Tech Week Magic

O: Momma, you promise you will come and kiss me softly when you get home and I am asleep? But very softly so you don't wake me up, ok?

K: I promise. 

I'm going to brag. I survived last week. Not only did I survive last week, but Jim, O, P and Sam survived last week. The house remained livable. Everyone ate. Most of us slept, occasionally. Success!

See! She is totally alive! 

Tech week is always hard.  It is the final push before the audience joins us and becomes part of the process.  It is where all of the technical elements come together and costumes and lights and sound and some semblance of acting collide.  It is hard.  It is usually a lot of late nights.  It is often painful.  It is always magic.  

See! They are too!!!

There was a lot of magic this week: the talented tech crew and designers who had one only week and made everything in this complicated show work, the professional staff at the playhouse who are bravely pushing boundaries and getting butts in the seats, the phenomenal team of actors with whom I am privileged to share the stage, the fantastic babysitters who lovingly watched my girls while I worked, my incredible preschool community who would sign O out after school when I was running late, the neighbor who popped over to sit with P while she slept so I didn't have to wake her in the middle of her nap, the unbelievably supportive theatre family who filled the house during our previews and opening, the grandparents who pulled an all-nighter so Jim could be there for our first show, and Jim, who has always been there, and always will be there, encouraging me to push past my own beliefs of what I'm capable of, and who (maybe more impressive) did bedtime duty, alone, for the past two months.

Post opening: See! I made it too! 

The show is up.  We had a sold-out opening, a very positive review, and a lot of champagne to celebrate.  It really could not have been better.

And tonight, I get to be home for bedtime snuggles, and that might be the most magical part of the whole thing.  

Glad to be back. Still not sure how today ends.

Radio Silence

O: So, I'm going to see my fun, fun baby-sitters this week?

K: You sure are.

O: Oh good! When I get to see them I almost don't miss you at all.

Radio Flyer. Radio Silence. I know, it is a stretch.

I'm opening a show on Saturday. That means this week will be full of lights, big hair, corsets, and late nights.  I will emerge Sunday, exhausted and exhilarated.  However, this massive outlay of creative capital means that some things will be neglected.

First on that list is this blog.  I'll see you all on the other side.

And thank goodness for fun, fun baby-sitters.

A Sunday Guest Blog: Don't Take My Picture

O: Nooooooooooo! No more pictures.

The camera is clearly getting old to someone in our house.

Completely over it.  

My Birth Day

O: What's a birthday? 

K: It's how we celebrate how many trips you've made around the sun.

O: How many trips have I made?

K: You have made four.  Four whole trips.

O was born at 4:26pm on 4/26/10. Whether that was fudged by a nurse with OCD or actual fact, I'll never know. I was a little distracted.

I woke up that morning planning to go to work, sure I had at least 6 more weeks of waddling around with a baby in my belly. I sat up in bed, sneezed, and my water broke. I called Jim, told him I was going to head to the hospital, but that he could probably stay at work. He came home. As we drove to the hospital, I was convinced that I wasn't going to have a baby that day.  It was too early.  We had just interviewed, but not yet hired, our doula. We didn't even have a car seat.  Her baby shower was the following weekend.

By the time we hit the hospital, my contractions had started and reality had taken hold. My dreams of a drug-free birth hit the floor as the pain hit my body. The anesthesiologist looked like an angel, halo and wings, when she came in to give me my epidural. I was in transition, but was too scared, and too overwhelmed to realize it. The rush of relief from the epidural was one of the highest highs I've ever felt.  Never had I more clearly understood how pleasure can just be the absence of pain.

No one said anything about those six weeks. Suddenly, when it was time to push, a team of gown-clad doctors and nurses rushed into the room. I realized pretty quickly that they weren't there for me.  The NICU team was there, just in case.  

