IZZO: 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.