One Day, One Child

Before we had kids, we used to hang out with some friends of Jonathan's who had kids "early." And by early, I mean, much later than our own parents--but they were still in their Twenties. Not waiting until the last possible moment their bodies could do it, if you know what I mean. Like us. Pushing the biological limits.

Anyway, they had these two amazing girls (who continue to dazzle). We would borrow them and take pictures with us to try out what we might look like as parents. Kind of like looking at yourself in new clothes, with a new persona, you know?

Anyway, these two people were truly awesome parents, and we have tried to copy and steal parenting techniques from them all along, as we are continually about nine years behind them.

One tip they had was this: make sure that you always take time to have a day alone where each parent shares a day with only one child. A total one on one bonding experience.

Well, life hit and we lost track.

But last weekend I got a day like that. And I didn't do anything spectacular like go to Paris with one child, or sail to Catalina, or even visit the Jet Propulsion Lab with my tech-minded child. Instead it was a simple day, brought on by necessity.

Jonathan took Benji to a birthday party, and I took Theo for a swimming lesson, and the day.

Well, first, I am a fanatical swimming mama. It is the one place I am pushy and demanding. The boys, AND their instructors, know that I care. I intentionally always make Theo wear his red Coronado Roughwater Swim cap, instead of his red swim school cap. It is my message to the teachers: someone in his family is a good swimmer, and he will be, too.

So he swam. He was tested. He got moved up. I was proud.

And then we had our day.

I took him to Book Soup, the last great book store in Los Angeles. I showed him the kids section, and walked him through the adult stacks. There was a reading going on, and I told him what was happening. I showed him the list of upcoming readings--with authors and books listed, and told him you could come and hear. He scanned the list dutifully and said, surprised, "I have never heard of any of them, Mommy." Neither had I.

Then we went and bought art supplies for our upcoming trip. Sketch books for all of us, and pastels in metal containers small enough to carry in a purse or backpack. I want us to travel like 18th century pilgrims, drawing what we see as we move around the castles and green rolling hills of England.

Then I took him to Poquito Mas and we sat in the sunshine, he and I, and talked about a book I wanted him to read (The Apothecary, by Maile Meloy). We told stories, and nibbled each other's food, and I wondered if he would spend his whole life trying to get back to California so he could eat tacos in the spring sunshine.

Then we went home and we drew each other with the new pastels, and I read him a chapter of the Apothecary, and then we cuddled up and read together in bed. We rounded it all out with a game of chess, in which he beat me soundly.

It was a perfect day to spend with anyone. But especially with my boy. It felt different to be with one child, instead of two. To share my favorite things and places and foods with him, and to talk to him like a companion, instead a small sheep in a herd of two, who must be corraled like a wild thing as we move hither and yon through the world.

I thought of Greg and Chalon and how they had told us how special that one on one time could be.

Jonathan told me Theo felt calmer that night--at peace because for one day he did not have to fight for attention in our merry band of endless talkers--but could have me all to himself--and I, him.

I wouldn't trade two for the world, but for a day, one was fun.

Poppies

I love poppies. I love red poppies, opium poppies, wild poppies, California poppies. I love fields of them, waving on their slender stalks. I love that they are so vibrant and alive, yet cannot survive for long once picked. They love to be outside--don't mess with them!

You know this--this is my picture here.

Today we plant some in our front yard and pray they will come up in spring.

It won't be a field of gold, or a hillside of yellow, or a waving valley of red. But it will be a tiny carpet of California poppies in Whitley Heights--a small ode to this state I love.

Some Things My Husband Taught Me

The great thing about a spouse, or a best friend, is they bring things, ideas, philosophies and ways of being into your life that you never ever could have adopted on your own. And then they become part of you--but you always know they gave you those lessons as a gift.

So here are three from my husband. They are part of why I love him.

1) Always tip street musicians. Good or bad. Talented or Suckass. They are putting music out into the world and sharing that beauty. Give them a dollar. Or five. Buy their CD. Tell them you love what they do.

2) If you think someone is cool, or smart, or great, or inspiring, or can teach you something, or you just want them in your life, take them to lunch and pick up the tab. You will never forget it, and neither will they.

