Flirty Thirty

In honor of feeling so grateful for my 30 years on this magnificent Earth, I have made a list of things I have learned and another list of things I hope to learn in the next 30 years.


Lessons Learned:

Track & Field is not for everybody. No amount of practice was ever going to transform me into Marion Jones. This skinny Mexican girl was never going to be successful at jumping hurdles, triple-jumping or any  other nonsense that comes with T+F. I found soccer to be a much better fit. I loved the physical contact and the lack of guns going off. Lesson learned: Try. And if doesn't work out - get out and find a better fit. Like when I left my torturous first PA job at a famous director's office. It took me 3 months of sobbing commutes and hating my existence, but when I finally got the courage to admit to myself that it wasn't working, I left and immediately stumbled on a costumes assistant job. This led to a happy 5 year career. See, track and field ain't the only sport.

Love is everything. Now maybe it's because I just came back from a holistic spa retreat with my mom and had a very meditative and spiritual experience, but isn't this truth? REALLY. Wealth, status, work, even health, pale in comparison to LOVE. Without it, who cares if you have money or even health? Why does any of it matter if you don't give and get love? Splurging on the spa weekend with my mom was worth every penny. Yes, the massage and fluffy pillows were a treat - but the REAL treat was making memories with my mama. I cherish my good health because it allows me to get on the floor and give LO airplane rides. My arms quiver on the 20th ride but seeing that toothy grin fills my heart. It all comes back to love.

Expect the Unexpected. And embrace it. Did I ever in my wildest, nuttiest dreams think that I would be a "homemaker" and damn happy at it. NEVER. EVER. ever. Yet I am. Who would have thought that I, the eternal dreamer and wanderer, would marry at 22 and that at 30 I would be playing house and raising a kid? I did not. I envisioned myself in some foreign country, doing something completely unconventional like working at a museum, a consulate, a winery. Definitely not doing the oldest profession of all time (and no, I'm not a prostitute. But I'd like to make a case for "homemaking" as being the oldest occupation. Who took care of those bambinos while the men hunted and gathered??) So here I am, living very conventionally and loving it. Go figure. Maybe it has a little to do with the previous lesson - amore?

Hold on to friends. Tightly and don't let go. If she was there to hold your hair back while your head was in the toilet of some seedy bar bathroom while angry girls pounded on the stall door, eager to relieve their bladders - that's a friend. If she attended 5 bridal showers and then went to your bachelorette party in Vegas and later flew to El Paso for your wedding - that's a friend. If she knew you when you were a serious fashion victim and saw the diamond in the rough that you were - that's a friend. If she thinks that you're smart and funny and good, especially when you're not feeling this way about yourself - that's a keeper. In my experience, it gets increasingly difficult to make true friendships the older I get. Opportunities to bond with somebody are limited due to the "grown-up lifestyle" i.e. work, family, chores, sleep…repeat. Sleepovers or a semester in Europe are hard to come by these days. Super sad but true. So if you made some great friends during these less hectic times in your life, when booze and boys were your interests and not babies and baking - hold on to them. Forever.

Ok, so I know I must have learned more things. But I can't remember. Is "30 the New 60" for me? Oh no.

Things I still hope to learn:

Don't seek Perfection. It is a losing battle. Why waste my time? No, my house will never look like a page out of Architectural Digest. No, my abs will never be…well, ABS. It'll just be a stomach - a flat one, if I work hard. But with no signs of ripples or six-packs. No, my daughter will never behave perfectly and calm. Even on my birthday…urggg! No, I will never read all the books on my "I Should Read These Books To Be A Decently Smart Person" list. And do I really want to read Proust's seven part essay when instead I could read some Brit lit that really lights me up? Life is short…read what you want.

Love Thyself. At least as much as I love others (or even more, according to some Buddhist teachings I've been reading). I tend to be quite compassionate towards those I love. I empathize with LO if she's angry or frustrated and therefore acts like a she-devil. Yet if I'm a pain in the arse, I tend to embark on a self-loathing journey that usually ends with tears and poofy eyes. Lately it has occurred to me that if I directed some of that compassion towards myself, I would get over my pissy mood faster and spare myself the self deprecation. Perhaps I could be kinder to myself. Become a real pal to myself. Take it easy on me.

Embrace Aging. I'm starting to see wrinkles on my forehead. Crap. I got one grey hair on the right side of my head. Boo. I see some varicose veins creeping up on my legs. Yikes.  I love short shorts. What to do? I'm not delusional. I know that 30 does not classify me as old. Not even close…right? Of course not! Yet, one can not deny that some things do not look like they used to in their more youthful state. I plan on battling this by BOTOX, what else? No, not really (not yet). My plan is to remind myself that I will never be this young ever again. Each day I only get older, so I may as well appreciate it for all it is. Tiny varicose veins and all. Because one day, my legs may look like one of LO's crazy sketches - blue lines haphazardly intersecting eachother. At least today, I am quite firm and wrinkle-free. So I'll wear those shorts.

