Sunday, March 22, 2009

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

Sunday, March 8, 2009

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.

Monday, March 2, 2009

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





Izzo's Oscar picks. OK, not really.‏

Feb. 22, 2009



Hey, it's Oscars Day, y'all!

... AND WE'VE SEEN SLUMDOG Millionaire. That's it, really. And by "we" I don't think I mean, you, Izzo. But ignorance never kept me or my bros. from enjoying the big show growing up, so, tonight, Izzo, for the first time,*** you're gonna hopefully have a couple uncles over, eat finger foods inspired by the finger foods Abba always served for this occasion, and root, root, root for and against flicks you've never seen. Sounds fabulous, doesn't it? Ohh. Yeah.

(And, for the record, Momom is totally rooting for Angelina Jolie, who apparently isn't a long shot, but a no shot, but who is such a damn great actress
that I couldn't bring myself to see the movie for which she is nominated, a Clint Eastwood project called "Changeling." I had chances to catch it, too, but the newish Mom in me knew better, knew it'd give me nightmares, knew it'd stick in my gut and bother me. Really.

The movie, apparently, is based on a true tale about a single mother working in 1928 Los Angeles whose missing son is returned to her after months away -- except that he isn't her son, who apparently was among the children killed at a chicken farm right there near Riverside, where I work every day.

I was going to go see it, but then I read a very positive review by the Times' wonderful critic, Kenneth Turan, who went and wrote this about Jolie's depiction of the mother: "... she gets increasingly frantic, wild that time that could be spent finding her son is being squandered, and it is this edge of anxiety that is the heart of Jolie’s deeply felt performance. Dealing with the recent death of her own mother and herself a mother with several children, Jolie brings emotional desperation to a role she quite possibly connected to in ways she wished she hadn’t." And that Eastwood called the movie, "a horror story for adults, not for thrill-seeking kids."

So I've skipped it this far, because, as I said, I have no stomach at all anymore for unthinkable, truly horrific stories like that one. I wouldn't be the least bit entertained; I'da been traumatized. So I saved myself the torment. And so I won't know, for sure, if I should be hating on Jolie's fellow, favored nominees like I will be, but we will be, Izzo, 'cause as far as I'm concerned, there isn't another working actress who can do it like Jolie when Jolie puts her back into it.)

*** IZZO MISSED WHAT WOULD'VE BEEN HER FIRST Oscars last year because we were in Holland (and we didn't manage to get up at 4 a.m. to watch it online.) A year ago already, that trip. Hanging out with sweet Amo in her cozy Huizen apartment, spending two lovely weeks with Abba and Grandpa, enjoying all the other neat people who came around, wanting to see my mom, meet Izzo and, eventually, to know why the heck we'd be supporting Hillary instead of Obama?

I was COLD in Holland in February, but Izzo handled it like a champ, like it was nothing, smiling away, like she do, from inside of her bundles tied into the little red, white and blue (for the USA! for Holland!) umbrella stroller we bought specifically for the journey.

And I'll forever remember the day trip of a lifetime to Amsterdam, which was every bit the perfect family adventure, starring you, Pookie, and co-starring Grandpa and me.

I remembered that we were up early, that we managed to find the train station where we could park our car a couple towns over, that we parked in a tight little spot before realizing we needed cash to purchase tickets at this station, and we hadn't enough to do it. Remember the comedy that was backing out of maybe the most impossible space I'll ever see, what with our absolutely huge mini, mini, mini van rental, and the pale, burka-wearing Dutch woman with the baby of her own who sorta-kinda helped us maneuver our way out.

By the time we returned, minutes later, with change from a gas station, the impossible spot was filled again and so we did what several other cars had done, and parked near a curb, out of the way, where there was plenty of space. Phew. I remember that, while we were waiting on the platform, Grandpa realized he'd forgotten his umbrella, I think, in the car, and so he ran back, racing the train while I stayed put with Izzo. I'll remember that Izzo, very much in her very beginning singing phase, started singing, first to herself, and soon, when she realized she had a big audience facing her across the tracks on the other side of the platform, much, much more loudly. Izzo paused once to catch her breath and, I swear to you all, she got a round of applause from some of the commuters across the way.

And, I'll tell ya, she liked it.

And so she kept singing till Grandpa showed up, with plenty of time to spare, as the train on the opposing track was grinding to a stop before pushing forward again a few seconds later. I'll never forget the disappointment on Izzo's face when the big, noisy object finally got out of the way and she realized her big, approving audience had -- poof! -- disappeared.

From her stroller seat, Izzo seemed to really like the train ride in, with all the new people coming and going and stacking on top of one another. I remember it being a quiet morning commute full of workers, and hoping Izzo's excited babbling didn't disturb the other passengers too much -- which is a weird thing to remember, and to think, I think.

I think we took a trem to Mirjam's place, and we were walking in search of some flowers to bring with us when Mirjam caught us from behind, made a joke about something like having strollers on the sidewalk there, or something. It was funny, that I recall.

(Oh, wait. Explainer. Mirjam isn't me. Mirjam is the woman for whom I'm very proud to be named. Very cool, tall, red-headed woman who had a little something to do with my parents being together in the first place. She paints. She translates. She's got the coolest apartment in the world. She's dictionary-definition hospitable. And so, so easy to hang out with, which is why I totally want to be like her when I grow up.)

We had sandwiches and changed Izzo at her place, then we took off again, walked all the way through the city to the train station, where we were due to meet Aunt Winnie, who was due to show us the new bibliotheek nearby. It was a great walk, I remember, through bustling Amsterdam. Stopped, along the way, at an old movie theater, and then at a museum, to consider getting a drink and to check out the famous giant who lives there, to wait a few times for Grandpa who was trying to work Mirjam's cell phone, to snap a photo or two -- Mirjam: "Say sex!"