5lbs 9oz

O was born quickly and without incident. She was small, but strong and cried lustily. That team from the NICU quickly and quietly left the room, happy to have witnessed a birth that they were not needed for. I still remember holding her, her body stretching from my elbow to my wrist. That first night was hard, with two botched blood draws and panic about her white blood cell count. But somehow, even only a few hours in, my newly-minted mother's intuition kept reassuring me that she was fine.  

And she was. She came home with us the next day, and other than some gnarly jaundice, she was perfect. They gave us an electric light-up blanket to wrap her in. She reminded me of a glow worm. At some point, I remembered to call in to work.

Look at that chub. Somebody made up for lost time. 

Today, she is four. Each year, her birthday seems to become more hers and less ours. Today was about surprises, special lunches, and a big girl bed. Tonight, though, now that she is asleep, is about memories. Tonight is about my birth day, one of the most terrifyingly beautiful days of my whole life.  

Congratulations on your 4th trip around the sun, O.

My Disney Dilemma

O: Mom, when can we go to the snow and build a snowman and be Elsa.  Today? Can we go today?

I have a unique relationship with the Disney princesses.  Not only did I come of age during the rebirth of the of Disney princess movie musical, I played that Little Mermaid audio tape so often in my walkman the tape actually wore through, but I also, well, this is tricky, I also worked at a major Southern California theme-park portraying beloved characters who may or may not have been royalty.  They made me sign stuff.  I'm still scared.  

Proof.  In case you needed it. 

And now, I have daughters.  I have two smart, independent, strong daughters and want nothing more than for them to know that they will never need to wait around for a prince to come, or for true love's kiss, or to be part of his world. I want them to know that there is more to them than a ball gown or a tiara, that their worth in the world is not measured by how adorably they pout or how lovable some man finds them to be.  I want them to have goals they chase, not wishes they wait for. 

It is hard.  I have some warm, nostalgic memories, even of the stuff I now see as negative, the stuff I hope my kids don't feel they need to take on.  It is too easy a response, to say, "Well, I grew up with it, and I'm fine."  I'm not even sure that is true.  I spent a good chunk of my late teens and early 20's unlearning a lot of what that Little Mermaid cassette taught me.  

But, I do remember so fondly seeing Beauty and Beast in the theatre.  It was one of the only movies my little sister and I ever agreed on.  We were both entranced, by the music, by the story, by the romance, and we rarely agree, to this day, on anything.  I do remember working in the park and seeing so clearly the love and awe on countless little faces as they lifted up their autograph books, reached out for hugs, or lifted up their sun dresses to show me that I was, in fact, on their underwear, to the intense embarrassment of their parents.  

And now, as a parent, I see all of the stuff, the heavily-marketed merchandise, that fills the toy chests and rooms of little girls I know and love.  I see the agressively-branded costumes, the big-eyed dolls, the cheap plastic knick-knacks. I see the way these types of toys limit play, especially for little girls, defining so early the roles that they are permitted to hold.  The tiny lucite high-heels are a particular sore spot, so completely non-functional, destined to result in a twisted ankle, reminiscent of the clear plastic shoes I imagine a stripper would wear. They seem to be the first thing both of my girls are drawn to, as if to punish me for my participation in the Big Mouse Machine, where, by the way, all of the princesses wore sensible character shoes which may not have been suitable for running, but were, at least, suitable for dancing. 

I want to believe that I was involved at a simpler time, when there wasn't so much stuff, when the culture of the princess was not quiet so damaging, but that isn't true.  In fact, if anything, the more recent female Disney role-models are stronger and more independent than the princesses of my youth.  Plus, at least, the conversations are being had.  At least, the questions are being asked.  

I am conflicted.  I want them to be in the world.  I want them to be able to engage with their peers about popular culture.  I want them to be able to take joy in the positive things about Disney, no matter how short or long I might believe that list of positives to be.  

