One Liners

It occurred to me recently that if I should save some of my Facebook status updates in order to remember some of the cute things the girls do that I write about only there. This will be boring for 99% of you since you've read it already in your Newsfeeds, but since the idea of a physical memory book just makes me laugh at this point, these entries are for the girls to read in about 10 years or so. I wish that Facebook would make that a feature on their site. It'd be cool to have a running one-liner diary/blog where you just keep all of your status updates. Instead Facebook decided to update themselves in a way that does absolutely nothing for the user, but that's probably another entry in itself. At any rate, I thought this was pretty cute last night:

Kita Murdock is listening to Noni "read" her Babar book to herself. "Elephants. More elephants. More elephants. More elephants..."

And it's on to moustaches and boyfriend jeans

I have never considered myself a trend setter, but before I moved to Los Angeles, I at least thought of myself as a few steps above mom jeans. (OK, OK, maybe a few is pushing it. I know I have worn nothing but jeans and t-shirts for the last...lifetime...but hey, those are Lucky jeans and they're at least moderately stylish. Or I thought they were last year anyway.) The thing is, living in Los Angeles, you are constantly reminded of how completely unstylish you are. I have yet to buy myself the right pair of Uggs to wear over my skinny jeans, but already the city has moved on to the next trend: super baggy, ripped up boyfriend jeans. Worn with flats. I knew this was coming of course. Those hours with Star magazine while on the bike in the gym have to pay off somehow. And yet I have yet to run out and buy myself some stylishly unflattering baggy jeans. Toby would point out the environmental unfriendliness of fashion, but mostly it's also just too expensive to keep up with the trends.

So of course I was thrilled when I noticed a new trend that is both carbon neutral and free: the moustache. It's popping up on guys all over Los Angeles. I'm not just talking about older guys who have been sporting one since they came into fashion in the 70s, but young, trend-setting guys. Guys that are just barely old enough to grow one. And I'm assuming that not every young guy in this area is trying out for a role on a Western film.

I think it's going to take a while for this trend to catch on completely. When I posted about my observations on Facebook, the responses ranged from a whole series of "yuck" to one lonely "I think they are HOT!". But still, I'm predicting the moustache is going to be here for a while. The only question is, who's going to be the Tom Selleck of this generation?

Update: My little mermaid

A few weeks ago, I wrote a post about Lucy learning to swim. I wrote, "I just want her to be able to swim to the side of the pool if she falls in. Though I'll admit that what I'd really love is for her to jump into the pool fearlessly once again - only this time to resurface from her jump and swim to the other side." My friend Erin read my post and wrote a response, suggesting that we try The Jim Herrick Swim School (http://www.jimherrickswimschool.com/) instead of the Y. We made the switch. Lucy's had all of three twenty minute lessons there and I swear I should be their new spokesperson. Today I watched her swim from one side of the pool to the other, lifting her head up to breathe, with no help at all from the instructor. She can swim! Los Angeles summer pool play dates here we come!

Anza Borrego

For those of you that read Toby's blog (www.communitas.tumblr.com), this may be a bit repetive... but I felt I had to write about our weekend in the desert so here it is!

I had never even heard of Anza Borrego before last Sunday. At a dinner party, I met a director who has traveled around the world for work. We were talking about camping and he said that in all of his travels, one of the most beautiful places he's ever been is just three hours from Los Angeles, the Anza Borrego desert in the springtime. Every year, for one to three weeks in March, all of the desert flowers bloom at once. I decided then and there that we had to go.

When I got home, I looked up Anza Borrego only to find that the desert flowers had just bloomed and we had a week to get there before the sun dried them up. We searched campsites, hotels, and even houses to rent but everything was booked. Disappointed, I decided our trip would have to wait until next year. Then on Thursday morning, a friend pulled up in the driveway and asked if we were going to Anza Borrego or what. It turns out that you can camp anywhere in the park. No need for a campsite as long as you're willing to bring in your own water and pee in the desert sand. A day, some quick packing, and an overstuffed minivan later, we found ourselves headed for the desert.

I had a few reservations about our desert excursion. As I strapped 19-month-old Noni into the car seat, I couldn't help but consider that while four other families decided to join us in our last minute adventure, three of the wives were staying home because they were worried about bringing their babies camping in a place that offers temperatures in the low 40s at night, which frankly seemed like a reasonable concern. Moments before bringing Noni out to the car, I had also foolishly googled "wildlife in Anza Borrego" and was greeted with images of tarantulas, scorpions, rattlesnakes and mountain lions. I tried my best to put the images out of my mind, but they resurfaced in the pamphlets at the Anza Borrego visitor center anyway. (Fortunately my friend Steph waited until we returned to email me that a tarantula had climbed onto her backpack during her last visit to the park.)

My first few moments at the park confirmed my fears of bringing a baby to the desert. Noni ran up to a cactus and then drew back crying, prickers and a piece of the cactus attached to her hand. I immediately pulled it off of her, only to find the cactus stuck to my own fingers.
But after some minor pain and a few minutes with the tweezers, we were on our way through the desert, in awe at the landscape we were seeing outside the car window.



