'Tis the Season

It's that time of year filled with joy, cheer, party overload and desperate attempts to bring the magic of the holiday season into sharp focus for toddlers everywhere, so long as they still believe.

After the season got off to a roll with a pre-holiday "just because" pancake party, it was off to the races with the first event: a holiday-concurrent birthday party. Which went something like this:

Hello All,

Just a quick reminder that there is a bit of a schedule. We are very excited to see everyone tomorrow!!

3:30-3:45—Greetings!

3:45-4:00—Dress up! Costumes passed out. (Tutu, wings, wand, halo—so have kids wear clothes that they can put the costume over).

4:00-4:15—Picture Time

4:30-5:00—Craft Time

5:00-5:30—Pizza, Salad, Cake, Cupcakes

I think the important thing to point out here is that the child in question was turning 3. I don't think I need to explain beyond that.

Next, was a holiday party at an indoor playground - complete with crafts, cookie decorating, bouncy house, obstacle course, temporary tattoos, face painting, magic show, parachute, and cupcakes.

Throw in some holiday baking (OK, a LOT of holiday baking), walks to admire the neighborhood lights, nighttime train rides to Santa's house, plans for Disneyland, Nutcracker recitals (too much? too soon?) figuring out Santa's list and endless scouring of Internet holiday event listings (amid self-flagellation for each missed event) and the pressure to make this magical season well, magical can get the best of any elf. Especially an elf who has yet to finish her Christmas shopping.

And then sometimes the favor is returned, a thousandfold. Tonight, as I put my girl to bed, after the obligatory sprinkling of magic dust AND powder, she reached under her covers and found some magic powder to scatter over me. It was the perfect, irreplaceable, unsolicited gift.

Playdate Pressure

It's been exactly a month since Otter began her academic career, and while some things have drastically improved (like actually wanting to go to school), other aspects of her socialization have um...plateaued (like, say playing with other children). To this end, her teacher suggested several times, that we contact one of the other parents in her class and set up the ubiquitous "play date."

Now as my friend Kate points out, play dates are a rather new invention. When we were kids, which admittedly was a while ago, but not THAT long ago, you were just friends with the kids on your street. But be it a question of progress or geography, cars abound and children running up and down our block are noticeably lacking. Which leads to the necessity of pre-planned spontaneous outings where the children play and the parents referee and (hopefully) bond for what may be a life-long - or an afternoon-long - friendship.

And therein lies the rub. I have a history of shunning forced socializing with strangers. Not that I mind meeting new people - but I had never joined a sorority. Or even a club, really. Networking was always more of a chore than a pleasure. And those Mommy and Me groups sent me running for the hills. It's not that I'm better than those people (ok, I might be better than a few of those people) but after 7th grade I've never belonged to a clique. And it seems odd to start now, when I've fairly mastered the skill set required for making friends organically.

I was hoping that during the orientation meeting at the school, I would naturally gravitate towards someone, whose child would naturally make a perfect playmate for mine. But as we sat pretending to listen to the teachers describe the school, while in actuality sizing each other up one thing became clear to me: I do not fit in with these parents. Jumping to conclusions? Perhaps. Judgey? Most likely. But there I was, with my bleached hair and combat boots. and there they were - in their sun dresses and rhinestoned sandals. So, I'm just saying...

And to be fair, I wouldn't doubt if they had the same initial, unfounded, utterly superficial assessment of me, thinking "Which hooligan did she birth and then enroll with my angel?!"

Which leads me to the little angels I have to pick from. Or rather, the ones Otter has chosen. So far I have been presented with 4 options:

First there was the "Sandbox Companion" - let's call her SC for short. SC seemed very promising - in fact, SC's mom (we'll call her SCM) seemed receptive to the idea. So much so that on the morning we were told of the unbreakable bond of sand toys, SCM suggested to Otter that she go and play play dough with SC. And when Otter didn't jump at the opportunity, SCM took my befuddled child and started leading her away. And that's when it all went south for me.

Really SCM? Do you see me manhandling your spawn into coming closer to the Little People House? Are you suddenly in charge of this classroom? Last I checked, you were just another parent dropping her kid off. So please take your mitts off mine, and note that as of this moment I don't like you, you pushy broad. SCM may have sensed my bristling - the second time the teacher reintroduced us (again, suggesting a play outing for the kiddies) she pretended to be surprised and not recognize me. Yeah, SCM is kinda full of it.

Option two is a young man who is quite proud of his Potty Training prowess. Which he announced (and someone demonstrated) in class. I know he's only three and yes, this is my "my kid is a head taller than everyone but won't potty train sour grapes" routine but come on. Ironically, I think I like PT's mom.

Option three is recovering from a case of Hacking Cough. Enough said.