I don't have an answer, just a dilemma.  O has seen Cinderella.  She has seen Tangled.  We had an aborted attempt at watching Brother Bear, whose warm, familial title is misleading.  (Spoiler Alert: EVERYONE DIES.) I held off until mid-April, but they have both seen Frozen, and now, at the end of April, O can sing and recite every line and Jim is pretty certain he heard P singing a twenty-months-old rendition of Let It Go.  

The infamous Elsa braid.

I have not taken them, or allowed them to be taken to Disneyland yet.  My memories of the park are of a loud, crowded place, full of people who spent a lot of money to have a good time, their anxiety hovering a little too close to the surface, causing them, at times,  to lose touch with their own humanity.  I am overwhelmed at the mere mention of a visit to Disneyland. I can only imagine what it might look like to someone who stands barely three feet off the ground, someone who is struck dumb by the magic of magnets, someone who still goes to bed at 7:30pm, someone who gets overwhelmed at a family party where she only knows half of the people.  It still seems too big and too bright for their tiny eyes.  

I know countless families who love all things Disney, who embrace the costumes, the park, and the films with a wild abandon.  I see the joy that it brings to them and to their children and I have nothing but respect for them and their choice, but I still cringe anytime O asserts that she is a princess.  P would probably just encourage me, in song, to let it go. After all, how do you hold back a cultural avalanche. I suppose, we will continue to take it one movie, one tiny lucite high-heel, one magical Disney moment at a time.

Crazy Train

O: Mom, the Easter Bunny is just a suit, a bunny suit, with a bunny in it, right?

K: Exactly. 

This past weekend was a whirlwind of excitement: egg hunts, chocolate bunnies, time with family, and a trip to the Getty.  

The Getty is one of my happy places.

There has not been a lot of time for writing or quiet reflection.  This week I have taken on more than I should have and am learning several important lessons from riding this self-inflicted crazy train:

1. Ask for help. I have a wonderful community of people.  All of them would love to help me out, if they can.  I try to imagine how good I feel when I can really help someone who needs it. That seems to make the asking easier.

2.  Prioritize. There are a million things that need doing, but only two of them need doing today.  Some of them can wait until tomorrow or even next week, and some of them are just never going to get done. (see below)

3. Triage. Some things aren't going to get done.  This is a fact.  Take a breath, deal with it.  Release the desire for perfection, or more to the point,  the desire for the perception of perfection.  I had some grand plans for O's 4th birthday party this week.  Instead, she is getting store-bought cupcakes and a couple of balloons, and it is going to be okay.  

No, seriously. It is going to be ok. How can it not be?

4. When in doubt, there are always cookies. Because sometimes I have chocolate-flavored feelings.  I'm not proud.

C is for Cooooookie. That sure as heck is good enough for me. 

Lullabies: A Class in Writing the Perfect Bedtime Song

O:  NOOOOOOOOOOO! I don't want that song. I want a daisy song.

J:  I don't know a daisy song.

O:  Just make one up!

The first time I tried to sing to tiny newborn O, I realized that I didn't know any lullabies all the way through. There was a lot of, "Lullaby...da da da...da da da da da da da." So I YouTubed everything from Brahms to The Muppets. As a frustrated shower singer, it was very satisfying because I developed my own set of songs and had a captive audience.

First song on the playlist.  A forever classic.

And then O learned to talk. Suddenly I began meeting with crushing rejections. My singing made her ears hurt. She didn't want to hear the songs I had been singing to her for months, especially the Bleshings Song.  

Now that she is almost four, she prefers improv. She picks the theme and I make a song up, lyrics and melody on the spot. I'm not sure if she genuinely enjoys the songs, or just enjoys listening to me fumble my way through these bedtime ditties.

I take direction very well.

The songs will not be recorded for posterity. I believe they are largely forgotten even before her head hits the pillow and the sounds of gentle snoring begin, but I do hope that the memories of this bedtime improv routine will live on and bring a smile to our faces in years to come.

See, she digs it.

P is not quite so discerning yet. I can still dust off some of those YouTubed standards for her, but once she gets wise, Kate and I might have to have a serious talk about creating a new captive audience member for my hit parade.

