertips. It was painfully obvious that she was talking about me, but I didn't want to make any accusations and risk the embarrassment of being wrong. I sat there, turning deeper and deeper shades of purple, until finally, she stood shyly next to my manicurist and nudged her, pointing her chin at me. The older woman sighed. "She say, she like your face," she finally told me.

So I try to be less suspicious, but it's hard not to feel slightly embarrassed on behalf of Customer's curtness. After all, this isn't New York, despite the audio. Oh, to be old enough that I won't care to step so cautiously. I read somewhere that it kicks in in your thirties.

The technicians stop tittering. General Hospital appears on the screen and Customer audibly melts into her chair. "It helps me relax," she announces.

Sitting quietly, undisturbed, not rushing anywhere for half an hour - forcing myself not to scratch an itch and risk sacrificing true art - is the part of the manicure that helps me relax. I'm now reminded just how complicated - albeit in a good way - my life has become.

I look at the monitor.

No...it can't be...

Are those REALLY the same exact actresses that were on this show when I was 16?

Because yes, once I got my drivers license and a car, my girlfriends and I used to take "extended lunches" from high school consisting of, typically, pancakes, leftover lasagna, and an hour of GH well into the afternoon. (I was a lot heavier in high school.)

One of my friends still records the show every day at 2, but I never got that into it. Still, I remember the faces, and indeed, they are the same ones I'm looking at today, barely a day older.

I can't help but share this. "Have these same actors been doing this show for, like, 15 years?" I exclaim, turning around in my chair and directing this towards Customer, who I've obviously startled with the sudden attention.

She recovers. "I guess so. My husband just got me the soap channel on cable?" Her accent belongs in a Woody Allen film. I love. "So I just started watching it. But that one actress? Right there? I once saw her here in this very nail place, having her nails done. She didn't have any makeup on, so I almost didn't recognize her, but she was reading a script and I caught the name 'Sonny' so I said to her, I said 'Are you so-and-so?' and she said yeah, she was. They look so different without makeup, you wouldn't even know!"

"Yes, makeup is a beautiful thing." I peer at her a little more closely now.

"Morah Elaine?!*" I exclaim. Because, as I should have guessed all along, I know this woman. I don't just know her type, I actually know her specifically. She is the one who assigns Elan davening awards on an almost daily basis. She conducts the morning prayers with the Pre-1 class.

She doesn't know me, but I introduce myself. We talk about the school for a bit. We talk about The Valley, which might as well be China to those in Hancock Park. We discuss paraffin. We're old friends by the time I admire my re-born hands, tip heavily (I want that massage again next time!) and say my goodbyes.

And what have I gotten out of this whole experience, I know you're wondering?

Namely, that soap-stars stick with the same jobs, the same storylines, the same co-workers, for years. Decades. And I know that getting paid well probably helps, I don't kid myself. But I have so much trouble being in the moment with my own line of work and not constantly thinking about being further along, more accomplished, more successful, new and difference experiences and skills under my belt. Regardless of my salary. Ambition can be very exhausting, even if it sits on a shelf in your mind while you try, in complete and utter vain, to persuade your three-year-old to just taste a vegetable while he's still young.

Yet Sonny is still on that show. Robin is still doing it, if a bit Botoxed at this point. I think about their ambitions. Have they reached the peak of their art? Do they know it, are they just coasting at the top for as long as they're welcome?

Everybody's gotta eat?

*Morah = teacher, in Hebrew. Names have been changed.

What They Get Out of It

Awhile ago, I wrote about Elan's sudden interest in world news and politics, notably with regard to natural disasters and untimely deaths. It piqued when Southern California was on fire a few months ago, and was more than likely reinforced by my own - equally sudden - shift in addiction from Kevin and Bean on KROQ to everything NPR. We're all growing up, I guess. This means that the kids start their day watching the ABC morning news, and drive home from school with "All Things Considered."

I'm not sure if this makes me a good parent. Probably not a responsible one. After all, there is only so much that the boys can possibly understand and relate to their own experience. But I'm sure you can imagine their excitement when a real-live TIGER jumped out of its pen at the ZOO and KILLED one boy and INJURED SEVERAL OTHERS! Obviously, nothing could have been more fabulous or thrilling.

