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.

Judging a Bookshelf

Do you remember when you used to be able to go over to someone's place and look through their music collection? Remember when you could comment on their DVDs or the get a glimpse into their souls by looking at a bookshelf? I loved what I could learn about someone by looking at the books they owned. It never felt intrusive to run a finger across book spines the way it would to browse another person's iTunes library.

I'm staying at an airbnb for the first time. The concept of handing one's keys over to a stranger is an odd one to me. I'm not sure I could do it. I'd want to remove every personal artifact on the premises.

It is kind of fun to try to paint a picture of the person who lives here from what is left. Picking up clues like a crime scene investigator. From what I can tell the guy who owns this place is a recovering alcoholic who attends Burning Man. I'd say he stopped drinking some time in the last five years. I think it was a major life change after a particularly bad breakup. I think he's somewhat traditional but considers himself adventurous. This is what I gleam from bookshelves around the murphy bed I am sleeping in.

It really is way more fun to stay in an apartment then it is to be in a hotel. You get to soak up the life of another city from the perspective of a local. And what a great neighborhood this is. I can get Chinese, Vietnamese, Mexican, Italian, French or classic American within steps from my front door.

I haven't spent much time in San Francisco before but I think I'm falling in love with it. Of course, the irony is I could never actually afford to live in this neighborhood. But one can pretend can't they?

Hold on Tight

Em likes to dance on the coffee table. She's a free spirit hard to contain. She's got moves. But her latest move isn't to the music as much as when she's done with the dance. She slides to the edge of the table and reaches out her tiny hands and takes my finger. She doesn't need the help to get down, but she wants it and I love it. The first time your kid reaches up and wants to hold your hand is amazing. The second that tiny hand wraps around your index finger you suddenly get a glimpse into the future. This is the first time they want your help navigating the world and then there will be a point in time when that isn't the case anymore. A time when they will want to dance on the coffee tables of the universe without your help. You won't even be there and they won't call to tell you about it and maybe years later when the statue of limitations has ended you will hear the epic stories. But for now, they want to hold your hand - so you gladly lend it and enjoy it while it lasts.