3) When some great opportunity drops into your life--do not hesitate--leap and jump in. Perhaps the timing is not right. Perhaps it is scary. Perhaps it costs money you feel like you do not have. Perhaps it is not the plan, the dream you had--even if it is really cool. But do not walk away, and do not take it for granted. Those opportunities that truly change your life only happen once in a blue moon--maybe only a few times in your life. When they come, there is no negotiating--you are in or you are out. You have to jump, jump in, and seize the day. Later you will wonder how you ever thought of NOT doing it. Stay open--or you will miss these moments--and you will never even know what passed you by.

What about you? Did anyone you love ever teach you some great lesson that changed how you live?

Sick Sick Sick

My boys are sick--fevered and vomiting and coughing, and watching waaaaay too much television.

I am up at night mopping fevered brows and taking boys to throw up in the toilet, or giving more advil to keep fevers down. Then I rise and go to work, and pray that my head-ache is something else--not coming illness.

All weekend we were still and quiet. I read stories, and cuddled and coddled and nurtured. We ate soup and went to bed early and barely moved at all.

And it felt like the sweetest, most luxurious time, to lie in bed with my boys, to sip tea, to read chapter after chapter of a good book without falling asleep or having to rush off.

Sickness, yes, but sweetness, too.

The Season of Yin

We are a culture of yang--that is what I learned in my one Chinese medicine class before I dropped out. We are about constant action, with no rest, no respite. We do not believe in that--and when we lag we feel bad, or we medicate, or we drink more caffeine (my preferred route).

If we are still, not moving, not thinking, we feel compelled to justify, to explain, to make excuses. Because for us, being still is not valued.

Yoga studios get that. That is why you pay $20 for that final five minutes when you lie on your back in shivasana in total stillness. Some yoga studios do not even have shivasana, because they say that some practitioners cannot stand the stillness at the end of the class.

I feel guilty. I am the daughter of a Navy man who prowled the house and thought anything not active was a crime. I am mostly active, but I desperately need my stillness, my alone time. At 45 I have finally accepted something. January 6 to March 1 is my Yin time. I sleep more and get chubby. I still exercise and move--because as much as I would like to hibernate like a bear--alas, I cannot.

But I will rest, stay home. I will indulge my desire to be still, to read, to think. I believe, deeply believe, that all great things follow both periods of activity,and periods of rest. Because in the periods of rest seeds take route, things start to happen, ideas grow, and travel. Like winter, those periods feel like everything is dormant, but actually, beneath the surface, the most important things in the world are happening.

That is what I am trying to believe is happening right now.

In my season of yin.

How about you?

Marriage Is Hard

I wanted to be a mother. Being a mother feels natural to me. I wanted to be a wife. And I want to be married. I really do. But being married is hard. Or being married being well, loving my husband well, is hard. For me.

Send me a prayer. Or a good wish.

Please.

Target Missoni!

Back in September, when the Target Missoni madness gripped all fashion conscious females in America, I missed the boat. I didn't even hear about the Missoni collection the day it launched until 9 a.m. when there were already news stories that the entire collection was already sold out.

I was devastated. I never would have gotten up at 5:00 a.m. to wait by the computer and log on like a feverish Sixties femme fatale, but still.

That night, tho, I logged on to see what I had missed. I was so sad. I had missed a lot! But it all felt like an historic moment--a moment I was part of. So I sought out every item (clothing, not housewares) that was still there, and bought two things. They don't even look Missoni, but they look cool. A pea green sweater with fuschia striped trim (for real!) and a miraculously chevron pleated black skirt that looks unbelievably elegant--if not Missoni.

Months went by. Target told me first it would be a month or two, then they told me I could give up if I wanted. But I stood by--like I had invested in the stock market, or wine futures. One day, I knew, the items would come. And I would be happy.

Well, they came. And I love them. I am wearing my pea-green sweater now, and I wore my pleated black skirt to work this week. It was a hard week, but just knowing that I could get up and wear my gorgeous Missoni products made life better. Am I superficial?

J told me I looked like a Sixties co-ed in my sweater. And I look like an elegant Roman housewife in my pleats.

Is there anything better than a cheap bargain version of a beautiful thing?

Good gracious me, I do not think so.