Ariel, apparently, repeated the story verbadim to his teachers, (along with a little tidbit about his daddy driving too fast on the highway and a police man came and gave him a ticket while we were all in the car!). Naturally, this was told over to my sheepish husband with good humor and yet eyebrows raised.

There was the story on the radio about Striker, a beloved police dog, who died in hot pursuit of
a felon and was to receive an honorable military burial. The criminal jumped off a 200-foot bridge just as Striker sank its teeth into his leg, taking the animal overboard with him.
Just like a german shepard, I imagine, Elan's ears perked up from the backseat. "What's that, Mommy? What are they saying about that dog? What did the police dog do?" I relay the tragic story. "The bad guy survived and will probably go to jail, but the dog didn't survive the fall," I explain.

"STRIKER'S DEAD?" Elan is indignant, like they were old friends.

"Well, yes, it was a 200-foot drop. But he did his job so well and the police are so proud of him, they are giving him a real funeral, like a person. He was the best dog they had."

"I can't believe this," Ariel mutters from his car seat.

"He was the best they had?! What did the bad guy even do?" Elan wants details.

"Um..he probably did something really bad, like steal - like a candy bar or something."

He sighs. "I'm not going to be upset because one day, Hashem [G-d] will bring Striker back again, and if I find him before the police do, I'll just grab him and make him my own pet," Elan decides.
"Yes," agrees Ariel. "When Yerushalayim comes." This is what he calls the Messiah.

So it was obvious that their grasp of real-life tragedy and disaster was limited to the sensational, the glamorous, that which they could simplify to super-hero, good vs. evil terms. And that, in a way, was fine. They didn't need to understand evil on a grander scale, and yet it helps not to grow up in a total bubble of naivete, I figured - knowing to be careful and protect oneself. I'm not a fairy-tale kind of girl, and respect my kids' efforts to understand their surroundings better.

I knew I had to start censoring, however, when I came out of the shower one morning to find Elan glued to the television, perched on my bed, a forkful of syrupy waffle paused in mid-air halfway to his mouth. Upon seeing me, he exclaimed: "You won't believe this! That boy was kidnapped from his parents for FOUR YEARS. He's just coming back to them now after FOUR YEARS."

"Elan, that's terrible," I try and explain. "That's not stuff you should know about."

"But it is why we have to be so careful not to talk to strangers, right Mommy? So they don't kidnap us?"

Now that's just scary. The stuff of nightmares. And I hate scaring them, but better safe than sorry, right?

"That's right."

By now Ariel had wandered into the room and the conversation, full of wisdom and experience and knowledge, on the ready:

"And THAT'S why whenever a stranger tries to give me candy, I won't take it even though it's candy and I love candy because I know that when a stranger gives you candy it's toisonous, and he wants you to take it because he knows you love candy."

"Toisonous? You mean 'poisonous'?"

"No, TOISONOUS. Like the stranger wants to TOISON you. That's what strangers try to do."

Oh. Well sure.

Executive Decision-Making

Hi. I know, I know, you thought I didn't do this anymore. But a lot of you have asked me if I was ever going to write again -- and believe it or not, NOT just my mom -- and the truth is, I've wanted to. A lot has happened in the last few months, lots of great, post-worthy kid stuff, and I've meant to blog it all...I just didn't. Time ran away...I've been busy...yada yada yada.

But I feel like starting again, so I'm going to try. The boys give me a lot of material, stuff I don't want to forget later on.

So without further ado, if anyone is still out there...
...
...

I'll catch you up on Ariel first. Both boys have been doing well in school, and Y and I are very happy with the place so far. I was particularly pleased when Ariel's teacher told me that she'd mentioned to the Early Childhood administrator that she thought he should probably skip a grade, go directly into Kindergarten next year. His birthday falls two weeks after the deadline, and as a result he's markedly older in several ways than his classmates.

I'd been planning to try and say something about it myself, since otherwise he'll have another year of nursery after this (re: an extra year's tuition), but I'd been discouraged from making the attempt by other parents at the school.

