I wish I were more like Sarah Connor

It's a good thing he likes firefighters

I was what could accurately be described as an accident prone kid. I broke my arm not once, but twice in second grade (effing Steal the Bacon). I required stitches in my chin and my head. I sliced through a vein on my wrist (I was not precociously suicidal; we just had some really weak-ass windows in our house). I rode in my first ambulance in kindergarten after cutting my arm down to the bone after a poorly calculated fence climbing attempt.

You'd think seeing so much of my own blood and guts (fat tissue, by the way is bright yellow, like a sunflower) I'd be pretty ho-hum when it comes to trauma. But, alas, I am weak sauce. It's not the blood that bothers me, it's the fear. I can't stand the idea that one moment you are going along all la ti da and the next moment you are wondering if you are going to die. Just the thought of that bewildering terror makes my stomach churn. I've known for a very long time that the worst possible job for me would be paramedic. And so far I've been pretty adept at avoiding that particular career.

That's me in the middle, pre stitches (yes, hippie parents)

But now I'm a mom. And since becoming a mom I've spent a lot of my down time wondering how I will behave when injury befalls my own kids. My own mom was calm and efficient: she'd wrap my bleeding part in an old towel, put me in the back of Datsun B210, and whisk me off to the ER, all the while distracting me with talk of the blow-softener to come. Sometimes the blow-softener was something like an ice cream sundae, but most often it was a trip to the toy store meant to add a little sunshine to an otherwise shitty experience (the all-time worst blow-softener ever was the baton I chose after breaking my arm—duh).

Today I had the chance to test the mettle we've already established is so sorely lacking in me. While I was watering and Maggie was herding chickens, Oliver did a spectacular somersault off the hammock and landed on his head on the gravel spattered cement patio. The blood was instant and copious—a fountain of red to make a vampire ache. I mean, it was shocking.

I picked up my already scared and screaming son, screeched at Maggie to put down the chicken she was cuddling and come with me right this instant. On the way up the stairs to the house I literally ran out of my shoes (ok, they were slippers), but I did have the wherewithal to grab a clean rag and press it to the blood spigot located somewhere above Ollie's eyes.

I then began my weird, panicky mantra: ohmygod—ok—ohmygod—ok—ohmygodok. I dialed 911 because I couldn't figure out how to get both kids to the ER in car seats while maintaining pressure on the wound and also because I had this weird idea that that is what a good mother would do.

This whole time I am also totally stressing about the chickens, loose alone in the yard. I am just completely stymied by the logistics of everything. I hang up on 911, realizing almost instantly that it is an insane overreaction. Then I forget the Mister's cell number even though I dial it a bajillion times a week. I proceed to misdial the numbers of three other friends who are great at dinner parties but couldn't possibly do anything in this particular situation.

At this point, Maggie, realizing she is getting the short end of my attention, begins fake falling and then whimpering up at me as if she's been injured. Ollie is screaming his head off. 911 calls back but I can't hear anything over the screaming so I just shout "We're fine" into the phone and hope that, despite all evidence to the contrary, they are convinced.

Maggie is still doing her lame fake falling, so I say, "Look, I know you want some attention but right now I just have to figure out how to get Ollie to the doctor. He had an accident." Ollie, who looks a little like Carrie after prom at this point, starts screaming "I don't want a shot! I don't want a shot!" while Maggie whines "I want 'tention," over and over again, still with the completely unconvincing pratfalls (does she think I'm stupid?).

I calm down enough to remember how to call my husband, who is kind enough to cross worrying about the chickens right off my plate. He is so calm, in fact, that I am able to remove the rag and look at the wound. It's a little, pebble-shaped hole in the middle of Oliver's forehead, and you know what? It's not really bleeding that much anymore. The fountains have slowed to an ooze. Ollie is still shaking and carrying on like he's lost an arm, but I am considerably soothed by the sight of his cut. My hands are sticky with blood and the wall is smeared with gore, but I am starting to suspect we don't have to go the hospital at all. In fact, I am starting to suspect a little hydrogen peroxide and a Nemo Band-Aid might do the trick.

Twenty minutes later, the three of us are sitting on the couch munching crackers and reading Skippyjon Jones. Oliver has a blue fish bandage on his head and his hair is all scabby. But otherwise we could totally pass for normal people.

