On a Quest to Find the Family Castle

I am a MacGregor. That does not mean much as a MacGregor, except my father loves to sport a kilt, we always had a set of old, malfunctioning bagpipes stashed in the bottom of our hall closet, and my father likes to tell stories about the long-armed warrior Rob Roy every 10 years or so (less, now that my sister is dating a man who really is named Rob Roy, who is sweet and solid, but short, not long-armed, and not a warrior).

Suddenly, though, I feel a desire to see the family castle in Scotland. I asked my mother about it this fall, when the vision came to me and she said: " Castle? There is no castle. Just sort of a cottage at the end of a road, and a rose garden, and the dowager MacGregor."

Disappointing, but still I would like to go.

Then, yesterday I talked to my brother, who lives in England. We will visit soon, and quizzed him. How far to Scotland? Had he been to search for MacGregors? What did he know? He said only 4-5 hours to Scotland, and seemed to know more than I. He thought there was a fortress with a moat, at least, even if no castle. And someone--not our mother--had told him it was an incredibly beautiful part of Scotland, and could not believe he had not gone. He was up for the journey. Perhaps two families of MacGregors, in search of a castle.

I know this is embarassing to his wife, who is British, and is puzzled and ashamed of Americans who cling to their Scottishness for generations, though they know nothing about the place except their family tartan. Yup, that's us. But she is always always game for anything, so I bet she will come along.

But then, last night, it was as if the fates lined up. We went to the most magical New Year's Eve party I have ever attended. There was a table set for 24 in a hunter's cottage in Laurel Canyon--heart of the Seventies music scene in LA. It was an under the sea theme and I sat beside a towering Scot named Lachy--short for Lachlan MacKenzie. I heard his story and he heard mine. I told him we were thinking of going on a quest to find the family castle. i told him I knew, yes, that there would be no castle. Maybe a cottage. Maybe, if we were lucky, a moat.

Oh, NO, he said. There will be a clan seat. Every clan has a seat. And MacGregor is a big name. There will definitely be a castle. My hopes soared, with the bubbles in my umpteenth glass of champagne. "Really?" I asked. "You think so?"
"Blimey," he said. "Absolutely. There will be a clan seat--every clan has one--and a castle--and a village of people who look just like you, only they speak differently, like me."

The idea was absurd, delightful, unbelievable! Then my husband jumped in to say Lachy looked like my father--tall, a little gaunt, Abe Lincoln-ish. Lachy said we could be related. There was a lot of inbreeding between the clans.

My vision was getting blurry with drink, but it felt like destiny, that Lachy would sit beside me and make me believe there really IS a castle out there. He did not think it crazy that an American would go in search of their family castle. He thought it was crazy that I had not been yet.

I hope we will go--two families crammed into two cars, driving down rambling country roads through mountains filled with history and magic--in search of MacGregors, our story, our family, our descendants.

And I hope we find a village full of people who look like us--but talk different.

I will wear a tartan scarf, or bring a tartan tablecloth for a picnic. And we, the next generation of MacGregors and our children, will find what there is to find.

I Wish My Name Were...

The other day Benji, first grade, had a fun assignment. Come up with a name for yourself, and say why. They were looking for He-who-runs-to-the-top-of-the-mountain, or He-who-eats-spinach, or He-who-scores-goals. Something Indian-ish. Instead, Benji wrote, "I wish my name were Eliot, because it would be fun."

He has never known an Eliot, met an Eliot, seen an Eliot. How did he even come up with it?

Jonathan poitned out he actually has a half uncle (who none of us have ever met) named Eliot.

i have been wondering about it for two days. Where did it come from? And why?

Mango Rash

When I first tasted a mango, I fell in love. I lived in Seattle, was shopping at the PCC, came across it, cut it open and sucked it right out of the skin.

It was, quite simply, the most amazing thing I had ever tasted. I plunged my face into that fleshy fruit and ate it and sucked it and devoured it.

Twenty four hours later--or less--I developed a strange rash all around my mouth. I made no connection. But I looked really weird and contagious--like a sick clown.