Option four is Otter's Cubby Roommate. CR may have the most going for her though that is the full extent of what I know about her.

Though from what I'm hearing (much to my shock and chagrin), who I like is fairly irrelevant. Apparently its Otter who gets to gravitate towards friends and I get to do her social planning and follow meekly along. Better find that class roster and start dialing.

BYOB - Bring Your Own Baby

As everyone knows, there's nothing quite as rejuvenating as packing up your dog, a picnic lunch and your child and heading off to a winery. For any of you claiming that dogs and toddlers don't belong at wineries, it's obvious that you just don't have any, so you couldn't possibly understand.

The key is to find a place that will not only allow your brood (both 2 and 4-legged) into their tasting room, but will not frown upon subsequently pouring you copious (ok, maybe "copious" is a bit of an overstatement) amounts of alcohol while you hold one, or both of them in your arms.

Another key element is ample outdoor space for the kids to explore, tumble, and crawl through (preferably without killing or permanently maiming themselves) while you and your significant other actually enjoy some food and that bottle of wine you bought after the tasting. Another overstatement. In actuality, you end up hovering in a half crouch - half stand approximation of sitting, shoving olives into your mouth with one hand while simultaneously trying to protect your wine glass (which has already been upturned once), and stop your kid from taking a face-first dive off the picnic bench with the other. Still - there are olives and other various "charcuterie" on your plate, so you've convinced yourself you're being civilized.

After such a meal, there's nothing to do but lay back in the sunny grass, only to be used as a human balance beam. On those (frequent) occasions that your little gymnast takes a tumble, you cross your fingers that when she does fall flat on her face in the grass, she'll be more interested in licking it than crying. She is.

Several hours later, as the sun is starting to set, you load everyone back into the car and start your trek towards home. Sure, it took you just as long for the round trip as you actually spent at the location. But for those few hours, you found your own little corner of heaven, and you drive home feeling lighter than you have in a while.

Or maybe that's just the wine...

Buh-bye Jagoouah

Recently, we completed a rite of passage of nearly ever family with kids. We have become official, card-carrying members of the Los Angeles Zoo.

It all happened on Easter Sunday. Having little first-hand experience with Easter, I imagined it as a day of churching and picnic-ing with the family, looking for eggs, and stuffing yourself with candy until you were sick. Certainly not a day of going to the zoo. And after confirming they were open, we packed up 3/4 of our family and headed off.

I first suspected my miscalculation as we entered the parking lot only to see a serpentine line of cars inching their way past florescent vest-clad parking attendants. Bree, who is not a fan of crowds, and had been very much on the fence about this trip to begin with glared and seethed noticeably in his seat. But, you don't just drive a 19-month-old out for half an hour only to turn around and go home so we were stuck.

Parking didn't end up being nearly as dramatic as it had first appeared and with renewed hope, we loped down to the main entrance. Only to be confronted with a line of approximately 150 people, none of whom had gotten the "go to church and picnic on Easter" memo. Oh, and the register was only taking cash - whether out of deference for the Resurrection, or simply because the credit card swipey thing was down, I'll never know.

But again, being a crafty chick, who was not about to give Bree the satisfaction of going home empty-handed, I looked to and quickly found the beacon of hope - the Membership Signup desk. There was no line there. And a fully operational credit card machine. Any thoughts about giving the zoo a test run before committing to a year of visits went out the window. If Otter was terrified by a face-to-face confrontation with a wild animal, so be it. So, swiping my card, free plush gorilla in hand, Bree, Otter and I entered the zoo.

And...

She loved it! The kangaroos (though possibly dead, by Bree's and my estimation) seemed to fascinate. The tigers and meercats, pretty solid. But the crown went to the jaguar, who, agitated for some reason, was pacing his enclosure with a barely concealed desire to rip anyone close enough limb to limb. This animal, large enough to swallow Otter without really having to chew, instantly stole her heart, and she sat transfixed as he did his paces. In an effort to avoid a melt-down, we engaged Otter with saying goodbye to the jaguar as we turned to go.

Later that night, as I tucked her into bed, a bleary looking girl looked up at me, completely over-stimulated by her day. "Buh-bye jagoouah," she said. "Buh-bye."

Rise and Shine

The problem with toddlers is nobody told them the proper time to wake up. When the memo stating that 5:05 am is too early went out, they weren't on the distribution list. Apparently they missed the "Don't even THINK about getting up before 5!" memo as well. Never one to repeat a performance, SB decided that 5:05 was so Saturday morning, and greeted Sunday at 4:46 am. As did we, her hapless parents.

By 10:30, when we had been up for SIX HOURS, Otter was starting to melt down, big-time. Everything annoyed and upset her, and led to tears. It was clearly time for a nap. I turned to Bree, bleary-eyed and asked, "Why did we decide to have one?" And then we headed off to Travel Town, for a birthday party.

