This One's For You, Ruth!

Here is the new do!

And another view!


Ruth, I hear the man in your life does not love your hair as much as I do. Well, the men in my life don't love my new short, sassy do either. But I did it for me! I cut my hair as a metaphor for change and a sign that things are going to be different and I embrace that--with my hair!!!

This was in the salon, the day it was cut, blown out and cute. I felt good.

Since then my hair has flipped out--it does not know what to do with itself. I look wacky and weird and have strange lumps after I sleep. Still, I am happy. And I saw your hair, and I like yours, too.

Across the ocean, we are receiving similar hair messages--cut it short, swing it around, be a sassy, smart woman.

You look cute, sweet niece. Send me another picture of you and I will post it here, on my blog!

New hair for a new life! That's my motto!

Vacation! After Just Two Days!

We broke the news to the boys that I would be going back to work about three weeks ago. They were vaguely interested. They know I write stories sometimes, and am preoccupied. Perhaps they thought it would be like that. All out, then quiet again.

So on the second day, (a Friday) Theo said:

"Are you going to work again?"

"Yes," I said. "I am."

On the third day, (a Saturday) he asked again:

"Are you going to work today, too?"

"No," I said. "It's the weekend."

But I realized, for him, my work is a brief sprint, when I seem distracted and absent, and then, soon, it is over.

This will be different. I cannot even bear to tell him how different.

Not yet.

One day at a time.

Back to Work

Today was my first day at my new job: I am chief of staff for Tamar Galatzan, School Board Member. I am thrilled to be working for her. She is smart, a clear-thinker, wants to do good, and cares. She is also tall and strong, an Amazon like me. She is cool. You can read more about her on her web site.

The job came about through a series of coincidences so bizarre that though I never intended to go down this road, I swear I felt I was being sent a sign from God. I care deeply about the issues, the pay is good, Tamar is awesome, and this is a chance to learn about LAUSD from the inside out. Oh, the access! It is a journalist's dream! I am, officially, classified. On a completely classified floor, in fact. Security feels tighter than the Pentagon. I kid you not.

It is a chance to effect change, in a completely different way than as a journalist. But I will use many of the same skills, too--writing, investigating, asking questions, getting out in the field and finding out what is really going on, then fighting for that cause, through writing, attention, diligence, truth-telling.

My heart is a little twisted, and lurches here and there. I am excited about the job, thrilled in fact, but also emotional about leaving my boys for so much of the time. What will it be like? How will my heart handle it? I have been such a full time mother. Withdrawal symptoms will be severe. And though I wish it were not so, I happen to believe the greatest kids do have someone who loves them in an extraordinary way around most of the time.

I am also, for the moment, suspending my dream of starting my community paper. This caused me so much distress I took to bed for a week. But I have vowed to myself that I will keep forging ahead with my dream, and try to launch more slowly on line this fall, with no ads, build a reputation, and then be ready in the future to take it out in print. I have a logo, dear readers, and soon I will post it here. Remind me of this dream, devoted readers, fellow writers, all lovers of stories and news. Because beyond this immediate job, I feel starting this community paper is something I am meant to do in this life. I just need to help our family achieve a little financial stability in these tumultuous times. And to have a little money socked away for me to put up those initial investment costs without panicking. You know what I mean. I know you do. But I beg of you, hold me to my promise.

I will try to write still, yes I will, indeed writing here may be even more important than it has been. But perhaps this blog was a record of my time at home, my time with my boys, a journal of the quiet moments of motherhood that are not glorified by society, but are so beautiful they can make your heart ache. It was a record of both the joy and the loneliness of making the choice to be a stay at home mother in a society that does not value motherhood.

Or perhaps this blog will be a place to record what it is like to go BACK to work, after being off.

I am not sure yet.

I do not know.

But I will keep you posted.

Right here.

Promise.

Happy Birthday Benji!

On Guard!



My boy is 6.

Here he is, KIng Benji, armed with his magic sword.