Which we are not. Because earlier today, as we were getting ready to leave the playground, I accidentally locked my children and my keys in the car. In the sun. It took six firefighters to unlock the minivan and get them out.

And I totally forgot the blow-softener.

Everything I've been meaning to tell you

Nice of Rambo to help with the lights, don't you think?

There were so many, many things I wanted to tell you while I was on my blogging hiatus.

I wanted to tell you about Ollie deciding that Leon Redbone is his favorite singer (based on a Christmas compilation album we listened to ad nauseum in the car).

I wanted to tell you about the Mister having to put together the ginormous play kitchen Maggie received from our former nanny and how, I really, really hate the way it looks in my living room, this big piece of green and beige plastic as big as a love seat.

I wanted to tell you that Oliver has decided he's going to be a writer when he grows up and that we are going to share an office (swoon).

I wanted to tell you about how Maggie just says, "I'll try it when I'm a teenager," when she doesn't want to taste a new food.

Oh, and and I was going to gush about the amazing new home decor shop I discovered in Hayes Valley. And how I just really want to move in. I could sleep on the pile of felt rugs in the back and be happy forever.

And, speaking of home decor, I'd be remiss if I hadn't mentioned my new silver Christmas pouf, aka: best Christmas gift of 2009.

And I wanted to make list of all the vendors I loved at the Renegade Craft Fair.

And I wanted to admit the fact that I always get sick of having a Christmas tree about a week after we get one (too big, too many needles).

I was going to transcribe this conversation:

Oliver: Mom, how good are you?

Me: I'm good, Ollie. How good are you?

Oliver (in laid back surfer voice): I'm good. I am definitely real good.

I wanted to tell you about how Maggie fell in love with Santa and how she is in the Christmas photos of at least three other families because I could not detach her from his side.

Oh, and the Nutcracker. How my kids sat through the entire thing and Ollie said, "I loved Clara because she was so beautiful when she danced in the snow," and how my heart just about died.

But now, here I am finally blogging again and I feel as if I have nothing to say. Isn't that always the way?

Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails (and princess shoes)

Last month, on the way to meet Santa, I decided that Maggie's scuffed, red, hand-me-down, patent-leather shoes simply would not do. In a pre-Christmas fit of unchecked spending, I ducked into StrideRite to remedy this imbalance with a shiny new pair of Mary Janes.

The offending red shoes, seen here

What I didn't expect to discover is that I had been shoving the poor girl's foot into shoes that were a size-and-a-half too small. Suddenly, my maniacal shoe-shopping became just another case of responsible parenting. I love that.

Because I am smart like this, I deduced that if Maggie's feet had grown gargantuan, then Ollie's probably had too. A quick trip to Payless a few days later confirmed my suspicions (I can not afford to replace all my kids shoes at StrideRite, let's get real). We were on! Sneakers, school shoes, maybe some boots; all of it was suddenly so necessary and blameless.

I let them lose in the aisles of cheap Hannah Montana blinker boots and sinfully ugly "water shoes" to pick what they wanted. Here's your size, go crazy. By which I meant, "Here's your size, now pick out something that lives up to my own self-image as a hip mom. Preferably something retro and orange."

Now this I would let him go out in

It was in this way that I came face to face with the ways in which I am conditioning (read: screwing up) my children.

The first shoes Oliver brought to me, breathless with excitement, were a snazzy pair of white patent Mary Janes. "Aren't they beautiful?" he asked.

After I confirmed that while they were indeed beautiful, I believed they were for girls, he brought me a pair of pink, blinky princess sneakers. Again, breathlessly in love.

This time, my declaration that those too were for girls was met with a bit more suspicion and some palpable disappointment. Maybe even a lip quiver.

The third pair? Silver flats with a cross weave and a kicky little tassel.

By now I was feeling like a monster of gender propriety. I realized I should have just let him get what he wanted. There could even be a certain panache to a pirate t-shirt paired with pink, blinky princess sneakers. But I also suspected that very soon after exiting the store, some bigger child was going to put him in his place and embarrass him right out of his new shoes. The shoes would be not only a waste of money, but Oliver's very first lesson in shame. I couldn't do it.

This time, his disappointment got the better of him. "All the shoes I like are for girls," he cried, real tears running down his face.

