What "Mommy" Means to Me

Mommy was not my daughter's first word - "dada" was. Followed by "milk", "more" and a slew of others. "Mama" would come months later. It was as if my daughter was purposefully withholding bestowing the title on me. But whether the only human who really had the right to call me Mommy called me that or not, the world pinned the title on my chest before she was even born. 

Heather Havrilesky is right. Mommy is a label that the world now defines you by. But I disagree with her assessment that "becoming a mother doesn’t change you so much as violently refurbish you, even though you’re still the same underneath it all." It didn't just change me to the outside world. It changed me at the core.

At first, it seemed almost surface. Like waking up in a new dimension. The world around you has completely changed but you are the same person you were the day before - or you think so at least. But now your brain is full of random facts and figures you didn't even know existed. You're obsessed with basic human functions on a level you could never have imagined. And your party conversations, on those rare occasions where you find yourself at a party, are strikingly different. 

I remember attending a birthday party at a beautiful house at the top of a hill. Waiters passed h'ourderves, roulette and blackjack tables were set up outside. My husband had a drink in one hand and cards in the other. I wandered around with a baby strapped to my chest and found myself sucked into a conversation about another child's bowel movements. I nodded politely, sympathetically, but inside I was screaming. Is this really the new dimension I live in? Is this what my life is going to be? Not long after I left to go breastfeed in the backseat of my car and cried over the loss of adult conversation. 

The concept of being a mommy felt alien to me. To be lumped into this group made me question who I was and who I would be going forward. But as sleep deprivation loosened its grip and my daughter uttered the word "mommy" for the first time, I started to appreciate it as well. I am someone's mommy. I feel it intensely when I look at my daughter in dance class or when she's not feeling well. Being a mommy has brought joy into my life that I couldn't have comprehended before. 

It's changed me and even thought my daughter is now two years-old, I'll be honest, I haven't quite figured out who I am now beyond being a mom. Being a mom has seeped into every part of my life - my job, my sleeping patterns, the way I eat. I can't compartmentalize it. Like Havrilesky said "as we’ve learned to treat children as people with desires and rights of their own, we’ve stopped treating ourselves and one another as such."  

She's right. And more so than the world doing it to me, I've done it to myself. I've stopped thinking about my own rights and desires and myself as a human being and a person individually and not connected to my kid, my husband or my job. 

My "Mommy Problem" is that becoming a mommy has both given me a new identity and stripped me of one at the same time.

I have never wanted to follow the yellow brick road.

Munchkins, ruby red slippers, the great and all powerful Oz...the whole thing has always creeped me out. I don't know what it is exactly but it just has. This made it all the more surprising when at my baby shower my father handed me his gift. It was one of those framed memorabilia pieces you'd buy at a collector's store -a framed signed photo of the munchkins. He looked at me - so happy, while my inner voice screamed in terror. 

There was no way this was going on the nursery wall. There was no way this was coming in my house at all. The worst part was that this probably wasn't cheap. Despite the fact that it was the last thing I would ever hang on my wall this could very well be someone else's prize possession. I couldn't stick it in the back of the closet and ignore it. So I did what someone who was never taught how to accept a gift graciously does - I told my dad he needed to take it back. Oh, and in the process broke his heart.

What I didn't know was that one of my dad's dreams was to introduce his grandchildren to Wizard of Oz. How was I to know this? I don't ever actually remember watching Wizard of Oz with my father. Or with anyone actually. Maybe I was so traumatized I blocked it out of my mind. But this insight into my dad's vision of being a grandfather, well...it made me feel like a pretty shitty daughter. That said, I still made him take it back. I can't be haunted every day just out of guilt.  

So now that you know about my one of my greatest fears let me share you something I recently discovered on the internet. 

 

Seriously, how creepy is that? Like something straight out of my nightmares. This eerie broken down yellow brick road actually exists and leads to a now abandoned amusement park in North Carolina called Land of Oz. The park has been closed since the 1980s, but it opens once a year for an Autumn for Oz party that anyone can go to. You can also stay overnight at Dorothy's house if you dare. Personally that's right up there with the Cabin from Evil Dead for me so I probably wouldn't do it. 

