Fam, friends, fellow Zebra lovers... and someday, Princess Zebra Izzo, herself:
Disclaimer. This is gonna be one of THOSE pieces of correspondence, folks. One of those takes where I write to the future, with the intention of typing a time capsule that'll remind my daughter -- and maybe myself -- a little about not only what the heck was going on with us, but in the world/nation around us, too.
Like any semi-functioning person in the U.S., I've been paying attention to the political race(s) of 2008. Enjoying it all mostly, finding it all stimulating, fascinating and, thanks to Tina Fey (among others), hilarious.
I generally pay attention, though. For the past four years, I've driven at least an hour each way to work with my digital dial usually set on KPCC -- Pasadena's NPR station. Of course I read the Times. I watch all the news channels. Sometimes I even read my own paper. And I'll watch the Daily Show even when we're not in a frenzied election season.
But there's been something about paying so close attention to politics the past year or so that's worn me the heck out. Given me a spinning headache. Made me want to take a mental vacation to Coconut Island where there are no stump speeches, no plumbers named Joe, no Obamamercials, no lumpy accusations hurled at "the liberal elite media", no idiotic effigies, no fake ATM attacks, no darn political analysis of any kind -- comedic or not -- until the election is settled and officially over...
But I'm an election addict, and I can't do that.
So, Izzo, because my boss let me arrange my schedule so I'd be off Halloween to play with you, we did the naturally spooky, fall thing -- went to the beach. You, me and Uncle Kit hit up Venice, which actually would be apropo of Halloween 365 days a year, but I digress for the moment.
We strolled past the medical marijuana shops ("Come on in, the doctor is in, second floor, step right up!"), the incense vendors, the tie-dyed, Rastafarian poets and just about any other liberal symbol you could ask for, until, eventually we walked past a mural of Barack Obama.
A big, beautifully painted mural of Obama.
A mural.
Not a sign. Not a T-shirt. And certainly not a bumper sticker.
A mural.
A big ol' wall, and a big ol' hopeful face on a big ol' American flag.
Granted, it was Venice Beach, but still, this thought occurred to me: In my time, I had never seen a mural of an active politician.
Murals, to me, are reserved for really inspiring people. MLK. Ghandi. Cesar Chavez. 2Pac.
A mural of Bush? Heck no. A mural of Clinton? Not even. A mural of Reagan? I wouldn't remember, but still, I doubt it.
A mural of Obama? Naturally.
Marketer of the year, for sure. Media darling, yes. But dude's got murals being painted of him, and that in itself is a beautiful thing. When's the last time Americans were that kind of inspired? Not that all of us are, because that would be impossible, but still, that so many are...
And then there's Tina Fey's 3-year-old daughter, whom Fey apparently "tests" by showing her photos in the paper. "Who's that?" "Sawah Palin." "Good, and who's that?" "Sawah Palin." "No, that's Mommy." "Hmmm."
"And, look, Alice. This is Bah-rahk. O-bahm-ah."
"That's crazy, Mommy."
As wonderful as Fey's impersonations of Palin have been, I've laughed harder at her accounts of her daughter. Which says something about where I am in my life, doesn't it? And makes me think that if her "30 Rock" were about life with a 3-year-old, it'd have a much better shot. 'Least with me.
But, again, I digress.
Grandpa suggested, following Obama's speech at the Democratic National Convention weeks and weeks ago now, that we get a Go-Obama pin for Izzo's stroller. Yesterday, at Venice, we finally did.
In a way, the pin for Izzo almost seems silly until I think of the anti-nuke pins in my collection that came about because my parents picked them up at rallies we attended when I was about Izzo's size. So if nothing else, there, Izzo, you have a little souvenir token of history. Even if, in 15 years or so, you'll scoff and go, "Mommmm, I can't believe you put an Obama pin on MY stroller. I would have NEVER supported that socialist!" (After all, staunchly Republican-raised Hillary Clinton not only married a Democrat, she ran for president as one...)
In a way, though, I'd prefer to force a No-on-8 pin on Izzo.
