Izzo: MAKE SOME NOISE!

A week ago ...

Fam, friends, felines and foodies.

Yo.

After some consultation with her Daddy and her Bobo, we've decided that, this week, y'all can know that, among her other advancements and achievements, Izzo isn't always the glittering, glimmering good girl we've become so accustomed to over the past 22-plus months.

As was expected, predicted and braced for, the gradual change in our daughter has to do with her starting to not only have strong opinions about things -- like what she wants (and DOESN'T WANT*) to wear, where she wants (and DOESN'T WANT**) to sit, what she wants to (and DOESN'T WANT***) to listen to -- but now having the ablity to strongly express all those specific desires.

(* She DID NOT want to wear the pretty floral dress to Tatik's Easter dinner, prefering her funky floral skirt and a striped shirt that tried to match, but didn't. Daddy wasn't having that, though, and Izzo, jeering in agony until she glimpsed just how adorable she looked in the mirror, got put into the pretty floral dress, anyway.

** She DID NOT want to sit in her high chair at Easter brunch, and this time I didn't put my foot down, compromising for the sake of peace at my attempt to recreate one of Abba's grand Easter breakfasts for Ham, Izzo, Kit, Caitlyn, Bobo and Suzie. Scooted on over so Izzo and I could share the same grownup seat -- which worked out fine.

*** Tried to mix it up, put on the Dave Matthews Band concert instead of the thoroughly played-out Sia show from a past SXSW fest. A big, bellowed "NNNNNOOOOOOOOO!" was all it took to get Sia back on the screen. Again.)

And so it goes. Negotiating with a near-2-year-old, we're learning, requires more energy than did getting an almost-always-chill babytoddler to play along.

Still, I contend that Izzo remains basically a really good girl who doesn't actually have to worry much about Meshuk Papik coming and turning her into bologna, as Daddy and now Tatik have started to mention on occasion. Her screams of protest, while real, are hardly an epidemic around here. She's much more likely to be smiling than pouting, and even when she's upset, chances are she'll be all smiles again within a minute or two, so long as you can deliver an impression of Angry Her with enough gusto to crack the Angry Her exterior.

But, OK, I'm admitting and recording that she does have THOSE moments. Moments when she seriously doesn't want to have her hair put up in a pony tail! Or her bottom teeth brushed! Or for the door to escape and the world beyond closed! It's that she's figured out, yes, how to tell us as what she does and does not want, but because somehow that doesn't often change the situation or get her what she wants, well, that's even MORE frustrating, and so it goes without saying that she, like all of us did at one point or another, is getting better at relaying the following message: "I am PISSED!"

Just ask our neighbors.

Gigi, we hear, had a chance to express "pissed" this week, as well.

Imagine the never-especially-quiet-herself Nalbandyan doggie barking seriously unhappy complaints at Izzo, soon after being saved by Tatik from a new game Izzo instituted and might've called, "Ner-ne-ner-ne-ner-ner..."

This is how it, apparently, was played: Gigi outside on the balcony. Izzo inside, at the glass door. With Gigi wanting to come inside, Izzo shut the door on her, effectively locked her out -- and, the story goes, then she pointed and laughed. Izzo allegedly followed up by opening the door a few inches, as if she were going to let the little champion maltese in, before slamming it again in Gigi's surely confounded face -- and then presumably cackling. Gigi barked, pleading to be let in on a blustery (for Glendale) day. Izzo, again, opened the door a little bit, just enough to get Gigi's hopes up before slamming it shut on her again -- and, yes, possibly cackling agin. Finally, Tatik let the frazzled doggie inside and Gigi, as legend now has it, had no problem letting Izzo have it.

Not that I totally believe that entire story. And not that Izzo's got anything at all against animals.

We made it to the zoo for the first time in too long Saturday. Got there early, strode right in as the doors were just opening with our just-renewed year-round pass and made a beeline for the "gilla, gillas!" That's what Izzo had been singing from the backseat when we rolled into the parking lot. And Mommy (as I'm now called a good 80 percent of the time), being chronically slow on the pickup, was like, "Huh? What? Gillas? What're you saying, Izzo?"

It wasn't until I'd transferred her from her carseat to the umbrella stroller and pointed her toward the busy entrance that I saw displays everywhere depicting the zoo's beloved kid gorilla, Glenda. And only then did I realize that the chant still coming out of my daughter's mouth was, duh, "GILLA! GILLA! GILLA!" As in "GorILLA!"

So, yep, as usual, that's who we headed for first. And, as we have in the past on occassions like this, we got a few private moments with the gorilla family. And Izzo seemed really to dig it, announcing, yes, "Gilla! Gilla!" when she laid eyes on the active morning gorilla collective, following each other from one side of the yard to the other, and then back again. Izzo even shouted "Daddy! Daddy!" when the big (no, really, BIG) silverback made his way across the space, and then she waved hi to the "Baby! Baby!" when 4-year-old Glenda popped up in front of us.

From there, it was on to relatively private, ahead-of-the-Saturday-crush viewings of the zebras, the typically sleepy, lazy lions, the just-fed chimps, the breakfasting bear, followed by the forever pacing jaguar and a few of what we'll call rally monkeys. Somewhere in there, Izzo took over.

Demanded out of the stroller, and because I'm a pushover, she ended up pushing the empy stroller herself the rest of our stay, pushing it where she pointed it, and leading us on a pretty logical, wonderful circle around the zoo, leaving the stroller only when we arrived at another animal, which would get her to rush forward and point and wave and make sure, too, that I was seeing what she was seeing. Because I was on her tour, this time.

Good times, good times.

Even in bad times -- such as the latest, blind-siding round of layoffs at my place of employment last week, which came right on the heels of an announced 2.5 percent pay cut -- we've got good times going here with Izzo.

Izzo, who was born a Lakers fan, a Lakers fan who appreciates the importance of the playoffs, which kicked off today, with the Lakers cruising past Utah in the first game of the first round of the 2009 postseason.

She's a big Manny fan, too, to be sure, but today when we were huddled around the living room, snacking on crackers and tortilla chips, clad proudly in our four Lakers jerseys, she was in full Lakers mode. So every time Daddy went and changed the station to see what was happening with the Dodgers, Izzo would, without fail, raise her arms, palms facing upward, and implore, "Where Lakers? Where Lakers?! More Lakers!" sometimes adding, for emphasis, "Kobe! Kobe!"

And Bobo and I would dutifully echo her complaints until Hamlet turned it back.

So I guess it goes without saying, that we're all pretty much wrapped right around Izzo's little finger. And so when I decided it wouldn't hurt and might be fun to head out with Barnus and her girlfriend to see a fruitfully interesting artwalk in Downtown LA and maybe grab a bite and a beer afterward Saturday afternoon, I knew I was doing the right thing, even as I had to talk myself into having fun, even as I had to convince myself that going out and having a blip of social life beyond work had to be healthy ...

