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