I hope I learn much more than these three things. But it's a good starting point. Plus, LO woke up from her nap and there is a birthday to celebrate, after all.

Lots of love.

J

New Year - New You

"We wish you a Merry Missmas, We wish you a Merry Missmas, We wish you Merry Missmas and a happy new YOU!"

This is exactly how LO sings, err... dictates, the song. No matter that we're well into January, she still insists on bestowing upon us her new lyrical mastery of this classic number... as well as Jingle Bells. It is difficult for a two-year-old to grasp the concept of passage of time and the disturbing reality that the "Missmas" tree can't illuminate our lives all year long. And although I let her get away with entering the kitchen with her plastic pink pumpkin in hand and joyfully yelling "Trick or Treat" until December, I had to put the kabosh on keeping the Christmas tree up past the second week of January. I have my limits. So singing these songs may be her way of holding onto this holiday until the next one comes.

Speaking of holding on...
Do you ever want to make a copy of your life (or at the very least, the best moments) for posterity? Wouldn't it be amazing to be a Kardashian only for having access to footage of all those moments that will eventually get lost in the minutia of daily life (having access to all that moola wouldn't be bad either)? Tonight, P (in a navy blue Adidas soccer shirt) and LO (in her zebra pjs that say "need my zzz's") had the sweetest, most tender, yet most insignificant and quite forgettable moment. She sat on his knee, her feet dangling off the ground, giving him kisses on the cheek before bedtime. It wasn't Christmas morning, a birthday, or her first day of school. It was just a regular old Saturday night. But witnessing the embrace filled me with such joy that it may as well have been my freaking birthday - circa 1992 when I went to Roller King and rocked out to Kris Kross "Jump Jump." Now that was a good birthday.  Anyhow, I ran off for the camera, intent on not letting this moment dissolve, only to return to LO pulling P's hair and giggling. Tender moment gone - replaced by the more customary goofy moment. So I instructed them to do it again. Take 2. But it just wasn't the same. So I missed it after all.

Or did I? I was there. I felt the sudden and immense rush of love that only these two people can evoke in me. And although I may never remember the exact pjs LO was wearing or what day of the week it was or anything about it for that matter - the memory is imprinted in my soul.

With that, this new year, the new me will try to live right now. I will trust that my life is in the now and that the past is gone and the future ain't here. So all I have is now....which amounts to a whole damn lot!

Happy New You, everybody!

Potty Power

I'm not going to lie...I thought it would be a cinch. After all, historically speaking, LO has reached all of the milestones early and easily. Crawling - check. Walking - check. Talking - check. Potty training - no DICE.

The first day that I sat her on the toilet, she delivered - #1 and #2, nonetheless.  I was ecstatic. Why did I read any books? Why did I over think the strategy? In her nonchalant way, she just did it. Visions of Dora underwear and diaper bag-free outings danced in my head. Wait, I didn't even make a big deal when I changed her last diaper. I didn't have a chance to really appreciate the last pooped diaper. Much like the last time I nursed her. I didn't know it was going to be the last. I decided at 15 months that I should start the weaning process. My strategy was to not offer but not to deny. I never had to deny her...she never asked. And just like that, my boobs were mine once again. Ungratefully returned to me in a very saggy, sad state. Thanks LO.

Except PT has not been anything like our nursing finale. She is severely stalling. Actually it has come to a complete halt. She did it that once and has kept me anxiously awaiting another delivery. That was a month ago.

The real kicker is that she completely understands the entire process. She has become quite the potty expert. Her favorite movie du jour is "Potty Power" (an ultra cheesy video made in the 80's that I checked out of the library...she's going to be devastated when I return it). Assuredly she chants the mantra "No more diapers for me" and marches around the room screaming "I'm proud to wear my underwear!"

Yet she has no interest in giving up her diapers and wearing underwear. She is perfectly content to wake from her nap, yelling "Mama, poo poo. I have poo poo." So what the Hades is going on?!?! It would be easier to accept if she didn't show any interest or if she didn't comprehend it.

She even cheers P on when she walks in on him peeing. She'll cheer "GO PAPA', GO PAPA'" and then claps and hollers "YAY" when he's done. She's literally cheering from the sidelines.

Mama is counting down the days before she decides to step it up and get on the field!  Meanwhile I have the diaper bag fully stocked.

L-O-V-E

He grew on me. Little by little, day by day, until he became ingrained in me. I can't pinpoint the exact moment or even the month when it happened, but around 12 years ago, I knew. I had a partner. Forever.

