Here's the thing: Enjoying Izzo, through it all

It was a strange week, Fam. A little bit. Stranger than normal. Rolled off the last sad week and into this one, which was a little bit strange. But I already said that. Lemme explain.

Daddy sick all week. A gnarly, feverish, won't-quit cold (that seems to be finally entering the home stretch today, Valentine's Day.) And so Izzo and I tried to take good care of him and stay the heck away from him at the same time. Which led, of course, to a nighttime, sleepytime, dreamland conundrum, considering that two nights out of three, Big Girl Izzo winds up in the Big Bed at always either 3 a.m. or 5 a.m.

So, when Izzo awoke at the stroke of 3 on Monday morning, I tried what would work the next two nights but didn't that night, or the fourth night. Of the fifth. I plopped down in the nursing chair in her room, laid her on top of me, covered us both with her mini down comforter and waited till she was sleepbreathing before returning her to her bed and tip-toeing off. That worked delightfully and right off Wednesday and Thursday, but after four or five attempts over the span of an hour and a half on Tuesday and Friday mornings, we had to revert to Plan B.

Which, at around 4:15 a.m. Tuesday, was, "C'mon, Izzo, we're going to the couch."

To which Izzo replied in her most curious tone, "Couch?"

"Yep, gonna go sleep on the couch."

Again: "Couch???"

... and then, we we were at the couch and snuggling in, Izzo couldn't help herself, letting loose an amused, approving, down-with-just-about-anything, Fonzie-type, "Couuuch!"

But before we could drift, Daddy stumbled into the living room and ordered us to the bed, saying he'd take the couch. Might've been something in there about his princesses.

Fast forward to Friday, 4:30ish in the a.m., Izzo refusing the nursing chair routine, Momomom bringing the news to a sleeping Daddy's attention, only to hear, this time, "My back hurts, you guys go to the couch!"

Which A) was fine, 'cause Izzo and I snuggled so wonderfully there for an hour or so before I woke up again and returned us both to our normal beds and B) Hamlet swears he absolutely didn't say any such thing, not even in his sleep.

And, finally, last night, I gave in. Izzo won. Wound up in the Big Bed. It's hard to keep this family apart, I guess.

Here's the thing: It was a little exhausting, yes, wrestling with my daughter every night, trying to get her to submit to a full shift in her own bed against her will, for her own sake. But it was a lot of fun, for real, to go back like that, back to those middle-of-the-night interruptions of closeness and cuddle. Like nursing again, minus the nursing part. As we cuddled to sleep, I thought about how strange and wrong it is that life will accomodate this for only so long, really. Made me wanna go give my mom a big hug. Made me glad I'll always have Hamlet to cuddle up close with. Made me wonder just how long Izzo'll be interested in babytoddlerspooning with her Momomom, rolling over and scooting in close, so her her head fits under my chin and the rest of her borders my frame almost down to my knees these days. Often, she'll reach for my arm, demand that I hold on, literally drag my arm over her little/not-so-little torso. And then she'll go straight to sleep. But I won't. I'll lay there, enjoying having my daughter so close.

That's the only real drawback about having her land in our bed so many nights. So many nights, I end up awake, either attempting to record and store as many of the moments of cuddle as I can, or just staring. At her. At her and Hamlet. Admiring their beautiful, similar features. Asleep, Izzo and Hamlet have the same, same eyes. Precisely the same eyelashes. Sometimes, they move their whole bodies in sync. They share the same unconscious smile, like they're inhabiting the same dream, as if they're sitting courtside together, maybe, at Staples Center, wearing their jerseys, bopping their head to a Danny Carey or Josh Kane beat, eating birdsmilk after finishing off their big plates of shrimp and watching, of course, their Lakers blow past Boston for the NBA title!

And, darn it all, I just can't take my eyes off them, even when I have to get up for work and another busy day in an hour ... ....








The new playground equipment at the park across Glenoaks Blvd. is pretty spectacular. Slides and swings for every size. Make-believe play areas built into each structure. Science museum-style devices embedded everywhere. Soft bark to catch all the overeager toddlerbabies. And Izzo's favorite part: Steps. Yeah, she's most into the steps. Crawling up, scooting back down on her tooshie, crawling up, scooting back down on her tooshie, crawling up, scooting back down on her tooshie, crawling up ... you get the idea.


We've only visited the new digs four times*, though, and I sort of hate myself for it. Izzo gets such a huge rush from going there, every day I have off, I tell her we're going. And then I look up and it's 4:30 and by the time we get there, it'll be getting dark already. Or it's raining (it's been doing that). Or, you know, life reschedules.

Like on Tuesday morning*. I was due to go shoot video of a hoops game that night so I wasn't due to leave for work until 3ish. Which gave us the whole morning to play. And so, we got up, got dressed, had breakfast, folded some clothes, and then, off we went, with a pit stop at Starbucks for chocolate milk, and then ... to the playground!