Oh, Proposition 8 -- should California eliminate marriage for same-sex couples?
So, like, I really want to be sensitive to different viewpoints here -- and always. Everyone is entitled to his or her own perspective, including, well, me. And so, um, look: For me, this political season took a sharp turn from interesting and stimulating to offensive and disturbing and stomach-churning when my best friend and I went for breakfast last weekend and had to walk past several groups of vocal Yes-on-8 proponents set up on the corners of the Americana at Brand shopping center.
My best friend is gay, y'all. My best friend would like to get married someday. (For the past couple years, my best friend also has been immersed in making a documentary about a gay couple who's been happily in love and together for THIRTY years -- and who just had a most wonderful wedding to celebrate it: www.orinbernardomovie.com)
And I don't really care how the Yessers want to spin it to characterize themselves as anything other than bigots, because walking past them felt like walking past folks who climbed out of the 1960s with anti-integration signs.
And then there's this: How do these people, who don't know my friend or anything about my friend, have anything to say about her personal (read: polar opposite of public) life? And by the same measure, if it is their very personal relationship with their religion that informs their opinions on homosexuality, that's fine. But why is that of any relevance to public policy?
Intellectually, yeah, I've known there are people who are homophobic. I know people I know and like are homophobic. But it's been jarring, really, to see bunches of people so publicly and loudly and proudly expressing such a divisive, discriminatory viewpoint. Here, in America, in 2008.
And I hurt for my friend, because if it's this troubling to me, how's it feel to her?
Life, liberty, pursuit of happiness -- unless you happen to be gay? Whaaaa? Seriously? C'mon now.
Anyway, I write this here because, yes, I wonder if and hope that Izzo will be able to read back on this someday, read back and shake her head and go, "That's crazy, Mommy."
But also because I can't wait to hear what Izzo has to say about this kind of stuff. How I look forward to our debates and conversations, and let me say this, I will welcome the chance to tell her, "That's crazy, Izzo."
... I will welcome and treasure it.
On Wednesday, our buddy and former News-Press colleague Melik called Hamlet to ask if he had a cousin named Meri.
Nope, Hamlet didn't think so. Why?
Because an 11-year-old named Meri Nalbandian was hit by a car and killed Wednesday morning in front of Toll Middle School where Melik teaches, right around the corner from where we live.
Apparently, Meri had just been dropped off by her mom and was headed through the crosswalk for class. Apparently, another mother who'd just dropped off her child didn't see Meri. How in the world that happens on THAT street at THAT time of day is beyond me.
With Hoover High, Keppel Elementary and Toll all on the same block there, every school-day morning there are kids EVERYWHERE. Izzo and I have walked that way in the mornings plenty of times, just so she can get a look at all the kids. So I know you'd have no choice but to drive as though you're wading through a crowd. How a little girl gets struck and killed within a flashing crosswalk -- again, I don't understand.
Obviously, though, it was an accident. And the mom who'd been driving the car reportedly was remorseful and cooperative and certainly is crushed.
The whole thing is so horrible. And terrifying. And then some. And on my mind heavy since I learned of it.
My heart goes out to those families, and my Izzo: You be so, so careful out there please.
(Life certainly becomes a whole 'nother level of scary when you're a parent...)
...........
(... even as it becomes a whole 'nother level of sweet.)
Izzo was a zebra (the animals that seem to be her favorite of all those housed at our zoo), on and off, for most of the day yesterday, Halloween No. 2!
Oma made Izzo The Most Beautiful zebra outfit in the world -- even though the ears and mane that accompanied the outfit everywhere did so in a capacity other than atop the zebra's head.
So, let's see. Back to Venice Beach. When we arrived, Izzo was a zebra. But because it was much warmer than we'd anticipated, we stripped off the outter shell of zebra and left just the zebra-striped tights I'd so proudly found for underneath. So Izzo was half-zebra until after lunch, when it was time to go walk (and play) in the sand -- which she did very, very well with, but which first required removal of the tights.
By the time we got back to the car, Izzo was a regular Southern California chick, in shorts, tank top and sandals.
