Girl's Gone Child

Sunday Snaps

2009-07-11T23:51:00.000-07:00

1. "You can do it, Fable!"

And we cheered until she did:

Crawling for the very first time into my arms.

2. "Choose your art," we told him. "Whatever makes you happy."

Two hours later, we left the craft fair

with a rolled-up print of a cowboy riding a seahorse.

3. Over dinner I looked around

at my husband, children, new friends

and thought, "how fun it is to be a grown-up."

4. I cut his hair myself. Messed up the layers,

accidentally cut crooked bangs. And yet...

"I love it, Mommy! You made it so I can see now!"

5. I rocked her in my arms

on the foot of his bed,

singing them both to sleep

with one song.

GGC

Jon, Kate and Henry Miller walk into a bar, have an emotional affair

2009-07-10T12:38:00.000-07:00

1. I never got around to posting the following Momversation, mainly because I wasn't in the mood to be controversial but I do want to say this: Jealousy has become status quo when it comes to relationships and I don't think its healthy. There's a reason so many marriages end in divorce and I believe a great deal of that comes from the pressure one feels to exist as someone's everything. I feel very strongly that the article that sparked this episode perpetuates paranoia, guilt and "omg I touched my friend's knee and he was a dude and I'm a chick and it totally turned me on I SHOULD CONFESS TO MY HUSBAND because I'm an awful CHEATING CHEATER!"

Come on, really? Is that what it's come to? We're afraid of making eye-contact at the risk of falling in love? I'm sorry but that's just sad. Flirting IS NOT evil. Neither is fantasizing about fucking the UPS guy.

I personally stand by the following when it comes to marriage and monogamy be it physical, emotional et al: Animals stray because they feel caged. People cheat because they feel trapped. There is nothing more attractive to a caged bird* than an open sky. Remove the cage? There's no need to fly away. (*Please pardon the cliche)

Hal will never fulfill my every need as a woman just like I will never fulfill his every need as a man. (I'm his wife, not his life.) We live in a social society. Therefore connecting with people OUTSIDE of the home should be celebrated, not shamed.

Psh. No wonder we all feel so alone, geez.

2. As with the Emotional Affair episode, I got so caught up in last week's vacation that I forgot to post the following episode, discussing books that changed our lives.

My first take was ten minutes long because I couldn't stop talking about Henry Miller and how I quit college to be his bitch. So consumed and affected by Miller's work, specifically Tropic of Cancer, was I.

I used to sit in my car outside Miller's old house in Pacific Palisades with my laptop and write, stalking his ghost like the paparazzi, hoping for a glimpse of what I don't know. From there I took day trips to the Library in Big Sur. Befriended Magnus, keeper of the library, met my literary agent at the Henry Miller writer's workshop where I spent a long weekend workshopping a novel that has since been rejected into retirement. RIP, ye piece of my soul.

But I digress... Any writer who has never read Miller should. He's a writer's writer like no other and his ability to turn sand into pearls has been the motivation behind my optimism as a person and openness as a writer. Miller taught me that in order to be extraordinary as a writer you must write fearlessly and truthfully. I'm far away from mastering this art but I've made it my life mission to try.

Other books that changed my life that were edited out for time:

The Cities of the Interiors books by: Anais Nin** - They're genius. They're raw. They're true stories tucked behind a fictional curtain with holes in it.

A Woman Speaks by: Anais Nin - Nin was the first person I read who spoke of "humanism" ... This book gave voice to thoughts I didn't know I had and helped me identify who I was and am as a thinking woman, human being.

Written on the Body by: Jeanette Winterson - Written by my favorite living author, Winterson writes with her entire body. Her books are like a dance. The best ones always are.

Fear of Flying: Erica Jong - this book was the coming out party of my sexuality. I read it in High School and it was the first time I felt comfortable with myself as a sexual person and writer (good writing not unlike good sex is about being uninhibited and, well, open.)

**much like Miller, I have read practically everything Anais Nin has written. I have a tattoo around my hip based on a passage from her book, House of Incest.

3. It used to be about talent and beauty. Now its about what people are willing to expose. We salute and also curse those whose lives have become our entertainment, shallow blondes seemingly happy to film themselves having sex via webcam, weird dudes with anger management issues. The current reality stars du jour just happen to be a mediocre looking couple living with a bunch of kids.

And yet we care about them? Of course we do! They're exposed! And fascinating, now more than ever because they know they've gone too far! So we get to pity them, salute them, take mercy on their poor, unfortunate souls!

The truth is? We put them where they are. We are the mistress in their marriage, the reason for their divorce as much as they are. By tuning in every week we have lined their pockets, but also stripped them of pants.

And now? We get to watch them scramble to get dressed. That's entertainment?

You tell me.

Soon enough, they will disappear from the headlines along with Paris and the stars of Big Brother and Rock of Love. In the meantime, we mourn and scorn, roll our eyes at the tabloids and then, quietly, when no one's looking, slip a copy of US Weekly into our grocery carts.

GGC

****

Thank you all for your comments on my last post. Your support and ability to open yourselves to me and each other is inspiring and so helpful. Fable has been amazing these last two days. It's almost as if she's tuned into my frustration and is kindly adapting to my needs. She's napped twice and although she's still struggling to sleep in her crib has been very understanding about the boobs. The plan is to slowly wean her. For now, I'm cutting down to two feedings daily. Putting her to sleep in our bed at night and then moving her to her crib where she sleeps until morning. Baby steps, right?

Honeymoon on Hold

2009-07-07T23:06:00.000-07:00

In the past, the end of the Honeymoon phase meant the end of the relationship. Not necessarily because it stopped being exciting but because one day I'd wake up smothered, unable to breathe.

It was my own fault. I insisted on spending every available moment with "his name here" until one day I was like "I kind of want to eat alone actually" or "Get your hands off of my boobs. I'm trying to work!"

The heart's tendency toward fickleness is (wo)man's greatest defense against responsibility. For when the heart turns, the body and everything else must follow AKA love is a gypsy hopping truck beds, her open suitcases in the sand.

Er, it was. Until rock paper scissors became kids marriage freedom but that's a blog post I've written a thousand times before.