I'd been OK leaving, actually, until I felt compelled to call home and inform Hamlet that it might be a little longer than the two hours I estimated, 'cause we hadn't yet left to find food. Called and immediately heard Izzo whining fiercely in the background, and in the foreground, Hamlet telling me, point-blank, that whatever, he didn't care, but Izzo did. I snapped back at him, I'm pretty sure, telling him that I managed to find a way to entertain Izzo while he'd been gone all morning playing music and that he should do the same. But really, I was bummed (and only five-percent pleased, at the most) to hear Izzo outwardly missing me so.

And, so, this is what happened when I hung up (I hear): Hamlet sat down Izzo and had another one of his serious, grownup conversations with her. Like the one that successfully persuaded her to go to bed on time from then-on-out. This one, apparently, went like this: "Mommy is out with her friends for a little bit. Daddy got to play with his friends this morning, and now it's Mommy's turn. When you get bigger, you're going to want to go play with your friends, too. So now you have to be a good girl and let Mommy have fun with her friends, because this is Mommy's time to do that. We all have time when we get to play with our friends, and this is Mommy's time. OK?"

And that, Hamlet swears, is all it took. I got a text minutes later, actually, informing me of as much.

And, so, when I got home nearly -- gasp! -- four fun hours later, opening the door and being darn-near tackled by my princess daughter squealing happily, "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" it was clear, in an instant, that she wasn't mad at me, and that neither was Hamlet, and so I was glad I'd gone out. Well, mostly. I felt refreshed today, but I definitely don't want to do anything with my free time that doesn't involve Izzo for at least another few weeks!

Hey, onto more important matters. Izzo's latest catchphrase is a good one. Ready?

Here it comes...

... "Ooops!"

Oh, and to everyone who's been wondering and/or asking: Still no Natty sighting.

(Honestly, because not going to the park Saturday evening meant there'd be no chance of meeting up with Izzo's little friend that day, I, again, had to talk myself off the ledge, tell myself there was no point stressing about a phantom meeting that probably wasn't going to happen anyway. This mommying stuff makes ya a little more than a little bit crazy, I think.)

(And then I totally mis-timed our trip to the relatively shade-less park playground today going way too early for how hot it was, a fact that had us turning around about as soon as we got there, missing out on the usual half-our of swinging AND any potential meeting with Natty, or any of Izzo's little familiar friends -- including, after last week, a beautiful little Iraqi boy named Shaheen ...

... who fell right in love with Izzo, trailing her around the whole playground with these puppy dog eyes and then asking her, in his own toddlerbaby language, not to leave when we were headed out...)

And so the story goes. Izzo making it easy to keep our heads up, EVEN during those instances when when she's screaming her head off.

Scream it loud, scream it proud: Lots and lots of love!

Us

What's so cool about Izzo.

Hey, all of you! You, our beautiful loved ones who we love so much: Hey!

So, like, you know what's cool about Izzo, who is nearing 2 in a big hurry and sometimes loses her cool to remind us, but usually only for, at most, a minute at a time, as if to also remind us, you know, she's still kool-kid-kool Izzo?

What's so very cool about her other than the obvious stuff, like the whole learning-to-for-real-now talk thing, the actual, bona fide, real-thing, if very elementary conversations that are just starting to unfold? About big stuff, too. Big stuff like Doggies. And Cats. Who poop. And stink. Like Izzo. Poops. And stinks, too. It's not that she thinks she's a doggie, fam, it's that she's already got enough perspective on life to know, despite the ceaseless, never-ending compliments that cascade her way from me and everyone else she comes in contact with, that it's not as if her ish don't stink. (Maybe?) (Even so, I must say, I was flabbergasted when I realized, "Wait. THIS is our first real relatively complex conversation? About stinky poop? Really? ... Awesome!")

What's so fabulously cool, beside her insistence on helping me -- "Help! Help!" -- as Abba says toddlers do, and then sweeping alongside me with the little brush, or emptying a drawer in another room so the room I'm in looks neater, or offering to and then delivering on her promise lick CLEAN the bowl of cake mix?

What's so darn cool, in addition to her being, I think, among one of the most mellow kids at the park on most occasions, politely and clearly insistent that she prefers to take a long seat on the swing, not just so she can "Weeeee. Weeeee. Weeee..." all the day long, but so she can watch? So she can observe the action, study the other kids and their moms and dads and tatiks and papiks and uncles and abbas and grandpees and aunts and bobos and brothers and sisters ... So she can have an up-close and unobtrusive seat to do it, too, swinging back and forth a few feet from whoever the kid(s) next to her happen to be that day, that minute. ... 'Cause that's what she does up there in that toddler swing seat, she people-watches. And I join her.

I know I've said this 500 times already, and I'll tell you now: I'ma say it 500 more before I know it. But, yes, I love our park. On so many levels, I love our park.

Gave in and filled out a stupid facebook survey some days back, I don't even know why, and it asked me if to name the place I'd most like to be if I could be anywhere at all, and I didn't hesitate. The park. I'd be at the park with Izzo. I would've deliberated over that answer for longer than I should've two years ago. Paris? Amsterdam? Home with my mommy and daddy? Eugene, for a basketball game at MacCourt? The edge of the continent to watch the waves roll in? Somewhere I'd never been before but have always wanted to go, like Armenia or Australia or Italy or perhaps Sarajevo? Shoot, a year ago I'da toyed with that question for a while. But, now, no question, no doubt, I love me some park.

I love most, of course, how Izzo sits up, lights up and revs her engines as soon as we roll up. "Izzo, wanna go play?" "Yeah! Play!"

So it's hands-down the coolest place in the world, for that reason alone, but what's also cool about it is, well, its vibe. And it wasn't this cool a spot before they renovated it. But now it's got and manages to be maintaining that new-park smell; it's interactive, clean, colorful, perfect for so many ages. And for those reasons, it brings out all these wonderful people and all their wonderful little offspring, families who remind me how diverse L.A. is, stun me by how surprisingly so Glendale is.

It's like the U.N. over there, I'm telling you. There isn't a day we go that we don't meet, in addition to the usual cross-section of folks of Armenian, American or Korean descent, someone with an accent from somewhere else entirely. England. Russia. Wherever Naty's family is from (eastern Europe, I imagine, but ... someday, someday I'll find out.) Romania. India. Denmark. Pakistan. Japan. Spain. Ohio. Scotland. Seriously, we've met immigrant mothers and fathers from all of those places within the last month or two. I've chatted up a woman in a head scarf. I've giggled with a Korean woman who barely knew English. I've let Izzo accept cookies and strawberries from other kids' tatiks and papiks. And french fries from Luna's aunt, an outgoing gal who makes her living as a dancer, plans on starting a class for toddlers and has big plans for Izzo.

The park is, day by day, reinforcing, if not restoring my faith in humanity.

If Izzo really likes people-watching, then she gets it from me, and for me, watching people and their children, whether it's a collection of stay-at-home-mama friends who've met up there or a dad just back from work, like me, trying to soak in a little playtime before dinnertime with his kid, there's something about it that is especially, remarkably, honestly beautiful.