When I went to the U Dub clinic they said I had mango rash. Unbeknownst to us of the colder climes, mangos have a toxic agent in their skins like poison ivy. If it touches your skin--or at least the skin of sensitive people like me--it causes a rash, just like poison ivy. Only on your lips. Horrific!

The doc called in the residents and they all stood around me and stared and probed and looked. Amazing. What a mango can do.

That should have been the end of mangoes for me, but I love them too much to steer clear.

And now my boys love mangoes. I hate peeling them, and I always tell them the story of mango rash, and I cut them far away from the skin, because they, too, have sensitive skin. Especially my fair-haired Benji.

So the other day we went a little crazy. We had two or three mangoes. The Mexican and the Indian, the yellow and the red. We compared and savored.

And today, as I woke up and licked my lips I felt the tell-tale itching around my lips.

Shoot!

So itchy. So awful. And I still don't think I could turn down a mango if someone handed me one.

(I will NOT show you a photo).

Yes. This is What It Has Come To.

I loved Obama's speech last night.

As Jonathan said to me afterwards: "He was talking to us, too."

Yes, he was. We need to re-invent, re-invest, innovate and educate.

Many things touched me (because I am feeling all weepy and vulnerable) but the thing I woke up thinking about this morning was the woman in her Fifties from the Midwest. At fifty-something she was going back to school to get her biotech degree. She said she was doing it to inspire her children and show them that education matters.

These days, thinking of what my boys will think is the only thing that moves me forward. Otherwise I might just lie down and go to sleep.

When I am tired, or lacking confidence, or feeling like I would rather engage in some escapist activity like reading or seeing a movie, or scrolling through housing swap sites looking for a perfect apartment in Paris, or staring at the ceiling and feeling sorry for myself, I think of what message I want to be sending my boys. I think of what I am modeling.

I don't know the answer to that. But I want to model a person who is brave, who works hard, who is a leader in the community, who stands up for what they believe in, even on little things. I want to model a person who dares to dream, even when things are tough, and they are worried. I want to model a person who is humble, and will buckle down and learn what needs to be learned, even if it is totally new, and someone that age should really be successful and set up for life. I want to model someone who is not a victim, but an opportunist (Thank GOD they have Jonathan as a model on this one no matter what, because this may be hardest for me.) I want to model hard work and determination towards a goal that is larger than just me.

Believe me, I point out other people to model and admire. But I know that in the end it is those closest to them who make the biggest impact. So I am trying.

State of the Union Picnic

We set up our MacGregor tartan tablecloth and set the table on the floor of the TV room.

We had a State of the Union picnic, and watched our president speak.

"There's Obama, there he is," they shouted, as he came down the aisle to the podium.

What is the economy? What is the government? Who is that man? Why do so many of the people look angry? What is a Democrat? What is a Republican? What is he talking about?&^%$$%???

I could barely answer and listen.

Still, I hope they remember. I hope they remember to listen, to care, to be informed, to take action.

Oh NOOOOOOOOO!

Three days from the end of the year my billy goat child was leaping down stairs in the Skirball garden when he landed wrong and fell hard. He broke his ankle.

I heard him and sprinted across the landscaped riverbed to my boy's side. It is hard to explain what that cry of pain from a child is like to a mother. This was different than any cry before. I got there and he was crying and crying, but also rocking back and forth. All he could say was: "I wish I could go back in time. i wish I could go back to one minute ago. I wish this never happened."

So true.

At the time we thought it was a sprain. My father told him to walk on it. The security guard gave him ice and we sat in the lobby with his ankle on ice and his head on my lap. An old Jewish man who looked like he had survived the Holocaust was working as a docent. He had a soulful kind face so open it felt young again. He comforted Theo, then turned to me like an oracle. "You will dance at his wedding," he said.