Two Loners and a Social Butterfly

O: But mama, I miss my friends.  How am I supposed to feel happy without people that are not you and dad?

Jim and I are loners.  We really enjoy solitude. We are often overwhelmed by large groups. We are happiest at home.  We will make plans, with people we genuinely like, then have to give each other pep talks in order to get out the door. One of the reasons I knew that he and I would be good partners, was that we figured out, very early on, how to be alone, together.  

May she always know that love can be this beautiful.

Somehow, in spite of her parents, O is a social animal. She loves being around people. She thrives at school and in large groups.  She can talk to and befriend anyone.  I think she takes after my dad.  After a few days at home without outside contact, she is climbing the walls, craving that interaction and stimulation from her peers. Honestly, I am in awe of her at times, her energy for people, her empathy, and her complete willingness to see everyone as a potential friend.

My best guess is that in the neighborhoods of yesteryear, or maybe even still, on the streets of small towns, this kind of thing works itself out.  The introverted parents attend the requisite number of community functions and then retreat to their shag-carpeted dens to read science fiction, while their extroverted off-spring wander from house to house in a neighborhood of best friends, a full-social calendar achieved with very little effort.  Los Angeles, however, is the land of the playdate, a culture where having parents with some mild social anxiety can seriously conflict with the filling of a tiny person's dance card.  

O has forced me outside of my comfort zone more times than I can count, and in trying to act in her best interest and respond to her needs, I have found myself, inadvertently acting in my own best interest. Because I recognize in her a need for community, I found one for myself as well. That community of friends, of other parents, of other children, has become invaluable to me, and my sanity. It is yet another reminder that these tiny humans we are living with come with their own wants, needs, and passions that we might not be able to fully grasp or comprehend. Yet, if we can step back and try to learn about them, we might learn something about ourselves as well.

That is what joy looks like, in case you were wondering

A special thank you to all of those families who have endured my awkward behavior at playdates over the past three years, and I owe a debt of love and gratitude to O for helping me find my community that I didn't even know I needed.  

Making Time

O: When is tomorrow? Is it right now? Or is it a long way away?

You can't make time.  Days are only so long.  Moments are impossible to relive, or recreate.  The closest we can come to making time is being mindful about how we spend the time we have. It is so hard to stay present with the looming specter of "what needs to be done" hovering over your shoulder.

This week, I am doing a drastic audit of my "what needs to be done list" and finding, on closer inspection, that many of those needs aren't really needs at all.  

This needs to be done.  Daily.  Hourly if possible.

The list is shrinking. I wish I could tell you that it was easy and I felt better, more connected, but if I'm being honest, a lot of the letting go feels unsettling.  Somehow, the length of that impossible list of needs kept me anchored.  It is challenging to stay present when the present is a big jumbled mess of dirty dishes, laundry, big feelings, little bodies, and boogers.  Today, in fact, I failed more than I succeeded. Tomorrow, though, I get a whole twenty-four hours to try again. 

Sunday Guest Blog: Finding a Magical World

O: We are in the porky pine needle forest. If you wake the porky pine, it will poke you.

Kate and I have spent late nights planning adventures to museums, aquariums, zoos, or [insert other culturally/historically/scientifically relevant places here] with the lofty hope of not only entertaining our little ones, but enriching their lives. These trips are fun, exhausting, and sometimes overwhelming for all involved. Today, however, I was reminded that to a nearly-four-year-old, a walk with the dog around the block can be a magical adventure all by itself.

Mending Wall?

Hungry ghosts live in this tree. To pass, you must stop so they can nibble on your hair.

Don't forget to stop to smell the flowers.

This is the porky pine needle forest. Shhhhh...you might wake the porky pine and get poked.

While we will keep planning and going on those far or at least farther flung adventures, to be honest, when viewed through the eyes of a nearly-four-year-old, this nearly-forty-year-old found that walk around the block pretty magical too.