Back From the Depths...

So here I am again. House, empty of guests. Stomach, empty of everything. Well, that's not entirely true. I am pretty much on the mend and apparently mentally stable enough not to equate all food intake with inevitably tossing it back up, as I did in 8th grade. So that's good (although it is a blow to my plan to buy new, smaller-sized jeans). After two days of basically gatorade and gingerale, and another two days of chicken soup and a few bites of mashed potatoes, my stomach has given me the green light to eat whatever again, but in small amounts. What I WON'T be eating again, I promise you, is the shrimp and crab salad at California Pizza Kitchen (::shudder::) I am fairly certain that was a culprit of said vomit-attack and if I never step foot in that restaurant again, I'm confident I'll be happier for it. Which is actually a shame because their goat cheese and caramelized onion pizza? To die for. But not literally, know what I mean?

If there is a silver lining, it's that it must have been food poisoning rather than the stomach bug that seems to be currently kicking the ass of everyone in Southern California because no one else in my immediate world ended up hurling into buckets after coming in contact with me. At least I am relieved that I didn't infect my loved ones with that plague because I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy (I say that just so you'll think I'm super nice; I can really think of a few people who could use a night with their head in the toilet).

But anyway, how about some pictures of the little man, eh? It's been awhile since I talked about him in much detail, and after all, he's what this blog is supposed to be about in the first place. So, behold...

Ethan apparently growing his hair out to complete his plan to go as Donald Trump for Halloween...

A mid-air Croc moment.

The Little Red Wagon o' Hope...

Grammy, Grampy & Ethan check out the musicians at a Santa Barbara street fair.

The evil pirate Ethan McGee buries his prisoner up to the ankle as the tide comes in...

Aaaand here's my child cozying up to a toddler bed in IKEA. Yes. He won't sleep at home, but bring him to a crowded multi-level shopping center filled to the gills with Scandinavian-crafted household wares and suddenly he's ready for a snoooze.

Seriously, kid. Yer killing me. How about pulling this "tuck self in!" business at home once in awhile, huh?

Ethan's first taste of cotton candy (4 out of 5 dentists agree--we are bad parents). He was not impressed, so that should save us a cavity or two.

Hollywood's newest cross-dressing celebutante...

Um, hello creepy wall-spider stalking my child at Little Gym...

Mmmmm, pretty ball pit o' germs...

Never too early to start practicing for the 2020 Summer games

Dahling, bring me a bit more sun-screen, I'm shphitzing here...

Ethan has officially grown tired of his mother snapping pictures all. day. long.

Irony, thy name is Sarah....

I'd love to tell you about the rest of our week, how Ethan had a blast at the park with a bunch of new friends, and how excited we are to have friends from home visiting us from home, but I can't.

You see, for the past 12+ hours, I've been sitting on a toilet AND puking into a waste bucket. Ironic, no? I can no longer claim, as in my last post, to have only thrown up twice in my life, because last night, I got in a whole lifetime's worth. And let's just say that multi-tasking, in that department, is the single most disgusting experience of my life. Makes what Billy Beaulieu did in the 8th grade look like a hiccup. I may never eat again.

And while I feel hideous right at this moment, I have to admit there was a tiny little glimmer of "if I drop 20lbs from the fear of doing that again, I might actually be able to invest in a pair of True Religions. Oh, sweet jeans." But that's a whole other blog so I'll leave it alone here.

So the mystery is--food poisoning or stomach bug. The storm hit within an hour of eating dinner last night (and seriously, I can't even tell you what I ate because given what the last 15 hours have been like, I want to block it from my memory, forever). Let's just say, California Pizza Kitchen is OFF my list. Buh-bye. But then, Ethan did throw up on Monday, so perhaps he really did have a stomach bug (although it was nothing like this in severity, thank goodness) and passed it on to me? I don't know.

I do know that I have a houseful of guests arriving in 30-some odd hours and I am praying that it's food poisoning because really--who wants to spend their vacation bringing me glasses of Gatorade and scrubbing their own hands raw in an effort to avoid the sickies?? Bad hostess, bad!

And with that, I will crawl back into bed until the toilet and bucket beckon again.

Exorcism on Ventura

So. We have to move. In the land of beautiful people and unreachable standards, my child did the unthinkable—he projectile vomited on Ventura Avenue, amidst the pretty little boutiques and coffee shops. I’m fairly certain I can never show my face in this town again.

Moments before it happened, we were taking an idyllic walk, mama pushing jogging stroller down the busy street, smiling at people and making small talk to people in shops. Ethan happily talking to his “police car”, which is actually a die-cast metal red & white mustang. No sirens. No lights. It looks more like the General Lee than transport for an officer of the law, but I dig the kid’s imagination, so we go along with the police car thing.

Ethan’s latest “go ahead and bribe me with it; I dare you” treat is the iced blended lemonade at Starbucks. I’m sure there’s some form of Starbucks top-secret marketing strategy to suck in the stay-at-home-mom set by offering icy beverages laced with powered animal crackers and Advanced Good Start or something, because this child could live on nothing but the blended lemonade. And of course, mama gets the chai. Sneaky Starbucks bastards.

So after stopping in Urban Outfitters (which I have sadly decided has become far too young and hip for me to be able to wear without looking comical) and Barnes and Noble, we began to amble home for a late afternoon of throwing rocks from the backyard into the sand and water table (riveting, you say? Indeed). We got a block down Ventura when I hear Ethan alternately whimpering and belching those awful, echo-y “here comes the vomit” burps. And then all hell ensued.

Let me tell you a little bit about me and vomit (I realize this is something you could probably go very happily the rest of your life not knowing, but bear with, mkay?). We do NOT get along. I knew girls in college who vomited like it was their job, either because of binge drinking or the ever-popular bulimic purging. At house parties, I’ve seen people simply lean over porch railings, puke it on out, pop a piece of gum and get back to business. At clubs and bars, friends have excused themselves from dancing or racaous conversations, gone to the rest room and returned with, “Man, I just threw up so bad in there!” and they’re off and running again.

For me? Puking is a day-ending event. If I vomit, that’s it. Show’s over, thanks for coming. Show yourself out. Buh-bye. I only have conscious memory of throwing up twice in my life and they were in the last 3 years. Bachelorette parties. Mother nature’s way of telling me that I am old and should act my age. I heard her loud and clear, apparently, as she echoed her disapproval of my behavior ‘round and ‘round my head in a big ceramic bowl. Good times.

“Sarah! That’s impossible,” you say. You HAVE to have puked as a kid or a teenager, or while you were pregnant. Or something. But no. I have had, for most of my life, an abject terror of throwing up. Once, in 8th grade, Billy Beulieu puked in class, in the row in front of me. I realized at that point (well, after he passed out, hit his head on the side of a desk and laid there bleeding in his vomit), that I’d never thrown up. It looked to be GAWD-AWFUL and I vowed at that point I would do whatever it took to ensure that I never, ever, ever did “that”.