That said, there is something so creepy about it that I kind of want to go. Roadtrippers has some more creepy photos and a video someone took on a visit. 

You can learn more about Land of Oz here.

And yes, I will let my father watch Wizard of Oz with my daughter if he really wants to. I don't need to pass my baggage on to her. I'm sure she will have plenty of her own.

Dance Moms

Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if it resembled a reality show - because really there are very few similarities between reality and "Reality". My day-to-day conversations don't usually involve extremely long pauses and not every drama ends with a neat little lesson to tie it up. 

The differences became even more glaringly clear last weekend when I showed up at my daughter's dance class. I found the teacher and two cameramen in the classroom. Apparently an email I didn't receive had been sent out earlier in the week. One of the families in the class is shooting a reality show and they would be doing a segment on the class.

Thankfully I wore my nice leggings and a top that covered my ass that day. Though I hadn't had time to brush my hair, put makeup on or even look in the mirror on the way out the door. To reality mom and the producers credit, they were very good about not wanting to disturb the class - you know anymore than six people huddled in the corner of the room pointing cameras at you would. 

I wondered how my daughter would react, but she didn't seem to care at all. To the kids it was just dance class. As for the moms - well, that was something different. I had recently switched time slots because this one had more outgoing and welcoming moms. Everyone participates and the energy levels are much higher. But point a camera and all of a sudden moms are hiding behind poles and doing everything they can to avoid screen time. 

It was obvious what the narrative of this episode was going to be and I found myself unwillingly fulfilling it. Never the most  active participant, here I was being super-mom swaying back and forth and singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star off-key and sashaying around the room. All this in stark contrast to reality mom, who ironically had been my example for this behavior in previous classes. 

Like all good reality shows, it's those little moments that wouldn't mean anything in real life that you know are going to be the centerpiece of the segment. Towards the end, as the girls ran around chasing bubbles, the star of the show ran with her outstretched hands and poked my kid in the eye. It was an accident. Not a big deal, but tears were shed and hugs were exchanged. I comforted my daughter knowing full well there was probably someone behind the two-way mirror willing me to back off so they could get a clear shot of the triumphant hug and superb manners on display. 

Harmony restored. Bubbles all popped. Lessons learned. Cue music. 

A Taste of Freedom

The weirdest thing happens when you are the parent of a toddler and faced with a moment of unexpected freedom - sometimes you don't know what to do with it. 

There's been a horrible hacking cough being passed around the house. Not surprising, since Em won't sleep in her bed. She basically tosses and turns, spreading germs equally between her parents. It's led to several of those awful days when you stay home from the office but are legitimately too sick to enjoy it. Even catching up on Grey's Anatomy brings you no joy. But Friday was Parent's Night Out - daycare would be staying open till 9pm to give parents a glorious three extra hours to do whatever they wanted. Even sick I knew I was going to take advantage of it. 

I've been dreaming of eating at a restaurant with no booster seats. One that would scorn the sight of my daughter. It's LA, so it's not too hard to find. A place with no reservations but also no tables - just counter space where one jostles elbows down the line yet every entree is still over $20. I wondered if eating dinner at 5pm at a place that didn't cater to families or the elderly would feel insanely early, but we were hardly the first to arrive. 

Don't let the Thai restaurant sign fool you. Beyond the door of Trois Mec is a lovely little piece of Paris (that actually feels quite NY to me). And at 5pm on a Friday is was packed. I slathered French butter onto warm yummy bread and soaked up its fatty goodness along with as much adult ambiance as I could.

But the problem with eating at a place that doesn't even have tables is you can be in and out in 45 minutes, even when you eat two baskets of bread and three beers. Two hours left of freedom and we had no idea what to do with ourselves. I hadn't thought that far ahead. Not enough time to see a movie. But there was no way I was calling it a night!