Something just so beautifully cool about watching people be so outwardly and totally in love.

Like I am, of course.

I don't want to be all melodramatic -- because I wanted to save all THAT for Izzo's birthday in a few weeks, brace yourselves -- but it's been one of those weeks where, if you're paying attention to what's been happening in the world, with the earthquake in Italy, the drunk-driver-caused car crash that claimed the life of the young, up-and-coming Angels pitcher and his friends here in SoCal, the nonstop violence in the Mideast, etc., etc., you can't help but appreciate, really, really appreciate, what it is you are so lucky to have.

And so I guess that's another thing that makes Izzo so perfectly cool, how she's shot me right in the heart with that powerful, vigorous sense of appreciation and love that any reasonable parent must carry with them everywhere.

But what's cool, too, I must say, is how much attention Izzo attracts at the park. Part of the reason I get to interact with so many of these worldly folk is because they want to come meet Izzo. If you think I'm kidding, I'm not. People want their kids to play with Izzo. If I had a dollar for every time I've heard, "Come, let's play with the pretty girl," I could go buy Izzo a, uh, bike right now. (But I won't, because I hear someone else might be planning on it.) People come up and want to know who we are. And where Izzo got those eyes! It's bizarre, a bit, but almost all of the folks I mentioned above assumed, for some reason, that I am European, which I kind of am, except that I'm not, and so, they all want to know, What is Izzo?

Know what else is amusing cool? How many Armenians have exhaled and gone, "Ahhh. That's why she's so beautiful! Mixed Armenian babies are always the most beautiful." Mixed Armenian babies? Huh? OK. But, sure. I won't argue.

You know what's way cool about Izzo, in addition to the fact that every day, after we've met up with our new buddy Daniella and her mommy, Katrina, that Izzo walks 'round going, "Wowwww. Wowwww"? Wowww, because that's what Daniella, who's about 14 months, says all the time. It's like hearing Angelie say "fool" all the time growing up on Tokay, and then saying it all the time myself (and still saying it, sometimes) without meaning to.

What's so colorfully cool, better even than the scene yesterday at Daniella's house around the corner, where Izzo behaved herself like a champ as she and three other shorties (with the help of three mommies) successfully dyed the first batch of this year's Easter eggs, winning over a few new fans and, as is now customary, enjoying the heck out of Daniella's fun, fun toy collection?

What's impressively cool, beyond the fact that Izzo is such a full-fledged and devoted Lakers fan, able to recognize the Lakers logo, most of the Lakers players, and now the Clippers logo, the NBA logo, the Blazers logo, is that now, perhaps most importantly, she knows the "Boston Sucks!" logo? (We're either horrible parents or great parents on this one... and I'm going with the latter.)

What's clearly cool, in addition to the fact that she has gotten so good at brushing her full set of kiddie teeth that I have to only give it a quick once-over to make sure she's gotten everything anymore?

What's dearly cool, above Izzo's eagerness to feed Badu treats and Badu's near-affection in return? Or, to allow for a tentative truce, at the least?

What's wonderfully cool, beside waking up in bed in the middle of the night and finding Izzo curled up, cuddled tight next to me, warm and peaceful and oh-so-very-very lovely, without knowing how she got there, especially when, the next morning, Hamlet claims, swears he wasn't he one who brought her over?

What's so cool, beyond the fact that Izzo's devotion to Sia hasn't wavered, even slightly?

That Izzo's taken to cheering every time we announce a car ride, half-requesting, half-celebrating: "Music! See! Listen! Car! Music! See! Listen! Car!" And then, once the music starts, every time one of those 14 songs gets another play, I'm astonished to hear the little girl in the backseat singing along, sometimes word by word, mostly melody by melody, she's absolutely learning these tunes.

These tunes and another important tune, too: "A, B, C, D, E, F, G, A, S, T, S, A, B, C, X, Z, meeeeeeeeeeeeee!" That's what Izzo's got of that classic. She's had A-E for a while now, but a few mornings back, on the changing table after waking up, Izzo ripped the nighttime binky out of her mouth, exploding with this urge to tell me, like she couldn't believe she hadn't told me yet: "abcde-EFFF-GEEEEEE!" Like, Momom, check THIS OUT! I'm up to F-G, yo! Can I get a Heck Yeah!?!?!

Heck Yeah!

And that's another cool thing, that "Heck Yeah," somehow and for some reason, has become our little inside joke. And I do mean joke. 'Cause it's the easiest, best button in the world. It's like tickling. It's so automatic. Izzo upset, Izzo sad, Izzo unhappy, Izzo anything but smiles and basically all I gotta do these days is whisper in her ear: "Heck Yeah!" and she's laughing. Hee-hee-hee, ha-ha-ha, and then giving me her patented, sugar-sweet "Oh, Mommmm" look. And I, naturally, am melting.

Heck yeah to THAT.

What's real cool, about Izzo, beside the fact that she loves shopping -- "shopping! shopping!" -- with me, loves cheese, loves milk and juice and corn, loves a walk, loves the idea of "kids!," and loves this cartoon I've never seen but Daddy seems to catch with her all the time called "Kiley" (sp?) in which, according to Hamlet, "a Chinese girl teaches Chinese," including using a phrase that sounds like "tooshie," which now has become Daddy and Izzo's version of "heck yeah"?

What I'm finding so unexpectedly cool about Izzo, is how FUNNY she is.

In a good way, I wasn't the least bit prepared for how Izzo would bowl me over emotionally. And while I knew that ahead of time, still, I really had NO idea. I also wasn't prepared, though, for how entertaining she would be.

Had a conversation with a Scottish mom and her 3-and-a-half-year-old daughter this week, and at one point, when I was cracking up at one of the utterly adroit observations made by Charlie (aka Charlotte, the 3-year-old), her mom made a comment along the lines of what I had to look forward to yet, and how her girl so often had her in tears, she'd be laughing so hard. "It's like living with a professional comedian," she said.

No joke.

Good girl Izzo was next to me on the couch a few evenings ago, leaning in and following along with the second of her bedtime bookies, Sandra Boynton's "Going To Bed Book," which ends -- betcha can't guess -- with everyone going to bed. And right before we get to this point in the story, a story Izzo's heard a few more than a ton of times by now, she starts making snoring noises!

These throaty, nasal growls delivered in a very recognizable breathing pattern just like that belonging to the handsome, hard-working fellow seated on the couch next to us (working incessantly away on the winning redesign for his paper).

For a moment, I was like, Izzo, what are you doing? But only for a moment, because that's all it took for me to recognize the great snores as a spot-on impression of Hamlet! Izzo saw that I was entertained and she kept going, breaking it up every now and then to explain, "Sleep. Sleep Snnnnrrreeggggghghghgrrrrr, snnrrrgggghghgrrrhr, snggrrrrhhhgghghgrrr! Sleep, sleep!"

"Hamlet! Hamlet!" I managed to say through my laughter, "She's doing an impression of you!"