So I stopped eating. For a month. It was pretty easy considering every time I thought about eating, the image of Billy lurching forward and spraying his desk with the contents of his stomach plastered itself across my mind’s eye and that pretty much killed any hunger I might have felt. I managed to nibble on buttered toast and the occasional cup of chicken noodle soup, but nothing else passed my lips until enough time had passed since poor Billy’s stomach flu, and my ability to conjure the imagery of the scene started to fade.

But the fear of it hasn’t left me. The two times I did throw up in my life were absolutely terrifying for me, and if I could have run screaming from myself, I would have. Or if I could have bartered my way out of puking in exchange for, oh, a root canal or appendectomy, I would have seriously considered it. I’m not the type to hold back a friend’s hair while the throw up; I unapologetically head in the other direction if someone so much as hints that they might be feeling sick.

So this is a huge challenge for me as a parent. I hear those gurgling belches that threaten what is to come and I throw back the visor of the jogging stroller to discover, as a testament to my phenomenal mothering skills, Ethan has already vomited once. The traffic and hustle of the street apparently drowned out the sound of it, so I’m just aware in time for the second act. Poor little man.

And the second act? And the third? A visual spectacle for the entire street, my friends. It’s safe to say we completely skeeved out a pair of “The Hills”-esque blonde girls in their early 20’s who may never have children now, because, ew. A poor 10-year old boy who was walking by with his father will likely have nightmares of my child doing his Linda Blair impression for the next several nights.

And me? At a total loss. Aren’t kids supposed to puke into toilets and buckets? Or where there are towels handy to wipe them down and faucets to splash water on their faces? What’s this puking in the middle of a busy street where mama barely has a travel-sized packet of wipes to clean you off??!! I did a lot of “oh, honey. Oh, Ethan. Honey. Oh no!”-ing.

That was super helpful. Or maybe not so much.

What was actually helpful was the jogging stroller. Since the BOB is like the Lincoln Town Car of jogging strollers, it is way bigger than it has any right being. Lucky for us, Ethan vomited right into the foot rest of the stroller and I didn’t have to do any awkward hemming and hawing about, “Do I leave the vomit on the sidewalk or try to clean it up?!” or whistling and looking around feigning cluelessness as I pushed his stroller away from the scene of said vomit attack. Oh no; it was all nicely contained for me to take with us. Lucky.

I pushed Ethan’s feet up so he was sitting cross-legged in the stroller (after I took his shoes off—they are so, so ruined.) and then for the first time in a long time, actually jogged, down Ventura to our street. Poor Ethan, I just wanted to get him away from al the staring people. Sure, I was mortified for myself as well, but vomiting is such an awful out of control feeling, I can’t imagine having people looking at you during and after such an nasty experience.

So when we get to our block, I stop, take Ethan out of the stroller, stinky stench and all, strip him down to his diaper and carry his weepy, weak body home in one arm while I push the pram o’ puke with the other. Thank god none of the neighbors were anywhere to be seen.

Ten minutes later? He was fine. Asking for food, running around. No fever, no more indication of sickness. Hrm. By the end of the evening, the only sign of there having been a problem at all was the BOB stroller drying out in the backyard after having been power-hosed down by a gagging mother and the little blue crocs sitting in the front yard because I’m sure as hell not touching them.

Husband and I figure it wasn’t a bug or anything he ate. We think he gagged himself on the iced blended lemonade straw and set off a chain-reaction that just had to run it’s course. So I guess we’re going to need to find a new “go ahead and bribe me with it; I dare you” treat. Because once you’ve seen the blended lemonade come back up (along with what was left of lunch), three times in a row? Not such a treat anymore.

Therapy: It's All Fun & Games...

until the therapist asks you the tough questions.

So, after a few weeks of uncharacteristically crazy behavior (and believe me, I'm not winning any awards for my mellowness even at my most chill) and some parenting that made me look like I graduated Magna Cum Laude from the Joan Crawford School of Shitastic Parenting for the Bat-shit Crazy, I decided it was time to seek clarity and some Zoloft-y solace from a professional. So I whipped out my reliable google-fingers and located someone within walking distance. As an aside, seriously with the "walking distance". With all the walking I've done here, how am I not rivaling Nicole Ritchie in a boniness competition?? Oh. Well, it might be because as I type I am sipping an English breakfast tea that's probably more half and half than water. Oh, and eating a cookie. Um. That solves that cunundrum.

My last therapist was nice, and she was great to talk to. I have no complaints about her; she let me spill my guts about a lot of stuff while I was seeing her. We participated in more of a weekly gab-fest than therapy, I think. She never asked me anything tough, really. I don't really remember many questions at all, come to think of it. So I walked into this appointment last week expecting to just chat and give some background about myself and what circumstances had led to me getting my crazy on in the past month or so.

And for the most part, I did. I talked about our move, and how sad I am still when I wake up on Thursday mornings and realize that 3,000 miles away, so many of my friends and their little ones are at play group while Ethan and I stare at each other, trying to figure out what to do with our time, me secretly hoping I can make it to noon without bursting into tears or yelling at Ethan for, oh I don't know, thinking that it would be super cool to play target practice with the cat and his sippy cup (sippy as projectile; he can't pick up the cat....yet).

(wow. that was all one sentence? Can you tell my teaching license has expired?)

So we got through that, and I glossed over the whole PPD episode because even though she's a therapist, that sort of talk seemed more like 3rd date material, know what I mean?

But she came back to it. In a big way. With, "Are you sure you should have another child?"

Um. Wow. Can you say "shut down"? My brain clamped shut with the only reaction I could fathom having. Pure and utter disbelief and insult. I mean, really. Who asks that??!!

Oh, a therapist.

She asked towards the end of my session, so I didn't really have a lot of time to do anything but stagger through "well, we've always wanted two kids. and I'd be on medication for the PPD. and yes, two kids. Two." I'm sure the word she wrote down on her notepad was "textbook". Which I hate, because of all the things I could be described as in this world, I hate to be "textbook" (which in an of itself is probably, um, textbook).

Over the past several days, though, I've been quietly ruminating over this question, picking it apart and examining my motivation.

There is the pregnancy to consider. For some crazy, kicked-in-the-head stupid reason, I loved being pregnant. Nevermind the first three months of constant panic that somethinganythingeverything will go wrong. I distinctly recall that I didn't go to the bathroom once for fourteen weeks without checking for blood on the paper. And the two times I found it? Fear down to my toenails. And the bedrest? Fourteen weeks in bed. Two of it in the hospital. But then there was also watching my belly grow, and feeling Ethan move around in there, for the first time, the hundredth time, the last time. The thought of doing all of that again, with a toddler? Makes my head hurt.