Earlier experimentation with accessories

And what do I say to that? It is a universal truth that girls get nicer clothes and nicer shoes. It's a way of the world thing. But why, at 3, must he be denied the simple and pure pleasure of a pair of pink blinky sneakers?

Had all the hours of listening to Free to Be You and Me as a child meant nothing? Had William Wants a Doll fallen on deaf ears? Apparently.

Our compromise? A pair of black and white blinky sneakers and some camouflage converse low tops that were on sale for $7. And I don't even approve of camouflage; it's done the world way more harm than princesses.

In my defense I also nixed Maggie's Hannah Montana Uggs.

Miracle Diet

We've gotten a little lax lately. Here's what my kids have eaten thus far on vacation:

Thursday 

Lunch

Oliver: Buttered spaghetti with cheese, milk, white chocolate bread pudding with caramel sauce vanilla ice cream and a maraschino cherry.

Maggie: Milk, white chocolate bread pudding with caramel sauce and vanilla ice cream.

Dinner 

Oliver: Three bites of strawberry shortcake, purple lollipop, milk.

Maggie: strawberry shortcake, pasta with red sauce, purple lollipop, milk.

Friday

Breakfast

Oliver: Orange juice, three roasted nuts.

Maggie: Three lemon yogurts, 2 bites scrambled egg, one strawberry.

Snack

Oliver: 3 apricots, 4 pecans.

Maggie: 6 pecans.

Lunch

Oliver: Bread and butter, hot fudge sundae, milk.

Maggie: 2 bites quesadilla, hot fudge sundae, milk. 

Dinner

Oliver: Peanut butter cookie, milk.

Maggie: Three bites cheese and spinach crepe, peanut butter cookie, milk.

Apparently, if you follow this diet exactly you will have more energy than you ever thought possible.  You will feel so good, in fact, you will hop everywhere you go. 

Three things I know, like, almost for sure

This is how I know I'm raising city kids:

The other day Oliver brought me the empty cardboard oatmeal box he'd filled with sand and dirt and called a "shaker," and asked me to write "free" on the lid. He then put it out on the sidewalk. This is how he thinks you get rid of unwanted things. And it's true: We've unloaded everything from coffee tables to Styrofoam coolers to boxes of baby clothes by leaving them out on the sidewalk. So far, we haven't managed to entice anyone to take the free cardboard cylinder full of sand. San Francisco can be kind of a yuppie town like that.

This is how I know I may have dropped an F-bomb within earshot of my innocent children:

Maggie is an extremely helpful child. She can be a major piece of work at times, but when push comes to shove (and it nearly did today) the kid loves nothing more that to scurry around at the service of another. Need that table wiped off? Maggie's got it. Have a baby in need of a paci rinse? Maggie's your girl. Decide to put together the IKEA table and chairs that's been sitting in your garage for eight months? Maggie is by your side, handing you the unpronounceable screws.

The Mister is away for a few days and in his absence I decided to prove my capability by finally tackling the daunting Levsack. It is a universal truth that assembling IKEA furniture does not go well, and this, my friends, was no exception.

ME:

(grumbling under my breath)

This can't be right. Wait, is this right? Why won't it fit? This is supposed to fit.

Never again. NEVER AGAIN.

MAGGIE:

(pointing to the part that won't fit in the other part despite what the directions say)

Mom, is this the fuck part?

ME:

What?

MAGGIE:

The fuck part. Is this the fuck part?

ME:

Um, what do you mean by that?

MAGGIE:

(looking a little self-concious)

Just, you know, a really fragile part. It's just, um, nothing. Fuck.

ME:

(seeing no need to make a big deal out of it)

I think I've got it now. Thanks.

This is how I know the laser was on:

Yes. Those are burns. On my neck. It cost me $100. And it hurts.

Also, I'm HERE today, talking about reality TV and how the Biggest Loser makes me cry.

12 good things that have happened in the last 17 days

photo from here

1. The birds found the bird feeder. Finally.

2. We took the kids to their first Giant's game.

3. The Mister caught a foul ball.

4. I discovered (and devoured) Breaking Bad

5. I had this conversation about marriage and child rearing with Oliver:

Me: Do you want to get married?

Oliver: Oh, yeah.

Me: And what do you think marriage is?

