Get your 4th on...

Some pictures from our annual 4th of July neighborhood parade. Oh, and a cuppycake.

"Again"

This is my son's current favorite word.

Is there anything as soul-sucking delightful as singing the same song 852,000 times, or watching the same youtube video over an over until your eyeballs bleed? We've been doing this for a long time. You want "Wheels on the Bus", kid? I can do that!" Again. and Again. and Again. What's that you say, Ethan? You want to watch that youtube video of a baby laughing at the sound of ripping paper again? But we're already responsible for at least half of the 3 million views!

Mind you, I only really indulge the youtube viewing towards the end of the day, when we both feel our nerves are like peeled grapes (this is our current equation: 3 hours of preschool, a child who won't nap and a husband who works until near 7pm--let's just say that by about 5pm, I'm fighting off the urge to run screaming from the house and never return). So lest you judge me as subpar mommy for letting the child watch videos on the computer all day, realize that it is only for a short period of time, after hours of enriching mommy and child bonding-time, and it is an excellent alternative to me eating my own offspring because I cannot play with the cars on the floor for one. more. freaking. minute!!

I'm not sure how exactly it happened--much of the late afternoon is a fog to me--but one day this week, I found myself singing "Puff the Magic Dragon" to Ethan for the first time. I've always been a Peter, Paul and Mary fan (which I realize takes me as far out of the running as possible for the "cool" award), and even as a little girl, the song made me pine for the childhood I'd one day leave behind. So, you know, singing to your only child who has just started pre-school and is growing up in front of your eyes and there's nothing you can do to stop it? Super uplifting.

However, having made the mistake of introducing Ethan to the song, there's really no going back. "Again." Okay. "Again." Okay. This is where you envision those two words written about eleventy billion times across your screen, like a "I will not chew gum in class" on your 3rd grade chalk board.

By the point at which I was considering poking forks in my eyes I'd had enough, it occurred to me that perhaps our friend Youtube might be able to take over my parenting duties and sing the song to Ethan another 450 times before Husband came home.

Did you know there are about 1,280 youtube results for "Puff the Magic Dragon"? Many of them are just footage of the original trio singing the song on stage, but there are also a host of nightmare inducing, creepily animated film shorts, home videos of other peoples' toddlers dancing around coffee tables, butchering the lyrics and tune, and even one or two guitar lessons.

In the creepy category, there is a whole serious called "Land of the Living Lies", apparently hosted by a dragon-colored tuxedo sporting Puff.



Um. Creepy!! Bad 70's animation and earthquakes swallowing children? I'll pass, thanks.

Again.



Super cute, but maybe she should practice a little more before going on StarSearch. It's "Puff" kiddo, not "Huff", but good try!

Again.



This one is the bastard child of Gumby and Mr. Bill. Doubtless took hours to put together, but MY EYES!!!!

Again.

Let's see if she does a better job than the last girl...



Clearly, she practiced more. Also? She's three.

Again.



I can't help but love this just a little bit. Nothing cuter than an aspiring rock star mixing his childhood's innocence with his rock-the-stadium dreams.

Had enough? One more.

Again.



This is the one Ethan wants to watch the most. I'm fine with it because the Irish Rover's song makes up for the "ohmygodmakeitstop" annoying animation.

So this concludes this little peak into my week. Why do I think the next video of Puff the Magic Dragon on youtube is going to feature my kid?

Could I BEEE any more excited?

One of the perks of living in Los Angeles is that, if you keep your eyes peeled (which is easy for me; I'm a born people-watcher), you will usually see one or two minor celebrities each week. Strictly B to D list--no Brangelina here, although we do live about a mile from one of George Cloony's houses.

I've chatted with Carnie Wilson at the farmer's market, listened to Jennie Garth order her coffee at the Coffee Bean at the end of our road, had a playdate with Kelly Martin (of Life Goes On and ER fame) and her little girl, and watched Ray Romano's twin boys order the most bizarre combination of icecream and mix-ins at Cold Stone Creamery, while Ray and his wife stood by grimacing at the idea of them actually eating it.

I generally tend to just make note of the celebrity, avoid eye contact in order to respect their privacy and it's pretty much become just, eh, part of the scenery. Husband and I initially had a running competition of who saw who, but we sort of gave that up when we realized that it was going to be a pretty-much-all-of-the-time kind of thing. This is the sort of place where you feel kind of lame if you get excited about seeing anyone shy of, say, the Cruises, because everyone is just so blase about it (which I knew how to make the accent mark above that e...).