We went to the doctor and got an X-ray, all family members in tow. They could not see anything. That night Theo crawled to the bathroom on hands and knees, never complaining, and in the morning he hopped around the house on one foot. We took him to an orthopedist who felt him and said it was broken. Not shattered. A hairline crack so small she can't even see it on X-ray. But the way he jumped out of the chair when she touched it she knew it was broken.

On went the cast, a little boot wrapped in green. But then he could walk again. Already he can run and hop so fast I bet he could beat half the kids in his class across the playground in a race. And he is still trying to leap off things--with one foot!!! He spins around on the bottom of his cast like a ballerina, delighted with himself. So fun! At night his foot swells up inside and he cries.

But the doc says it will heal. At this age she said it is better to break than to sprain. A hairline break like this in his growth plate will heal completely. Ligaments never really do.

Couldn't write about it until now. But it stirs you up somewhere deep when your child is injured. I cannot even imagine with something permanent, or possibly permanent, or whatever.

He is OK. That is all that matters.

"Maybe he will stop leaping around like a madman now," Jonathan said. "He needs to learn. To be more cautions. To know he can hurt himself."

Maybe he will stop. Maybe he will not.

I don't know.

Sprint to the Finish (Will I Make it?)

Warning: To my favorite readers under 10--this material may be inappropriate. But I will have a post soon JUST for YOU!

When I quit my job (almost) four years ago, I made a choice: I was leaving full employ to devote myself to my kids. So much has happened. And I have achieved so much that matters to no one but me. I have gained invaluable perspective, confidence, and I have stretched myself in ways that have no price.

In three days Benji will enter kindergarten and I will have two children in school. I know, I know--most people have their children in what amounts to full time school from the time they are three. But we chose our co-op with its limited hours and we have lived with old school (til noon) preschool hours til now. So this is a HUGE change.

I will have hours free every day to myself. I will begin (I hope) to begin to contribute to household income again. I will be able to go grocery shopping without children surfing the aisles and hanging off the cart. I will be able to do multiple errands at high speed not worrying of there will be tantrums in the aisles, falling mannequins as children play hide and seek in the women's dept., or that someone will fall asleep before we get to where we are going. I will be able to have uninterrupted thoughts!

I have spent more time with my children than anyone I know. (This is not said with an air virtuousity!) We cut out all child care for financial reasons. People with less money would have their kids in child care so they could work, people with more would have a nanny. I am in the middle, opting for some old fashioned model--one, that I might add, did not lead to happiness for my mother or Jonathan's.

I think it paid off. At this exact moment in time I love how my boys have turned out. But no resting on laurels--I may be cursing the Gods and rushing to therapy next week to talk about failures in mothering. Kids never freeze. Your job is never done.

But here I am--really on the cusp of massive change--no matter how tectonic it may be--and I am wondering if I am going to make it the last three days.

My patience is wearing thin. I am yelling at my boys more than I have in a long time. I am tired of bickering, dangerous sword fights and always saying "Careful" and "No." That is a huge part of being a mama in the city, and I don't really dig it.

I am constantly shepherding people--like a big, drooling good-natured sheepdog. And like a sheepdog--if I am not well exercised or mentally challenged I start to get a little crazy and neurotic.

I will add that I drank a little too much red wine last night to celebrate the end of a perfect summer in our little green outdoor dining room. So I am paying this morning with the darkness that comes with too much drink.

But man, I pray I do not kill a child before Tuesday.

I need a break from them, and they need a break from me. I love them, but I need a little space. I need to rejuvenate. I need to take care of myself.

So now, with three days left (this is like the last mile of the marathon) the end is in sight, and I seriously wonder if I am going to make it. My mind and will are giving out early and I am in trouble!

Does this ever happen to you?

All you mama readers, do you have any wise words for me?

Send them, please!

Edible Schoolyard

Here is a link to my story in LA Magazine:

and

Here is a link to a discussion by L.A.'s foremost foodies, on how to make your kids eat better. Click on City Thinkers and you will find Wolfgang Puck, Suzaane Goin, Patrick Kuh and more, telling you how they make their kids eat delicious, healthy food.

If you don't already, of course.