Oliver; It's just like you get to be with your friend forever.

Me: And do you think you want to have kids?

Oliver: Yeah.

Me: Why?

Oliver: I think I will be a really good dad. My dad is the best dad.

Pause

Oliver: Actually, maybe I won't have kids.

Me: Why not?

Oliver: Well, taking care of kids is really hard work.

6. Maggie proposed to me (three times). I said yes. Then she reminded me that I'm already married.

7. My kids discovered photography.

8. My dad and I found two perfectly good nandinas on the street, took them home and planted them in my garden.

9. The Invisible Bridge by Julie Orringer finally came out. I read it in galley months ago and I've been waiting to gush and now I can. It's tremendous. It's important. It's amazing. Read it. You won't be sorry.

10. We went out for pie. In the middle of the day. For no reason.

11. I signed up for a recording and interviewing workshop with these amazing ladies.

12. I bought tickets for this.

How we finally decided not to get cable

Last Friday night my BFF Sarah and her second-grader Georgia had a sleepover at our house with Maggie and Oliver. It was an all-out preschool rager complete with banned movies and copious amount of hitherto forbidden foods. Something called "fruit gushers" was smuggled in. Rice Crispy treats were introduced. There was—I can barely stand to say it—morning television. Needless to say, the kids were in the sort of Heaven where you float around on clouds of cotton candy and big girls give you their undivided attention. The kind of Heaven dreamed up by three-year-olds.

Fruit Gushers. Some consider them food.

But what this story is really about is the Mister's and my night away. We couldn't go far in our precious 17 hours, so we Pricelined a San Francisco hotel and hoofed it over to the financial district Hilton. I know, it doesn't sound that great.

Like me, you may be picturing balding businessmen overeating at the complimentary breakfast buffet, possibly an irritable family from Des Moine on some extended and unhappy vacation. You might, like me, be so worried about the business grimness of it that you might, like me, lie to the man at the check-in counter about it being your anniversary. You might shamelessly ask for and receive an upgrade and then you might get this view:

And when you got this view you might start to realize that this was going to be a good night, even if neither of you had bothered with dinner reservations or negligee of any kind (and how I love the Mister in his negligee). Because, really, it's hard to have a bad night when you're in North Beach playing "when we move here," and then you stumble upon the cutest bar in the world and have the adult version of a fruit gusher, only better. And then another.

Go here and order a Pim's Cup. You won't be sorry.

When the extremely friendly Syrian cab driver talks to you about how much money Jennifer Aniston makes you really know its a good night. And then, when you get into this surprisingly delish restaurant even though you have no reservation of any kind and you eat meatballs and cold cuts made from duck, well, this pretty much tops it off. It's one hell of a date night. It's perfect.

Until you get back to the room, where you are very much looking forward to indulging in a little cable TV and eating the dessert you ordered to go.

The Mister won't pay $15.99 to watch The Blind Side on pay per view (and I can't blame him) so we decide to do a little channel surfing in the land of a thousand shows. And guess what? There is nothing on. We spend, nay, waste, and hour flipping between E! Twenty Top Celebrity Body Part, MTV's Spring Break and HBO, where they are showing the Best of YouTube. Not only is it bad entertainment, but what it says about our culture is so grim, I begin to regret bringing children into the world. People pay a lot of money to access the Twenty Top Celebrity Body Parts. This makes me want to eat fruit gushers until I explode.

The bright side is that we were just about to break down and finally get cable. And now we don't have to.

And now, for something completely different, a kid story that's not about one of my kids, but about one of the kids of one of my friends. It goes like this.

Three-year-old kid is in the bathroom with mom while she's changing a tampon.

Kid

Mom, when I get a vagina can I have tampons?

Mom

You already have a vagina, but when you get your period you can have tampons.

Kid

Do you think I can have Hello Kitty tampons?

And that's really it for the week. See you in approximately seven days.

Shook me all night long

Most nights these days my kids invent a hundred different ways to stall before bed. "I'm hungry." "I have to go to the bathroom." "I want the light on a little more." "I need to ask you a question." Etc, etc. until we end up having to just close the door in their little faces and wishing them goodnight.

Lately they've added a few fears to their expanding repertoire. Last week I had to go into the backyard and get rid of an imaginary rat for Maggie. Yesterday Oliver asked me to make sure there were no owls outside. Later, he called me back in to ask where the volcanoes were.