Izzo started hooting and hollering and kicking and cheering soon as she realized where we were headed. Her little legs were already pumping as I unstrapped her from the stroller. I put her down and -- whooosh! -- there she went, making a bee line for the bopping bee that she always has to say hello to first.

But the sound of Izzo taking off coincided with the sound of my cell phone trumpeting. I saw it was our prep sports editor Tim, so I picked up, sure he had something to say about that night's game. Maybe the time was really 7 instead of 6? Maybe he wanted me to ask one of the coach's something about something? Maybe he'd told me it was at the wrong school?

Instead he asked me if I'd heard about Jeremy Lusk. Huh? Yeah, he, um, died. We're going to scrap the basketball game and need you to come in now, A1 needs a story. Ugh. Jeremy Lusk, a local freestyle motocross hero, died early that morning after crashing in a crash at a comp in Costa Rica over the weekend. Horrible, obviously. And a big story for our area. I needed to hustle to get in and get it done.

"So, uh, Izzo ..."

She plainly could not believe that I would bring her to the playground, let her free, and then tie her back up 30 seconds later like that. And she didn't take it well. She never takes it well when we leave, for one thing. But this! This! How could I? Was I just evil? I'm going to go ahead and suggest, for the record, that this might have been the first time in her life that Izzo looked at me and tried to say, "I hate you, Momom!"

Thankfully, as usual, two minutes later, she was over it. Leaning forward in her green stroller and watching the world go by at warp speed, 'cause Momomom was booking it home, where I'd have to get dressed in a flash, before zooming across town to drop Izzo and then rushing all the way to the office for a story that was due to be vetted by the news folks at 4 p.m.

Here's the thing: I don't know how much longer I'll be a journalist, but stories like this are always ... weird. To do. I don't feel as bad as I think I should feel calling up his mourning friends to ask them about it because I imagine myself and how I'd feel if someone of whom I was a big fan, goodness forbid, perished, and how I'd want to know what those around him/her were feeling, especially if they had something to say other than, "not only was he/she a great fillintheblank, but he/she was an even better person." And no one fed me that cliche, even though they could have, because the two guys I spoke with spoke from their hearts, with a real, raw perspective on what it is they do and why they do it, and in so doing, I thought, represented admirably for this guy and his sport and his community.

But I was, to be honest, quite through with funerals and sadness for a while. And now I've gotta go cover a funeral Monday.

And, to be honest, it all makes me cuddle Izzo a little closer.

......

Izzo's almost 2, you know. Gettin' there in a hurry. And, just in case we hadn't realized it, this week she's taken it up on herself to send out a few warning flares.

They sound kinda like this: "AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

That's about how it went when Hamlet tried to take the box of grownup pens from her one night.

That's about how it went when I tried to put her on the changing table before bedtime another night. And so we wondered if she, perhaps, wasn't feeling so well, either ... but, more likely, it appears she's just getting to that combustible, volatile, Incredible Hulk phase of Terrible that everyone's had so much fun warning us about.

Here's the thing: It's early yet, but I'm not that freaked out by the freakouts. Yes, she's turned redder than I've ever seen her. She's thrown herself to the ground! She's screamed in a demonic tone that I'd never heard before! And at a volume previously unapproached!

But ... it wasn't that bad.

It was almost sort of ... funny?

Like, Drama Queen, get over yourself.

And, well, she did. Like she always has.

Went and got the freakout out of her system, and, then, with tears coating her red cheeks, just like that, she switched back to the Good Girl channel and got back to singing and dancing and kissing and hugging and reading and being OK with whatever Daddy or Momom said or suggested, after all.

It's early yet. But as long as she finds herself within a few minutes, I can handle that just fine. And I think I'll try and remember the mom I met one morning at Starbucks, who talked to me about the Terrible 2s -- and 3s -- from her child's perspective, and how just plain hard and darn frustrating it's gotta be to be growing into your own person and be wanting so much from your world and yourself without being quite ready to or capable of really grasping it all just yet ... and how if you, as a mom, respect that struggle, in the big picture, you'll be OK.

It's early yet, but I hope so.

........

... OK. So. There's more. There always is.

Izzo really digs Elmo: "Elbow! Elbow!"

Izzo's requesting coffee.

Izzo is trying her hardest to jump-jump!

And -- oh yeah! -- I think Izzo might be a lefty! She's really starting to do EVERYTHING -- spoon her food; throw her duckies into the tub; toss the basketball in direction of the hoop; color and draw and stick stickers; smack Daddy -- with her left hand. And, just as I started making mental notes of this, I got the babycenter.com e-mail telling me that this is about the time where kids start to show which hand they'll prefer. So, Uncle Bobo, she might not have your OCD, but you she might be like you in another way, eh?

Here's to beautiful, cuddly, sleep-depriving, chocolate milk-swigging, Elmo-loving, fit-throwing, playground-dreaming, left-handed toddlerbabies everywhere!

Love. On Valentine's Day especially.






(Thank you, Abba, for the week of Valentine's outfits!!!)

-- Us