Hamlet smiled, and he was probably impressed, but he didn't laugh nearly as long or hard as I did, especially after I asked Izzo, "And what does Momom sound like when she sleeps?"

To this, Izzo replied with a few seconds of deep breathing, but NO snoring noises.

So I asked again, to make sure, "What does Daddy sound like when he sleeps?"

"Gnnnrrreeggggghghghgrrrrr, snnrrrgggghghgrrrhr, snggrrrrhhhgghghgrrr!"

"What does Mommy sound like?"

"Hhhhaaaah, hhhhaaaaah, hhaaaahhhhh."

"Daddy?"

"GGGrreeggggghghghgrrrrr, snnrrrgggghghgrrrhr, snggrrrrhhhgghghgrrr!"

And there you have it. Our perceptive, pleasing, pretty, pretty cool daughter at work, lighting up our lives every moment, of every day.

Oh, how I love her, love her, love her!

And youall.



BE WELL.

Us

p.s. I'll write up a full-blown Easter report (oh yeah, good times!) soon as I have the time -- 'n energy. Till then. Love.

IZZO, THE (soap) OPERA

(Originally written, oh, Sunday evening...)

Hey guys!

A'ight, so, this week's Izzo story begins, where? The playground, again? Our living room, circa 25 minutes ago? In the car, headed to or from Tatik's house?

I know! Start in the cyberworld, or, specifically, here -- http://tyronedraws.blogspot.com/ . And then come back to this quick (really, I promise) latest series of Izzo stories. But, yeah, that first stop's a new blog belonging to Izzo's always-correctly-ID'd uncle "Ty!" the (starving) artist, who really doesn't realize how amazing he is.

(my brother is dope)

Speaking of artists, here's Hamlet's contibution to this update: "She seemed to like Haro."


Haro is a friend of ours from The Scene; he's a spectacular drummer, he's a great painter and now he's putting together movies, so he came over this afternoon to borrow Hamlet and my faces for his latest video endeavor. Izzo was 90-percent show-off, 10-percent shy girl, but immediately a fan of his. He's got this great Sideshow Bob hair that he had tied back into a poofy pony tail, and so he'd shake that at her every now and then and she'd laugh to herself, get a big kick out of it. At our request, she also played him some guitar and some drums, in addition to the natural boogeying 'round the place that would've happened whether or not we'd had company. She also sprinted back and forth to her bedroom 132 times for no reason other than to perhaps check out her own big smile in the big mirror before heading back to refuel ...

Anyway, she was very conscious of the visitor, and she was very set on, well, seeming cool in front of him. We know this, because Izzo, who'd been all light and jollyness and high happy fives for the first 98 percent of Haro's stay, turned dark and despondent in the matter of a single second when Hamlet admonished her for approaching Haro's gear. It wasn't a violent reproach, it wasn't even loud or especially stern, it was a typically stated "Don't do that," but this time it was "Don't touch Haro's tripod!" and it happened, OH MY GAWD, in front of HARO!

Izzo immediately retreated to the corner of the room, chin to her chest, frown dripping downward, totally ashen, defeated and crushed.

I got her to come my way, and she buried her head in my chest, but otherwise remained unrespondent to my overtures asking her to consider perking up. She just wrapped her arms around me and refused to move. When I finally was able to pull her away from me, Izzo refused to look in Haro's direction -- she was beyond embarrassed, it seemed, she was tangibly humiliated -- and soon, she refused TO LOOK. Revisiting the tactic she'd adopted, we think, to deal with freaky flying creatures buzzing around a couple weeks back. She closed her eyes and refused to open them, refused, simply, to look. As if to say: I'm just not dealing with this. See no evil ...

When Haro left, I put her in her stroller so we could walk to the park, because I figured THAT would cheer her up if anything would and especially because it was late Sunday afternoon, meaning we had a better shot, perhaps, than any other time of the week at seeing "Naty! Naty! Naty!" She and I both have been waiting a week, shoot, two weeks for this ... and, of course, pouting, distraught and very, very tired Izzo fell asleep before we got past South Street, and so we turned right around and now I'm writing this and, after fighting it all afternoon, she's sleeping.

Hopefully she'll have forgotten all about this when she wakes up. I wonder, however, when, or if, she'll forget about "Naty! Naty! Naty!"


"Naty! Naty! Naty!" is Izzo's little girlfriend from the park. She's about a month younger than Izzo, but she's a little bigger, and seems significantly stronger and significantly much less cautious. That, in itself, isn't remarkable. Half of the kids there are like this. The other half aren't. The way I figure it, Izzo kinda falls smack-dab in the middle on the playground patrolling ladder. But what is significant about "Naty! Naty! Naty!" is how she and Izzo so immediately bonded. They worked on "jumping" (really, lifting themselves onto the balls of their feet without actually getting airborne, over and over again) together atop one of the platforms the first time, and then, when we saw them again the following time, about a week, later, I was shocked when Izzo announced, "Naty! Naty! Naty!" She remembered the little girl -- and the little girl's name -- before I did.

And then, on that occassion, the two little girls played happily together for the next hour. And I do mean together ... everywhere Naty went, Izzo wanted to go, following her bravely up the big platform, where bigger kids were zooming by and "Naty! Naty! Naty!" was having no problem whatsoever with the tube that poked out of the side of the tower and led down about five steps back to where the moms and Izzo were watching her. Every time "Naty! Naty! Naty!" would escape Izzo's field of vision, my daughter would shout -- you guessed it -- "Naty! Naty! Naty!"

And "Naty! Naty! Naty!" reciprocated the love, because every time Izzo started to wander off to another subregion of the wonderful playground, "Naty! Naty! Naty!" would go, "Bell! Bell!"

And so the two little girls followed each other around the park, very much in tune and appreciative of what the other one was doing. Really wickedly enjoying each other's company. And it was cool.

Cool, to me, because Izzo's never forged any sort of connection like that with any other kid. I sometimes try to encourage it, I sometimes try to insist on it, but it never really happens at this age. Which is why it also was cool, it seemed, to "Naty! Naty! Naty!"'s mom, Yvonne, because she'd been telling me before how "Naty! Naty! Naty!" -- real name, Natalia, by the way -- didn't ever really play WITH any of the many kids at her daycare, but alongside them, that right-for-that-age parallel playin', as they call it.

But despite all that, there was Bell and Naty, having a grand time TOGETHER.

"Naty! Naty! Naty!" also was joined at the park by her daddy, Luke, and her little sister, 3-month-old Kaya, and it was fun getting to know them all a little on those two spontaneous, unplanned visits. But I'm shy, and so I didn't venture a request for a phone number. I also didn't realize how much Izzo would've appreciated me doing so. Boy, how I regret that now.

Several times a day for the past two weeks -- whenever I mention the playground, or whenever we as much as point ourselves in the direction of the park, whenever Izzo sees an image of a kid sort of in "Naty! Naty! Naty!"'s image, basically whenever -- Izzo's launched into the most-voiced refrain of the year so far. You guessed it: "Naty! Naty? Naty!?"

