Party of Two, I Mean Four

We started working on this plan about a month ago: a weekend away from the kids! We had it all set; a reservation in Carlsbad, the go-ahead from Jarv's mom who would feed the kids and throw them in bed every night. And most important, they had entertainment: their two cousins who'd be there to sleep over, go swimming, and play for hours on end.

The cousins haven't exactly been available to play this last week, despite advance reassurances to the contrary. So the reality is that our kids would have been at their grandparents', inside a dark house watching TV about 10 hours a day. They would have been fine, of course. But we just didn't feel right about it. It's hard to really relax if you know your kids are bored out of their minds, zoned out in front of a five-hour Phineaus and Ferb marathon, snacking on endless bags of potato chips, counting the hours until you come back.

We haven't had a weekend away from our kids in about three years -- way, way too long. I think parents should be required to take time away from their kids twice a year. We'd all be so much more patient, relaxed, energized. It should be a federal mandate, even. How about instead of padding AIG bonuses with the federal bailout money, we put some into a beneficial program like that, Mr. Obama?

This is what I had in mind: lazy, listless afternoons spent by the quiet, adult pool, reading books and napping. (And by napping, I don't mean the kind where the clock is ticking and every minute spent asleep is time that I will need to watch the kids later while Jarv has an equal amount of free time for himself.) Late, relaxing dinners at restaurants that don't serve chicken fingers, cheesy noodles and pepperoni pizza. Forty-eight hours of sheer bliss.

It didn't exactly work out that way. Instead, we found ourselves in the very crowded kids pool, taking runs down the water-slides and tossing dive sticks endlessly. We dealt with a bedwetting incident, an excema flare-up, some lost headgear, and the requisite sibling squabbles. Oh, and every restaurant we went to served chicken fingers, cheesy noodles and pepperoni pizza. If one more waitress hands me a kids' coloring sheet and a pack of crayons as we sit down, I'll cry.

To top it all off, we spent today at Legoland. I loathe amusement parks. Standing in line for an hour in the blazing sun to take a one-minute ride in a little boat floating in two feet of water? Not amusing.

Not that I'm complaining. Does this sound like complaining? Hope not. It's still very nice to be here.

But a quiet weekend with my husband would have been oh so nice.

Maybe next year.

Have Running Shoes, Will Travel

I'm not the best traveller. For one thing, I almost always run late. And with kids, it doesn't often work out well.

Last week the kids and I flew from JFK to LA. (Jarv was flying the next day to meet us.) Our flight was at 2:15 and Jarv and I had several discussions about what time we needed to leave. He said 11:30. (He usually builds 15 minutes into his estimate to allow for the Michelle lateness factor.) Naturally, I voted for 11:45. We left at 11:54.

Jarv complained the whole way to the airport: I don't know if you're going to make it, he chastised annoyingly. You're really cutting it close. I was sure we would. If it took us an hour to get the the airport -- which was reasonable -- we'd still have 1 1/2 hours before our flight. I'm not one of those people who likes to arrive at the terminal 3 hours in advance. It takes long enough to fly across the country as it is, thank very much.

I ignored Jarv's kvetching during the drive and his dramatic sighs each time we came across a patch of traffic. There was nothing we could do about it now, anyway. but then we came to a dead stop crossing the Whitestone Bridge. We sat there for a good 10 minutes. Now I was actually starting to worry. I had two big suitcases and I remembered that baggage cutoff for Delta was 45 minutes before the flight. (I know that, because I missed it once, while traveling with the kids, and had to catch a later flight.)

But no worries, we were at curbside at 12:17, almost an hour ahead. Jarv dropped us and drove off, in a hurry to make a meeting, while I carted in our several bags, carry-ons, computer, DVD player, two backpacks and two kids. Slight problem, the check-in kiosk told me. We'd missed baggage check in cut off by two minutes!

I ran over to an agent to see if any cajolling or cute kids might help. No, not really, but she sent me to someone else. Taking that as encouraging sign, I ran over to Agent #2 at the other end of the counter, kids and bags in tow. No, there was nothing she could do, she told me. The computer locked out 60 minutes prior to the flight, even if the flight was delayed. I kinda got the feeling I wasn't the first person she'd ever dealt with who'd had this problem.

By this point the kids were looking at me, tears brewing. "Are we not going to get to go to LA, Mommy?" they asked in pitiful voices. The agent, checking the rest of the day's flights, told me that there were no other seats free that day, but maybe tomorrow. Or the next day. Of course there would be change fees involved and maybe a fare increase. But she couldn't even rebook me since I'd gone through Expedia. I'd have to call them to sort it out. This was bad.