In the end we followed our French fare with a German Expressionist film exhibit at LACMA and hand drip coffee served in mason jars. We shut that coffee shop down! And as much as we swore we wouldn't, we couldn't help but look at pictures of Em as we took our last sips. We walked hand in hand down the street back to the car - then realized it was eight minutes to 9pm and ran the rest of the way. We were the last parent to arrive, but I don't feel guilty about that. I enjoyed the freedom...as well as the next two hours  - Em, hopped up on pizza and Umizoomi videos, jumping on the couch and refusing to go to bed.

How 'Bout Them Apples

I mentioned yesterday that I am way more into apple picking than pumpkin picking. I look forward to pumpkin spice latte season as much as the next person, but I've definitely always been more of an apple girl. Apple pie, apple cider, apple cider donuts...I mean, seriously, what's not to like about an apple? Going apple picking is one of my favorite Fall activities (although to be honest the actual apple picking part is really only a small piece of the over all ritual). 

When I moved to LA I thought I'd have to give up this favorite past time. Then, last year, I discovered Oak Glen. Oak Glen is a little piece of East Coast in the West Coast mountains. I wrote a little bit about it last year, but I thought I would give a few more tips this time around - in case this is your kind of fun. 

Unlike Mr. Bones, this excursion is a commitment. It's an hour and a half drive from Los Angeles, so you need to be commited to an all day event. But the distance is really not so bad because after all the activities your kids will take a nice long nap on the way home. Things start to get busy around 10am so it's best to hit the road early and aim to get there at opening. There's a quaint map you can find here that gives you an idea of what to expect. It's one long road that loops through the mountains. The orchards are mostly close together and it's easy to walk from one to another, with a few exceptions. 

Some have parking lots, but there is also free parking all along the road. If you get there early, it's not a problem finding space. I've always started at Riley's Apple Farm. There are several Riley's and they are owned by different people but this one is basically the first farm you will run into. In addition to apple picking they have archery and tomhawk throwing, press your own cider, and hay rides (I'd like to say for the kids, but the truth is the adults participated in this way more than any of our kids did).

Another good thing about starting at Riley's is if you go as a group you will all be able to find each other. Be forewarned - there is barely any cell reception in the area. I got a lot of text messages hours after they were sent. Walkie talkies? Maybe next year. But you're gonna have to go old school with your communication on this trip. 

Once you've gotten your fill of what you technically drove up here for you can soak up the rest of the experience by driving into the town center. Or another way of putting it - driving into the past. Up the road you will find a series of old wood buildings that include a leather shop, a candy shop, and Apple Annie's - home to the largest apple pie I've ever seen. A slice fed the whole table on this trip. There are a few other places to eat, but this seems like the go to spot. You're going to wait in line for a while but the pie makes the wait worth it. You can pick some up to take home at the bakery next door. 

And then, while you digest, your wallet can get gauged by overpriced children's activities! $7 pony rides, $5 petting zoos (that charge for adults too!), face painting...you know all the good stuff. But hey, the best of memories are paved with the empty lining of your wallet, right? 

Oh yeah, bring cash.  But not just for the ponies. Bring it for the apple cider donuts. 'Cause your next stop is really why you came - on to Snow-Line Orchard. As you drive up the scent will hit you strong - apple cider mini donuts. All that is good in the world. Their cinnamony goodness melts in your mouth. Here you can buy bushels of apples if you prefer to have the picking done by someone else. You'll also find an apple and apple cider tasting station run by a slightly curmudgeonly old lady who looks like she's been peeling apples for the last 80 years. (Part of the charm right?)

And that's what I really love about this place. It's exactly like I remember from my childhood - and I hope it never changes.

The Annual Pumpkin Pic

Let's admit it. There are some annual traditions that are more about the picture than the experience. As much as I love apple picking, pumpkin picking wasn't one of my top Fall activities. It was always so cold. Bundled up in coats and scarves, just my eyes showing, stumbling around the vines and uneven earth in search of a heavy, dirty orange vegetable I'd have to lug back to the car. Each year ended with a photo of my siblings and I sitting on giant pumpkins looking sullen. That image, that was what it was all about. 