"Oh, this school is notorious - don't you know? They almost NEVER skip a child."
"They won't go for it. I mean, every parent thinks their kid is advanced, but in reality it's not necessarily the case. I've only heard of one kid who was moved up, ever, and she was seriously an obvious genius. Is Ariel really a genius? Because otherwise..."

Ahem.

"Yeah," I'd interject. "But his birthday is right after the deadline. He just missed it, you know? If he'd stayed at the old school, this wouldn't even be a discussion since they're deadline is November, not September..."

"Are you kidding?" said the woman at the birthday party, amid Dora the Explorer paraphenalia. "I've planned every one of my pregnancies around this school's deadlines."

I stuff some cake in my mouth to hide the gape.

"Well for the tuition we pay, I would certainly hope that the school really considers what's best for each child," I manage with sincerity. But I was certain I'd have to fight to make my case.

Surprisingly, not so. The principle, who is wonderful, called me at work one day to discuss.

"We think Ariel might benefit from trying the grade older. He's clearly ready to learn more, and more formally. But please be forewarned that most educational studies have proven that it's better for boys emotionally to be the oldest in the class than the youngest."

"Oh, but he plays so well with the older kids already," I began. He already spent the last two hours of the day in their class, so I could extend his hours in order to work.

"I know. And he fits right in. But the discrepancy might not show for a couple of years. And while the decision is up to you - we definitely think he's up for the academic challenge - I want you to know the potential ramifications. It can be hard on boys later, when they're a little socially developmentally behind. It's different for girls, somehow. But I'll tell you what - why don't we try it for a few days and reassess at the end of the week?"

Y and I agreed. Ariel seemed excited. And indeed, he seemed fine in his new class, too. He didn't complain, and the teacher told he fit in like a missing puzzle piece.

But I worried about this whole "boys do better as the oldest" thing. I really had no idea what the right move was in this case, and felt like it was one of those Very Big Parenting Decisions. So I asked around.

"I was the youngest in my class," Y claimed. "I did well both socially and academically. In fact, if anything, I was a little bored academically."
"Yeah, but you were tall. And athletic."
"So?"
"It makes a difference."
"Ariel is tall."
"So was I, until ninth grade."
"Duly noted."

"There is kind of a narrow window at which children's brains are staged for optimal learning and absorption," said my mom. "He's so precocious, it might be good to take advantage of that by making sure he's challenged during those important peak years."
"Maybe, but studies say that boys are better off gaining confidence as the oldest than by being challenged intellectually."
"Hmm. Yeah, I really don't know any cases where the boy skipped a grade and wasn't a social outcast."
"Thanks, Mom."

"Your uncle skipped a grade and he just never quite fit in with the other kids," said my grandmother. "Mind you, he was brilliant, but he never really had friends until college."

"Why would you risk it?" asked my brother, who himself had skipped the (fourth? Fifth?) grade. "You want him to be happy, to have friends. School work is less important."
This, coming from the most competitive academic I know. Thanks, so much.

And so the conversations went. I asked and probed and researched and the answers were all...highly variable. Depends on the kid, bottom line.

How to know?

Meanwhile, Ariel, unbeknownst to me, had been telling his old, original teachers and classmates, when he'd meet them on the playground, in hushed tones, "Don't worry. I'll be back in your class soon." They laughed and felt missed, thought it was very sweet.

But Ariel likes to be taken seriously. On Day 5 of the switch, at 9 AM, I received a call from his old teacher on my cell phone:

"Hi, everything's okay, but we have a situation."
"Oh?"
"Well Ariel came to our room this morning and announced that he was back. He's so cute and we love him so much and he won't leave. What should we do?"

And there you have it. He made the call.

While I fretted and tore my hair out, he simply took over the decision-making and did what HE felt was right. Didn't complain, gave it a fair shot...and then chose to end the trial period.

And what can I say? I respect that. I'm certainly not going to stress a happy three-year-old about his potential for Harvard when he finds his comfort zone, well, pretty comfortable. His academic future can wait.

At least until the fall.