Heeding Barbie's Sage Advice

[From time to time I blog for The Exponet (http://the-exponent.com/). Here's the one I did last night.]

So I have issues with iPhones. My husband will tell you it’s because I’m a techno-phobic Luddite. Which is true–but isn’t why I resist getting on the iPhone/Blackberry bandwagon. Let me illustrate.

This spring some girlfriends and I went to NYC. One afternoon we are all on the boat to Ellis Island and Sande and I are having view-gasms at the sight of the Statue of Liberty. The Lady is just gorgeous. We turn to share our emotion with our companions…to find them texting away or reading Facebookor whatever, totally oblivious to the 150 ft goddess towering above us.
“Excuse me ladies,” I say, “but to quote a line from Barbie’s Princess and the Pauper, ‘Be present, be pleasant, and be proud.’” I clearly say it louder than I’d intended because on the next row of benches two men turn around and one asks me to repeat the quote as his boyfriend whips out his electronic gadget and types it in: “’Be present….be pleasant…be proud.’ Barbie you say? Jonathan, we need to remember that.”

The phrase, the first part at least, reflects a real struggle in my life. Frequently I am not where I am supposed to be. Physically I am at church, or a meeting, or the dinner table with my kids, but mentally I am elsewhere, often aided and abetted by an electronic device. While the kids chatter about their day I am straining to listen to “All Things Considered” on NPR. I’m ashamed to admit how often I talk on the phone to my girlfriends or sister when I have a real live child of mine near me who will never be exactly that age again.

My kids used to cringe when they saw me bring out my camera because they know I disappear behind the lens. I get so obsessed with capturing a moment that I cease to be part of it; with my camera I am a historian not a participant. It’s been a real challenge but over time I’ve learned that if I want to really remember an event, from the inside out, I have to leave my camera behind. So some family times that are most dear to me are never recorded. But I remember them in a way I couldn’t have if I hadn’t been truly present.

If I get this distracted by the radio, a camera, and a simple cell phone, I’m terrified what an iPhone would do to me. I’d be the person in a movie theater, missing half the show because I’d recognize a face and have to IMDB the actor to figure out where else I’d seen them. Many times while out to dinner with my husband, I’ll make him look something up for me on his phone—what is Ben Kingsley’s real name (Krishna Bhanji) ? Who was the prostitute in The Brother’s Karamozov(Grushenka)?

Last weekend was our stake conference. I attended the Saturday night session but didn’t hear much of it. I was too busy getting text messages from friends. I felt like I was in junior high again, passing notes, making jokes about the speaker, wondering where we should go eat after, explaining why we were late, etc. And as much as I hated myself for it, and even though it takes me forever to pluck out a message (I can’t even do that predictive thing), I could not stop. I could not be present. Or pleasant. I was not proud. The next day I left my phone in the car. The kids were distracting, and some of the talks were boring. But I was there, body and mind.

So I struggle. I’m a social creature. I want to share my thoughts instantaneously with my people. I want to be in the know. But I also want the people who are with me to know I am trying to be there for them, physically and emotionally. So I resist getting a frickin iPhone. I want to be present. Some people can do both. I can’t.

Magnum Al P.I.

Last week Emily CC tagged me to do the following:

1. Go to your documents/pictures

2. Go to your 6th file

3. Go to your 6th picture

4. Post it, and blog about it

5. Tag 6 people to do the same

6. Name your picture

So I went into my files and the sixth folder only had two pictures in it. I went to the next folder. It had four. So I am ignoring the directions and posting some of the pictures I have been working on this last week.


Many of you know our good friends Lindy and Al. They are like grandparents to our kids, godparents to us. Just dear, dear people. Al even volunteered to pay for Bea's wedding (she is his favorite, and I suspect he thinks we will give her a hobo reception in the gym with hoop-a-flage and cheap cake unless he intervenes).

Al is what we LDS call a "dry Mormon," meaning he attends church, does all the Mormony things us Mormons do, except he has never been baptized (ie just add water). So imagine our shock and delight when last week I get a FRANTIC call from Linda telling me Al is joining the church. Screams, tears, hyperventilating ensued.

I immediately went into party planning mode and decided to do a slideshow for Al's baptism. I know baptism slideshows are a bit ridiculous ("let's take a 20 minute pictoral review of your loooong 8 years accompanied by that fat Hawaiian singing the Rainbow song..."), but I LOVE them. I love pictures. I love any excuse to go thru my millions of folders and cull the best ones and juxtapose them with the right pictures.