When I first moved to LA and was feeling a little homesick I tried to replicate this piece of home. But tank tops and flip flops have their own problems in the pumpkin patch. You aren't stepping over vines because the pumpkins didn't grow there - they were brought there in an attempt to replicate a farm environment. It was a combination of everything that sucked about the experience in my childhood combined with none of the upside. Forget that. 

I stopped driving an hour away for a faux experience and started buying my pumpkins on the cheap at Trader Joes. Then I had a kid. Kids make you want to capture a piece of your own childhood. Back to the pumpkin patch. 

But this time I decided to embrace the LA of it all. If it's really all about the picture of your kid holding a pumpkin there is no better place to get that than Mr. Bones. It's like a real live 'celebrities are people too' section straight out of a tabloid magazine. In LA, it's common to find yourself just on the edge of frame of what will inevitably be captioned as a photo of a starlet in her natural habitat doing something completely normal just like you and me. 

Mr. Bones is one giant photo op. Which is perfect because it's also the only pumpkin patch I know of with a designated area for paparazzi - and valet parking. You can easily drop $50 in a half an hour there on $7 pony rides, face painting, petting zoos and Lavender-Honey sno-cones. Plus, of course, the pumpkins perfectly organized by size and color. 

My pumpkin picking experience

Amongst the regular folk dressed in their just rolled out of bed best are the perfectly put together. The moms with every hair in place and their designer bags and jeans. They look better kneeling in the hay arguing with their toddlers who want to feed the animals but don't want to go into the petting zoo than I do at a special event. But in a way they have to, because their annual photo op will not be taken by them on their iphone - it will be taken by the 30 paparrazi with their telephoto lenses. Their annual tradition will show up online less than four hours later with hashtags and links to every designer item they are wearing. Which is really the only reason one would wear a lace dress to a pumpkin patch. Otherwise, you seem insane. But it's not insane here. It's perfectly manufactured normal. 

Jessica Alba's pumpkin picking experience.

The rest of us will struggle to get our kids to sit still for one second to get that shot. One dad asked me to take a photo of him and his kids with his fancy camera. He seemed slightly irritated that I only got six shots off - but dude, I only have so much time to dedicate to your memory before my kid has a melt down and I ruin the chance of getting one of my own.

Pre-K Wars: The Battle Begins

One of the things that stressed me out most when I was thinking about having kids was choosing a school. People say if you live in a competitive city like New York or Los Angeles you should be planning your kid's education while they are still in utero. I've watched Nursery University. I've seen the madness. People plan major life decisions around school choices and act like the facility where your three-month-olds take naps and poop will determine the entire course of their lives. So I stressed out about it. But like many things in life I stress about, I did nothing concrete to relieve this stress. 

When my daughter was about a month old I went into full blown panic mode. Clearly I had waited too long. I had to go back to work in two months - nowhere near enough time to figure this out. So I did what I do when I don't want to make a major decision on my own. I polled my pickiest, snobbiest, impossible to satisfy friends and asked where they were sending their kids. Then I visited one of them and wrote a deposit check. (This is also pretty much how I applied to colleges.)

Despite the fact that my friend's kid lasted only about two months into our tenure there, we've been there for two years and love it. I don't regret not doing extensive research, but maybe we just lucked out. I'm sure it's not the best, it's certainly not the worst. It works for us, my daughter is super happy there and we're happy too.

And now she's two. While she can stick it out at the current facility through Kindergareten, the pressure is mounting to find the next place. As I watch others around me navigate this world, I am beginning to feel the anxiety creeping up. I had lunch with a former coworker and thought we would chat about our lives, but ended up finding myself getting a full on lecture about the school application process. "It's not brain surgery - but do what you need to do!" she shouted. She even suggested several real estate options in good school districts. 

We've always had an idea of where we wanted to send our daughter. It's in a neighborhood we love and it offers the program we want and we have friends whose kids attend the sister school in the valley. In many ways it felt like an obvious choice so we've never really stopped to think about - what if she didn't get in. 