And Ethan's newborn phase? Dark times, my friends. I hate to admit that. It's hard for me to admit just how tough it was. Very few people know, but the first few weeks he was home, I would lock myself in the bathroom, sit in the tub, cry, and wrack my brain trying to figure out how to convince Husband that we should give Ethan to my friend Karen because she and her husband had been trying for years to get pregnant with no success. Seriously. It seemed perfectly rational to me that Karen should have Ethan--she so desperately wanted a child and I had somehow ended up with one that I didn't know what to do with. (Even now I write that with a cringe in my heart that you will all be aghast and horrified; but there it is).

The tears I cried then were the tears of a woman who hated herself for not being madly in love with her baby, and they were also the tears of a woman in shock at the "no going back"ness of it all.

There's simply no way to prepare for how your life ceases to be what it once was when you become responsible for the well-being of another human being. Prior to Ethan's being born, I was, well, more than a bit self-centered and I can admit that I bordered on spoiled, in that I basically could do what I wanted, when I wanted, how I wanted.

Motherhood, at least initially, changes that so completely that I think a lot of those tears were withdrawal symptoms, grieving the old me, to make room for the new me. She is, in fact, a better version of me, and I'm so glad to have made room for her. I have seen a lot of moms fight the rebirth of self they go through after having a child and I'm glad that, though it was painful, I let myself go into that cocoon and come out on the other side. And, having done that once, In a way, i don't expect to go through that sense of loss-of-self as intensely a second time around.

Stephanie talks in her book Sippy Cups Are Not For Chardonnay about being the mom who doesn't fall madly in love with her child from the moment s/he come screaming out of your body. I was that mom. It took me a long time to feel that intense love. It took me a long time to feel anything but exhaustion, frustration, disconnectedness and resentment. That? I don't want to feel again. If I knew there was no way around that feeling again, the answer to the therapist's question would be a resounding "NO. I should never, ever, ever do that again."



And I won't. Not that. The reality is that having a complicated pregnancy and a newborn IS tough. It is mind-numblingly challenging. And I'm sure with a toddler in the mix, it is exponentially more fraught with craziness-inducing difficulties. But back then? I had no identity as a mother.

Pregnancy and new motherhood forces you into roles for which you can't prepare, for which there is no personal compass. Sure, you can read every book ever written on the subject, but it's no substitute for experience. And now, at least to some degree, while I'm not old Mother Hubbard, I've had some experience, and I know, at least to some extent, what to expect of myself and of the journey.

And beyond all of what I know now, Husband is going to be the PPD police. You can be sure of that.

(And just so we're clear, I look at Ethan now and I can't fathom that there was ever a cell in my body that didn't just hurt with love for him. There is a little piece of guilt tucked away in my heart for always that I didn't immediately know just how phenomenal he was and that I didn't beam with love for him from the very get-go. But that love, when it does (finally, thank god!) take over, is the most intense emotion I've ever felt. I'm not sure I can imagine how my heart could grow enough to love another one as much as I love him, but I've seen it happen, so I have to believe it's possible.)


I also don't think our choice to have two children is based on the idea of having two babies. For some, babyhood is the part you have to go through to get to the "good stuff". Don't get me wrong, I do look forward to having another sweet, tiny, cuddly newborn wrapped in receiving blankets and nursing at my breast. Many of the things that caused me such angst then have smoothed out around the edges in my memory. No, I didn't sleep more than an hour or two at a time, but I laughed at Conan O'Brien a LOT during those first few months.

For us, having two children is about having two children, not about going through pregnancy or infancy twice. Yes, we have to do that to get to where we want to be. But it's the kids--playing together in the backyard, horsing around under the dining room table under a tent of blankets, building sandcastles together at the beach, and probably beating the snot out of each other on a daily basis for several years. That's why we want two kids. It's about watching two people learn from us, each other, the world around them, to see who they turn into and watch that development in the coming years; hopefully contributing to it in some positive way.

It's so that over holiday dinners years from now, they can tell stories to their wives or husbands and children about what crazy things they did to each other as kids. If they are like Husband and his sister, they will commandeer each other's memories so that wild and unresolvable arguments about whose memory it actually is will ensue to the point of absolute hilarity. It's so that when we are old and they are faced with losing us, that they should have each other to lean on. So that they are never alone.

I couldn't put all of that together when she first asked if we "should" have another child. All I could do was stammer and read her question as a condemnation of the depressed woman who shouldn't torture herself, her husband, toddler and newborn with her own craziness at going through the process again. And I'd like to promise that I won't go through any of that again. That next time I will breeze through it all with the grace and aplomb of a natural earth-mother. I'm not sure I will, though. There could be some craziness in the forecast. But just like now I know the colic will stop and the exhaustion will stop, I know the feelings of darkness can come with new motherhood will also stop, and that I can do something about it before I ever find myself crying in a dry bathtub trying to figure out on whom I can pawn off my newborn (especially since Karen has her beautiful and perfect Sammy now).

So, yes. I should. We should. And hopefully, we will.

It's All About MeMe...

Thanks to you all for the words of encouragement in the past week, both about nasty Bitchmom in my class and my whole "ABBA made me cry because I am a full-on lunatic" post the other day. I really do appreciate hearing from you (and Liz, if you read this, I tried to email you but it bounced back--email me!)

And now, a meme. Sarah tagged me to share 6 unspectacular quirks about myself with you all (as if this whole blog isn't one big freakshow as it is?!) And then I have to tag 6 others. So I tag Tress , Amy, KMW (maybe that will get you to post something, huh, woman?!), Crystal, Lindsay, and Becca.

1. My favorite flower is the snapdragon. Because they talk. My grandmother taught me when I was a little girl that if you press on the sides of a snapdragon the right way, they open up like little mouths. At 36 years old, I still can't walk by a snapdragon without making it converse with the snapdragon next to it.

2. I don't know how to make a hyperlink in my blog. If I manage to get this posted with the above tagged people in hyperlink form, it's only because I made Husband do it. Please. I'm useless with the tech stuff.

3. I was way more attracted to the old guys in Mama Mia than to the young Greek hottie. I think I'm officially old.

4. I spent years growing my bangs out; now I want bangs again, but I hate the feeling of hair on my face. Damn.

5. The only thing I miss about work is the commute. I love driving, NPR and music. I don't get nearly enough of any of them anymore.

6. Tori & Dean? My favorite show. 'Nuff said.

(oh, and if the hyperlinks worked, yay for me! I figured out how to do it. But I can't delete that quirk because that would mean having to come up with a replacement quirk and dammit, it's almost time for Tori & Dean...)

Why Mama Might Need Prozac...

Remember my therapist in Virginia? The one who told me I might want to lay off the caffeine after our first session and who told me, in the midst of my moving angst, that she didn't think I *required* medication to cope with the transition? Remember her? Yeah, well perhaps she should have cozied up to me on Thursday evening at the movie theater to witness my totally inappropriately timed emotional meltdown, brought on by...ABBA.