Travel Town, for those who have not been, is a magical world of trains and tracks, cabooses and train rides, and a museum of all things choo-choo (including a horrifying zoo crate marked "Cheetah" that I would barely fit into).

Otter was thrilled. Even though she avoided the other kids, the idea of running full speed down train tracks appealed to her immensely. With nary a look back at mom and dad, she bolted away, scampering over rails that nearly came up to her knees, collecting rocks, and trying to climb under train cars. And the ride on the mini-train had her right-out laughing. All grumpiness and tiredness were forgotten.

She (and we) survived it like a champ. She was happy and fun, and adventurous and independent - all the things I adore about her. How could I begrudge her an early-morning rising when she was so easy during the day? Oh wait - that's still TOTALLY not cool...

Pretty As a Picture

So what I'm supposed to be blogging about is Otter's successful 1st birthday party, filled with cake, pizza, friends and new toys (all of which doubtless make some kind of battery-fueled noise). But alas, due to an unexpectedly under-the-weather dog, we've had to postpone...

Instead, let me share my tale of professional baby photos. I know, you're probably saying "What? Isn't that just so mother-of-the-yeary?" And it's true - most photo sessions (my wedding included) send me into an anxiety-ridden tailspin. Granted, my exposure to professional photography has been limited to the school picture/Sears/Babies R Us set. And while I applaud their efforts, pictures of my offspring lying blissfully on pink fluffy pillows or looking mischievous wearing nothing but some angel wings and a bow in her hair are decidedly not for me.

But through friends we found (what we hope is) a really great photographer, Jamie. And since I'd decided to forgo both the requisite pregnancy and newborn photos, a 1-year portrait seemed to be in order.

We arrived at the Santa Monica beach promptly at 9am, Otter in her picture-day best, Bree and I in whatever we had time to throw on, and our beach-illegal dog in his best red collar. SB loved the sand, was mesmerised by the ocean. "This will be so easy!" I thought. Our worst problem was going to be keeping the lifeguards from throwing Foz off the un-pet-friendly beach. Otter took one look at Jamie and frowned.

As the session progressed, so did Otter's displeasure, and what began as uncertainty, quickly turned into loud wailing and a refusal to let go of me. For his part, Foster allowed us to position him with a look of grim resignation, and a silent regret that he had not been adopted by a different family. We struggled through photo after photo of Otter looking despondent, while Jamie valiantly tried to entertain and distract our pouty baby.

"Maybe there's a song she likes?" she suggested, helpfully.
The Poopy Otter Song didn't seem appropriate.

"What happens if you blow on her, or tickle her?"
A whole lot of nothing, apparently.

"Does she like the water?"
Why yes, she does. Until the wave comes in and freaks her out, as she didn't expect her entire bottom to get soaked.

"Does she know the Happy Birthday song?"
No.

"Any games that make her smile?"
Yes, yes there are: throwing her in the air, throwing her on the bed, pelting her with pillows (PILLOW AVALANCHE!!!!), chasing her around on all fours while fiercely growling, shoving Monkey in her face (MONKEY ATTACK!!! THEY GO FOR THE FACE!!!!!). All of which didn't seem right to mention, let alone do in public.

In the end, it was a combo of granola bar and being allowed to climb all over Foster (who lay down morosely as sand was liberally sprinkled on him) that brought Otter out of her tailspin. And we may even have gotten a few photos with a smile. But as we made our way home, all Bree and I could think about was, apparently families have songs and games that make their toddlers giggle. What's wrong with us, that all of our go-to stunts run the risk of getting us taken in for child endangerment?

Beer Island

Every girl needs an island getaway from time to time so Otter and I descended upon Beer Island in Brooklyn, NY to bid adieu to a close friend. Apparently, the bar was chosen based on it's somewhat suspect policy of allowing drinking (which we all prefer to do) to mix with babies (which most of us have in tow these days).

Unsurprisingly, Otter took to Beer Island right away - frolicking on the sand, sampling some cupcake and cruising between the plastic chairs. And since it seemed to be a BYOB (baby, not beer - though that would have been WAY ironic) event, she had plenty of l'il peeps to keep her busy. Even a brief downpour didn't dampen our spirits (get it? ha, ha) as we hid under umbrellas in socialized in the soon-to-disappear, slightly-sketchy remnants of old skool Coney Island.

Looking around at all of us with our variations on diaper bags and Maclaren strollers (a must-have among NYC yuppies, I've learned), I couldn't help thinking of a Talking Heads song -

And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a
 large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house,
 with a beautiful wife
And you may ask yourself-Well...How did I get here?

I Poopied!!!