For the past nine months I've been home with Fable. I've slept with her and shared my food. Clutched her little body, her skin to mine, our exhales in unison, our gazes eternal. We've been inseparable friends madly in love with one another, entwined like the trunks of old trees.

And in that time my body has belonged to Fable as much as it has belonged to me. And I've adored every second of it.

Until now.

I woke up last week and couldn't breathe. Fable was nursing and I looked down at her and instead of feeling comfort and love I felt frustration and anxiety. I felt stifled and suffocated and trapped as her little hands scratched at my face. Suddenly, I was consumed with the need to get her off my body and out of my bed.

I put my finger in her mouth, breaking the suction of her latch. She glared at me before closing her eyes, snacking her lips, searching my chest until she latched back on... to my bra. She screamed, angry.

"No more," I said. "All gone."

For the last few days I've been struggling to keep it all together, especially because this feeling of wanting my body back has coincided with Fable's inability to sleep anywhere but my bed, in my arms, or inches from my body.

My need for space seems to have made Fable's need for me grow exponentially. If I so much as turn my face away from hers, she cries. Sweet, sure but also frustrating because "I can't just look into your eyes all day, okay?"

Of course, as soon as the words leave my lips I feel horrible guilt. Like I'm cheating on her with my life. A life full of lists and overflowing to-dos I've been unable to get at. People I need to call. Vet appointments, yesterday's lunch and oh yeah, how about MY OTHER CHILD!

Come on. She'll only be little once. This is it! Right now! This is the time when I'm supposed to be at her beck and call!

Little shmittle. She's nine-months-old now. And you're nobody's bitch.

But I must hold her! Allow her to cling to me! Cling back!

Is that what's best for her? For you?

I don't know.

Yes I do.

I don't remember whether or not I had a honeymoon phase with Archer. He never nursed nor did we co-sleep so there was never a time when I woke up and felt suddenly claustrophobic. There was never a need to push him off my body, kick him out of my bed. He was always in his crib. Napping healthily, drinking from a bottle, a sippy cup, his own glass.

But Fable was born a different child and from the get our bond was unique, our dependency mutual, which is why I'm having a hard time reconciling these new feelings, understanding where they are coming from and where we go from here.

GGC

Sunday Snaps

2009-07-05T23:59:00.000-07:00

1. She leaned in and kissed him

on the field of the same park

I first fell in love with a boy.

2. We shared a glass of wine

Two old friends and our two children

"Can you believe how much has changed?"

3. On the Ferris Wheel he was fearless.

"You have to sit down," I said

but he shook his head, held my hand instead.

4. He named the snails in Nana's garden.

(I used to do the same)

This right here is "treelocke" and this one's called "bubblebasket".

5. We had to drive separately home
so he drove his car behind mine and
we talked to each other on speaker phone.

GGC

Chapter (Month) Nine: Call of the Child

2009-07-02T23:49:00.001-07:00

This month's Fable film celebrates our girl's ninth month of life. A milestone I clutch with shaky fingers because nine-months to a pregnant woman means the birth of her baby. And so, in a way, it feels like she's been reborn. This time as a child.

She was born ten days early so she has officially been living outside of me several weeks longer than she existed within. Even still, it hurts to draw nines on the top of her charts, to hold my belly and feel emptiness. To celebrate a milestone that meant something so different when last I counted down.

Now, I must count up. And pretty soon, I'll be out of fingers.

GGC

musical credit: Unison Falling Into Harmony by: Great Lake Swimmers

The Long Lost Labor Footage

2009-07-01T00:33:00.000-07:00

Nine months ago, today, I was breathing hard into my hands as Hal ran around my hospital room with the camera, making faces, talking about his teeth, laughing at the fact that I was writhing in agony.

The usual "husband as labor coach" type stuff.

Editing this video I couldn't help but think of Britney and Kevin's Chaotic (remember that trainwreck?) and how WTF I was watching it, how refined I felt my relationship with Hal was in comparison.

HA! PSYCHE!

I also couldn't help but think, "Yes. Thank you. Yes."

Today also happens to be Hal's 35th birthday, which means he is now of "advanced maternal age" aka if we ever have another baby I'm going to make him get an amnio just because.

(Hal, Thank you for continuing to make me laugh through life's many labors. I love you.)

BEC

Sunday Snaps

2009-06-28T23:09:00.000-07:00

1. There's no place like home
when you carry it all around with you:
One child on each hip.

2. What a wonderful world it would be
if we all rode around in skyboxes
with grins the size of the Pacific.

3. I rested my head on his back,
His hair smelled like sunscreen.
We closed our eyes.

4. They looked like the cover of an Adventure Guide
for Boys who Like to Roll Down Hills.
Doesn't matter they're fifty-one years apart.

5. We dried our swimsuits side by side by side.
Three generations of women
who love the water.

GGC

For more on our ten-days of summer vacay, go here. I'm posting, in real time, our to-dos. Hope you're all making lovely memories with your people!

Changing Rooms

2009-06-25T00:04:00.000-07:00

"Beautiful things come in small packages," they say and so do I, writing this post from the tiny box that recently became our bedroom. A room we needed our architectural thinking caps to make work.

I'm always hunting for treasure. Coveting the home down the block with three-bedrooms and its office space in the back (with a skylight! How modern!) Daydreaming over bigger and better cars and homes, new clothing, shoes, furniture et al.

Because shiny new things sparkle and glow. No scratches from being repeatedly dropped on their faces. No stains.

We live in a world blessed with riches and a society that bribes us with new boxes. It's box cars and box homes and box television sets. And sometimes it's impossible to turn our heads because new cars always smell better. So do new homes, built on the wood of freshly cut trees, with their new bedrooms and clean slate of design ideas.

Same goes for people so we fantasize about shiny, new, carefully constructed bodies. Men seemingly cut from stone and women, pure, unused, even untouched.

We are told from ages young to dream of new life and new homes, to fantasize about the virgin in all her unattainable forms. Because wouldn't it be nice to be the first? The first family to live in the house. To own the car. To leave footprints in the sand. To steer the boat on her maiden voyage before her paint chips and her body belongs to the sea.

To feel what has never been touched.