Yeah, that might have been the tip off she needed to see that "gee, this chick is a hot mess and could benefit from something to take the edge off."

It was our anniversary, and Husband indulged my (and possibly, to a much lesser degree, his) girly side, and took me to see "Mama Mia", the movie adaptation of the Broadway musical based on ABBA's music. Being a child of the 70's, there are two musical nostalgic certainties in my life: ABBA and the BEE-GEEs. I have very clear childhood memories of singing along to my K-Tel ABBA record, in all it's vinyl glory. I thought blue eye-shadow, feathered hair and shiny lycra bodysuits were the pinnacle of beauty. Never was there a more reliable microphone and audience than my hairbrush and mirror--cliche? Very. But true.

I always have a hard time getting into musical theater or film. The initial rush of embarrassment for the actors, because, dude, you just broke out into song out of NOWHERE, needs to wear off before I can really settle in and enjoy it. It is such a huge deal for me to suspend my disbelief in such a way as to accept this spontaneous burst into song and perfectly choreographed dance that I giggle like an 8th grade boy when they hear someone say something like, "Thank goodness it's "hump" day!"

But eventually I settle down (which is more than I can say for boys--my 33 year old husband still giggles when he hears the word "duty". Whatever, Chandler.) As a matter of fact, once after showing West Side Story to a group of my freshmen students while studying Romeo & Juliet, I offered extra credit to anyone in the class who could, within the context of our course material, successfully break into spontaneous song and dance. A couple of kids took the bait, asking questions about the assigned homework in out-of-key warbles while boogying around their desks. I don't think I ever giggled so hard in the class room, but I did give them their extra credit, because, please. That takes balls.

So anyway, the lights go down, the corny singing starts, Husband and I are giggling to each other about the cheesiness of it all. The whole movie is truly one giant karaoke orgasm. And then a washed up Meryl Streep is cajoled by her almost equally washed-up best friends to get dressed up in the garb of yesteryear, and they "Dancing Queen" themselves into oblivion through the town.

I do not know how or why, but my friends, I found myself BAWLING. Tears streaming down the face, ache in the tummy sort of crying. And all I could ponder as I wiped tear after tear away was, "What the hell is wrong with me?! This is cheesy and silly and funny. This is not tear-worthy. They look ridiculous up there!"

Oh yeah. I guess that's it. Cheesy. Silly. Fun. So incredibly outside of what I am these days.

I used to be these things. I'm not ashamed to admit that there were many Saturday nights in my early 30's when I could be found, microphone in hand, room spinning precariously, among a handful of my favorite girl friends, at the Peyote Cafe in Adam's Morgan, DC, straining to see the words on the karaoke machine, my contacts dry from hours of cosmos and cigarette smoke. Also, on more than one occasion, we could be found dancing on table tops at Cafe Citron in Dupont Circle after flirting shamelessly for free drinks from boys who didn't stand a chance with us. Those days, which started out as weekly events, slowly dwindled to every couple of months and then, as we hit our mid-thirties, were reserved for special occasions like bachelorette parties.

It's been three years since I did anything like that, and while I don't want to do it now (please, is there anything sadder than the aging party girl?), watching that scene of the movie pulled at a little piece of my lost self and reminded me of who I, at least in part, once was. And that part of me did more than shimmy to the bar with utter confidence that I'd be served the second I got there, or belt out the 80's hits with my best girls. I was simply a more confident, in control and happier "me". I was in my element. Not just in the bars, but in life.

I'm not in my element now. And I've found that not being in one's element presents a curious challenge. You can either sink into the mire of insecurities (I'll never make friends here; I'll never lose the weight; I'll never get pregnant again), or you can woman up and deal. I've not been dealing since we got here. I've had on a brave face for the most part, I think. But I find myself also doing things like needling Husband about his work hours and wondering why more friends from home aren't filling my email inbox with long and lamenting correspondence about how much they miss me. Poor me. I am sinking in the mire.

But I need to give it a rest and recapture that sense of myself that makes me feel whole, and get back into the game of being me. I used to be really good at it. But I think I might need some help. Maybe not from Prozac, but from someone who knows where I can get it, just in case...

Why I Hate People...

I really try to like them. I have often tried to be that person who never says or thinks a bad thing about another human. I cannot tell you how often my New Years Resolution is to become a genuinely, truly "nice" person, who can get along with everyone, and for whom the phrase, "not a mean bone in her body" would be a fitting description.

But alas, I am NOT that person and today I realized, it's not (just) because of me. I am not simply wired to be a snarky, semi-cynical grump. It's the fact that I'm just far too sensitive to the crappiness and all-around bitchitude of others to be Miss Mary Sunshine.

Never in my life have I striven to be more likeable than right now. I'm not trying to be someone I'm not or anything crazy like that--I know this isn't high school; I've gotten past that angst and I do believe that I am likeable as I am, but I'm definitely mindful of how I present myself to potential friends in this new environment. Which is everyone, basically. All the time. (well, probably not the woman at the table next to me in Panera clipping her fingernails, because....ew.) So perhaps the coming rant is justifiable only in that I was made to feel so utterly unlikeable today that a little piece of me shriveled up in humiliation.

Today was our Music Together class, which has been up to this point a bit of a roller coaster. Lovely to be in a class already; establishing a routine; something familiar for us, since we have taken several rounds of Music Together in the past year. Lovely to chat with some of the moms and realize that perhaps these are the early days of some wonderful future friendships. But not so lovely when your kid is, not the worst behaved in class (because there are some doozies), but at least the most aggressive. This new side of Ethan--the hitting, kicking, throwing sand side of him is really bumming me out, and I have found myself in the past several weeks falling all over myself to apologize to other moms and establish a time-out structure that actually feels like discipline to Ethan without being based in shame or humiliation. He's great at saying, "sorry", but I don't think he has the foggiest idea what he's apologizing for, nor is it clear to him that we're leaving parks and classes because he's just hit another toddler.

For the most part, other moms have been graciously understanding, sensing my abject horror at my child's behavior. That's, to some degree, the wonder of this sisterhood of motherhood (do I get points for how awkward that sounds?). If you have a child, you've either "been there", or you know you're destined for it sometime in the future. When I am groveling for forgiveness when my beast (and yes, I am a bad mother, my child answers to the name "beast" now) walks up to another toddler on the playground and just "thwack!"s him, most moms realize that I am simply them in another form, and that in ten minutes they could be dealing with the same "thwack-y" toddler themselves.

It is very much a "there, but for the grace go I" kind of experience. And most of us recognize that. We appreciate seeing the offending toddler's mom address the situation, because nothing gets our hackles up like seeing our child hurt (bodily or in feelings) without the situation being rectified, but unless the attack is egregious or results in real harm, the mom code says we stay out the game of disciplining another's child, lest we send that mother all kinds of "I'm better than you" signals and we know how we'd feel if sent that message ourselves.