But you know what? Tonight I let all of that "oh, whatever, celebrity person I've seen on TV. Big whoop," just slide right off of me when I found myself watching Matthew Perry come out of a restaurant as Husband, Ethan and I were leaving an adjoining restaurant. Can I just say big fat "YAY, ME!" for being way too lazy to make dinner tonight?

Actually, I didn't see him at first; Husband saw him and started frantically whispering, "Chandler Bing! Chandler Bing! It's Chandler Bing!!" And sure enough, Chandler Bing (or, Miss Chanandler Bong, if you like) was walking right towards us with a giant bag of take-out. And damn the ginormous jogging stroller, we had to take the elevator while he took the escalator--I was so hoping he'd get into the elevator with us because that would definitely be close enough to an ATM vestibule for me to pee my pants in glee. But alas, I had to jump up and down in the elevator while Husband shook his head laughing at me, and as soon as the doors opened, I had to jump into reconnaisance mode to locate him....going into a frozen yogurt place.

As Husband and I were walking the frozen yogurt place, I casually suggested we might want to get some frozen yogurt. You know, for dessert. Because that's what you do after dinner. Especially if Chandler Bing is also getting dessert. We stood in line behind him while he sampled a variety of flavors and settled on some combination of blueberry and vanilla (yes, I was standing stalker-close and totally ignoring Ethan as he fussed in his jogging stroller--because I aside from being a Friends fanatic, I am also an awesome mom).

Apparently many people had the same yen for frozen yogurt while Matthew Perry was ordering his, because within a few minutes the line was out the door--thank goodness I thought to be a psycho before the rest of them and had a front row spot to totally indulge the crazy-ass Friends fan in me.

I feel a little dirty for letting the teeny-bopper in me get the better of me; a 37 year old woman giggling and jumping up and down in an elevator because she just saw a guy who was on a TV show (albeit the greatest TV show ever in the history of the world--just sayin') is a pretty embarrassing sight, for sure. But another part of me is really okay with the fact that I got a little silly over it, and paid $4 for a frozen yogurt I didn't even want just so I could stand next to Chandler Bing. I figure, it's one of the perks of living in this town, so I kind of HAVE to indulge in it every once in awhile, right???

No, this isn't a picture from this evening, but tell me: Could he be any cuter?

"Insurance" for Dummies...Now with visuals...

This is what my current insurance policy clearly ensures:

1.) 45 minutes is not a long enough amount of time in which to make a phone call to customer service to get information about injectable reproductive medications.

2.) You will have less of an understanding of what is actually covered, and how much of any covered procedure or drug is actually covered, based on your deductible, the amount billed versus the amount allowed (which they are not at liberty to discuss with you) by the time you get off the phone.

3.) The person on the other end of the phone will have a southern drawl and demonstrate slightly anti-semetic leanings in casual conversation. Said person will also go on for several minutes about the difference between a procedure that will get me pregnant versus a drug that will get me pregnant, and make sure, several times, that I know the drug itself will not get me pregnant.

4.) You will be broke. Because you will be paying for every single penny of your fertility treatments out of your own pocket.

5.) IF a drug is covered (which you still won't know for sure after almost an hour on the phone with said anti-semetic customer service rep), you will most certainly not be able to purchase it at the specialty pharmacy that's within your own neighborhood and convenient to you. No. In order to maybe, perchance, depending on how the review board feels that day, get your prescription covered, you'll have to use one of two specialty pharmacies that they contract with.

6.) Don't worry about #5, because odds are a million to one that your prescription will be covered at all.

7.) You will need to drink heavily after getting off the phone. And eat a piece of cake.


This is a picture of the notes I was able to take while Marilyn, my helpful customer service rep, gave me misinformation after misinformation. Perhaps you can get a sense of my state of mind---note the "our insurance is a giant vat of suck" commentary, written during one of the eleventy billion times she put me on hold to dig up some more bogus information to give me. You see the few lines in the left-hand, sideways Sarah-created column? That is the only actual valid information she ended up giving me, after calling me back. It basically says--you pay for it all. Then you get to file a claim and if you get denied, you get to appeal. Awesome.

Los Angeles--one year later.

This time one year ago, Husband, Ethan and I had just waved goodbye to our friends and family on the East coast, dealt with the logistics of traveling by plane with a toddler and two intensely freaked out felines, and were living in a hotel in Burbank. It's so strange that the cats being searched for explosives in a closet at Dulles airport, and complimentary continental breakfasts feel like they were just yesterday.

But it's been a year. And I make our breakfast in our house now, and sadly, both of those cats are dead.