I had only just turned 21 when we got engaged. I was still a kid. Bright-eyed and anxious to begin "really" living. I craved adventure, independence and purpose. It's quite paradoxical that I would want to enter into a lifelong commitment - in the Catholic Church nonetheless - where they make it essentially impossible to reverse the deal.  But it made perfect sense to me.

We drove out west to Cali in a half-empty UHAUL, with nothing but $1000 in the bank (mostly from wedding gifts) and an amazingly generous uncle with a spare bedroom. There we were: newlyweds, on bunk beds, snuggling on the full-size bed on the bottom while using the top bunk for storage.

Fast-forward 5 years and we're headed back on I-10 East in an overflowing UHAUL with contents ranging from a baby crib to a foosball table. We're far from being settled but that's how we've liked it so far.  I'm not sure I ever want to be settled. It makes me anxious. See, I have many commitment phobias: to cities, to jobs, even to a particular cocktail. Sometimes it's a simple scotch and soda and at others a fancy French 75. It depends on the mood, the lighting, the weather. I have often wished I could be that girl with a signature look - like Gwen Stefani with that red lipstick or Katherine Hepburn with those killer pantsuits. I'm much too fickle for any of that.

Yet I never once had an inkling of a doubt to commit to P. Why? Was it a cosmic connection? My soulmate? Destiny? The romantic, Jane Austen-loving fool in me would like to think so. What I must have always known was that a life with P meant a life of freedom. Because when you're loved so honestly by another you cannot help but feel free to love yourself.  The good, the bad, the neurotic, the emotional human being that is me - I feel free to be me!  

I know we do a lot of stupid things when we are young but marrying P was the smartest thing I ever did.

Give + Take

"Making a decision to have a child - it's momentous. 

It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body"

Elizabeth Stone, author. 

I read this somewhere and it has stuck with me. It describes motherhood exactly, precisely - does it not? Tiny tears form in my eyes as I write this. I attempt to conceal them for fear of being discovered. Fear of those around me catching on that I am in LOVE.  Crazily, intoxicatingly IN LOVE with my LO.   

While lazily sipping my latte, as I often do while LO is at school, the quote came to mind. Is it even possible to be so overcome with love? To be so full that it feels as though your heart will just burst out of your chest and begin walking about in the shape of a majestic, little brown-eyed creature. There are times when just the thought of my LO makes me feel giddy, mushy, beaming with pure euphoric joy. And I realize I have the goofiest grin on my face.

Is it this exact feeling that accounts for women since the beginning of time, enduring the many physical discomforts (sore nipples are no joke, people) and down-right hideous pain of labor?  In those last contractions before LO entered the world, I thought I would soon be exiting it. I thought I couldn't endure anymore and that I would literally die from labor pains, not from complications but from the actual gut-wrenching contractions. Why would I do this to myself (with P's help, of course)?!!?

But I didn't die and the instant I curled my arms around her tiny, slimy body, I had my answer.

It's so inexplicable that a little thing that takes and takes and needs so much ends up giving you so much in return. I knew that now as a mother it was my turn to put my child first, as my mother always did for me. I was prepared to enter into a very non-symbiotic relationship. I would be the "GIVER" and LO would be the "TAKER." That was my expectation and I was ready.

What I wasn't expecting was to feel so grateful to her for giving me...I don't know...what does she give me exactly?  I take care of her every need which in a day can add up to many, many dirty bowls and corresponding diapers. It is a demanding job, this parenting business. Which is why it takes me exactly 20 seconds to fall asleep once my head hits the pillow. She certainly does not make my life easier (just putting on my makeup in the morning required me to purchase her own "makeup kit" to end the struggle), she does not compliment my many virtues (ha!), she does not even laugh at my silly jokes. Sounds like a terrible boyfriend! So I guess in the traditional sense of relationships, she does not give me much. It might even be termed "unhealthly" or "one-way" or whatever other terms people use to identify a severely disproportional relationship.

Yet I have never felt so fulfilled. So full of purpose and enthusiasm. So light. So loving. So confident in my place in this crazy world.

All that she's given me.  So who's the "TAKER" now?

Terribly Terrific Twos

It seems that from the moment you announce your pregnancy you are bombarded with cautionary tales about the most dreaded stage of childhood: The Terrible Twos.  Now isn't the point of a cautionary tale to forewarn you so can avoid the catastrophe? Here's the catch - there is NO escaping the Terrible Twos. If your child reaches the landmark age of two, you will basically be living with a bipolar, irrational, emotionally unstable (sounds like Lindsay Lohan) little tyrant until..._____??  Can other parents fill in the blank? Please say it ends soon. Feel free to lie.