I guess MomBitch in my Music Together class missed that "Sisterhood of Motherhood Memo" and today, she decided to have at me, via her child, during class.

We arrive at class early and with my best intentions to keep Ethan from messing with the window shutters. This was last week's debacle, as he instigated a mass exodus away from the song circle to the window shutters for a rousing game of "opencloseopencloseopenclose" that had many of the mothers looking at me like, "my child would never have done that if yours hadn't given him/her the idea." Joy.

So we sit as far from the windows as we can get without being outside in the parking lot. Perhaps the parking lot would have been a more productive place for us because shortly after we took our place, MomBitch and her Spawn come in and park themselves next to us. Spawn is wearing a shiny new pair of sneakers and the color captivates Ethan. Like a toddler captivated by a color (duh), Ethan attempts to touch the sneakers. Spawn is displeased with the attention and tries to move away. Understandable. Ethan follows him, on his knees, trying to touch the elusive sneakery goodness.

Of course, I call Ethan back, tell him to leave Spawn be, and begin to get up to retrieve my sneaker-stalking son. It's at this point that MomBitch decides to teach her child how to scold my child. "Spawn, tell Ethan not to be a naughty boy. Tell him to leave you alone; you don't want him touching you." Fortunately Spawn doesn't have the capacity for full sentences, and just keeps moving.

Perhaps you might have heard a loud "bang" at around 9:30am PST today. That would have been the sound of my jaw hitting the floor as this woman called my child "naughty". Or no, I'm sorry; told her son to call my child "naughty".

Mind you, this woman made no eye contact with me, nor did she attempt to respond to me when I picked Ethan up and said, "so sorry", having moved internally, in a nano-second from shock, to anger, to humiliation, to complete and utter self-loathing that I'm raising a "naughty" child.

Within minutes I have gravitated back to white-hot anger (because, please, I am an emotional time-bomb these days. shocking). How DARE she?! Right? Right? Thank you.

But that's not it. Later in the class, during "egg-shaker time" (shoot me. seriously.), Ethan decides that Spawn's shakers looked mighty good, and he makes a move for them. CLEARLY not okay, but also clearly toddler-appropriate behavior. So of course, I give it a second to work itself out, then call to Ethan to leave Spawn alone, and when that didn't work, I again get up, go to the middle of the circle, and collect my egg-shaker stealer, returning to our spot in the circle, again apologizing and having Ethan apologize as well.

What did MomBitch do during this? Well of course. Instruct her son once again to let my son know he's naughty, bad and mean. Brilliant. During the rest of class, I am sure the air temperature right around me was about 10 degrees higher than the rest of the room as I contemplated the passive-aggressive nastiness of a woman who would use her son as a mouth piece for her disapproval of my son's behavior. Especially when she can't bother to address me or respond to me addressing her.

I totally get teaching your child to advocate for him/herself--I think that's important and appropriate. But teaching your child that they have the power to label another child as "naughty" or "bad"??!! Step OFF, bitch.

And can I tell you what MomBitch did for most of the class? Let her child run around like a lunatic, ignoring it when herefused to hand in sticks and egg-shakers when the teacher asked, and she herself had to be asked several times not to talk during song time.

So I know the type of person I was dealing with, and over the course of the day, I've let my anger subside for the most part. But seriously. This is why there's a little part of me that just hates people, and has to start making peace with the fact that I will never be that "not a mean bone in her body" person; I said nothing to her (except for the attempts at apologizes that fell on deaf ears), but the thoughts about her that ran through my head for most of the rest of the day completely take me out of the running, I'd say forever, for "Miss Mary Sunshine".

Oh, and in "Sarah's First Earthquake" news...didn't even feel it. How is that possible??!! I was on Hollywood Blvd, being all touristy with my parents and Ethan, and somehow we felt nothing. 5.4 on the Richter scale. 0 on the Sarah scale.

Ah well.

One Month Later..

So it's closing in on one month since Husband, Ethan & I took this giant leap of insanity faith and I have to say that life in Los Angeles hasn't been quite as traumatizing as I had expected it to be.

Certainly I miss the comforts, familiarities, and of course the friendships and family of home. I also miss the Starbucks that was down the street from us in Arlington, where the baristas actually, I dunno, MADE your drinks when you ordered them. Here, they tend to unpack some muffins and clean out the frappaccino blenders after taking your order, seeming to be mulling it over until you're never quite sure they're actually going to bestow your grande skim chai upon you or what. Maybe they're giving me time to reconsider and go with the bottle of water instead, because, you know, this is LA.

Anyway, I've noticed several quirky things about Los Angeles (beyond the apparent obsession with donut shops & high colonics) and I'm not quite sure yet whether they amuse or annoy me.

1.) Traffic Lights--My father has a special talent for turning traffic lights red. I clearly recall from my childhood, driving in cars with my father and being amazed at his propensity for finding the red lights. A trip to my friend Laurel's house, when navigated by him, was at least a full ten minutes longer than if my mother were behind the wheel. I don't know why this was the case, but if Dad was driving and we were approaching a traffic light--it turned red. With staggering consistency. Any time we found ourselves sans Dad and still hitting the red lights, we would joke that Dad was hiding in the trunk of the car and that's why we couldn't get down the road any faster than one light at a time.

Apparently my father is in the trunk of my car, and all other cars on the road, at ALL times in Los Angeles because this city seems to have a strict "You get through one light at a time, Missy. Don't even THINK of speeding up to get through that yellow. It ain't gonna happen" rule. I'm fairly certain the brilliant civil engineers who planned the timing of the city's traffic lights are to blame for the hulking brown-grey clouds of smog that hang over the city. It's not the glut of cars on the freeways; it's the millions of cars idling at every. single. traffic. light in the city and then revving their engines in a futile attempt to sneak through the next light in the row before it shuts them down again. Driving to Target today, a mere five miles from my home, I was stopped at no fewer than ten traffic lights. Seriously, Dad, get OUT of my trunk.

2.) Weather reports--okay, what the hell is with three forecasts in one viewing area? How crazy is this? Apparently you've got your "Downtown" forecast, your "Valley" forecast and your "Beaches" forecast. Granted, the job is still a cake walk for a trained monkey, as each forecast is the same as it was the day before, but the vast difference in temperature is astounding to a girl from the East Coast, where the temperatures don't start to vary with any significance until you've gone from New Hampshire to Virginia. Here, ten miles is the difference between 75 and overcast and 95 and sunny.

3.) Cancer warnings--most of us are used to the warning labels on cigarettes. Sure. No one who's lighting up these days is remotely in the dark about the perils of puffing away. So sure, we have those warnings here. But we also have cancer warning labels on cars, restaurants, grocery stores. Apparently there is something call "Acrylamide" that is present in almost all foods that are cooked a certain way and apparently said "acrylamide" will kill ya or make you have babies with three heads. So any establishment that produces things like french fries is supposed to have a warning label at its entrane letting you know that consuming their food could be hazardous to your health. Yes, here in the state of California, thanks to Proposition 65, we are bombarded on a daily (perhaps hourly) basis with the reminder that EVERYTHING causes cancer and we're all going to die. Wicked cheerful.