What can I do?" I asked. Could I go buy some duffel bags small enough to carry on and transfer all of our things into them? "What will you do with your suitcases?" the agent asked. I could have cared less. I'd have thrown them out if it meant getting on that plane.

Are there any lockers I could put them in?" I asked. Yes, there was, in fact, baggage storage two floors down.

Lightbulb!

If I was going to get duffel bags, transfer our stuff, carry on the bags and lock up our suitcases, why not skip the duffel part, store the bags, contents and all, and let Jarv bring them with him when he flew the following day? Genius, if I do say so myself.

We ran through the terminal, the three of us, with our two suitcases and half dozen carry ons. Waited forever for the elevator. Ran off in all directions in search of this mysterious storage. I still didn't know if this crazy plan would work. Now we were T minus 40 till our flight and had yet to go through security.

Bags checked, I grabbed the kids and we ran back upstairs and through the terminal, Mopsy trailing a few paces behind. "Wait for me!" she called out to us. We grabbed our boarding passes and ran off to security. The line was short, but not moving, so I went to the front and pleaded with the Security big wigs to let us go ahead since we had a flight departing in 18 minutes, despite the evil looks from the guy behind us. If after all that, we'd gotten to the gate only to find the doors already shut, the kids would have gone ballistic.

Miraculously, we made our flight. But unfortunately, I had to admit my folly to my smug husband. "See," he said with a snicker. He loves to be right.

I admit, running through JFK with kids and suitcases and backpacks flying everywhere, sweat dripping down my back, pulse racing, is not the best way to travel. I swear I will not be late for our flight home. I promise.

Once again, I've got egg on my face. I think I'll just scramble up a big batch to have it on hand. I'm sure I'll need it again soon. I always do.

Even Better Than the Tooth Fairy

A whole new sort of fairy visited our house last week: The Pick-Up Fairy. And she rocks!

Never heard of her? Neither had I until I happened upon a recent issue of Parents magazine and read an article about her. Turns out, she's a special fairy who visits children's homes at night and helps them pick up any toys they may have just possibly, accidentally, just this once left lying about. Anything she picks up is hers for the time being.

Brilliant.

I left a little card from her in our mailbox for QB and Mopsy. The front had a nice little picture of a fairy wand and inside it explained that Miss Fairy might be stopping by our house at night just in case the two of them might need a little help on the clean-up front. They were enthralled.

"Who is the Pick-Up Fairy, Mom?" the asked, wide-eyed.

"Oh, I've heard of her. Is she coming to our house?"

Then the questions started coming rapid-fire: How will she get in? What will she do with our toys? What happens after that? What if we have some sort of complicated project on the floor that we don't want her to take?

I should've planned on this thorough vetting process from my 8-year-old. Instead, I winged it. She'd probably get into the house the same way Santa would. Any toys lying around, I suppose she'd take and return later. Projects on the floor? Well, we'll leave her a little note. I'm sure she'll understand.

That night, it was a miracle. The house has never been so clean. Jarvis and I watched in amazement as the two of them scurried around like little mice, gathering every stray Lego, every Lite Brite peg, every lone puzzle piece on the carpet in record time.

As I said, brilliant. Now, at night, instead of threatening, cajolling, nagging and negotiating -- all of which are largely ineffective -- all I have to do is say, "Pick-Up Fairy" and my kids jump into action. It's a thing of sheer beauty. It's taken the burden off me entirely. Now that the Fairy has entered our lives, the consequences of playroom sloppiness are out of my hands.

Other children who've been by our house and seen the card from Miss Fairy are equally fascinated. Who is this gal and why haven't they gotten a visit from her, they want to know. All I can say is, parents, dispatch the Fairy soonest. You won't be disappointed!

And to whoever wrote this inspiring article in Parents, you have my deepest, most sincere admiration and gratitude. I just wonder, now, if there's some way I can get it to work on my husband...

Funny of the Day

QB and Mopsy went to a great party yesterday. The birthday boy had an inflatable water-slide that was about 2 stories tall and a huge pool that was heated to bathtub temperatures. Needless to say, the kids were in heaven. (Thanks, Lukas!)

To top it off, when we left, the goody bags were outrageous. QB got a football, an enormous lollipop, and a canister of candy from Dylan's. (Very posh.) Mopsy was equally delighted with hers. As we walked back to the car, goodies in hand, she said,

"This is good! I like this day!"

I was thinking, as we were at the party, how often it is that adults just sit and watch the fun, instead of jumping in themselves. I rarely go in the Sound at the beach, or join my kids when we're at the pool. And yesterday, at this party, I was thinking the water looked very refreshing, so why was I sitting on the sidelines sweating? What age is it, exactly, when we cross that invisible grown-up threshold and shift from doing to watching?