... ... ... ... ... ...

Last night Hal and I stayed up until 2am talking. I had made a comment in passing that upset us both. I had embarrassed myself on accident, bragging about past exploits, grasping at the peacock feathers of my past - before there was a family or even an us. Desperate to clarify to all with ears open that wild things never forget the open field.

Sometimes I catch myself saying things I don't want to be remembered by. Or maybe I do?
But why? Because people take great offense to the truth. Because the things most exciting to talk about are most often the things left unsaid.

Sometimes I find myself publicly dipping my toes into the pools of my past. Hard not to when for many years, I defined myself solely as one who stood in the center of my own puddles, completely submerged from the neck down.

I'm a married mother of two, now. I write about food and how to get my child to eat it, post photographs where my nursing bra shows and people praise the biology of it all - the beauty and bonding of mother and child. But sometimes I want to be more than that. I want to be looked at and talked to and treated like a piece of meat. Like someone not afraid to open her mind and her mouth and yes, even her legs. Someone empowered by her inner "slut," frustrated by the virgin and how she is placed on a pedestal for crossing her legs and closing her mouth and talking only of safe things.

Last night I felt the need to apologize to Hal for being a used car with mileage, a woman in a stained dress who burps and farts and squeezes her friend's boobs in photographs. For revealing too much with the lights on. For speaking publicly about private parts without blushing. Because I'm supposed to blush. And cross my legs. And keep my voice down as not to wake the neighbors, spook, embarrass, shame.

"I'm sorry I'm not the kind of woman who dabs the sides of her mouth with linen napkins."

"You think we'd be together if you were?"

Touche.

... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Before we moved into the small bedroom this past weekend, I thought, maybe we should just find a new place and live there instead.

"If we're going to move we might as well just move homes. This place is stale. We've outgrown it. I'm ready for a change."

But just like a marriage, a body, a home, old can become new. And better than fantasy reality can be. Truth like sugar in the raw.

The first night we spent in our new bedroom, I told Hal, "this is my dream room."

"But it's so small," he said.

"Exactly."

There's a direct correlation between changing identities and switching bedrooms overnight -- rearranging the same old items in a new and different space. I carry my past with me in my back pocket and every now and then, walk into the wrong room, expecting to find my bed when, Wait! Where did everything go? Oh, wait! That's right. That's not my room anymore.

This is my room:

Full of old things new and new things old, everything differently placed and rearranged and mirrors fresh out of their plastic wrap.

They say that airplanes aren't safe to fly unless they've flown a thousand miles. And ships are more likely to sink their first day at sea. They say that people can change if they want to. But changing will never change the past and thank God because what a ride that was. So many memories made in old bedrooms, sprawled across dirty sheets.

They say that beautiful things come in small, unassuming packages. Like the old room that came new when we finally rearranged the furniture. Like peacock feathers* folding inward toward the body.

*Nevertheless, always there.

GGC

Food for Naught.

2009-06-23T01:35:00.000-07:00

When he was little he ate everything. He stuffed his face with tofu and Quinoa, spinach and avocado omelets. Now? Not so much. I've written about my struggles trying to feed a picky eater (I should own stock in Annie's Mac & Cheese) before and it's nothing new:

Of course, picky eating has been going on since children were first invented so what I'm dealing with here iis nothing new and I'm pretty sure not entirely uncommon. In fact, can I get show of hands of parents whose kids live off nothing but macaroni and cheese?

Thank you.

I'll be honest. It makes me feel like a better mom when women I love, respect and admire are in the same boat.

Behold:

I like to think this is a phase and Archer will soon be back to eating organic greens out of the bag, preferring goat cheese scrambles over a handful of dry Cheerios in a baggie. (WTF is that about anyway?)

In the meantime, I have a few minor pointers for parents like me who wrestle with children who don't eat as well as they should/could:

1. Eat Outside - I bring fruit and nuts pretty much everywhere I go and Archer will gladly accept all berries, bananas and the occasional peach when outdoors. We attend our local Farmer's Market every Sunday as a family and Archer will polish off three baskets of raspberries under the tent. At home? No way, no how.

2. Smoothies - We live blocks away from a Jamba where Archer will totally down a giant Acai smoothie. Months ago, twas my mom's idea to ask the smoothie makers to mix a shot of wheat grass in with the smoothie and voila! Three days a week, people. That is some expensive vegetable trickery.

3. Dessert bribe - Sometimes this works. Maybe 42% of the time. Oh, who am I kidding. 22% of the time. Might have something to do with the fact that the BIG EXCITING DESSERT is a square of dark chocolate because I'm the food gestapo and am absolutely insane when it comes to processed food and corn syrup OMG I will END YOU with my HATE!

I just hope Archer's rejection of all the best foods doesn't turn into rebellion. I seriously would rather come home to a pack of cigarettes in his backpack than a fast food burger wrapper because that shit is JUST as bad for you but I'm not going into that or else I will probably cry because bad food hurts my feelings.

Anyone have any tips to add to my short-list? What do you do to ensure your kid's well-eating? What has worked for your family? Or are you one of the lucky ones* whose kid snacks on Asparagus and eats something other than rice at a Chinese Restaurant?

GGC

*HOW DID YOU DO THAT!!????

Sunday Snaps

2009-06-21T22:31:00.000-07:00

1. He blew on her rice

Even though it wasn't hot.

"Just to be sure."

2. Archer counted the screws,

In neat little piles.

"I'm helping Daddy build my bed!"

3. Still warm from the dryer,

I pulled her sheets tight

around the crib mattress.

4. Hal ordered three ice-creams.

"But what about Fable?...

...Here," Archer said. "Share mine."

5. It was the first night that

both children went to sleep

in their own room.*

(They're still sleeping.)

GGC

*after a very long weekend the bedrooms are almost completely finished. There will indeed be an after soon! Hooray!

** I forgot to link this post about Fable's most amazing kick-ass nanny who we have dubbed in our household, Senorita Dudafuego because she IS the same exact person as Mrs. Doubtfire, except she's actually a woman and not Robin Williams in drag.

***For those of you trying to access Straight From the Bottle from Australia you *can* but only through your google reader. Thanks to Little Miss Moi for the heads-up!