I think one of the main reasons I have stressed out about this entire thing is not because of my daughter's future but because of other parents. I am not the kind of parent who discusses different educational and parenting philosophies. I've never been one that excels at navigating these popularity contests either. I don't want to go to school functions at a school I don't attend and pretend I love it. Combining these things and having the stakes be your kid - it's almost too much. But you've got to do it right?

So we went on a tour. The second I stepped on campus I knew the games had begun. Some parents were chatting with each other loudly, so as to show their connection to current students. As we stood in a semi-circle around the admissions director the size up began. It wasn't even subtle. It was pointed out quickly that parents fall into three camps - those that show up early (1 pt), those that get there on time, and those that show up late (-1). I'm not sure where you fall when you bring your governess and your personal assistant to the tour, but there was one of those as well.

We were quizzed on why we wanted to be there and I was happy to see my husband easily fall into the role of prize student. He had those answers down and I silently cheered, maybe we were the front runners. We asked questions (which we were told was good), we understood the philosophy and the system of the school, we laughed at her jokes, and we signed up for the high school tour to show we are committed to seeing this through (2 brownie points for that). 

As we left, my husband turned to me and commented on how smooth it went. See - no problem. No, I pointed out - no problem so far because we did everything right. But I guess a lot can change in a year and a half. Hope we don't mess it up, I haven't explored the other options.

Picture Perfect

I probably have more pictures of my daughter at  20 months than I have of my entire childhood. Every  month when I sit her on the couch to take her monthly photo I have to take 15 of them just to get a shot without a blurry arm or an odd facial expression.

It's obviously easier to craft the way we want to remember something nowadays. We pick and choose what we want people to see and that becomes part of the experience. If we don't like it we just shoot another one. Em is too young to remember these moments herself, so these are the photos that will tell her how things were. Will the toddlers of today grow up to think they truly had "picture perfect" childhoods?

We visited Santa twice this year to get the perfect shot. The first time we waited in line for 30 minutes and just as we were about to go in a family of five came back to redo their photos. That was it - the dam broke and there was no sucking back those tears. She cried on my lap and Santa calmly reassured me that it happens all the time. He said we should just come back every weekend and let her say hello to him until she's ready.

Theoretically this is nice. Just come back and say hello to Santa. But at this Santa you must take a number and that number will just give you permission to get on the line where you will then wait for another hour to grace the Big Man's presence. But we came back the next weekend and this time we got the shot. The perfect Norman Rockwell shot to go with the perfect fluke Norman Rockwell shot we got last year. The pressure is now on to keep them up - year after year. Same Santa, slightly bigger Em.

This past weekend, we went to the LA Zoo. Elmo and Cookie Monster were doing a meet and greet. After waiting 45 minutes for a bagel sandwich at a nearby cafe, then sitting in traffic to then circle the parking lot looking for a magical free spot, I was very close to losing it completely. (Full disclosure, I had actually already lost it at the restaurant, but I managed to get it back together on the way to the zoo.)

But we got in line, the end of which thankfully started in a shady spot, as the sun was really out in full force. And we waited. We could see Elmo and Cookie in the distance. In the time we were there they traded off twice, taking turns to meet the kids. Each time one of them reappeared they were greeted like rock stars - a general hum and cheer rippling through the crowd.

Em would point and wave and told us she was going to hug them when we got up front. But anticipation is not the same as reality. When it was finally our time to meet Elmo - she took one look at this eight foot tall monster and freaked out.

You only get one shot at something like this. Thirty seconds to get it right. That wasn't going to happen. I handed over my iphone quickly and the woman taking pictures snapped a series of my kid screaming her head off, Elmo attempting to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder -just making it worse. And then we were escorted away - the old boot to the face Christmas Story style. An hour for a minute - the end. As we stepped away and Elmo faced his next victim, Em turned back and waved goodbye. Whatever bothered her was in the past. But we'll always have the photo to remember it by.

Grab a Bag - Let's Go

Do you ever find yourself sitting at your desk wondering what it would be like to pick up and leave and never come back? Maybe pack your things and head off to another country for a year. I find myself thinking about that a lot lately. It doesn't help when I log on Facebook and see amazing photos of friends who decided to head to Costa Rica for a month or move to Mexico just because.