Every time we've managed to get to the park since then, the first thing Izzo's done is scan the premesis for "Naty! Naty! Naty!" and then, when she realizes we've missed her again, she looks at me so wistfully, without quite understanding, "Naty... come?" "Naty ... where." "Naty ... see?" "No, no, sorry, Izzo, Naty's not here today. Maybe next time though, maybe next time." That seems to buoy Izzo a bit, the prospect of next time, 'cause she goes, "Naty come." And then we get on with swinging, her new favorite thing. But I wonder, you know, for how much longer Izzo will go on pining for this other kid. I wonder if when we finally do show up at the park at the same time again, if Izzo will remember the girl, and/or how much she's been looking forward to seeing her again. And I wonder, too, of course, if "Naty! Naty! Naty!" will remember "Bell! Bell!"

And, shoot, I cleared my Sunday afternoon schedule so that we could spend a big chunk of time at the park around the time we'd seen Naty there before, but Izzo -- maybe because she was excited about this? -- refused even to consider naptime until it was time to go try to hook up with her "Naty! Naty! Naty!" again, and then she tumbled hard into her delayed nanik-nanik.

Sigh.

Hey, here's an aside: I'm now referred to half the time as "Momomom," half the time as "Mommy."

Hey, here's another aside: Izzo is a big fan of a singer called Sia. (www.siamusic.net) Australian soul-indie songwriting chick who's famous here for her song that closed the HBO series "Six Feet Under," and for her recognizable CD cover that was visibly for sale for the past year at Starbucks everywhere. Hamlet started listening first, actually, before sharing her songs with me, and now, well, Izzo loves crawling up into her carseat in my car because I keep the CD in there for her, and she knows the songs, kinda, sometimes humming along, sometimes sort of singing along and always tapping her little legs to the ballady beats. And ALWAYS, after EACH and EVERY song finishes, going, "Again! Again! More! More! Please?" And then growing this gigantic smile each time the next song starts again.

... re-reading all that above, fam and friends, I'm struck, I guess, by one overarching observation: Izzo is a sensitive, sensitive creature -- who is waking up. Just in time for a big hug from Mommy/Momomom and her Daddy, who, too, is sensitive, and feeling pretty badly that he managed to inadvertently hurt his daughter's substantial feelings earlier. Sigh.

We'll all be OK, though, promise.

But please do think good thoughts for the reunification of "Naty! Naty! Naty!" and "Bell! Bell!"

Lots and lots and lots of love.

Us

Quick postscript: Izzo was STILL MAD at Daddy when she woke up! Until, that is, we baked a cake and got some of that in her. Then she looked like this:

Sketching life with Izzo: an appreciation

Yo, Everybody.

I don't know where to start so I'm gonna Hamlet had a conversation with Izzo three weeks to a month ago during which he told her, in relatively grown-up language, "Good girls go to sleep in their own beds. If you want to be a good girl, you have to lay down and go to sleep. In your own bed." And that. Is. All. It. Took: Astounding, and nothing short of it, that every time I've brought her to bed since, she's agreeably laid down, turned over onto her right side, closed her eyes and ... gone to sleep. To sleep! To sleep?!?!? To SLEEP!


The park. The park. The park. The park. Izzo loves her some park. Getting better at it all the time, too -- which is exactly what I was thinking just before she biffed it on the steps of the biggest of three new playground contraptions last Saturday morning, slamming her chinny-chin-chin hard enough that she required a five-minute timeout on Momom's lap, and some juice, before she got back to it. Back to making friends. Back to sliding down on her own. Back to swinging. Weee! Weee! Weee! Weee! Back to great long sessions of people-watching from atop the ladybug. (For the record: Momom loves her some park, too.)

Izzo laughs a lot. At Badu, when she's running laps after she's taken care of business in her cat box. At me, when I'm adjusting my seat post-car wash. At Tatik, when Tatik calls her "Izzy." At Daddy, when he bangs his head. At our recorded replay of Bill Maher, when he clowned the bonus losers at AIG. At me, when I do an impression of her. At me, when I hand her her half of a cream-cheese bagel in the morning. At me, when I dry her hair after a bath. At me, when I dry my hair after a shower. At me, when I talk, or walk into the room, or breathe -- which is cool.

Volunteered to have a conversation with a stay-at-home mom who didn't mean it when she deduced what her life would be like if she worked, estimated that most nights she wouldn't get home until 7 p.m. and then proclaimed, "That's not the kind of mom I want to be!"

Rolled past the toy dept. at Target the other day with Uncle Kit in tow and Izzo goes, "Please, please, please, please! Good girl! Good girl! Please, please, please, please! Good girl! Good Girl!" Nice try, indeed, but we didn't get her a toy that day -- unless you count the little white sweater that came from the toddler clothing dept., and Izzo does.

Barnus called Saturday morning and so, when I answered my cell phone, "Barnus!," Izzo dashed forward, announcing hopefully, "Eggs! Eggs! Eggs!" Nice, try, indeed, but we didn't go out to breakfast yesterday morning. This morning, though, Foxy's omelettes, here we came!

Kinda sick this week, I was, and so I tried my best not to cuddle too close with Izzo, who wasn't having it, and who instituted a now well-worn catchphrase to communicate as much: "Hug you. Hug you. Hug YOU," is what she tells me as she turns me into her personal jungle gym -- which is cool.

Almost every workday for the past five years I've left Glendale at about 9 a.m. to get to Riverside at around 10 a.m., which is nice, and has been especially so because I spent those drives listening to NPR's "Day to Day," which was like "Morning Edition," or a mature morning news show, but with something of a West Coast perspective, which is to say, it was a little laid-back, serious without taking itself too seriously, fun a lot of the time, while always keeping it real. Think it's what made me consider a subprime housing mess for the first time, actually, a couple years ago ... and now look. Off the air as of Friday, because, yes, NPR too is making cuts with the economy collapsing all around us all. Really started thinking about the journalists who did the show when the news broke that it would be canceled, started to wonder about the people who owned those cool voices that enlightened and entertained me so consistently every morning. And the co-hosts gave listeners a peek on the final show, directing us to their personal blogs, and if any of you are the least bit interested in what an exceptionally bright, newly unemployed mother has to say about parenting right about now, go here: madeleinebrand.com. Really, I'm such a fan of this lady, and I want her to keep it up. So go. Go.

Izzo gets only more beautiful. I say that only because almost all of my conversations at the park go like this: "Your daughter is so beautiful." "Oh, thank you. Izzo, say 'thank you.'" "And those eyes, wow, those eyes." "Oh, thank you. Say 'thank you' Izzo."

Give Izzo a cracker, a Cheerio, a book, and she says it, she says, "Thank you."