**** I also want to thank you so MUCH for all your help re: Archer and music lessons. So many amazing readers commented and emailed me contacts so we can find a kick-ass Suzuki teacher for Archer. (Archer's most interested in playing violin so we'll start with violin and see how it goes.) You're AMAZING. So many resources I'm so grateful. Love to all of you for being so generous with your information and advice! Also looking into Colburn school for singing classes.

Boy Wonder?

2009-06-18T21:55:00.000-07:00

I suppose it happens to all parents. We wake up one day convinced our children are geniuses of the highest degree, worthy of prodigy status. It happened to me a year and a half ago, when Archer unable to speak, was able to sing. It was the only way he could speak coherently. It was more than a miracle. It was a relief. We had attended various sessions of the speech therapy prescribed through Early Intervention but for Archer, it was music that finally got him using his words.

We pulled him out of speech therapy, upped the dosage of Bach and Debussy, Mozart and Bizet, surrounding Archer with melody until his songs became sentences and his sentences stories.

Beyond vastly improving Archer's speech, music has become Archer's co-pilot. (In the last year Archer's language has progressed so rapidly we've been told he could easily start Kindergarten a year early. To put that into perspective, this time last year? Archer was three-years-old with the language ability of a 12-month-old.) He's come a long way, baby. Partly thanks to music and its whisper, like angels in his ear.

Archer has always been unique, quirky, his own beast. His ability to concentrate solely on music and sound was cause for concern in the beginning. He had a sort of reverse ADD which made it difficult for him to focus beyond whatever it was that was consuming him. This waved a red flag to many specialists at the beginning who believed he might be on the Autistic Spectrum. (Einstein Syndrome? Perhaps. I like to think Archer Syndrome is a more accurate label.)

I wrote about our preliminary experience dealing with IEPs and Speech Therapy quite a bit in my book if you happened to read it and although I always knew Archer was not Autistic, I was very much aware of his differences, communicative struggles and the fact that he was not like other children.

Of course I never wanted to "fix" him. Whatever it was and whoever he wanted to be would emerge beyond the tests and the milestones he was slow to overcome. What was most important to us was nurturing his strengths and for Archer, clearly it was (and still is) music.

From an early age, Archer listened to music with his eyes closed, his little hand in the air like a Southern Baptist at church during prayer. He still does. And his voice? Pitch perfect.

"We have to nurture this," I said.

Hal agreed.

So for the past few months we've been on a mission to find a boy's choir, music program or magnet school (if they even exist) specializing in music in the Los Angeles area.

Unfortunately for the past few months I've come up empty-handed. Unable to find a school or choir-program for children under six years of age, which is unfortunate, even shocking for one of the most creative cities in the world.

This is why I'm writing this post. I'm on a music mission for Archer who craves it, who sings to himself all day long, who constantly corrects me when I try to teach him the sounds of the instruments.

"Do you hear the trumpet?" I say.

"It's not a trumpet, mommy. It's a French Horn."

And he's right. Which is crazy.

Archer's ability to differentiate clarinets from oboes, violins from cellos and memorize melodies after one listen far surpasses my ability and expertise, even Hal, a music major and classically trained pianist, guitarist, former CBGB rocker has nothing on Archer's pitch perfection.

His ability to pick up drum sticks and without every having practiced or performed, play without missing a beat:

Of course he's my kid and of course I'm going to think he's the raddest in the land, but after everything we've been through, I can't help thinking maybe he has something - an innate gift, divine inspiration, an ability beyond what is the norm for his age or any age. And what kind of bonehead parent would I be to not do encourage the hell out of that shit?

Especially after last week when Archer sat down to the piano to play Carmen (his favorite song like crazy omg he's obsessed) near perfectly and completely by ear, his hands in proper position.

So... help?

Boy's choirs or other recommended music programs in Los Angeles for four-year-olds? I've been searching but all I have been able to find are youth choirs and music schools for children aged 6+.

You're always so helpful and insightful and full of secrets and knowledge of undisclosed locations, good advice. (Thank you so much in advance.)

GGC

Birthday Gifts

2009-06-17T00:02:00.000-07:00

Every day I look at myself, my life and think, "you're so lucky."

"Crazy lucky."

"Insane lucky."

"Holy shit, how did I get so lucky," lucky.

The very luckiest.

(Because) Every day I get to wake up in love.

I'm in love.

I'm in love.

I'm in love.

No need to blow out candles to make a wish.

GGC

Annie, Drop Your Gun

2009-06-16T00:33:00.000-07:00

The other day, while walking the dogs, a little boy extended his hand out a window.

"BANG BANG BANG!" he said. "You're all dead."

I was walking the dogs, Fable in her stroller, Archer on his scooter. I turned to him and then looked away. Pretended not to hear him, let it bother me. We kept walking.

Archer didn't respond and I got to wondering how he would have had he known and understood what the little boy was doing. Had he known and understood what a gun was, how it was meant to be used.

Violence in any form churns my stomach. Always has. I turn away from violence in movies, forbid my children to watch movies where characters "good" OR "bad" kill one another. (That's why I like CARS. The only "bad" guys in CARS are the character's egos. No one dies or tries to kill anyone. The conflict is on the interior. Much more kid-friendly.) But I digress. I've been thinking quite a bit lately about weapons and violence, specifically the way violence is depicted on television - comic book superheroes saving the world by killing "bad guys"... "bad guys" that lurk in shadows and under beds and behind the mirror glass.

Many of Archer's friends at school carry X-Men lunchboxes, wear Spiderman shoes, Batman T-shirts. Archer doesn't know who Spiderman is. Or Superman. Or Wolverine. Or any comic book superheroes. The only television he sees is peaceful. I turn the television off when there's a preview for a show that involves violence of any kind.

Recently I've been wondering if this constitutes as sheltering.

Oh my God, am I sheltering him?

Am I?

I've written at length about empowerment, about truth and telling it with eyes open, the heart exposed. I believe that fear comes from our inability to see, to trust and understand, educate and yet when it comes to guns, to violence, I can't do it. I can't talk about guns or weapons without feeling sick and sad, even fearful.