A year ago, we were stuck in a limbo where packing up your entire world and moving 3000 miles away still feels like a vacation. Floating in the hotel pool, exploring the area that we knew we'd be living in, but didn't quite get what that meant, and taking a lot of deep breaths when the reality of the situation set it. I remember the mantra "It's an adventure. It's an adventure. It's an adventure." which I repeated to myself over & over as I fell asleep at night, listening to the hotel air-conditioner hum.

It was a year of taking risks and re-identifying myself. When I moved to D.C., my best friend Karen awaited me with her entire circle of friends opening their arms to me. Here? There was no friend who had come before me and done the leg-work of carving out a social circle that I could happily fall into. It was all on me. At that park, I essentially threw myself at other moms if I saw them more than once on the playground. I over-shared about our situation in Ethan's Music Together class, and said, "hey, we should do a play date sometime!" to any mom who slowed down in my presence long enough to make eye contact (if she didn't seem like a loon). I realized early on that I couldn't wait for people to make the first move. It was painful at times to have a conversation with a mom, think we hit it off, exchange information and then never hear from her again. In the world of what is essentially mommy-dating, it sucked to find out that she was "not that into me".

But I persevered over the course of this year and amazingly, we have friends. Friends in our neighborhood, friends from the park, friends from Ethan's school, and even friends-of-friends who are now our friends.

Watching Ethan grow over the course of this past year has been a revelation. How is living in Southern California shaping him differently than living in the metro DC area would? I am eternally grateful that as long as we could spend time playing in the toy aisle at Target, he seemed not to be too distressed that he hadn't seen Chloe, or Lilly, or Lily or any of his other friends in weeks. To this day, when we see a Nissan of any make, he will say, "look, mommy, a Chloe car," (the kid is a freak for who drives what--or whose mom drives what), but he never asks to actually see Chloe in person. Now, he asks for Lucy, Evie, Noni, or Penny. Or any of the friends he's met at school.

What do I miss about DC? I miss the quiet softness of the first snow and the hushed rumble and orange circling lights of the plows going by the house in the dead of night. I miss driving by monuments just to get somewhere--having such amazing icons as a part of our daily existence was something I'll always treasure. I miss the cotton-candy beauty of the cherry blossoms around the Tidal Basin in April. I miss the wine bar down the street from our house, Tallulah, and the amazingly fun mom's-nights-out with my play group friends. I miss lying on my back at Gravelly Point and waiting for the next plane to land at Reagan National, feeling the engine vibrating in my stomach and believing, for a moment, that if I sat up, I'd conk my head on the underside of the plane. I miss the Thomas Train table at the Barnes and Nobel where Ethan and I would have a snack and play for hours. So many things. And the people. Oh, the people we left behind who I love so dearly. That doesn't get easier. All other things fade a bit around the edges, but the feeling of missing loved ones far away? That never stops, or lessens with time.

But what about here? What do I love about this past year in LA? This morning, I sat on the beach in Malibu, Husband and Ethan alternately covering each others' feet with sand, and watched a giant pod of dolphins leaping and, I kid not, body-surfing in the waves. It's hard to beat that for breath-taking. Add to that the drive through Malibu Canyon to get to the beach, the winding road through the sharp, jagged rocked canyon, and you've got pretty much the most awe-inspiring combination of earth and ocean I've ever experienced. Behind our house, there is a canyon that, while it pretty much kills me to get up (I like to blame it on pushing the 17-pound jogging stroller and the 25-pound toddler in it, but seriously, I'm not kidding anyone), is exhilarating and gorgeous and life-affirming in it's own weird way (if you can overlook the cloud of smog you can see hanging somewhere over Pasadena). I love that we could walk to Ethan's Music Together class and we can walk to the bookstore, even if it doesn't have a Thomas Train table. I love Ethan's pre-school and the people who care for him there and that he comes home talking about Devon and Nicholas and Miles and Alex and all these kids who are new in his life. Kids he never would have met had we stayed in DC.

Also? I love the friends we've made here. I think about some of the amazing women I've met here, who've opened their lives and social circles to me and my family and I think, "can I imagine a life in which I'd never met them?" And I can't. I'm so grateful for the chance to have met these people.

This year has taught me a lot. How to take a deep breath and jump off that cliff, trusting that either something soft will break my fall or something strong will hold me up. How to live in the moment and find the positive in frightening situations. Most importantly, it's taught me that "home" is not a particular place on a map, but is where Husband and Ethan are. As long as I am with them, I am home.

The Paci Fairy Cometh...

"What is this", you ask?! It's our mailbox (complete with a flowering vine growing up through it--clearly doesn't require a lot of sun-light). And what's in our mailbox? No, that's not how I send out our mortgage payment each month (although I'm sure it would brighten the day of the sad sap who opens those envelops). It's Ethan's "Thank You" note to the Paci Fairy. Because tonight, she came to get his pacifier and take it far, far away to another baby who needs it (or, as you and I know, the trash-can).