She was officially back to being a zebra for our afternoon visit to Tatik's, where she danced and played with Lt. Dangle of the hit Comedy Central show "Reno 911." Then it was off to the grocery store for a few basics and a bag of mini candy bars, just in case a trick-or-treater showed up this year (none did before we, in lieu of trick-or-treating, took off for the Glendale High football game when Daddy got home).As the sun was setting on our way back from Ralph's, we saw a few kids dressed up, one teenager as, like, a vampire, another little girl as a fairy, and I attempted to point out these characters to Izzo, but the concept didn't exactly resonate. She saw a teenager and a little girl, and that in itself gave her reason to be exactly as excited about them as she would've been any other day of the year.
When we got back to our building, the taxi driver guy from No. 1 didn't comment on Izzo's costume, to my disappointment, but he offered her a piece of candy from their candy bowl. Izzo looked at him as if he were dressed up like a crazy person. What??? Finally, he just gave her two suckers, which she ran around the house with for 10 minutes before discarding them on the floor for Momom and Daddy. Score!
Next year, it'll all make more sense. At least the Halloween part of it all might.
...........
Izzo's got a big black eye and cheek. And so everyone we meet has to ask us, "What happened?" And I go, "Oh, yeah, I wasn't there." And then they look at me like, Why not? Why weren't you there? And I go, "I mean, I was at work. She fell on the coffee table at her Tatik's house." Ohhhh. ... People! Toddlerbabies (especially toddlerbabies whose favorite activities include incessant ballet spins) tend to fall sometimes... though that shiner looks pretty nasty, poor girl.
Daddy dropped Izzo off at Tatik's one day last week -- sans shoes. Izzo desperately loves to go for (w)alks now, but was confined to walking INSIDE the condo that day, unfortunately. I learned this when I picked her up that night, after which we stopped in the grocery store across from Tatik's real quick to get some stuff for dinner. Naturally, three people asked Izzo, (who was in her stroller), "Where are your shoes?" And again, I came with the clunky attempted explanation: "Oh, yeah, I didn't drop her off today." Why not? Why didn't you drop her off? "I mean, her dad dropped her off, and he forgot her shoes." Oh, mmmmhmmm... "I mean, my husband dropped her off..." People! All those toddlerbaby accessories are hard to keep track of!
(And it's weird and funny, to me, that I find myself caring about what strangers think, so much that I'm afraid they're thinking things that they're not even thinking...)
Oh! Izzo has stopped nursing. Right as she turned the corner of 17 months -- done. It'd been reduced to a small part of our not-so-effective bedtime ritual for the past five months, anyway, but now she's officially over it. Officially over me...
... except when she wants to go to sleep. More and more, Izzo has been winding up in our bed again. Half the time, she and I fall asleep together there, 'cause I'll lay down with her, hoping she'll fall asleep before I do so I can get up and hang out with Daddy a little. But then, whenever I do wake up, I move her to her crib, where she sleeps the night away half the time and wakes up midway through the night the other half of the time. In the latter case, she calls, I show up and she reaches for me. I bring her to our bed, she snuggles up close and falls right back asleep, and that's how we spend the rest of the night. And, no, I don't mind at all.
Izzo was getting teased, I learned after the fact, at Robert's birthday party a week ago. She ate too much, some guests said. And her vocabulary was stunted because she was learning two languages at once. Let me be the protective, proud mom here and say what I would've said there: Rubish! Nonsense! What! Ever! According to everything I've learned and read, Izzo's right on track with the words -- and, hello, she's learning TWO languages! And she doesn't eat too much; she eats EVERYTHING! Which is to say, she's game to take a bite of and try out everything -- which is a great sign of a healthy appetite.
I'm just sayin'... my daughter is doing great.
Izzo, I must say, is very clear in communicating her desires. Like, for example, right now she's hovering at my elbow, staring up into my eyes, making little peeping sounds that indicate the following perfectly: Momomom, come play with meeeeee.
And so I shall.
Lots of love to all. Everyone be safe. Enjoy the election.
And more love.
Us
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