4.) Priuses--or would that be Prii? Whatever the plural of Toyota's hybrid? Yeah. I think Husband & I moved here a little late because clearly we missed the great Prius give-away. Every other car on the road is one of these fuel efficient, innovative, Leonardo DiCaprio-approved automobiles. They are the rabbits of the automotive world here (and I don't mean Volkswagons; I mean horny little bunnies), as they seem to multiply in numbers by the day. There's a house down the street that I swear has spit out a new Prius every time I walk by. There is one parked in almost every driveway (no doubt while it's owner drives their Hummer other car to work). I fear that when I go to register my car here I'm going to find fine print that says I can only register a Nissan Murano if I pinky swear that my next car will be a Prius.

5.) Radio Stations--So, correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought, for better or for worse, Los Angeles was the entertainment capitol of our nation. Why is it then, that I cannot find a radio station here that plays music produced after, oh, let's say 1985? Holy armful of black rubber bracelets, Batman. If you want to hear Dead or Alive's "You Spin Me", Devo's "Whip It" or A-ha's "Take on Me", this is the place for you. Los Angeles' radio selections seem to be the product of some 80's throwback spending hours in his basement, pouring over vinyl LPs on a quest to create the perfect mixed tape. If you're interested in hearing Cold Play's "Viva LaVida", you're going to need to tune in someplace else, because unless you can time-warp them in, I think LA's got another 15 years before they start playing Cold Play.

It's so bizarre--clearly the influence of bands like Fall Out Boy are felt here; young men walk around with their dark hair awkwardly swept across their foreheads and eyes in a gravity-defying mess that is reminiscent of my teenage love affair with Aquanet and my to-the-sky bangs. But you can't hear Fall Out Boy on the radio. Those boys probably hadn't fallen out (of their mother's wombs) when most of the stuff that's on the radio here was being made.

Perhaps I'm going to have to bite the bullet and get XM.

I'm sure these things will become commonplace to me, and the weird warnings on our way into Cheesecake Factory and the eleventy billion lights I sit through to get five miles down the road will become just part of the fabric of my daily life. I mean, really, I hardly even giggle anymore when I drive by the "colon hydrotherapy" place down the street, so I must be adapting, right?

My Life bumping into the D-List...

Or, "Even Relatively Obscure Celebrites Like Their Veggies Fresh"....which is, I guess, why Husband, Ethan and I cannot go to the local farmer's market each Sunday without running into a bevy of D-listers.

The thing about living in this area, just outside of Hollywood, is that EVERYONE seems to be "that guy/girl that was on that show, once." We are not dripping with A-listers in these parts (I think they're tucked up safely in the hills above me), but our neighborhood seems to be rife everyone who has ever been an extra in a movie, in a commercial, or had a recurring, but not starring role, on some television show a decade ago. And let's not forget aging rockers.

When Husband and I first came out here, for what I refer to as the "See honey, Los Angeles isn't the hellpit you think it is" tour of '08, I have to admit, I found it pretty novel to see "celebrities" at every turn. No one super fancy--just your Finola Hughes', Lance Bass's and Bob Sagats of the world. The most interesting interaction was with Dakota Fanning and her whole family in the Baja Fresh on Ventura Blvd. Ah yes, you know you're super cool when you're a little star-struck by a 12 year old who was once in that movie with Tom Cruise (War of the Worlds. So bad. But she can scream like a banshee, bless her heart). They all sat at the table next to us and complimented us on the gorgeousness that is our son (note to self: start lining up auditions so Ethan can support your lazy ass from now until he ends up in therapy and/or rehab).

Now that we actually live here, I don't bat an eyelash when I see people like Julie Bowen (Carol Vessey on "Ed" and ex-wife of Jack Shepard on LOST) or Dave Foley (30 Helens agree he was wicked funny on "Kids in the Hall") at our local park, playing with their kids. Husband and I have a running tally of celebrity sightings, so I silently tick it off in my head, and go back to prying other childrens' toys out of my beast of a son's hands (have I mentioned that this transition to LA, in conjunction with his developmental age, has turned him into a kicking, hitting, "NO"-ing mess of two-iness? Good times).

When I turn around in line at Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf after ordering my blended iced green tea (please tell me it's just green tea and ice and WON'T make me fatter. Please. Lie to me), and see Brittany Snow ("American Dreams"--you could carry her around in your coat pocket, she's so tiny), it doesn't phase me. She's just a girl who used to be in that show that time, waiting in line for her nonfat vanilla latte like the rest of us.

But it's the farmer's market that seems to bring them out in force. This past weekend I had a conversation with Carnie Wilson while our kids were on the pony ride (oh yeah, Ethan's first pony ride? Loved it. His favorite part? When the horse in front of him lifted his tail and pissed a river right there for the whole world to see). Dave Grohl of the Foo Fighters is there pretty much every week and we see at least 3-4 other people every Sunday that we know, but can't place. Most of the time while we're meandering through the stalls of strawberries and hand-milled soaps we're saying, "Was he....? No, that's not it." We watch just enough television to be able to identify the guy who played the Dharma project worker on the island when Desmond first arrived. No more, no less.

Don't get me wrong; I'm not star-struck or anything like that. Talking about orange crocs with Carnie Wilson doesn't make me feel supah-cool. It's just such an odd thing--to be standing there in a crowd of strangers, or to be walking down the street, and to see some other human being who you *know*, even though you don't know them. The normalcy of it all is surprising to me.

On a different note, thank you for all your kind words about losing Penny. We said goodbye to her on Tuesday evening and it was quite possibly the most guy-wrenching decisions of my life and an all-around craptastic experience. The grief of it really took me by surprise, but I suppose after fourteen years of taking care of another living thing, when you make the decision to end it's life, for whatever reason, it is going to cut to your heart. However, there's only so much sitting on the couch and sobbing into a fistful of tissues one can do over a dead cat before one's sanity starts to be questioned, so I'm sucking it up and going on with life (except for those times when I do sit on the couch sobbing into a fistful of tissues....shhhhh, don't tell).

Hello, you...

I've started three blog entries this week; obviously none of which have seen the light of day. One is about the fiasco that was my Monday afternoon with the furniture delivery man, a.k.a. "It Ain't My Business to Move Your Current Mattress so I Can Deliver Your New Mattress, but I'll Gladly Watch You Haul It Down the Hallway Yourself Man" (hated him) and the other two are variations on the theme of my reflections about life in Los Angeles thus far, focusing on the quirky things about this area that have annoyed and/or amused me in the past weeks.