From above, I watched Izzo take it all in. Wide-eyed and excited. I noticed Izzo'd dropped the singsong routine and was, for the first of several times, doing her best to parrot the locals, letting loose a stream of "Ggggggggggg, Ggggggggg, Ggggggggg!" Armenian, check. English, check. Dutch, CHECK.

At some point, the one-baby, hard-G cacophony ceased and I looked down to see Izzo out, asleep, zzzzzzzzz, never mind the big, bustling city swirling around and above her.

Too soon, we got to the Grand Centraal Station, where we waited a while for Winnie and I discovered, thanks to Mirjam, mint-drop Mentos, possibly my favorite little treat on the planet now. When Winnie arrived, Mirjam handed us over and we walked to the library, where I found a corner for sleeping Izzo and together we sat and chilled there for 45 minutes or so, me staring at the city, Izzo snoozing and probably dreaming about it. A most pleasant 45 minutes.

When she woke up, we went and found a changing table in a weird, green, very open, very Euro bathroom downstairs, before finding our way up to the cafeteria, where I fed nearly solids-eating Izzo from her Dutch fruit jar and Izzo stared wide-eyed at the commotion around her, gladly accepting whatever Dutch compliments came her way. I remember it was a cool caf up there atop the building, with a great view, good made-to-order, buffet-style eating -- and a bar. I remember the bar not because I had a drink (still nursing, I wasn't yet having caffeine nor alcohol -- though I would treat myself to a cappuccino a few days later, on another outing with Grandpa and Izzo), but because Winnie, the ever-proud Amsterdammer, boasted to Grandpa about him not having THAT in his library. And Grandpa, the classic bullisher, telling her, with such a straight face she believed him, "Yes we do."
We ate, and waited some more on Fred, who I think was delayed by some train issue. But with a getting-sick Grandpa hacking away, night having fallen and a nine-month-old out on her longest and loudest day trip ever so far, in tow, we ended up taking off just as Fred showed up, cursing the rail system.

We didn't have any trouble with the trips to and fro, though, as we boarded an evening train back to the car, to take back to Amo and Abba, a trip back that might, actually, have changed Izzo's life, perhaps, misschien.

Instead of the mass commute in one direction, the going-home train featured a series of riders all going about their late-in-the-day activities, starting with a businessman, clearly wiped from a long day. He sat facing Izzo, but not looking at her, not immediately. Izzo, however, bolstered by her big day, riding a big-city adrenalin-high, wasn't having that, though. She continued to make eyes at him, to bat her long baby eyelashes at him, to "talk" to him until finally he gave her a glance. And then another glance. And then a full-on look and smile. Izzo jumped for joy in my lap, as the man told Grandpa something in Dutch about his own daughter waiting for him at home. There was a mom and a son back from socce-- er, footbal practice. They got the same treatment. And then a black woman, lugging shopping bags. Same thing. And then another middle-aged guy. Yep, Izzo worked hard on him, too, until he opened up and engaged and allowed himself a good smile. After a while, Grandpa and I started trying to get Izzo to stop it. It was starting to get a little uncomfortable, actually, all the attention. Really, we didn't want to befriend every single stranger on this train late in this Dutch night. But Izzo, Izzo did.

And every time this happened, I could feel the rush going through my daughter. This surge of energy. This sense of accomplishment. This quiet, personal HOORAY!

I've written about this all before, Izzo's favorite toy being people and trying to get them to smile, but this was the first time she'd answered this particular calling so willfully, so successfully, and I'll long remember how it astounded me.

Anyway, we got back to the train station to find a ticket on the car; we'd parked illegally it turns out, though there were no signs indicating as much ... oh well, Grandpa handled it calmly, and we drove home, with Izzo sleeping in the backseat and me checking out and marveling at the still-open Dutch windows, portals into these seemingly neat, calm lives and their neat, calm homes and their impressive books and paintings that I'd miss when we got back home.

That day was a good day, to say the least, and I'd been wanting to write about it for a year now, and finally, I have, but not totally in lieu of what's really going on:

-- We keep the Mozart CD in the CD player, and Izzo's learned not only how to turn on the device and push play on it, but how to crank up the volume. So, at 8:30 a.m., when we're hustling to get out the door, the neighbors know it. And I know I can find her ballerina spinning with fervor, getting her day started right, to her hands-down favorite music. I know it's her favorite becaue whenever I try to put on something else -- on the computer, where our iTunes collection and other songs exist -- she'll rock out for a couple tracks before coming up with a better idea: CD player. Mozart. Loud.

-- Izzo's sitting on my lap, reading Hamlet's old checkbook to me. She can, and will, read anything.

-- Daddy diagnosed this week with bronchitis. Luckily, fortunately, Izzo and I have managed to avoid it.

-- When Izzo wakes up most mornings, and I'm in bed with her, it's like this: "Oooh, oooh!" (That's in response to the small collage of photos of her taped on the dresser facing my pillow.) And then, "Badu!" (As in, where's my cat?) And then, and this one gets her to spring up into the sitting position, "Juice!"

-- Izzo can say, quite clearly, "Again." As in, "again, again, again, again" to taking pictures of she and I sitting here in front of this computer. Not exactly glamour-beauty shots, but I think I'll keep them.



... OK. I could write all day, but we've got Oscars to prep for. (Go Angelina, on principle.)


Lots of love,

Us