The doctor wanted to know what she might've been saying? "Well, nothing, except 'No!' I told him. Reactive, he called it, and cautioned against going overboard reacting TO HER when it happens, lest she make a habit of those crazy-spooky freakout episodes that happened a handful of times earlier this week, like for the first time to me Monday evening after her bath, when a small insect fluttering near the lamp above her head (we think) panicked poor Izzo so that she became bright red, grabbed handfuls of my skin as she clamped onto me and let loose terrified, horror-movie audition screams while, worst of all, refusing to open her eyes for the final 45 minutes of consciousness that night. She blindly screamed and shook herself to sleep in my arms -- and then did the same thing at Tatik's house right after I dropped her off Wednesday morning. Thus the doctor's visit, just to make sure that chin slam a few days earlier wasn't giving her a headache, or something serious like that. Alas, physically, she seemed fine, which was sort of obvious, but nice to hear, and so we have it: Our daughter either has a serious phobia of bugs, or she sees dead people.

Thinking about Madeleine Brand's first podcast, about stay-at-home-moms being forced to return to the workforce while former working moms get laid off, and what that might mean, and thinking, too, about what my stay-at-home-mom friend said recently about the kind of mom she didn't want to be, and about what I do every day and why, and, well, I had a realization: I like working. I've been telling myself for the past 21 months or so that if it were feasible, I wouldn't do it. I wouldn't even think about not doing it, because I simply wouldn't. But maybe I haven't been totally honest with myself? Maybe I actually like being a working mom? And here's why: Being a Momomom informs my perspective of work (well, it informs my worldview well beyond work, but work's included), and so, with the exception of a couple of freakout days of my own a week ago when my role morphed some, I find that nothing about it stresses me out too much. What REALLY, REALLY, REALLY matters is never far from my thoughts, and so I can, for the most part, handle my business with an ease I didn't before, I don't think. So that's cool. But what's also cool, to me, is that working informs my Mommying insofar that I never get sucked too far into the little nuclear bubble that is Izzo, Hamlet and Mirjam. It would be lovely to do that, of course, but at the same time, it feels sort of healthy, having a tangible sense of the real world buzzing around us. And I'm thinking I should appreciate that.

Appreciate you guys reading, Uncle Ty giving me a shout-out in his myspace blog, Mama Katy for all her e-mails that not only don't make me feel like a witch for working but like something of a champion, Uncle Bobo for always, always, always helping out, Tatik for everything she does, Abba and Grandpa for everything they've ever done, Hamlet for how hard he works and how sweet he is, Uncle Kit for coming to cook for us tomorrow (eh? eh?), the Academy for voting, and, of course, the fans for all their love and support. Couldn't do it without you! (Kidding, obviously, about the Academy.) (Oh, OK, and the fans.)

Love, all.

Us

Luuuuuv Ya, Izzo

(Izzo now mugs for the camera.)

Fam, Friends, Homeys and Peeps.

I'd like to go for sweeping Camus-esque, Gary Smith-esque, Mommy-caliber perspective here in describing this particular past week, but I don't know that I'll be able sufficiently dig far enough out of the moment to do it. Plus, it's really 8:07 in the morning, not 9:07, and I've had a couple of late nights editing, so I might make less sense than usual, which would be none at all, I'm so sorry. Hang in there as I address Izzo, in the future. You know, five years from now.

"Hey, Izzo."

"What Momom?"

"Did you know I used to work for a newspaper?"

"Yeah, I know."

"No, like a newsPAPER."

"Yeah, I know. Like theonerealremaningnewsorganization.com, theothersortalegitnewsorganizationleft.com ..."

"No, Pookie--"

"Momom, are you ever going to stop calling me that?!?!?"

"Oh, sorry. I just can't help it, Monster."

"Arrrgh."

"Anyway, a real newsPAPER. The news was printed paper. People got it delivered to their homes, or in our case, under someone's car in our apartment complex's driveway. Or you could buy copies, out of stands, like in front of Starbucks ... and, once upon a time, there were a lot of papers around. In fact, it used to be that you didn't get all your news about the Lakers from TV or the 653 Lakers fan blogs, but from newspapers. It was pretty cool."

"But, why?"

"Why? What do you mean why? Because you had trained reporters doing their best give fair reports and analysis and insight into the organization, with editors to guide them and a copy desk to make sure they got all their theirs and there's right."

"And that was fun to read?"

"Yes! And, way back when, every pro team had several papers assign reporters to the beat, so you'd get different angles, and papers would compete to break news first."

"But Momom, there's something I don't understand."

"What, Poo-- Izzo?"

"News? Sports? Like, what news could there possibly be to break when it comes to the Lakers ... ?"



OK, so, I'm being melodramatic.

Izzo will always love being called Pookie.

But anyway, this week would've been so absolutely lovely, if it hadn't been so completely rotten.

THE LOVELY:

Izzo successfully went pee-pee on the potty!

Twice!

A week ago, exactly, last Sunday, this happened. It hasn't happened since. But IT HAPPENED!

Just back from shopping-shopping! for a warm-weather wardrobe for Izzo at Target (an activity I happen to love more than I would've ever thought possible), Izzo on the changing table, diaper off, when she goes, "Pee-pee?"

I'm like, "Pee pee?"

Izzo, again, because I didn't get it the first time: "Pee. Pee."

"You want to go pee-pee?"

She gives me a trademark, punchy and enthusiastic, "Yeah!"

And so, bare-bottomed, Izzo walks herself to the Elmo potty in the bathroom and takes a seat for a few seconds before standing back up.

"No, Izzo," I say. "Neste, sit down, try to go psssssssssss."

Izzo sits again, for a moment, and stands again, before I convince her to sit again. After a few minutes of this, I'm more or less done with the charade, and afraid the diaper-less princess will make a mess of herself if I let it continue too much longer. So I go, "Ohhhkay, Izzo. Nice try. Let's go put your diaper on..."

Only to find the container in the potty FULL of pee!

I rejoice, naturally. Hoot and holler and hug. And Izzo stands there lookin' proud-like, and accomplished, and almost embarassed by Momom's over-the-top celebrating, exactly as I hoped she might look, and so, we head back to try again, at my suggestion this time, later that night. And again, after watching the sitting-standing-sitting-standing routine for a few minutes, and being not-so-fast on the pickup, I call off the show, tell her we're gonna go reapply the diaper -- only to find the container full again, which leads, again, to the hup! hup! hup!, hooting, hollering and hugging for peeing princesses, which I hope Izzo wants to get used to.

I was astounded, though. Because I'd only made half-hearted attempts to get Izzo into potty training mode. One of those things that gets a little tougher for working moms, I'd think. I'm not home enough to launch a serious routine, or even to know what Izzo's schedule is exactly from week to week. (Sorry, Izzo, for addressing such intimate details with your public.) And, really, even though I've been reading about it, it still didn't make total sense to me, how to train a person on how to utilize the restroom. It seemed like such a departure from what she's used to, and how does one EXPLAIN the have-to-go-potty sensation to a not-quite-2-year-old who speaks not-quite-language. It's not, as my friend Suzie put it, "like you can just take them and shove their noses in it."

But last Sunday, Izzo went and told me. And then took me up on my suggestion. And so, I know, all things are possible.