Then, tonight, Maggie called me into the room where she was sitting up in bed whimpering with fear. "Mom," she said, lips quivering. "I see a rock star outside. And I don't like rock stars."

For just a millisecond I got excited, thinking maybe, just maybe, this rather trying and exhausting day was going to end on a bright note and I would pull away the curtain and Angus Young would be standing in the backyard admiring our chickens in his little shorts and suspenders ensemble.

But no, it was only Venus, or the North Star or whatever, and I had to explain that it was just a regular star and not a rock star and there was nothing to be afraid of.

Oliver & Maggie doing a serious and avant garde "robot"

Buy Nothing January, an update

A cascade of crap I do not own

I'm almost through the first month of my three buy-nothing months and I've gotta say, I'm sort of loving it. Austerity is so contrary to my personality.  Self-denial makes me angry nearly instantly, and yet, there is a certain foreign but distinct pleasure to not shopping.   The best way I can describe it is as a sort of spaciousness. Ignoring those little blips of desire is liberating.  Plus, you mostly forget instantly what it was you wanted. 

Before I get saddle sores from my high horse, however, I do have to come clean: I bought some stuff. Here's my list, followed by my justifications (I think you'll agree they're good).

Item 1. a frame and mat--$70

Justification: I bought the Mister this really snazzy poster for Christmas.   I felt that if I didn't frame it, the whole gift would go to waste.  So I was throwing good money after good.  No regrets.

Item 2. Memory card--$20

Justification: The Mister bought be a snazzy little point-and-shoot camera for Christmas but it came with the wimpiest, puniest memory card imaginable.  Three photos and it was wheezing and fanning itself and begging to sit down.  Without a replacement card, the camera would have gone to waste.  No regrets.

Item 3. Two yards of fabric--$3

Justification: It was $3 (in Mexico) and my mother-in-law is going to make Maggie an adorable outfit out of it.  No regrets.

Item 4. A little hand-embroidered blouse for Maggie--$8.

Justification: I was drunk.  It was cute.  Pesos don't feel like real money.  Considering Maggie's extensive collection of embroidered Mexican blouses, I really could have gone without.  Minor regrets. 

I mean, come on, how cute is this?

Item 5. Three plastic under-the-bed-tubs--$23

Justification: Either that or piles of rubber sheets and dress up clothes in the middle of the floor.  No regrets.

Item 6. Cover Girl Outlast lip stain--$6

Justification: I tried to sneak this in under the "toiletries" category but the Mister says no dice.  Minor regrets, especially because it doesn't look as good on me as it did on Drew Barrymore. 

TOTAL: $130

Except for the fact that we spent a ton of money on other stuff, like going to Mexico and fixing the Mister's motorcycle and replacing some closet doors, I'm feeling pretty superior right now. 

A thing I like

Vinyl wall decals from Elephannie at Etsy.  I bought these cold little birds (back when I was buying stuff) in lime green for Maggie and Oliver's room.  They sit over their beds. Now I want to stick stuff all over the house. I mean who among us has a home that wouldn't benefit from giant dandelions growing up the wall?

Why I don't wear thongs

One time, back in those halcyon days of flying alone on planes, I was seated in a middle seat next to a woman with a screaming baby. She was alone, sitting in the aisle seat and struggling to calm her baby. As he wailed miserably, people all around were emitting audible puffs of disappointment and impatience. There was much eye rolling and why-me sighing. Our fellow back-of-the-planers were ringing their little flight attendant buttons and pleading to change seats, all right in front of this poor woman with the howling infant.

I was doing my usual thing, which is to say I was reading a book and pretending not to be there. I don't normally speak to people on planes. I'm not good with strangers and I generally don't like to get involved. So, although I wasn't requesting a seat change or rolling my eyes like some entitled jerk, neither was I offering much in the way of a sympathetic ear.

Once we all got settled and buckled in, the dreaded delay announcement came from the pilot, and on top of the infant howling and the adult moaning, there was a collective why-does-this-always-happen-to-me exhale. The baby took it up a notch, as if the plane delay were just what he needed on top of the day he was having. It was all quite highly agitated in our little aluminum tube.