LO becomes possessed with The Terrible Twos sporadically. She can have one wonderful episode-free day followed by the exact opposite.  I have long ago accepted that LO will misbehave...and often. That she will test every limit and push every boundary. It's in her precocious nature. But these Terrible Twos look very different from her usual mischief.

She's weepy. She's overly sensitive. She grins and immediately frowns. It's like living with Sybil...which LO am I going to get?? My fun-loving, goofy girl or LO the Lunatic? I know it sounds harsh but it really IS harsh. It's hard to witness. Especially if you're new to the game as I am.

I hug her tight and reassure her that she will someday cope better with all these emotions. Sometimes she accepts the hug and other times she stomps away in a fury.  It's difficult to accept that I can't "fix" it. When LO was a restless newborn, P and I bounced her on a huge exercise ball for hours on end to soothe her. When she was crawling and her knees would get scraped up, I discovered baby leg warmers. When she began interacting with other kids and a toy was yanked from her, I would distract her with another toy. I cannot distract her from this. It's an insult to her intelligence. It is very real and she's needs to go through it. I'm just on the sidelines with open arms. Alas, I try to remind myself that I've never heard the term "Terrible Threes."

At her two-year check up, her pediatrician asked about her general health and development. Thankfully, all is great on that front. When I mentioned her new emotional state and the accompanying "symptoms," he chuckled and shrugged. "That's all perfectly normal," he said. He went on to explain that the toddler and adolescent stages are the most emotionally tumultuous times in one's life. Then I remembered my high school days and suddenly sympathized with LO. That is a rough time.  Poor thing.

I'll be here now and when she's an awkward pre-teen with braces (she'll definitely be awkward and need braces if she's at all like me).  To hug her or to get the door slammed in my face. Either way, I'll be right there.

Still rocking the leg warmers. 

Concierge

Lately I find myself contemplating my next career move. Where does one go from being on a set for 14 hours a day, fanning down a sweaty, tomato-faced stunt man after he just flew out of a window in full armor? What job will fulfill my need for adventure and my addiction to being around eccentric, dramatic people? 

LO is certainly eccentric (running around the house with her diaper on her head) and she has all my Hollywood peeps beat in the dramatic department. She flings herself on the floor, instant tears spilling down her face, after a raisin falls out of her hand. Everything is so tragic at our household these days. 

Oh no, the episode of Yo Gabba Gabba finished: "WHAAA!" No you can't have another packet of fruit snacks: "WHAAA!!!."  Let's comb your hair: "WHAAA!!!  And yesterday I had the audacity of cheerfully saying "Good morning, my angel face" to which she threw herself in the crib and wailed "WHAAAA!" It's going to be a long day, I thought. 

And it was. 

But nobody is paying me to do this job. In fact, I'M paying a pre-school to get a break for a few hours.

So I need to find something that will have a financial benefit - not a liability - as a financial magazine once harshly but honestly defined children. They are expensive little creatures.  

And then it hit me: I need to be a concierge. Basically, that is my job description now. I meet the requests or more precisely - the demands - of a very discerning and difficult "guest". And I usually deliver on most with poise and grace (ok, that may be a stretch but I get the job done). 

For instance, as I was pulling out of our apartment and onto our street (which happens to be the feeder road of a busy freeway) LO screeches "GASSES, GASSES, peeze." At least I got a please. And no, the request has nothing to do with a bodily function. Luckily we are not at that gross stage yet or maybe we'll miss that altogether because she's girl? Anyhow, she's asking for her sunglasses. On our drive home from the hospital, little newborn LO squinted her eyes annoyingly at the sun in her face. I proudly exclaimed to P that she's just like me! She's definitely mine because she hated the sun in her eyes. Two years later, she's still the same. If the sun hits directly in her eyes, she'll scream in horror "Light, light" and cover her eyes with her hands.  

So as I try to avoid a collision with a zooming car, I reach in the backseat pocket to get her Dora glasses. What's next? A few moments later "Fiwawoak, Fiwawoak." She's asking for her jam of the moment, Katy Perry's "Firework." I put on the CD that P burned with all her favorites. Check. 

"AGUA, AGUA!" echoes from the backseat. "How do you ask?," I retort. "Agua, Agua, PEEZE." I reach into the fully stocked diaper bag beside me and hand her the sippy cup. She takes a swig.

"SNACK, SNACK!" "No snacks until we get to the park," I say. "SNACK, peeze," she beckons. 

"Nice words, LO, but you may not have a snack until the park," I answer.  Silence.  She got it. 

"SNACK, Mama, PEEEZE." Maybe not. When the explanation tactic doesn't work, I move onto the distraction tactic.  I reach in the car toy bag and pull out a book. "Would you like a book?" She gives me an enthusiastic "YEAH."

And we're barely at the first stop light on our journey to the park. It's going to be a long ride. 

Bring it!