Hopefully again today. Or someday soon. Or someday again. Hopefully.

There was more to celebrate this week, too. It was like almost everything went right.

Manny (or, as he's now referred to around here, "Manny! Manny Manny! Dodgers! Dodgers! Dodgers! Manny! Manny! Manny!") signed with the Dodgers after all! My girl, Megan Corkrey (who is going to cost me my critic's cred) advanced through the wild card round on American Idol! Both local basketball teams that I covered in championship games this week won, both times upsetting Southern California/national powerhouses to do it! Izzo's been walking around going, "Luuuuuuuv ya! Luuuuuuv ya!" And there were a pair of deliciously long plays at the park playground down the street...

... plus another dacing-filled, post-breakfast romp at the Americana playground (we'll get back to that later, in an upcoming e-mail***)!

My role generally at trips to the park these days is this: Keep an eye on Izzo. Make sure she doesn't venture too close to kicking feet on the swings. Make sure she doesn't get a chance to try and jump off the platforms like she sees the more rambunctious older kids doing. Stuff like that.

Well, duh, you say. But, recognize, Keeping An Eye on is a much different experience than whatever it is you'd call what you do with younger children. Before, Izzo would love to make the rounds, and want so badly to investigate other kids, but she couldn't walk yet, so she relied on me to help her stay on her feet, which was sort of awkward, letting my baby lead me toward children -- and adults -- who weren't necessarily always looking to interact with her. I was very much the dorky third wheel.

And then, when she better mastered walking on her own, she was still pretty wobbly, obviously, and so I'd have to follow close by, to keep her from eating it too hard at any point.

Now, she can propel herself pretty much wherever she desires, and so I can follow -- and I still do follow, best believe -- at a distance that allows me to just watch and enjoy! Enjoy seeing my daughter interact, watching her puh-lay, witnessing her light up from the experience, the fresh air, the exercise, the excitement of being.

And it lets me talk to other moms some, which I'll say I've been yearning to do. On Tuesday, met a cool Armenian-British woman with a beautiful just-turned-1 daughter named Daniella, who invited us for a playdate at some point. And then on Friday morning, chatted up the mom of Anthony, a 19-month-old little dude who goes to bed on time, loves to draw (on his tummy) and who followed Izzo's lead like any good man should.
It was so wonderful to talk with these other mommies, both of them appreciative stay-at-homers. But like I tell people, the working thing's gotten much easier this year. We've established a rhythm that feels pretty good. I do still get a pang of hurt whenever I walk away from Izzo in the morning, and often, at work, I still find myself looking out the window toward Glendale and thinking of her, but it's not a constant yearning, it's not distracting. I feel how excited Izzo is when I drop her off to see Gigi and Tata and Papik and, of course, Bobo, every day, and knowing that has made all the difference. Maybe it helps, too, that I'm not nursing and not quite as hyper-connected, biologically, any more? Or that Izzo seems to like me as much as she seems to like me, and so I'm not fretting the fact that being away so much will in any way hinder our relationship. And then there's that, in addition to liking who I work with, that I really like what I'm doing at work these days, with the video stuff.

Did I mention that I've always liked who I work with? Which isn't a given, in most workplaces. I totally dug working with preps editor Tim, who was so funny in such an understated way, and always in a good mood, which I appreciated all the more getting to work with him daily on prep video stuff. Consider Kevin, a college football writer and local colleges guy, a friend, as I do with Diamond, both guys who've come to Hamlet's shows. Dudes would be teasing Kevin a lot around the office, and I'd always find myself thinking about how good natured the guy was and saying to myself, and others, many times, "I like Kevin." Diamond, a coolly cynical straight-shooter, was just meant to be a baseball writer. Designer Dan was just cool, friendly; he always, always, always said Hi. Copy editor Jason was a nice guy, too. He and his wife had a baby about a year ago, and so we'd talk about that. I worked beside college football writer Dan only a few times, but he was as knowledgable as it comes.

Alas, after Thursday, I don't work with those guys anymore. Layoffs are happening everywhere, in every sector, around the globe, and we knew it was coming, and I'd been through it before, but not like that. I hadn't had so many people with whom I worked closely, and whom I was close with, snatched away so suddenly. Talented, hard-working, good people potentially knocked out of a game that's rapdily contracting because of the economy, because of technology, because of the times. Contracting and perhaps reinventing, though no one knows what the newfangled print journalism scene might look like down the road. It'll still matter, but it's a matter of it surviving first. And so I walked away from Thursday not as a journalist, but purely as a longtime fan of the medium, hit by how much I'll miss it. And my friends who are so good at it.

Good thing for parks and playgrounds and toddlerbabies who beg for "moremoremoremoremore" waffles, as mine now is.

Love. Us.

Izzo, My Wizzo

Fam, Friends, Loved Ones The World Over: 'Sup.

So here's something most of you didn't know about our so-beautiful, so-charming BabyToddler Princess Izzo.

The first time, the first-first time, I felt her dancing around in my tummy and realized I was feeling her dancing around in my tummy, I was laying awake in bed, early in the morning of Dec. 26, 2006, thinking about everything, including a lot about this ohmygod:baby growing in there, when, whoa, that. had. to. be. human! What had to be? That tap... tap... tap. Three little blips, in perfect tempo, that couldn't be, wouldn't be just my body creaking late into the night; couldn't be, wouldn't be just a little, uh, gas. Couldn't be, wouldn't be anything but a little person ... with rhythm? I'd been experiencing those mini, subtle blips for a week or so at that point, but I didn't think they were the baby because everyone told me that, oh, I'd know when it was the baby. And, well, I hadn't -- until I felt those perfectly timed, itsy, bitsy knocks, partying on the the night after Christmas, going tap... tap... tap.

And, because we -- Hamlet, the alchemist element and me -- happened to be mired in what would turn out to be a never-ending search for the perfect drummer for almost the entire duration of my pregnancy, that sort of informed my imagination about those first three, perfectly timed taps. I tried to keep it to a minimum, but I fantasized about having a little drummer boy and how much sense that would make, considering how obsessed his mom was with finding his dad a drummer the whole time he was living the tummy lifestyle. I mean, it would've been so perfect: "Here, Hamlet, here's the drummer for your band! He'd been with us all along! Might have to wait 16 years for him to actually join you on stage, but ..."

OK, so, we don't have a drummer boy. We have a drumming, pretend-piano playing, real-guitar playing, singing, dancing, dancing, dancing daughter.

And, who knows, I'm keeping my imagining to a minimum, but who knows, it might come up one day, the story about what Izzo did a day or two before she turned 21 months? (By the way, Abba, thanks again for the latest, sweet, commemorative birthday poster!)

Izzo went out to breakfast with Barnus and me at Foxy's, this humble, popular Glendale breakfast spot where, I must say, Susan and I have done a lot of living.