A month or so ago, at Ethan's 3 year check up, the pediatrician said it was time to get rid of the paci. Looking in Ethan's mouth disapprovingly, he said, "He still uses his paci, huh?" Ugh. The moment all mother's dread. The pediatrician standing in judgment of my bad, bad mothering. I'm not stranger to it. You might recall our first pediatrician telling me to let Ethan cry-it-out when he was 4 months old and when I said CIO wasn't for us, he jotted down "Mother needs to toughen up" in Ethan's file. Awe-some.

So I've learned to take the pedi-judgment with a grain of salt, but this was one thing I really couldn't deny--at the rate we're going, Ethan's mouth is going to suck up about 4 Disney vacation's worth of Husband's paycheck by the time he hits puberty.

Husband & I discussed how best to introduce the idea of giving up the paci. Ethan is a hardcore paci fanatic. He stopped using it during the day a long long time ago, but he'd have you believe that the nap and nighttime use has been, up until about 20 hours ago, woven into the fabric of his very soul. I was looking forward to this experience about as much as I would a root canal, or a high colonic.

We decided we'd totally co-opt the tooth fairy's gig and about two weeks ago, we started talking to him about how the Paci Fairy was going to come and take his paci to a little baby somewhere who needed it, and that he was a big boy and he didn't need it anymore. I so thought he would see through that. Or that he'd say the babies could get their own paci. He's a good sharer, but this seemed above and beyond.

On Monday of this week, we decided it would be Friday, today. We ramped up the Paci Fairy rhetoric and started asking Ethan what he wanted her to bring him as a present for giving his paci to a baby who needs it. At first there was talk about something having to do with Blues Clues (this discussion happened with Husband, so I don't really know what he meant) Thankfully he changed his mind, because as it turns out---no Blues Clues products are sold anywhere near me. Does LA have something against the little blue dog??!!

Yesterday, Ethan told me he wanted the Paci Fairy to bring him a giraffe. A purple giraffe. Um. The blue dog was starting to sound good and I tried to swing him back to a Blues Clues state of mind, but he was having none of it. Purple giraffe. Okay. This is also the kid who, when you ask him what he wants for lunch, he says, "Pick up truck!!" So, you know. He doesn't always get exactly what he wants--I'm thinking a pick up truck for lunch would probably be a bit rougher on the teeth than an entire lifetime with the paci. So if his giraffe isn't quite purple (and by that, I mean not at all purple), he probably won't be too surprised.

Today after school, we set about making the Paci Fairy a "Thank you" card---if you recall in the past, I have shared with you my crafting prowess. I'm wicked crafty. I dug out the foam paper sheets, the glitter glue and pom-poms, and the letter stickers. Initially I sat down and wrote out a simple message, in sticker letters, to the Paci Fairy.


In retrospect, it does look more like a ransom note than a "thank you" card, but again. I'm not what you'd call crafty.

Then, in my best Anti-Kate Gosselin move, I threw caution to the wind and figured any mess could be cleaned up later, I let the child loose with the glitter glue, the silver glitter, the pom-poms and anything else we could get our hands on that would stick to the foam.



Nice, no?

This evening, I got out an envelope, Ethan got his pacifier and dropped it in. Sigh. I sealed the envelope and we went outside to put it, along w/ the glittery joy that is the "thank you" card, into the mailbox. We let Ethan have the honors, and he even thought to put the little red flag up.

After that, Husband took Ethan to his room for bedtime. I anticipated tears, plaintive cries for the paci, tantrums. Um. Nothing. Husband emerged from the bedroom in almost no time. No tears. Just a sleeping Ethan. Paci-free. Wha???!!!

If I've learned one thing from this child, it's that what happens tonight could be in a completely different universe from what happens tomorrow night. Or later on tonight. He could wake up in three hours and stay awake until my eyeballs are cracking, wailing for his pacifier. Tomorrow night he could do his best to make Husband and me want to stick forks in our ears to make the screaming stop. I will be giving Husband my car keys to hide from me so that I don't run out to the 24 hour CVS at 2am to buy up every paci they have.

But tonight? So far? It's quiet. And I'm about to go outside and gather up the Paci Fairy loot--a giraffe (regular old giraffe-colored, sorry kiddo), a hula hoop (blue and sparkly--he will love it) and a toy microphone (the child thinks he's Bon Jovi. I am so not joking), and arrange it in the livingroom so he'll see it when he wakes up in the morning. And the "thank you" note to the Paci Fairy? That's going in my memory book.