I've always enjoyed reading books like The Sex Lives of Cannibals. And now that I am a mom - books like Bringing Up Bébé bring up romantic ideas of heading to France with my French husband and half French baby and eating lots of carbs. 

But there is always this other side of it - just outside the square frame of those Instagram photos - the fights and the fears that you don't see. It's easy to think everyone else is living this perfect existence. 

I just read this great article about a woman who just like me thought France sounded like a great idea and then reality hit. A refreshing take on the whole idea of picking up and leaving. 

My sister picked up and left. She lives on the other side of the world with her husband and their son. This - after traveling the world for nine months. I have no idea what that would be like. I feel very rooted here. I'm not sure if that's a good or a bad thing.

It's the Little Things

This morning on my way to get breakfast I passed a gratitude tree. A jar placed under the tree with a note encouraging people to write what they are grateful for and tie it to the tree. It was a nice way to start the morning.

I'm in San Francisco right now on a film shoot. I've been up here for a week this stretch and tonight my husband and daughter are driving up to meet me so we can spend the weekend here together. We haven't spent much time in SF so I'm pretty excited about it. It's such a beautiful city and I'm really starting to love it here.

There were no tags left for me to tie to the tree (there's a lot of gratitude in this neighborhood) so I'll share it here instead. I'm so grateful to have such a wonderful husband and kid. I'm grateful that I get to do a job I really love and work with a lot of wonderful people on a movie I think is going to be amazing. I'm grateful for my family and friends and I'm grateful that I get to have adventures like I do.

I'm grateful for morning walks to coffee where I pass gratitude trees and mountain goats overlooking the city.

Happy Valentine's Day!

The Hum That Drives You Mad

Have you heard of the Hum? Starting in the 1950s there have been reports from around the world of a low-frequency rumbling sound that slowly drives people crazy. Not everyone can hear it. They say only two percent of the population is even effected by this. But it's there, slowly driving people mad - from Taos, NM to to Bristol, England.

I've recently encountered my own frequency of madness inducing humming. It's the constant whining of my fussy toddler. It sounds a lot like an emergency broadcast signal. Unlike The Hum, I'm sure most people can hear it. But I've been hold up in my apartment alone for three days with this continuous droning and it's become my own private hell.

I think as kids get older, parents begin to lose their ability to hear certain frequencies that coincidentally are the same frequency of their children's voices. We've all seen it - a father or mother, small child in tow yammering on about something, the parent oblivious to whatever their kid is saying. Maybe they don't actually hear them. Maybe over time parents actually develop a block. I don't know if there is any scientific evidence to back this up but I'm beginning to think it's possible. Almost a defense mechanism. Self-preservation induced hearing loss - to keep one from losing their mind.

I'm not gonna lie. Sometimes parenting feels like self-inflicted madness. I went to a "family-friendly" New Years Eve party this year. New Years is a holiday you usually have to give up after kids so the thought of getting a little dressed up and having a cocktail but still being home by 9pm sounded pretty appealing. But what I've come to learn about "kid-friendly" parties is they are really like "parent asylums". Kids run wild and parents in fancy dress clothes wander around half glassy-eyed and spaced out wondering how this has become their lives. This party in particular seemed to be populated by two groups - parents and singles considering becoming parents. Almost like visitors at the zoo.

I found myself in conversation with one dad in particular who I had come to think of as Super Dad. This is a man who was excited about buying a mini-van and who waxes poetically about fatherhood on Facebook. He's got two kids and asked if I was thinking about a second. Before I could even answer he launched into a terrifyingly convincing argument equating a second child to the death of your soul - punctuated by another father walking by and slipping him a Xanax. How many other dads in the room were palming the same? Maybe I just caught him in a moment of weakness. A short psychotic break - like the ones used in an insanity defense. But in that moment it was very clear - even the best of us have our breaking point. Maybe we all need to tune out every once in a while in order to be able to tune in the rest of the time.