He had his party on Sunday--with his entire kindergarten class and parents and siblings. No lines. No exclusion. Just for one day, all were invited. It was a castle party and they came as queens (I was the Queen Mother), princesses, knights (Theo and many boys), jesters (Jonathan) and other royalty. They bounced in a medievil castle bouncer, and we played Castle-themed games (What Time Is It Mr. Dragon?, Treasure Hunt, Jump the Moat, Capture the Flag, Dress-Up relay race -- Magicians vs. Jesters), canonball (water balloon) toss.

He was delirious with joy, even if, at the end of the party, he went and sat alone and exhausted in the Mini with all his gifts, crown still on his head, sword in his hand. It had been his day, for once, and it was his mountain of presents, for once.

It was hard for Theo, who has had many large parties (and wanted them, Benji was too shy). Theo came up with most of the games, but then could not stand that this was not HIS party. Ah, to be the oldest child on a day like this. So hard to give up the power, the attention, the gifts. And for once, Benji got gifts Theo wanted. It was a test for the big boy, and he did not do well.

But to my boy, today is the real day.

We had crepes and nutella for breakfast, and one gift, just one, and a Happy Birthday banner in the breakfast nook.

He was so happy.

And I am so happy he is here.

I love his sweet, sweet heart, his giant puppy feet, his little lisp, his crazy belly laugh, his 6-year-old earnestness, his guts (he will try anything), his freckles, his blue eyes, and his blond eyelashes. I love his snuggles and his self.

Parking Karma

This is one of the entries, influenced by reading too much Haruki Murakami--of a life where things are so placid on the surface, but underneath you imagine great heaving changes, and a whole other strange world of curious characters and destinies.

So all my life I have never had great parking karma. Not bad. Just not good. And I don't really are. I don't mind walking a bit. I don't usually use valet. I have gotten my share of tickets, for sure, and I tend to push the limits of legality--a trait I inherited from my father.

My father would circle blocks praying: "Oh, Lord, please help me find a parking spot." When he did, he would always lecture us about how God cared about even the smallest thing, if we would just ask. I wondered why God would waste his energy on helping my father find parking places when there is so much to be done in the world. I would never waste a prayer on parking.

So it went.

But parking has started to become a major issue in Los Angeles. Street parking is expensive, hard to find, and now the meters have sensors telling the parking dudes when to pull up and just WAIT until the meter ticks over to zero. Jonathan just sets an alarm on his cell phone telling him when time is up. But me, I just wing it.

That is the backstory. Never had bad luck, never had good, never really cared.

But suddenly, what a change. I have found miraculous parking places day after day, with an hour right on the meter. I have had people open gates for me, let me in, then shut gates behind me.

I do feel the parking Gods are looking over my shoulder and taking care of me.

Not significant, but what a boost. And it feels like movement, good luck, heading my way.

The universe is aligning with me, pushing me where I want to go, just like a character in a Murakami novel.

Three Things

Here are three small things that never, ever fail to bring me joy.

1) FRESH VEGGIES: My farmer's market basket that arrives at school every Wednesday filled with fresh, local produce of the season. "Benji, Theo and vegetables," the principle says into her walkie-talkie in the car-pool lane. I dig in, inhale the dirt and green and fruit, and then I put my hand into the produce grab bag like a pirate to see what surprises, what treasures lie within.

2) HARUKI MURAKAMI: Every time I pick up one of his books, and disappear into his strange, bizaare Japanese detective novel/psychological thriller/journey into the unconscious novels I am thrilled and all my love of life, of mystery, of Japan, is restored. He never, ever lets me down. For me, he is the perfect novelist.

3) MY BOYS: Watching them go down the steps in the morning, their backpacks on their backs--Theo gripping his wand and the Harry Potter tome du jour, Benji just skipping, checking his strawberry plants, and looking at the sky. Then all of them piling into the little red mini with Jonathan like clowns, and zooming off down the road listening to the Beatles and doing math challenges in the car.

Time

Sometimes it feels like the world is on fire and everything is happening at once in every direction so fast you can't even keep up but you are scrambling and trying and it is good, so good, and you just keep running and praying you don't fall down.

That was last week.

Sometimes everything slows so completely to a stop that it feels like the world has died, everyone you know is asleep, and you are on hold, alone, forever, outside of time, outside of place, in a place where nothing ever happens at all.

That is this week.