This was when the guy sitting in front of me with all the hair gel turned around, removed an earbud, and asked the mom if there was anything she could do to quiet the baby, as if maybe she were napping and enjoying an in-flight movie while her child screamed away in a concerted effort to interfere with his Green Day album.

The whole thing was just too depressing for words and I plummeted into one of those the-world-is-such-a-shitty-cruel-place kind of funks at which I excel. I didn't like the sound of the baby crying any more than anyone else, but, hey, there are babies in the world. That's why there are also earplugs in the world.

At the height of all the depressing social shunning of the mother and her baby, a woman approached from a few seats back, leaned over and wordlessly took the screaming baby in her arms, held him over her shoulder, and walked him up and down the aisle until he stopped screaming. The mother watched in awe. It was if harps started playing and fairy dust rained down upon us all.

from here

At the risk of sounding a little like one of those mysterious Foundation for a Better Life ads, I am convinced this angel in a tight perm and elastic waist jeans descended to Earth to show us all how easy it is to make things better. All you have to do is help out a little.

Which is more than I can say for the old lady who descended during one of my more stressful parenting moments.

It was pouring outside and in an effort to allow my kids to blow off a little steam, I took them to the mall, where everyone in San Francisco had had the exact same idea. The place was thronged with people in dripping boots and damp jackets. And, lucky for me, my kids had recently decided it was positively hilarious to run away from me in two different directions.

I was at the very end of my already frayed rope, physically holding down Oliver as I strapped him into the stroller (aka child containment device) while I begged Maggie to stop and watched while she disappeared into a forest of legs. I was sweating so hard I could feel droplets running down my sides and into the waist of my jeans. The only reason I was not crying was fear of public shaming.

It was at this moment that a smiling old woman in bright pink lipstick touched my shoulder to get my attention. I looked into her face, expecting a word of encouragement or an empathetic story about surviving motherhood. Instead she pursed her lips and said, "Dear, everyone can see your butt crack when you bend over like that."

The Business of Being Born

My kids have already asked me what God is (not an easy question for a Jewish/Buddhist/Super-secular girl like me to answer), what it means when you die, and how babies get into their mommy's tummies in the first place (well, it happens when they are very, very, very tiny).

Yesterday, they finally thought to ask how babies get out of their mommy's tummies. Aha! An easy one.

Except that when you explain the birth process to a three year old they totally think you are lying. Oliver just looked at me with smiling apprehension and said, "Nahh." Maggie said, "Oh, yeah, they turn into pee pee and come out your vagina," in a voice meant to convey that while I was indeed hilarious, she could not be so easily fooled.

After a second attempt to convince them I wasn't kidding, I figured out that it was pointless and let them draw their own conclusions. Someday they will know the ugly truth about so many things.

Besides, that's not how they were born.

They were born under blinding lights, attended by masked men bearing scalpels. They were tugged from my body by gloved hands. The first people to hold them were nurses we will never know. They were whisked away to beeping incubators while I lay strapped down and prone and unconscious and the Mister stood pacing furiously outside an OR he had no access to. I didn't get to see them for ten hours. It left us all feeling powerless and incapable and totally blindsided.

"holding my kids" after their birth

Their birth was one of the most awful experiences I've ever had, and to this day I feel like weeping every time I think about it. When you tell people this, that you had a bad birth, they try to make you feel better by saying, "But you got two healthy, beautiful children." This is true. We did get two healthy and beautiful children. And for this I am more grateful than I can possibly ever express. It is a blessing and good grace that boggles the minds, and that, frankly, makes me a little nervous.

This is no way to first see the world

But the fact remains that their birth and all its attending medical intervention and bullying has left me with a bit of sadness and shame I am not quite sure how to shake.

It's been three-and-a-half years and the pure envy I feel for women who have those empowering, I-am-woman-hear-me-roar births is nearly unbearable.

And here's the thing: I know I would have been good at it. Under other circumstances, with a less complicated pregnancy, I would have gotten my wool-clad midwife to light some candles, sunk down in the birthing tub, and pushed those babies out like Ina May Gaskin herself. I would have worn braids. And planted the placentas under magnolia and olive trees.

Ok, maybe not the placenta part. But afterbirth fertilizer or not, it would have been, I think, a better beginning for all of us if it could have been a little closer to how God intended. Alas.