I Could Get Used to This...

I've been thinking about what to write for the past half hour, as I sit here in Panera. I'd probably have come up with something sooner had it not been for the Fran Drescher-esque voice of the woman sitting at the table next to me, talking to her friend (and apparently the rest of the the restaurant) about some kid she knows who may or may not be a spoiled brat. The nasally whining pretty much jabbed at my brain like a pitch-fork for about 20 minutes, making the formulation of all thoughts or ideas completely impossible.

Thankfully, her bagel is consumed (though I'm not sure how; she didn't. stop. talking. once) and she has left the building. Although if I listen closely, I think I can still hear her kvetching.

But it occured to me as the metaphorical pitchforks subsided that I still have time. Granted, not as much time as I had before she sat down next to me and let loose, but still. And if I don't get done what I need to now, I have tomorrow. These three hours every day have been like a revelation. Want to go to the gym? Go! Want to write in the blog? By all means! Cleaning the kitchen without having to ask the 3 year old eleventy billion times not to press the buttons on the dishwasher, the microwave, the Swiffer-wet mop? Almost delightful....almost. Want to catch up on your Twitter feed without feeling like a neglectful mother? Now's your chance! Want to make phone calls that don't need to be made in the bathroom, with the door closed and locked just so you don't end up with a child literally climbing up your leg? Have at it!!!

It's not been all blissful mama getting her groove back, though. The first few days found me leaving the school in tears, listening to Ethan screaming and wailing, and seeing him reaching for me from the arms of his teacher. It's not come as a complete surprise--he did cry a bit at every. single. drop off during our Transition class. So I expected some tears. But the first few days were agonizing. No amount of before school, "you know mommy's coming back to get you in a few hours, right? And that you're going to have fun playing with all your friends," seemed to quell his panic as I left the room. Loud, gagging, screaming cries. That I'm sure the entire universe could hear as the clucked their tongues and thought, "oh that poor child. And all so his mom can go run on a treadmill. What horrible woman." Oh, can I weave the drama or what???!!

I'm sure the anxiety I felt about it was similar to how I felt when Ethan was a newborn and would cry in public. The type of cries I couldn't comfort or make stop. I was sure that everyone in the store or restaurant was being utterly distracted by Ethan's cries and thinking that I was an absolute failure for not being able to comfort my baby. Now when I hear a newborn wailing in the supermarke tor Target, I find myself thinking, "That's it? That's the sound I thought was piercing everyone's skulls? That's the sound I thought made me a horrible mother?! You. are. crazy."

I've always been distinctly aware of the disconnect between emotional and logical in my brain (or, I should say, "since spending an absurd amount of time and money in therapy, I've become distinctly aware of the disconnect between emotional and logical in my brain), and nothing has exacerbated that disconnect more than motherhood. I KNOW logically that Ethan's crying as a newborn didn't mean I was a failed mother. I KNOW logically now that his tears as I leave him at preschool do not mean that I am selfish or bad, or that anyone's judging me. But how I feel? How my emotional side interprets these things? Bad, bad, bad. So, you know, it's super fun inside my brain a lot of the time.

But today we had a bit of a break-through. Ethan loves the playground at school. So I decided that rather than stay until school actually starts, walk him into the classroom and then have to maneuver my way out amongst the other kids and parents, with Ethan trying to follow me, hold on to me and screaming for me to stay (good times!), I would simply leave him while he was still on the playground.

My hasty retreat was facilitated by the fact that I was wearing my scrubbiest of gym clothes and the thought of being seen by too many sets of eyes was just mortifying. I've never felt judged by the moms there for what I'm wearing or how I look or what I weigh (they are not those moms by any means), but seriously--I was judging myself for how I looked this morning---pig-tails, Husband's old t-shirt, capri-length gym pants--I was a black and grey stay-puff marshmallow. Not fit to be seen by anyone who had bothered to run a brush through their hair.

So when we got to school, I sent Ethan over to the slides, ran into the class room, signed him in and told the teacher I was leaving. I went outside, gave Ethan a big kiss and told him I'd see him later.

(just an aside--I am so distracted right now by a woman sitting across from me that I KNOW is some sort of celebrity/actress, but I cannot place her for the life of me. I hate when that happens).

And what do you know? The child smiled, said, "Bye bye, mommy!" and went back to 'driving his car' with his friends.

That. was. it. Well, that and the clouds parting to sunny skies, and the angels singing and playing harps and whatnot.

So we shall see. I have, in fact, run out of time for this morning and have to go pick up my little man from school. But I'll have three more hours tomorrow. I could definitely get used to this.