Moments later, we pulled over at the sight of probably twenty sculptures of horses dotting the landscape. (See photo of one below.) Noni insisted on running up and kissing each "neigh".


After that, we headed to our campsite in Hawk Canyon. The campsite was perfect - sheltered from the wind, surrounded by desert flowers and just below rock walls to hike up for sweeping views of the park. We set up camp and headed out for a hike.


In the late afternoon, our friends arrived. I loved that at a moment's notice, everyone had packed up and driven hours away to this remote spot in the desert. The kids played by a sand hill near our campsite until it got dark. Then we all bundled up for the cool desert night and sat around the campfire, talking, singing and eating incredible food. (See photo below) The only bit of sadness for me was knowing that my sister and her family were also camping this weekend - but across the country in South Carolina. It would be nice to live close enough to camp in the same spot.




Overall, Anza Borrego proved far tamer than I had feared (no scorpions or mountain lions on this trip) and even more magical than I had imagined. I'm putting Anza Borrego in the springtime up there with Machu Picchu at sunrise as one of those things that everyone should try to see once. It was a great way to kick off our once-a-month-camping-trip that we're planning from now through October. (If you're interested in coming along, let Toby know so he can put you in his Facebook camping group!) Now I'm off to shake out sleeping bags and shoes...and am hoping we didn't bring any desert creatures with us on the way home!

On Sisyphus and opening the burgundy door

I love being a stay-at-home mom. I know it's not the right choice for everyone, but I love that I've had the opportunity to spend the time I have with my kids. I love that I've been there for each of their first smiles, first words, first steps and now for homework assignments or questions about life. What I don't love is the never ending pile of laundry. Whites, darks, pinks and reds, sheets, towels, rags, and back to whites... over and over and over again. The other day my friend Chea, who makes me laugh out loud on a daily basis with her Facebook status updates, wrote of her life with two young boys that she "thinks that if Sisyphus spent a day as me, he'd go running back to that rock as fast as his legs could carry him." I can relate. And, as much as I love what I do, I'll admit that there are days when I stand over a pile of unmatching socks and think, "What am I doing with my life?" It is for that very reason that I decided, as I mentioned in my previous post, that this would be the year that I reclaim art in my life. After seven years of child-raising, perhaps it's the seven year itch, but I'm suddenly craving more time to dedicate to my own interests.

For my first attempt, I enthusiastically set up an easel in my room where I could still watch the girls play in the backyard, put Noni down for a nap, and painted a mediocre painting of palm trees. I didn't care that it was mediocre - it felt great just to put paint on the easel. Plus, there's nothing like a seven and five year old to boost your ego about your own art. ("Mom, that is amazing!") But the whole time I felt slightly stressed that Noni would wake up while I was covered in paint. After an hour, I quickly cleaned everything up just as Noni was stirring in her crib. Well, everything except the palate. One palate left on the dresser + one curious nineteen-month-old + one white rug = a giant blue stain on the rug in our room. Not the best way to start your year of reclaiming art. Feeling discouraged, I wondered if maybe this wouldn't work after all.

I just finished reading "A New Earth" by Tolle. (Yes, I love Oprah.) He talks about the three modalities of awakened doing: acceptance (bringing peace to things that you may not enjoy, but need to do), enjoyment, and enthusiasm. He explains that "at the height of creative activity fueled by enthusiasm, there will be enormous intensity and energy behind what you do." I read that and thought, OK, I'm going to give it another try.

That is why I found myself driving around in the dark in a strange neighborhood in Los Feliz on a Monday night, looking for a long dark driveway that would lead to a gate that would lead to a burgundy door. I had found the "meet-up" online - as the meet-up page explained, a woman opens up her studio twice a week, hires a model and invites in any artists who wish to bring their charcoals and $15 for three hours of figure drawing. I parked my car, grabbed my paper and charcoals, and took a deep breath, wondering if I was more frightened of the possibility of a murderer behind the burgundy door or my inability to draw after eight years.

What I found behind the burgundy door was wonderful: a group of artists circled around a model, working away with charcoals, pencils and pastels. The walls in the dusty room were covered with colorful oil paintings and drawings of all sizes. A coffee pot bubbled in the corner and music played softly in the background. I set up my pad of paper and began to draw.

At first I felt awkward, but as time went on I warmed up and started to enjoy myself. The artists around me were amazing. Everyone was either a professional artist or some form of it - a lot of them paying the bills by keeping their day jobs as storyboard artists. It was intimidating at first, but everyone was friendly and down-to-earth and, after asking the artist next to me for some tips, I realize that I should be grateful for an opportunity to learn from them. By the last 25 minute sketch, I found myself fully immersed in my drawing, not worrying about anything around me, but just enjoying the focus and energy I was throwing into my work. I didn't leave with any works of art by a long stretch, but I felt completely satisfied. On my way home, I recognized that I had been indeed fueled by enthusiasm.