So goes my paradox: I'm afraid that by educating my child I will scare him. I will scare myself.

We live in one of the largest cities in the world. Where drive-bys occur blocks from us. Where break-ins happen regularly. Where our own things have been stolen, our cars broken into, our things swiped from our porch. Three years ago, a man carjacked my husband at gun-point, stole his car and left him on the side of the road. He had just left the set of his job for his lunch break. There were dozens of witnesses. Everyone watched in shock.

Many pro-gun advocates argue that carrying a weapon can ensure ones safety. I disagree. Had my husband been armed with a weapon and used it to defend himself someone could have easily been killed. Instead? Hal lost his car for two days until the cops recovered it in South Central where they arrested and jailed the criminal.

Using gun as defense seldom works to defend. Guns used as offensive weapons? Different story.

I lost three friends in gun-related accidents in High School and since graduation. Two were accidental. One was suicide. I grew up in upper middle class suburbia where everyone lived gated existences. There was NO REASON for them to have handguns in the house. None. If gun control existed, I would have three friends alive. PERIOD.

Do I carry a gun in my house? Never. Do I believe in the right to bear arms? Yes. But I believe there should be stricter regulations. I believe that fear is the worst possible reason to carry a weapon and therefor will never understand why so many feel the need to "protect their families," especially when housed in gated communities in middle-class suburbs, alarms activated.

What are you afraid of?

Guns are far more likely to kill innocent people than criminals when kept inside the home. Period.

That being said, am I being naive to think I can shelter my son from fear by keeping violence away from his eyes? Perhaps. Is it important to teach gun safety to people of all ages? Yes. Will I be teaching my child how to properly use a weapon? No. Because I don't believe he should know how to kill.

To keep a handgun in one's house insinuates, in my opinion, a certain amount of fear, which is why guns are so scary.

There will never be a happily ever after story involving guns because guns were invented with the sole intent to take life.

For me, it all comes down to fear and teaching our children to resist it as much as they possibly can. I will be educating my children to live peaceful lives. To love and respect and stand up for themselves in ways that are empowering.

And in my household? Guns will not be factoring into that equation.

GGC

Sunday Snaps

2009-06-14T23:47:00.000-07:00

1. From afar she looked like she was
flying with wings on her head,
kicking her striped legs.

2. They sang Happy Birthday.
He blew out the candles.
I made a wish.

3. "Never stand up in a canoe!"
he proclaimed out of nowhere.
"I learned that at school."

4. Bellinis on the terrace
as the children stripped down
and splashed in the pool.

5. I looked in my rear-view mirror
at two sleeping children
in disbelief they were mine.

Archer with his cousin, Anushka: Stagecoach Park.

GGC

Here's the Before, Let's Hope There's an After

2009-06-12T14:04:00.000-07:00

This is it. The last week before we do the big room-exchange. Before we set up the crib and Fable gets booted out of our bed once and for all, which, sniff, but also, phew. Eight-months of co-sleeping has been lovely but I miss having sex in my own bed. Not that sprawling across the bathroom floor in a heap of dirty towels isn't sexy it's just that, I'm going to be twenty-eight next week not nineteen.

(Archer's twin mattress arrived last weekend and with it the fire under our asses to get this show on the road.)

Hal and I currently reside in the larger of the two bedrooms but that is soon to change. A crib and twin-sized bed will not fit in the smaller room so (Ready? Break!) we're going to have to move everything from Archer's room into ours and everything from our room into Archer's.

We have no idea how this will work out but it has to so we'll make it happen. I snapped a few before pictures of our separate spaces before our massive reorganization.

Behold the before:

Our Room

Yes, that's the giant, insane painting mentioned in my book. Bedding is Anthropologie. Anthropologie is my girlfriend.

Dresser belonged to my father when he was a boy. Gramophone belonged to a stranger.

Hal's dresser. Where all my makeup and weirdness lives.

This doorway separates both bedrooms.

Archer's Room

In case he ever forgets.

Archer's crib turned toddler bed soon to become Fable's crib and Fable's dresses hanging all over the place because she doesn't really have a closet/dresser space right now.

Kid's dresser slash changing table that's never been used to change anybody and a painting my Nana painted for me when I was a child.

Fable's Room

Had this Dwell bedding since before she was born. It's all the "room" she has for now, which is why I'm really excited about finally giving her a space of her own.

Fingers crossed that there's an after.

Stay tuned.

GGC

(GGC Survival Guide for) The Beautiful and the WAHMd

2009-06-10T23:16:00.000-07:00

As an epiblogue to my last post. I put together a little list for those of you WAHMing it up, hoping to someday WAHM and/or trying to decide between being an astronaut* or a WAHM when you grow up.

GGC's Ten Secrets to ~~Highly~~ Kinda Sorta Successful(ish) WAHM'ing

1. Make Lists, Check Them Twice - The only way to keep track of assignments, appointments and show-and-tell themes is to write them all down. Every morning I write my to-do list and most of the time I get to some of it.

2. Coffee - The only drug moms can do out in the open without risk of being judged. Also, it helps you wake up in the morning, late morning, early afternoon, late afternoon and evening when you have deadlines.

3. Separate Work Hours from Kid Hours - Designating play hours may seemed contrived but its kind of imperative. Implementing "no Internet/no phone" zones is sometimes the only way to pull back from work to enjoy your family without constant vibrating. There is a time and a place for your "shit to blow up." And it isn't while your child's begging you to build sandcastles.

4. Get the Hell Out of the House - For me, it's near impossible to focus 100% on kids in my house, especially during weekday afternoons. Too many work-related distractions a mere feet away (This might have something to do the fact that my office space is in my living room, inches away from where the kids play with their toys. In my next life I'm going to to be filthy rich when I have kids so I can have an outdoor office or a separate wing to keep my computer.) so getting out of the house for activities everyday is a MUST. Whether it means going to the park, meeting for a playdate or simply taking a "nature walk" around the block to collect rocks.

WAHMside!

5. Get Dressed. Every. Day. - I can trace every bad WAHM day to poor wardrobe choices. This might seem incredibly shallow but it's true. Just look at the women of one hundred years ago. My great-grandmother gave birth to triplets during the great depression and still managed to change out of her pajamas every morning for chrissakes (true story!) so we have no excuse.