But I've not finished any of them because it seems every time I try to get something written, my Penny kitty decides to come and curl up with me, competing with the computer for my attention. Normally I allow her to lie here and purr, curled up to my leg, comfortable with her little motor running against me. I write, she chills out and purrs. It works for us.

But this week, when she's gotten up on the couch, curled up next to me and given me those "love me" eyes, I have not been able to keep the focus of my thoughts or the desire to write anything, certainly not anything amusing. So I end up putting the computer down and giving Penny kitty some serious under-the-chin scratches and belly rubs.

See, sometime in the coming week, I'm going to have to let my Penny go. After a week of her clandestinely throwing up little puddles of blood, and an obscene amount of money for a kitty endoscopy, we've found that she has a tumor in her tummy. She is absolutely hating taking the medications to help her feel better, and I don't have the heart to put her through the twice daily indignity of cramming a syringe of medication down her throat.

She's an old girl, going on 13 or 14, if my math is right (which if you know me, is kind of a long shot--it's not my forte). We are currently waiting for biopsy results and I know the veterinarian is going to go through a list of treatment options including surgery, chemo, radiation, etc. I just can't wrap my brain around putting an elderly cat through those types of measures, nor can I imagine what that would cost. And for those of you who have been reading for awhile, yes, this is the same cat who's teeth we just spent a small fortune cleaning---awesome.

So that's all from me for right now. She's curled up next to me, all purr-y and sweet. So I'm off for a bit of quality time with the little beast until it's time to say goodbye.

Beach Bum...

I guess this was inevitable. Living ten miles from the beach and being otherwise unemployed and unfettered with a pesky social life, we've become weekly regulars at the beach by the Santa Monica pier. Yeah, life's rough, I know.

Kita and I wait for the rush hour to pass...I'll pause so you can chuckle and shake your head at our naive optimism...and then we pack our kids up, switch on the Garmin (well, I switch on the Garmin and she follows me best she can through the freeways), and head out.

Last week we were ever so blind-leading-the-blind, messing up our parking permits and desperately searching for a bathroom. Garmin took us to the 2-hour parking lot, which requires taking note of your parking space and then popping coins into a machine, pressing buttons to get the correct amount of time on your ticket and then going back to your car to put the ticket on your dashboard. Please. With four kids and all the accouterments they require for a trip to the beach, we're lucky to have even stepped foot on the beach at all with the time allotted to us.

And speaking of the beach, the little ones have dubbed it "the desert walk" because it's about a quarter mile from the second you step onto the sand to when you get to the hard-packed sand-castle worthy sand. I just go ahead and count the walk to and from the water, Ethan and three bags in hand, as my workout for the day when we go. It seems fair.

The water feels like home to me. I grew up in the Frozen North (as described by Honduran Husband), otherwise known as New Hampshire and the beach water up there is tough to handle anytime before August. The water here is very similar and I can say with certainty that when Husband goes to the beach with us, I will be the one jumping waves with Ethan while Husband sits on the blanket, shaking his head at his "polar bears". Ethan and I love the cold water. We spent a lot of time jumping in the waves. He is definitely my son (as if there was any question of that?)

So here are some pictures of the little man and his friends, Evie, Lucy and Nonie, adapting to live as beach bums quite nicely...

The Santa Monica Ferris Wheel...

Chicks dig Ethan...

Ethan, Lucy and Evie dabble in mud sculpture while Nonie attempts an escape...

Ethan and Lu dwarfed by the massive expanse of the "desert walk"...

What's with the swim trunk ties? Are they magnetically charged to lead E to the water? Weird.

For those of you in the "OMGah, he looks just like his father did at that age...." camp; here you go. Yes, I know. It's as though I gave the child none of my own genes at all. My pregnancy was all a sham; Ethan sprung, Athena-like, from Husband's forehead.

Ah, at least some proof that he's actually my child. Chilling in the chilly water...

Taking "here's mud in yer eye" literally...

All is Right with the World...

Because Ethan now has one of these:

See, before Ethan had one of these:
He was a cranky, pouty, tantrum-y mess of a thing.

Now, he happily gets in and out of his Cozy Coupe, opening and shutting the door, checking the stickers to make sure they are still adequately stuck, filling up the gas, and dumping his sippy of water into the back storage compartment. He is proficient at pushing the car backwards with his feet, but he has yet to quite figure out the whole forward motion. The wheels are still a bit stiff, so in a few days, I'm sure he'll be speeding up and down our driveway. Thank god it's shaded because I think I've seen what my summer is going to look like. And it looks like this:

"Baby, you can drive my car..." Oh wait, no you can't. It's mine. All mine...

"Um, can we trim these vines down a bit? They're really messing with my ride...

Ethan makes random attempt to free himself from the car, but, siren-like, it lures him back...

Car fueled by Ethan. Ethan fueled by Starbucks blended lemonade...

Because the orange crocs crack me up...

Fill 'er up! With screwdriver juice, apparently?

Finally, unadulterated joy. I'll take that, thanks!

"Very Not Pretty!! Very Not Pretty!"

This was the emphatic assessment by my son of last night's fireworks display. Here I was, thinking since this child shares 50% of my genes, he'd be ALL about the fireworks. Apparently the "fireworks junkie" trait is way recessive.

I'd had high hopes for our first big 4th of July celebration. Ethan's first two 4th's were rather mundane, consisting of screaming for hours leading up to and following the fireworks, completely oblivious to their existence (his first 4th) and sleeping through the fireworks, completely oblivious to their existence (his second 4th). So this year, I wanted to buck that trend and introduce him to the festivities.

Fortunately we seem to have moved into the most 4th-of-July crazed neighborhood in all of Los Angeles. Friends of ours who also made this move cross country told us about the kid's parade that makes its way through our streets at 10am the morning of the 4th. See, they have a leg up on us because their moving truck actually got here last week, hence they actually live in their house right now and not in some hotel room five miles away. Because of this they have already met half the neighborhood and their kids are already in playgroups and classes for the summer. I, on the other hand, when our stuff arrives, someday, am going to be sitting out on my front fence with a cranky toddler and a sign that says, "Please be my friend!".

Did I digress? Did I get all melodramatic crazy? Ooops.

So considering we had to commute to our own neighborhood to join in the festivities, we woke up early, braved the batshit crazy breakfast crowd at this godforsaken hotel and then headed over to our house. After checking to see that the cats are still alive and glowering at us, we headed over to our friends' house one street over to find that we are, indeed, ill-prepared.

We have a stroller for Ethan because we aren't entirely incompetent. But we have no 4th of July bling. The girls' bikes were draped in shiney red, white and blue garlands and their helmets were equally bedazzled. Ethan's stroller? Brown. His shirt? Brown. I wanted to make a sandwich board that said "WE'VE ONLY BEEN HERE A WEEK. WE DON'T KNOW FROM YOUR CRAZY 4TH OF JULY FANCYPANTS PARADES!" But then, these guys have only been here a week, too, so that foiled that idea.