Yesterday, Otter took her first step down a road that can one day lead to wet t-shirt contests or, worse, MTV Spring Break exposes. That's right - she went to her first pool party. Donning her Elmo Splash Pants, pink swimsuit (the last one in her size on sale at Target) and enough sunblock to withstand a trip to the surface of the sun, she made her grand entrance.

For my part, I initially considered the modest Mom Suit - you know, the one that covers more flesh that it exposes. The Mom Suit has many pros. For one, this would be the proper thing for a lady in my position to wear. For another, without string ties, one of Otter's favorite playthings, a Mom Suit would certainly save me from unplanned wardrobe malfunctions, courtesy of SB. But when have details like unplanned exposed boobs at my nephew's 9th birthday party stopped me? So, with nary a concern that my zombie white ass would blind all those around me, I pulled out a bikini. Since Operation Fatten Up has yet to live up to it's full potential, I might as well take advantage.

Sucking in for all it's worth, I bravely entered a pool chock full of splashing, screaming pre-teen boys. Not quite what my pool parties used to be, to be certain. Otter looked skeptical. We stepped further in and she quickly decided that this had about as much to do with her bath, which she loves, as an ocean resembles a puddle. The face soured, the mouth turned down, and the baby began emitting whining noises. Still, since she wasn't crying outright, I persevered a bit longer. But, when it became apparent that SB preferred the feel of dry land under her feet, we decided to hit the food instead and tried pizza (approved), cupcakes (very approved) and ice cream (not so much).

And we left not a moment too soon. As Otter and I were stuffing our faces at the table, a wail went up from the pool. "I poopied! I poopied!" screamed one of the little party guests. And indeed, she had. Bree and I plastered overzealous smiles on our faces - the kind designed to not let the other party-goers know just how traumatized you are in that moment. Perhaps Miss Pool Poopie would have benefited from some Elmo Splash Pants herself...

Travel At Your Own Risk

With so many new adventures around the bend, I was curious to see what BabyCenter, my online bible to all things child-related, had to say about Otter's potential reactions. So often, it's as if BabyCenter is looking into my soul, or at least my date book, when it comes to pinpointing upcoming events. And here's what they had to say:

Because of separation anxiety, ... it may ... be hard to travel with your baby right now. He's become used to his surroundings and familiar faces, and he likes predictability. So being on the road can disrupt his sense of security and routine, especially when visiting a new place or meeting lots of strangers.

Great news, considering my parents (virtual strangers to Otter) were joining us on a trip to Central California. At least there was going to be wine in Cambria/Paso Robles, so I could drink away my sorrows while SB screamed her disapproval.

Still, we decided to soldier on, packing baby, parents, dog, ourselves, and enough provisions for a month-long nomadic trek into our SUV for a 4-day weekend getaway. Prior to the trip, we purchase even more semi-necessary baby things, including a travel bed and umbrella stroller, justifying the insane price gouging by vaguely reassuring ourselves that we like to travel a lot, so the porta-crib (which cost nearly as much as Otter's actual bed) and it's $40 custom fit sheet were necessary evils.

Otter took the 4-hour drive up like a man, only complaining occassionally and being quickly comforted by her bottle. We briefly stopped at a winery, letting our girl know how her parents like to get down - she seemed to enjoy the experience...

Appropriately, we stayed at Otter Cove. Upon our arrival, we were greeted by a deer in the back yard of our rental house, and we knew it would be a magical visit.

We took walks by the ocean, saw elephant seals, pelicans, birds, cows, otters and horses (not all at once - that would have been weird), visited some beautiful wineries and landscapes, and generally had a grand old time just sitting out and looking at the water.

The rest of this tale can be told in pictures - since nothing I can write will capture the beauty of the ocean...

SB lapped it all up. Turns out, traveling with a separation-anxiety-ridden 9-month-old isn't that hard after all. You just gotta keep them busy with all the beauty in the world.

After the Epidemic

To celebrate the end of our plague outbreak, on Sunday we packed Otter up for the Los Angeles Arboretum. Having lived here for 12 years and an entire lifetime (respectively), neither I nor Bree had any idea this place existed. But the gardens more than made up for their lack of notoriety. It was a gorgeous day, and we all enjoyed the sights, smells and sounds of spring...

The only thing marring the outing, were the informative placards that had been tacked on to all the trees.

image by ikkoskinen

They displayed mosquitoes the size of medium birds, followed by several paragraphs in tiny print. The kind of disclaimers you find at the bottom of contracts. The ones that lead you to understand the message of without ever having to read: in the final analysis, you're screwed. This being the great outdoors (OK, OK, a Los Angeles park), and us lacking a mosquito net or DEET, we decided to soldier on.

Upon returning home, we noticed several bug bites on SB's legs and back. So now we watch and wait...will Swine Flu be followed up with Baby West Nile?