Happy New Year!

The holidays are over and I couldn't be happier. This year my family gave the group gift of flu and stomach bugs. No one was spared, but we each went down separately. Nothing better than traveling across the country just to lay in bed for three days wishing you could just be unconscious and fast forward through it all. 

Christmas was a sad sight. It was as if my siblings and I had broken into my parents' house to throw the saddest dinner party ever. My sister, a vegetarian up until a year ago, and myself, who doesn't cook - were in charge of cooking the turkey. While it was eventually edible, half of it was thrown away immediately - still raw after seven hours in the oven. My parents spent the entire day on the couch sleep behind us.

It wasn't all bad though. There were a few moments of brightness. Took my nephew to a farm where he met his first cow and was chased by geese. Had brunch with some friends I hadn't seen in a while. And went to a housewarming holiday party at my best friend from high school's little sister's house. This was a girl we would torture when we were younger - now grown up herself and a home owner. To make it even weirder she bought the childhood home of a high school classmate of mine - one that my group of friends had idolized from afar. He was the mysterious cool kid we always hoped would acknowledge our coolness. He once gave me a copy of a Hole album, that I believe I still own. Apparently, when my friend explored the attic with her little sister they found a box of his old stuff. Issues of Rolling Stone and People from the week Kurt Cobain died, like a time capsule of our youth left behind. Which seems sort of the perfect way to spend the holidays. Going home is always a little bit like that.

But here's to looking forward. Happy New Year and may 2015 be an awesome year. 

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.