I vowed to change that, starting at the next party. Wait, that wouldn't do. Seize Tomorrow isn't quite as empowering as Seize the Day. I changed into my suit and jumped in the pool with Mopsy. I was right: it was much more fun.

I didn't take a run on the giant water slide, though. Maybe at the next party.

You Say Tomato, I say... Grapefruit

People ask me all the time if Connecticut is very different from California. The short answer to that would be, uh, YES. In just about every way. Think of a category, and the answer is yes, different, very different. (Mind you, in California we lived in Los Angeles, here we're in the suburbs. That alone is a significant shift.) If I were to write about all the differences, it would take me pages. Instead, I'll do this in installments.

Things I've Overheard in Connecticut That I'd Never Hear in Los Angeles:

"It's amazing how the principles expressed in The Federalist Papers are still relevant today."

"So, are you mulching?"

"I'm writing a letter to the First Selectman."

"Should we buy a cord of wood or a cord and a half?"

"I'm going to go mow the lawn."

"We're very diverse here. We have a lot of Swedes."

"I don't recycle"

"Go outside and find someone to play with."

"Let's walk."

Things I've Overheard in Los Angeles That I'd Never Hear in Connecticut:

"What do you mean, there's no valet!? Where are we going to park?"

"Isn't Gabby lucky that she has two moms?"

"I'm exhausted. I had three screenings today."

"Do you want to do vinyasa at 4 or hatha at 5?"

"Let's get Mexican tonight."

"It's a dry heat."

"I'm kicking around some ideas for a screenplay." "I just finished my screenplay." "My screenplay's over at William Morris right now."

"Who did your boobs?"

"Dude, you're harshing my flow."

Scam Spam

Here's an amusing email I got this morning:

__________________

My name is Mr, Rudlaff Eckhard Martin ,a General merchant in Canada,but taking Treatment in Tokyo

Japan.I have been diagnosed with esophageal cancer (117.7) and prostate

that was discovered very late due to lack of caring

For my health. I have only about a few months to live according to medical

Experts.

I am looking for someone reliable and trusted that can use my ($6,200M) for the

Less privileges and orphanage homes.

Since i can’t survive this illness. Please you can contact me through this

Email address:rudlaff_martin@yahoo.com.hk

Warm Greetings from,

Mr Rudlaff Eckhard Martin.

_____________

Of course! Doesn't everyone who is "dying" send out spam email to thousands of strangers asking for suggestions about which less privileged people could make use of his vast fortune? Happens all the time.

I'm so glad Mr. Martin informed me that he has esophogeal cancer (117.7). That sounds pretty legit. I guess the story must be true. Interesting, though, that he says he's Canadian yet clearly, English isn't his first language. Must be from Quebec.

I can't believe people still fall for this crap.

Letting it All Hang Out

OK, there's something I've been mulling over that I need to put out there: beach attire. What is the deal? I've been seeing way, way too much of people that I definitely do not need to see. Why is it that once people feel the sand between their toes, all sense of propriety and inhibition goes out to sea and they strip down practically naked, parading in front of people they're going to run into the next day at school or the post office?

My neighbor wouldn't walk down the street in that bikini for love or money, so why is she comfortable doing it on the beach? Sure, it's what everyone does, but showing your flabby belly is showing your flabby belly.

I'm not being a skinny snob. It's not that I think only people with model-quality bods deserve to wear swimsuits. Of course not. I just think we should all use good common sense. It's quite possible I'm just getting more and more conservative and crotchety in my old age. I no longer think the point of a beach outing is exposing as much skin as possible to collect every ray of sunlight.

Here's what I think: 60-year-olds, as a general rule, don't need to wear string triangle tops or crocheted bottoms. Men with enormous guts don't really need to opt for tight Euro trunks. There seems to be a rule of inverse proportion: the more people should cover up, the less they seem inclined to do so.

Another good rule of thumb: if there's only a 3 inch strip of swimsuit covering your ample rear end, it's not enough! There is absolutely nothing wrong with a nice cover-up.

I mean, really, what's the drawback to more modest attire? Not every inch of you will be as tanned or as (melanoma-prone) as your arms? I tell you what: wear the one-piece with the nice little attached skirt, buy yourself a bottle of self-tanner and everyone goes home happy. Problem solved.

Please, people, consider the visual affront to beach-goers exposed to body parts only a spouse should see. How about we not scar the children, okay?

All right, signing off now. I'm off to the beach. Fingers crossed.