A lot in terms of the volume of coffee, eggs and biscuits we've consumed there, sure, but also in terms of the momentous conversations that have taken place on that patio, where we sit year-round because it's Southern California and we can. It's where we've talked about raises and promotions and job switches, where we first met significant others, including Hamlet, of whom Susan said, when he got up for a moment, "Oh, your children will have such beautiful eyes!" (Which threw me, initially, 'cause like, our children? You just met him? I just started hanging out with him! But, dude, she knew...) It's where I told Susan -- by turning down coffee -- about Izzo hiding out inside me. (Susan, that day, "Is there something you want to tell me?")

Someday, I'll write a story, or she'll make a movie, or we'll make a movie and use Foxy's as the prime place to propel the plot.

Anyway. Izzo's a fan, too.


She tags along almost all of the time and flirts with the fellow breakfasters, plays with the half-and-half containers and consumes -- no lie -- about half of whatever it is I order. And I love it! This was the case earlier this week, 'cause I worked late almost every night (which I'll get back to, hang on), we had time to go do Foxy's with Susan. I think it was Tuesday.

After breakfast, we went for the now-traditional walk that follows, this time across the street to the Americana, where we ended up at the busy-bee playground in front of Barnes and Noble. Let Izzo free to immerse herself in the other kids, none of whom play very well with each other, no matter what their age. The more playgrounds I hit, the more it feels like going to a basketball game instead, because it's all very competitive if you're in the game, or potentially stressful if you're a fan in the stands, which, at this point, Izzo is.

But like basketball, it's fun. She runs around with a great grin glued on her face, trying to mimic some of the kids, talking to whichever animals are part of the structure, thinking about climbing the jungle gym like everyone else, either keeping an eye on me or forgetting about me altogether, and, whenever two kids get into it, getting up close to watch. Serious. She gravitates toward the drama, not to join in, but to check it out, eyes wide, from as close an angle as she can safely get. Too bad/good thing there might not be journalism jobs available in 21 years.
So, yeah, to get to the point of this long-winded mess of words: This was what was going on Tuesday morning at the playground at the Americana, where Rick Caruso has incorporated a Disney-esque fountain system that dances along with music every half-hour. Every time this happens, the music already being piped into the extravagant outdoor shopping mall gets pumped up several notches. It can be startling, even if you've experienced it before. One minute Frank Sinatra is cooing politely somewhere in the background, the next Tom Jones is live and in concert.

So. Picture Izzo immersed in playland and Tom Jones' "It's Not Unusual," suddenly booming from every direction.

One moment, Izzo was trailing a little girl who almost looked like her twin. The very next moment, Izzo had forgotten entirely about the girl and all the other little kids there -- because she'd broken into dance!

Doing the Izzo, her trademark little hiccupy, trot dance, complete with spins and arm waves, through and around the other children like it was choreographed, as if she'd been cued to begin, completely in her own little, real-life Tom Jones musical. Or perhaps inhabiting an episode of "Ally McBeal"?

As happy as she could've been playing the seconds before the song hit, she was in another, even better world entirely once the dancing started.

I watch her dance constantly at home. I've watched her learn how to turn on and turn up the CD player to get the optimum Mozart backing for her ballet. I know she'll dance on command, if someone mentions it to her, music or not. I love that she's taken to suggesting, nay, insisting that I get out there on the carpet at home with her sometimes now. BUT to see what the music did to her that morning at the playground, how it took her over, and brought her -- and only her -- to that other place, it was a little astounding.

And so, I thought, you know, perhaps this'll be one of those stories we're telling years from now, in some sort of context?

Otherwise...



Izzo (and Hamlet) visited the family last night in Granada Hills while I went to Irvine to shoot video of a high school girls water polo championship (hey, if you're bored and want to watch what I've been up to this week, here's a sampling: http://www.pe.com/video/sports-index.html?nvid=337135&shu=1; http://www.pe.com/video/sports-index.html?nvid=337006&shu=1; http://www.pe.com/video/sports-index.html?nvid=335741&shu=1.)

And yes, Izzo danced to the piano playing that went on, including Papik's very impressive Armenian jazz joint (Hamlet recorded for me with our camera!)



She also played with her cousin (or Hamlet's cousin's daughter?) Lizzy. And Izzo, apparently, had fun "jumping" with Smbat, who had to work double-duty, with Lizzy wanting in on the action too. Seemed like they all had a good time, Tatik and Hamlet both assuring me that "everyone loooooves Izzo."

Laughing later, Hamlet said he'd had a hard time explaining to relatives why I'd be working on a Saturday night in Irvine. To shoot video? Of a high schol girls water polo match? It's championship season? What???

Yeah, well, Hamlet had a similarly hard time explaining as much to Izzo all week, too.

Four nights this week I've been from Moreno Valley and Temecula to Santa Ana and, last night, Irvine, to do the video thing. And I've loved it -- except for one thing. Izzo, I hear, hated it.

Each night when I've call home to report that, "OK, game's over, I'm on my way back to edit," I've heard Izzo crying in the background and Hamlet plaintively telling me what's going on in the foreground: "She's been doing it again. All night long, she just stands pointing at the door and saying 'Momomom!' and bawling. We've tried everything, we put music on, we put Elmo on, we read to her, everything, and we can't distract her. She wants you."

Here's the thing: On those four days, she got me for huge chunks of daylight, which I loved. We ran errands together, played together, napped together so it felt, to me, like I'd gotten more of my cherished Izzo time than usual, but that might have served only to make it harder to say goodbye in the evening?

Sigh.

What else, what else?

-- Hamlet, bless him, taught Izzo who Manny Ramirez is. Which is especially heartbreaking considering what's going on this week with the Dodgers and ManRam. If you don't follow this stuff, the team and the player -- who happens to be one of the best hitters in the history of the game and the man responsible for almost single-handedly energizing baseball fans in L.A. last season -- are in a serious contract dispute. I won't get into the details, because they're tedious, but ... every morning (shoot, every five minutes) Hamlet was asking, "Have they signed Manny yet?" But, he's backed off, sadly, when it was reported the discussions apparently took a turn for the worse a couple days ago. That hasn't stopped Izzo, who never misses an opportunity to cheer her heart out: "Manny! Manny! Manny!" every time she sees a photo or image of the guy, which is a lot right about now. And so, great. Our sweet little baseball fan daughter is going to get shafted by a pro athlete for the first time before she turns 2. Nice job, Boras. (That's Manny's, and baseball's, most evil agent.)

-- Izzo still loves the binky. I don't give in most of the time, but that doesn't stop her from asking, begging, pleading and then throwing a fit ... before eventually moving on.


-- Izzo and Badu do story time now. Which is to say, Izzo finds a book, finds Badu, finds a seat near Badu, and reads to her. And Badu, Badu can't roll her eyes because she's a cat, but she would, if she could, just to make it look like she were really put off by the process ... but really, I know she's liking it. I can tell, because after a few minutes, she'll close her eyes and lay there and listen. (As opposed to snarling or running away.)

OK, there's more. There always is. But withIzzo trying to addher own two cents on this keyboard right now, I should let it go.

Lots and lots and lots of love.

The rhythm is gonna get cha.

Us