Thankfully they lent us a length of garland which we whipped around E's stroller and VIOLA! Festive. And thankfully some real estate agent had gone around the day before shoving red, white and blue pin-wheels in peoples' mailboxes, because that meant we not only had shiny garland, we had a kicky pin-wheel, too.

The parade was surreal. Like the neighborhood just threw up red, white and blue all over itself. But in a good way, you know? Kids on bikes, trikes, scooters, in wagons and strollers. And all of them decked out in red white and blue clothes and sporting some kind of patriotic colored (b/c I'm tired of writing "red, white and blue) noisemaker or hat or whatever. Basically if you could find one in the right color, you could have strapped a red white or blue kitchen sink to your head and you'd have fit right in. And I mean that in a good way.

We didn't just haphazardly wander through the neighborhood, either. We followed the big brightly colored (guess what colors?!) banner, and the guy whose wagon was wired for sound. He pulled his little Radio Flyer wagon with a boom box and amplifier in it, and the sounds of "Stars and Stripes Forever" echoed off of every house in the neighborhood. People not actually walking in the parade came out onto their porches and front lawns and watched us go by, waving little American flags at us in patriotic approval.

After the five block parade, we all ended up back where we started--some woman's house, three streets over from our own, for lemonade and fruit salad (I'm sure there was other stuff, but that's what we had).

It was lovely to feel like part of a community, considering we don't actually even live there yet. It was so much nicer than having to wear helmets to the hotel dinners to protect ourselves from the rabid crowd of spaghetti wrestlers.

One of our friendly neighbors (please don't ask me her name, I cannot remember it for the life of me) told us about the fireworks down by the river (and be assured I will be writing about the Los Angeles "River" soon, too), so last night we put Ethan back in his stroller and headed down to get a good seat.

Having deprived myself of 4th of July fireworks for the past two years, I started feeling giddy somewhere around 5pm. So we might have gotten there a little bit early. By like an hour. With a toddler. Past his bedtime.

Are you picking up what I'm putting down here? Recipe for disaster. But Ethan was being a real trouper; no signs of sleepiness or crankiness. We talked to him about what the fireworks were going to look like and sound like and even had him yelling "KaBOOM!!!" and giggling happily in anticipation of the real thing. We played silly games with balloons and "let's fall down on Daddy over and over again" until it was dark enough for the pyrotechnics to begin. The first "thwump" sound of the shell leaving the tube led to a beautiful red burst in the sky followed by a powerful "kaBOOM!!!"

You can imagine what happened next. Well, you don't have to, I guess, since I already told you at the beginning of the entry. First there was a look of complete shock and awe, then his bottom lip popped out and his face crumpled into a big old weepy mess. Hands immediately went for Mama and that was the end of that. In an attempt to shake him from his, "no no no no no," I said, "Ethan, aren't they pretty??!!" To which he said, "Very not pretty! Very not pretty!" and followed that up with "Go! Go!"

So, we went. In a mad dash to pack up our stuff and scurry out of the way, lest we piss of the other people who had been waiting for an hour to see the show and DIDN'T have a terrified toddler on their hands, and to avoid any further emotional scarring of our son.

We tried to stop a few times, the farther away we got from the actual display, but each time, Ethan would only peer out from his hiding spot in my neck and say, "no no no no". Okay.

So maybe next year.

But until then, here are some pictures of yesterday's festivities...

Ever so patriotic in brown. Note festive pin-wheel

Lucy in her 4th-of-Julymobile...

The wagon wired for sound. And the banner. Pre-parade

These people mean business. They love them some 4th of July.

"What's more American than watermelon and an American Flag?", Ethan wonders...

Having abandoned the brown stroller, he opts to be carried by mommy, also wearing brown...wtf??!

The end of the parade hones in on nap time

Ethan and Lucy compare flags

My, but that smog makes for a beeeouuutiful sunset, doesn't it?

A little "fall down on daddy over and over again"

The wonky family self-portrait

The exceedingly unhappy little man moments after leaving the fireworks display.

Hello, Good Buy

Otherwise called "The One Where I Admit to a Serious Target Addiction"

I have lived in Los Angeles for seven days (and I use the term "living" loosely considering we are still setting up camp at the Residence Inn). I have been to Target...seven days in a row. What is wrong with me?? I live in a hotel for cripes sake! Where am I putting all this stuff?

In my defense, not one of those trips has been out of boredom or desperation (Husband would cough the word "liar", if he were reading over my shoulder, but he can just start his own blog if he's got something to say about it, mkay?). Each trip, each day, has had a specific purpose that hadn't presented itself the day before (plus, I think breaking the trips up might do a bit to keep the credit card company from calling to ask if my card's been stolen by a crazed spendaholic who thinks Target is the only store on Earth).

During the first few days we were here, we thought nothing of the daily trips. "Let's get some snacks, milk and water for the hotel room!" Done. Next day. "You know, if we're going to be here for a week, I think we should get some regular shampoo, conditioner and body soap so we don't have to use the hotel's freebies the whole time." Done. Oh, I also bought a cowboy hat that day. It's kicky. I will probably only wear it once, then catch sight of myself in a shop window and be HORRIFIED that I thought I could pull off a low-cost (or any cost, for that matter) cowboy hat and throw it in the nearest trash receptacle. But I had to have it. Sarah wrote about this in her blog the other day and I assure you, Sarah, I'm not trying to copy--this phenomenon of "going in for "this and that", but coming out with "this, that and eleventy billion others" is the story of my love affair with Target.

Then there was the day of "You mean the moving truck won't get here until NEXT Monday? This child HAS to have some toys by then or we will all end up on the evening news!!" Done. Next day..."We're going to the beach tomorrow? We have no beach towels!!" Done. On that trip, I also realized I'd forgotten where our baby sunscreen had gotten to, so I had to buy more. And more water and snacks.

Today? Nail polish remover. Baby thermometer. Baby nail clippers. Little Tykes Cozy Coupe, aka the Flintstones car. Our friends, Toby and Kita's, girls have one and we cannot go over there without Ethan becoming a screaming, howling, weeping mess when I try to unglue him from the car. And really, they have three kids of their own, so having them adopt him for the sake of avoiding that scene is something I'm not really comfortable asking them to do. Maybe if they only had two of their own, you know? Yes, the tantrum is that bad!

So we bought him his own today, shoved it in the car next to him on the way home and then had to deal with the trantrum he threw at just removing him from such a close proximity to the box itself. I'm not sure what's going to happen when we actually put it together and tell him it's his to keep. He will either A.) lose interest in 10 minutes or B.) insist on living, breathing, eating and sleeping in it all. summer. long. We shall see.

So that's it. Seven days of living in LA; seven days of Target. I can't stand it. I need to detox. No more Target this coming week.

Wait. No. I didn't say that. Maybe just no Target weekend. Maybe.