If you are a pro-vagina, groovy mom like me, you will probably have the same love/hate relationship with this movie that I do. I can't even watch the trailer without crying.

The God Realm

My alternate life fantasies are spinning again. It all started with a lovely weekend spent at my aunt's house on Tomales Bay where I got to go running among the oak trees and kayaking through the clear waters of the bay and where I ate oysters and drank crisp, cold white wine and showed Maggie her first sea anemone and "drank" cup after cup of the "tea" Oliver made out of Boggle dice. It is a place of such beauty, it is literally almost painful.  My father calls places like that the "God realm," places where life is extraordinarily good and beautiful and infused with good karma. 

So, of course, instead of just being there and feeling lucky to be there, I start to think about how I can hold on to the God realm, and scratch out a little piece of it for myself.  Enter Buddhism's main tenant about desire and suffering.  I am so, so far away from enlightenment, and so, so close to the God realm (a mere 40 miles!) 

Some of my new alternate life fantasies:

•Moving to Pt. Reyes Station and starting a lavender farm

•Becoming a ridiculously successful writer so that I can move to Pt. Reyes Station and just write

•Becoming a second grade teacher so I can move to Pt. Reyes Station and not have to commute

•Living in a world where money has no consequence so I can move to Pt. Reyes Station and just stare out the window eating oysters and drinking crisp, cold white wine

My real life is pretty sweet too.

And PS.  I'm so sad about the suicide of David Foster Wallace.  Man!  What a terrible thing.  I got to meet him a couple of times when I used to host literary events, and despite my fears that he would be intimidating and cooler-than-thou and just way dismissive of a little nobody like me, he was one of those extraordinarily kind, polite, interested people. He remembered names.  I always really like that in a person.

Santa's real identity

This is last Christmas

MY DAD:What do you call grandma? (his very ex-wife)

OLIVER & MAGGIE:  Old grandma!

ME: But what's grandma's real name?

OLIVER & MAGGIE: Caroline!

MY DAD: And what's my name?

MAGGIE: Cowboy!

OLIVER: Santa!

Note: It's actually Wayne, but the kids call him Yeh Yeh.  And Cowboy.  And Santa.

A thing I like

This recipe for Spaghetti Carbonara is really so delicious and it's by my friend Molly Watson of The Dinner Files and other things.  I add kale and use whole wheat pasta.  Try it, you'll like it. Be generous with the parm.

The great fireworks gobsmacking

I've always been ambivalent about Fourth of July fireworks. I feel about them the same way I feel about going to concerts, meaning I mostly enjoy them, but never quite enough to stop anticipating the moment they end and I can get on with the business of living quietly. I don't like noise. I don't like crowds. Plus, I live in a city where the fog mostly just obscures the fireworks so they look like a distant strobe pulsating behind the clouds.

Oh, and I grew up with a phonophobic mother, so firework displays weren't exactly a priority in our house.

In fact, the only one I remember as a kid was in Vermont. I was with my dad, step-mother and new baby sister. We were out in a field with a bunch of other people toting blankets and coolers (only we probably didn't have a cooler—we weren't the types to make special snacking arrangements). What I remember most is standing at the crest of a grassy hill, holding my baby sister in my arms and sobbing because I couldn't cover my ears while my dad and step-mother laughed at me.

But Bethany Beach takes their fireworks display very seriously and there is no greater parenting pleasure than introducing your kids to something you think they might find delightful (I can't wait for movies, Yosemite, and Disneyland). So on Saturday night we trekked the block and half to the beach and sat in the sand with the American hordes and watched fireworks. It was pretty impressive, actually.

The kids were, I think, ambivalent. Startled, awed, and a little annoyed. They covered their ears and sometimes hid their eyes, but part of them liked it. Mostly, they enjoyed talking about them once they were over.

Oliver practiced oohing and ahing beforehand and he performed admirably

Maggie figured out that if I held her ears, she was free to suck her thumb

A thing I like

The word "gobsmacked." It's come up a lot in the last couple of days and it's just so darn onomatopoetic: first the jaw drops—gaw—then the palm slaps the forehead—smack.

Maureen Dowd uses it here, in her skewering of everybody's favorite cuckoo bird, Sarah Palin. And Mighty Girl uses it here to describe her face while she tap dances (you gotta see this cuteness).