Honestly, though. Getting dressed to go to work everyday is obvious. You wouldn't show up to an office job with your hair in a scrunci, so why show up at your home office looking like a slob? You say you can do your best work in your pajamas and slippers? I don't believe you. Makeup works wonders on a poker face. Style is the first step to substance.

6. Stick to a (Flexible) Schedule - You absolutely must have a schedule if you're going to get through your day. For me, for now, scheduling my days is difficult because of Fable's no-nap policy but I do schedule my nights around my work. The most important part of having a schedule as a work-at-home parent is knowing that things will probably be switched around ten thousand times and you'll have to cancel most of your plans to deliver by deadline and everyone you know will call you a flake behind your back.

7. Prioritize - You'll get to all those TIVO'd episodes of LOST, later. Probably. Maybe. Hopefully. We'll see. Okay so you'll most likely never watch LOST again.

8. Stay up an Hour Later or Get up an Hour Early - Quoting my inspiring friend, Rita Arens, sleep is for the weak. You want to get it all done? There are nights you'll just have to sleep less. One hour won't kill you but it will make you stronger if you can finish your daily deadlines without stressing yourself to an early grave.

9. Surround Yourself with What Inspires You. Get Rid of Everything Else - Days are too short and time far too precious to surround yourself with downers and ghosts and judgment and people who bite. Period.

10. Delegate. Delegate. Delegate - If you can afford a part-time sitter? Do it. And if you can't? Don't be afraid to ask for help. From your spouse (who should be offering anyway p.s.) or partner or mom or grandma or neighbor because quite honestly, NO ONE can do it all on their own. We get by with a little help from our friends.

.............

Now it's your turn. What are your secrets do doing it all? How the hell do you manage your life/work/kids/marriage/~~porn addiction~~/craziness? How do you make it happen?

Bring on the bullet-points.

GGC

*Not discounting those who are both mother and astronaut. Just saying it's probably impossible to astronaut from the home, correct me if I'm wrong.

The Beautiful and the WAHM'd

2009-06-09T16:39:00.000-07:00

The term "work at home mom" is a total conundrum. It's also redundant. It is one of the few redundant conundrums I can think of, or, because I get off on word play, redundrums which was why I brought up the topic of balancing work with motherhood on ~~today's~~ yesterday's Momversation. I'm always desperately curious as to how so many of you do it all. WTF, people? How do you even have time to read this blog post right now?

I've always been on the outside of the (not-so) great "mommy debate" of working vs stay-at-home momdom, waving my Swiss flag because I have no idea what side to stand on. Do I have to pick a side?

It seems pretty obvious to me that the great majority of everyone is doing what they have to do to raise their kids happily and healthily, whether that means putting off career to focus on family or pursuing everything at once. Sides can go fuck themselves.

Regardless of the choices you or me or the chick standing behind you in line for coffee has made, we're all trying to achieve balance, to find happiness, to spread the love.

Behold:

"How do you do it all?" we constantly ask one another, seldom answering the question ourselves.

Perhaps because there's no answer. Because our circumstances are so different, constantly changing, that every day is its own unique experience. The amount of balls we have hovering in the air above us changes momentarily. Like right now, for instance? ~~It's late. Kids are sleeping. Husband's in the shower. I'm alone. I can blog and when I'm finished with this post I can clean up and eventually go to sleep~~* and maybe I don't sleep as much as I could but neither do you.

Because that's what happens when you have kids. Because that's what happens when you don't have kids. Because that's what happens when you work long hours. Because that's what happens when you're an adult and you have shit you'd like to do. You need to do. You have no choice but to do.

I can't speak for all mothers but I can speak for myself as a work-from-home-mom (WAHM) when I say that maintaining order in the court is not an everyday occurence. There are some days when I rock the shit out of my life - when I write ten pages in two hours, have dinner on the table by the time Hal's home from work, have kids down by 8:00pm, but six days out of the seven, I'm disasterville - the kids still wandering the halls at 10:30 and me struggling to write a blog post, bleary-eyed, teary-eyed and overwhelmed, Hal home from work to find me in a heap of drugs, gigolos and gambling debt.

This is is why starting this week we're hiring me a part-time helper. Because Fable doesn't nap and therefor I cannot work during the day. I tried "doing it all" without assistance but it didn't quite work, so ten hours a week I'll be working outside my home, writing at my neighborhood coffee shop. This is a good thing. This is necessary. For my sanity. And my creativity. And my career. For my kids. So that when I'm with them I'm not constantly looking over my shoulder envious of every laptop at the coffee shop I'm pushing my stroller through.

The pressure to perform as a writer and a mother and a wife and a friend and a daughter and a sister is nothing new.

I'm pretty sure that by day's end, we're all on the same side - managing stress, trying to achieve balance, striving as best we can to be be good, happy, well-adjusted peeps.

I mean, right?

GGC

*It was late last night when I started this post, anyway.

Sunday Snaps

2009-06-07T22:23:00.000-07:00

I thought it might be cool to start a collection of memorable weekend moments. Too many of them fall in the couch cracks with the loose change and Cheerios. I'm hereby launching a weekly rescue mission. Feel free to join me.

Archer holds Fable on the porch, Sunday afternoon.

1. The way they love each other
is impossible to watch
with dry eyes.

2. He looked at me waiting
to give him the okay
to play in the rocks.

3. The man who sells me lettuce
at the market always smiles
when I have exact change.

3. She opened her hand
in her sleep and then closed it
tight around my finger.

5. It was the first time
we'd ever dressed up
for each other like that.

On our way to see La Traviata Saturday night.

GGC

GGC Shopping Spree: Legwarmers

2009-06-04T14:09:00.000-07:00

Because I've received so many emails this week re: Fable's leg warmers (and yes, she has approximately 789182u3ihasd923 pairs) I thought I'd blog quickly and exclusively about the adorability of leg warmers and direct your attention to their place of purchase.

Ladies and gentleparents, I give you: Babylegs*, so cute your eyeballs will fall out of your head, so practical you'll want to ditch the tights for good.