It's funny how even the feeling of folding laundry can change if you feel like you have a creative outlet in your life. I will never particularly enjoy laundry, but I think I'm working towards acceptance. And that's a lot easier when I know that twice a month, I'll enter an art studio and have three hours with nothing to do but draw.

(Side note: Only in LA would the model have surgically enhanced, gravity-defying breasts and a pair of Uggs next to her to pull on for cigarette breaks!)

The art of parenting from sink to swim

My mom said she learned how to swim when someone took her out in the lake and threw her off the boat. I said, "Mom, they weren't trying to teach you how to swim." - Paula Poundstone

Plunge into the sublime seas, dive deep and swim far, so you shall come back with self-respect, with new power, with an advanced experience that shall explain and overlook the old. - R.W. Emerson

Two summers ago, we rented a house in Duck, North Carolina with some friends from Maryland. The girls were in heaven spending a week with three of their best friends at a house near the beach, with a pool in the back to boot. Evie and the two older kids all knew how to swim and immediately took to showing off for each other the craziest ways to jump into the pool. Lucy floated in the pool with a life jacket and watched them for the first couple of days. Then she decided that she'd had enough of feeling left out. So one afternoon she jumped into the pool. And started to drown. Toby immediately jumped in, fully clothed, and rescued her. The next day she did the same thing all over again. The image of Lucy's face staring up from the water will never leave me. I have nightmares about it still. I never realized drowning would be so silent, but it was. She didn't splash or make a sound, just looked up with huge eyes, terrified, and started sinking.

When we got back from North Carolina that summer, I decided that Lucy needed to learn how to swim. I signed her up for swim lessons that fall, but understandably she wasn't thrilled at the idea of walking in from the freezing cold into the moderately cold "bubble", or basically tent over Hood College's pool, and learning how to swim while shivering and with her arms covered in goosebumps. I decided that a bad experience might turn her off and put my swimming goals for her on hold for the time being. I wasn't too worried about drowning anyway since the only water she regularly encountered was in the bath tub.

Fast forward to this past summer, a move to southern California, and my drowning fears resurfaced. We live in a city where you can swim outdoors almost year round. Almost all of her friends from school have swimming pools. And that little girl who jumped into the deep end without even knowing how to swim? Well, she's decided that she'd actually rather stay on the side of the pool or attached to a floatie from now on.

One of the first things I did after we moved to L.A. was to sign the girls up for group lessons at the Y. Lucy refused to go in. After deciding that the number of kids might be intimidating her, I signed her up for private swimming lessons. She refused those at first as well, but then bargained that she'd go if Evie took lessons too. So, to Evie's delight, she spends twenty minutes every Wednesday with an instructor in the pool. In eight weeks, Evie has learned how to dive, swim the butterfly, do flip turns, somersault backwards and forwards, and collect all of the rings underwater without coming up for breath. Lucy, on the other hand, is improving at a slower rate. As in only the instructor and I can tell there's been any improvement at all.

I'm seven years into this whole parenting thing and I feel pretty confident overall. But every once and a while a situation comes up where I question my own approach. I have tried bribes ("any toy you want if you can swim to me"), threats ("no more playdates if you don't try to swim"), sheer frustration ("Lucy, come ON, just TRY it") and I've even contemplated just a good old fashioned toss off the side to see if she could make it. I've finally settled on encouragement. When I say encouragement, I mean both to Lucy and myself. After two months of lessons, Lucy has gone from refusing to get in the water at first to now pushing from the wall to me, if I am close enough that she can reach out her hand and grab my arm without even moving from the wall. I am encouraging her each time with applause for even the tiniest of efforts. I am also whispering words of encouragement to myself. My normal dialogue? "You're doing a good job parenting. This is the right approach! Be patient. It'll happen!" I try to remind myself that she is not refusing to swim out of obstinance but out of fear, and that helps a bit with the whole patience part of it on my end.

In most situations, I would give both of us a break and decide that she's just not ready and try again another month, another year. Lucy doesn't want to bike? That's fine for now. Not ready to play in a soccer game? She was probably too young anyway. But swiming is a must. I can't give up on her and I can't let her give up either. I suppose learning to swim could serve as a metaphor for all things in life since the only thing that is holding her back is the fear that is keeping her from trying. I'm trying my best to help her get to the point where she's confident enough to give it her best shot. I don't care if she can ever swim the butterfly or the backstroke. I just want her to be able to swim to the side of the pool if she falls in. Though Ill admit that what I'd really love is for her to jump into the pool fearlessly once again - only this time to resurface from her jump and swim to the other side.

Daddy speak

I felt I needed to add an update after my prior post about Noni learning everything she says from her sisters...

A few nights ago, Lucy was acting too rough in the tub and Toby told her she would have to go to time out if she kept it up. She kept kicking so he held up his hand and began starting to count down towards time out, "Five, four, three..." until she stopped. Last night when I was giving the girls a tub, Lucy started kicking again. Noni turned to her and yelled, "Stop!" Then, before I could say anything, she held up her little hand and started counting, "Five, four, five..."

Apparently she picks up some expressions from her parents as well.