You can also find them at Target as well as many local baby boutiques or if you're in a DIY mood? Cut the feet off a pair of funky socks and make them yourself!!!

If you have any other questions re: Fable's fashion, I've started a new drooling closet set on flickr to list/link designers, places of purchase, or you can ask in the comments, below.

GGC

*this post not endorsed/paid for** by babylegs.

**no GGC posts or recommendations here, there or on twitter have EVER BEEN paid-for by anybody. All GGC love, recommendations and giveaways come from my personal experiences with products and people the end.

Drawn to Scale

2009-06-03T23:25:00.000-07:00

FABLE = >

An update on Fable's ginormous "head test," here, and SPOILER ALERT! She's fine. Better than fine, actually. She's perfect. As a picture.

GGC

*the above caricature was drawn at Archer's friend's 4th Birthday Party where instead of passing out goodie bags the had a local artist come and draw the kids in attendance. (Archer's is here.) How awesome is that?

Chapter (Month) Eight: One Flew Over the CuteCute Nest

2009-06-02T09:58:00.000-07:00

animal printsess

Today Fable is eight-months old. And I am bruised and bloodied from pinching myself and punching myself in the face because "wake up! There's no way she's real!"

But she is and it's insane to me sometimes. I'm addicted to her laugh and her smile and her little bitty backwards waves. I want to inject her into my veins, my little heroine. And trust, if I could do it? I totally would.

GGC

musical credit: Women's Realm: Belle and Sebastian

Some (Pregnant) Girls are Bigger Than Others

2009-05-31T00:12:00.000-07:00

Ah, pregnancy how I miss you. The panel pants, the bloated feet, the "your baby is the size of a squash-blossom this week," the weird cravings and bladder issues, the exhaustion, the enlarged pregnancy-nose, the insomnia and constipation and inability to have sex anywhere but in dreams.

Every other night of my pregnancy with Fable I dreamt of bedding Jeremy Piven (it's crazy I do realize but secretly? I kinda find him sexy. My pregnancy with Archer I was having the same kinds of dreams about Bill Maher who I'm also crazy attracted to like whoa. Maybe because they're both cocky assholes and that was always kinda my thing don't yell at me.)

But I digress... each pregnancy is its own unique beast. With Archer it was Bill Maher and Mud Pie, with Fable it was Jeremy Piven and Fish Tacos.

I was an older, wiser woman my second pregnancy and didn't have to deal with assholes telling me that I was too young to be pregnant and/or "was I planning on marrying the father?" which was nice. Pregnancies not out of wedlock are far less dramatic then their alternative.

the week before Fable was born, looking surprisingly decent.

But by far the biggest difference between pregnancies was my weight gain and all around appearance. I was a horrific spectacle with Archer towards the end of my first pregnancy, partly because of my inability to curb my need to devour pie on a daily basis but also because of the Preeclampsia which left me swollen and bedridden for the last six weeks of my pregnancy. No fun that was at all.

After shooting the above clip(s) for Momversation I sorted through some of the video tapes of me at the end of my pregnancy with Archer and happened upon the following footage, shot hours before my induction. (I was induced the day before my due-date because of my severely high blood pressure brought on by hypertension.)

I've written a lot about my struggles with Hal and our marriage those first few months. It's not easy to marry in the second trimester of a pregnancy, to get sized for a wedding ring on a swelling finger, to consummate a marriage sober (ha!), to "honeymoon" whilst looking your absolute worst in the history of horrible but watching the above footage of Hal telling me that I was beautiful while in my most horrendous of states was/is enough to make me cry. Because regardless of the shit we were in and would continue to go through our first two years of marriage, this clip (along with the rest of the pre-delivery footage) is proof positive that Hal really, truly loved me. Despite my every flaw and fluctuation.

Either that or he was a fantastic liar.

GGC

Swing Like a Pendulum

2009-05-27T22:53:00.000-07:00

We approach the swings with her on my hip. She's never been in a swing before. Not the park swings, anyway, so I am hesitant. I wiggle her legs through the holes, slowly as not to startle her or make her afraid. When Archer was a baby he hated the swings. He'd make this sound like he was holding his breath and then he'd flap his skinny little arms until I reached for him, rescued him, put him back on his bottom in the sand.

Archer was more cautious when he was Fable's age. He took his time growing up. Fable seems to be in a rush, pulling herself up and face-planting every time she tries to crawl - waving and blowing bubbles, saying "hi" in response to my voice.

Archer was always fashionably late. Fable on the other hand seems to be camped out in front of the dance, the very first in line.

So it wasn't at all surprising to me that when I let go of her, today, she smiled.

And when I pushed her in the swing she laughed. She laughed so hard I thought she'd cry.

And after that - after the initial high-pitched joy waned and wore, she cooed and hummed like she'd been swinging all her life, like the motion was nothing new, old news, my professional glider.

And for the next twenty minutes, back and forth she went, Archer running around the park, every now and then wandering toward the swings to check on his sister. Until he decided he wanted to swing, too. Climbed (with my help) onto the swing beside her and asked me to push him higher, Mommy. No, higher! HIGHER!

Left hand pushing Archer, right hand pushing Fable I stood for a moment, awstruck that: Fucking A, man. This is my life. These are my children and I'm pushing them and they're laughing and smiling and happy and I am responsible for that and holy shit, I'm making these two amazing, beautiful little people laugh, like this is the greatest day of their lives and maybe it is... which... mindblowing to think...

I must never cease pushing them in the swings, I thought. High enough so that they giggle but not too high so that they're safe.

I think, now, about the post I wrote months ago. The one about Archer under the swingset, about life before it gets complicated and I realize that swingsets in sandy parks are to my life as a mother what long drives with a rolled-down window and a pack of cigarettes were to my pre-baby self. Strip away the smokes and the sand and the only difference is wind and whose hair it's tousling.

The wind isn't in my hair anymore. Not in the same way it used to be with the sunroof open and all the windows.

And yet? By watching my children swing back and forth today, their laughter breaking like waves in overlap, I was able to see myself far more clearly than I ever did or could have in the rear-view mirror of my old silver car.

Back and forth,
forward and backward,
again and again,
rock-a-bye babies.

They swing like a pendulum.
And my hair blows fiercer than it ever did before.

GGC

GGC Hangover: Birthday Edition

2009-05-27T00:34:00.000-07:00

Oh wait. I have a blog? Oh, yeah. Hi and hello there.

The problem with holiday weekends is that by the time they end? The work week is half over and you're still in your pajamas screaming at California for being an asshole except now your voice hurts and your kids are like "why are you yelling at California" and you're like "AHHHHHHH."

Of course, eventually you must stop screaming and throwing things at walls and make dinner for your starving children and when you finally get them to sleep at 10:30 (which let's be clear is EARLY for our household) you realize, "oh, shit. It's Tuesday night. I haven't blogged in ten years. I should probably write something but OMG I have so much to say and tell and write and show but I'm not really in the mood to do anything but watch The Bachelorette and go OMG! It's Kip from Encinitas! What the Oh-Em-Gee is he doing trying to pretend like he's in love with a stranger omg!!!!?"

So OF COURSE you forgo your plans to stay up all night blogging and writing (and yes there is a difference) so you can watch The Bachelorette on DVR and make sure that Kip gets a rose (phew! That was close!) and when that's finished and everyone including your husband is asleep you can get to those there blogs of yours and write about yourself in the ~~third~~ second person and make very little sense because you're exhausted and very ready for that part-time nanny that starts next week the end.

And by the end, I mean...

Hello. How was your weekend?

Mine? Mine was lovely. We had ourselves a Birthday Party. The finest, most fabulous birthday party in all the land. But I already wrote about it over yonder and my eyes are pretty much ~~closing~~ closed at this point so here are some photos:

More on Archer's most excellent 4th Birthday Party at the uber-fab Naya's Garden, here.

Pass the Aleve and Goodnight.

GGC

"Fore!"

2009-05-22T01:02:00.000-07:00

I'm crossing you in style some day.

When you were a newborn baby I sang Moon River to you, strumming on a guitar I never quite learned to play but took lessons on anyway. I'm a horrible student. Always have been. I used to get kicked out of English class for being disagreeable. I have trouble with authority and dress codes and rules and books that dictate to-dos and to-don'ts. I would have dropped out of college had I attended beyond registration day, deferring my admission once, twice, three times a nevermind. But I wanted to learn to play guitar so I bought one and tried to teach myself, failed, then took lessons. I learned how to strum a few Smiths songs and Let it Be but guitar never came naturally to me so I quit, which I have a tendency to do when I find myself unable to do something well within the first five-minutes of trying.

I'm telling you this because of Moon River. Because the first time I sang it to you I realized I had an okay voice. Not that I would ever sing publicly, not in a million years, but to you I could sing. I could sing in a voice that was better than mine. And I would close my eyes and rock you and hear the words and it was like someone else was singing them. Someone who could actually sing a song...

dream maker, you heart breaker,
wherever you're going I'm going your way.

...and suddenly there was no need for a guitar.

It was right then, with you in my arms that I realized I knew every word of every song I ever wanted to sing. I knew the melodies by heart. It was all there and what the hell was I doing not singing? What was I afraid of? Failing? Psh! Lame.

So I sang. I am singing. Because of you.

two drifters off to see the world

When you first became interested in the planets you wanted to know why Saturn had rings. I explained to you that they were made up of tiny particles, like dust bunnies of the universe orbiting Saturn like a ring around the rosy. You fell in love with Saturn after that, explaining to everyone including strangers that Saturn had rings, giant rings...

One night, while trying to explain to you how much I loved you I told you "like Saturn loves his rings," and from them on every night before bed...

I love you like Saturn loves his rings.

One night you beat me to it.

"Mommy?" You said to me as I was turning down the light, turning up the music, "I love you like Saturn loves his rings" and then you asked me to please scratch your back for ten minutes.

You should have asked for an hour.

(I would have scratched your back for two.)

there's such a lot of world to see

When I took all these photos of you playing golf you were wearing jeans against the rules. Neither of us knew it because I know nothing of golf or rules or golf rules and you just wanted to play.

So we ended up both getting into trouble. Me for knowing not the dress code and you for being my son.

"I should have known better. Should have dressed him in slacks."

But now I know so next time I won't get you into trouble. One day you'll either love or hate me for all the times I didn't read the book, didn't take the lesson, refused to go to school.

But to me, getting into trouble is okay. Sometimes the only way to learn.

There is always, no matter what, a next time. So we live and we learn and we hold our clubs and our pencils and our hearts wrong. We wear the wrong clothes and the wrong shoes and choose the wrong answers to the questions we should have studied harder. We try to teach ourselves guitar when, really, it would have been easier just to take lessons.

And so we do.

Or else we don't.

And so we will.

Or else we won't.

There's always next time.

wherever you're going I'm going your way.

According to Wikipedia, the term "fore" when called out during a game of golf means to "look ahead" but I don't know how to do that. I never have. Instead I look at you. I look at your sister, your father, our family and when I'm not doing that I look back upon milestones and moments and memories like one might a collection of porcelain figurines. I turn them all over in my hands, blow the dust off their tails, press my face against the windows of retrospection and exhale. Hard enough so I can trace along the lines of your face in an evaporating cloud of moisture.

That is how this blog started. And when you walk away and into your own story, that is how this blog will someday end.

In the meantime, I search the glass for fingerprints. For you in your Baby Bjorn and bouncy seat and highchair and rocking horse. You in your Halloween costumes and pageboy hats. You when your hair was short and then long. Before your eyes went brown. On your first day of school. Before you found your words. You like a giant redwood tree.

Tomorrow, the 23rd of May, I will count your rings in disbelief.

One. Two. Three. Four.

I love you like Saturn loves his rings.

we're after the same raindbow's end.

I know nothing of golf except that you are beautiful. I knew nothing of love unconditional until the day, four years ago when you clubbed me in the head and stuck a flag in my heart. Pulled back your bow, aimed and struck me square between the eyes.

just around the bend...

Your birth gave me life, a reason for song, the ability to sing.

Happy Fourth Birthday to you. To us.

~~Fore!~~ Four!

GGC