I told Linda my plan. She told Al. And he vetoed it. He hates to be the center of attention. Initially Linda and the missionaries were the only people invited to attend. But just as I knew Al would relent and invite his close friends to attend, I also knew he'd love MY slideshow so I immediately got to work. I soon realized that Linda had no pictures of young Al. Not a one. This is a problem in a slideshow where you are attempting to capture the scope of a life. But I would not be daunted. Enter my best friend, photoshop.

I was up until 1am several nites last week googling, cutting, pasting, and generally Forrest Gumping Al's face into a childhood and young adult life he never knew. Here are my favorites:

Everyone over a certain age has one of these pony pictures. Al's sister actually thought this one was real.

Ah, meeting the President. I used a newsprint finish to get the grainy look.

How fun to imagine a Woodstock moment. I think I need one of these.

"You can tell by the way I use my walk I'm a woman's man, no time to talk..."

I don't know about you, but I LOVE me some Magnum. My sister was a huge fan and loved to go to the USC volleyball games with her boyfriend Bill because Tom Selleck's kid was on the team and he was usually there. One time Ange was waiting outside the men's room for Bill and out comes Tom Selleck. A minute later Bill emerges and says to my sister, "Well, they don't call him 'magnum' for nothing."

Although I am a PC girl, I must say that Dave's imovie program made putting the pictures and music together to simple and so much more effective than traditional means.

The baptism was lovely, very moving event. After we went to their house for a celebration. We played the slideshow and it was a huge hit. We laughed, we cried, two thumbs up. I'm still on a high. Maybe I should ride the wave and get started on Millie's slideshow. She turns 8 in December which means I only have 7 months left.

Proud Moment in Hobo Parenting

Last Friday at the park I sat chatting with friends as Bea ran around playing. Periodically I glanced up and made sure I knew where she was. Imagine my pride when I see her walk over to a tree, pull up her dress, take off her undies, squat, pee, stand up, take off her shoe and drain the urine out of it, put it back on along with her undies and run off again.

I know some of the mommies were horrified at my daughter's vagabond behavior. But I could not have more delighted. So she smelled like a nursing home. So what. I had some quality time with my friends as my 3 year old solved her own problems. Isn't that what life is all about?

March Madness

While it's always a little crazy at our house, this month was absolutely manic. Not sure why. Here's a montage of some of our Hobo-Hijinx.

Spending the day running errands with the girls and ALL of us wore our bunny ears the entire time. Kept forgetting and wondered why I got weird looks from people.

Bea decided to wear my Indian wig and goes all Blue Steel with the raised shoulder.
Noelle visits and everyday is a crazy playdate filled with bubbles and Barbies and tattletaling and "I'm-so-excited-I-just-peed-my-pants-even-though-I've-been-potty-trained-for-months!!"

We turned Mini-school into Noelle's third birthday. Too busy making up silly games to bake an actual cake.

Freeze dancing to "It's Raining Men." The girls wear fairy skirts and the boys knight capes courtesy of Rachel who can sew in her sleep.

Millie remembered that ages ago I speculated that Minky would turn one around this time of year and kept insisting we have a full on first birthday for her gerbil. Lucky for me, Lisa S. dropped off a bag of party supplies for our annual Cinco de Mayo party (all are invited) that happened to be rodent sized. So when 8 members of Dave's family arrived last week threw an impromptu Gerbil Fiesta. Ole.

Bea and Uncle Doug help fill the tiny pinata with sunflower seeds. We gave them toothpicks as sticks, which they enjoyed more than the popcorn. Go figure.

Sarah gnaws a hole in the burro. Rhino poops on a party blanket. Casey tries to escape. A good rodent time was had by all. Not pictured is the party we had two days later for Eloise's 3rd. We had pizza, games, a pinata, cake and ice cream, all in less than an hour.

Our dear niece Lizard is a huge Red Sox fan so we got tickets to tour Fenway Park as a surprise. Part of the surprise was also that Dave had accidentally said there were 8 of us, instead of 14, but whose counting?! There were almost 2 less of us as Millie kept having to go to the bathroom and in Boston, public restrooms are a rarity so she and I raced to a beer hall down the street and barely made the tour. I was ready to kill her until it occurred to me that she probably has a bladder infection and can't help it. We spent the rest of the day at Urgent Care and then buying gallons of cranberry juice. Poor thing.

Millie, Jonah, Flat Stanley, Maddie & Lizard at Fenway. Georgia was too busy listening to every single word the tour guide said to stop and be in a picture. I'm sure she spent the last two days regaling her friends with tidbits about the original color of the green monster and why the #42 is in blue when all the other retired numbers are in red.

I am now counting down the days to Spring Break when I can spend a good chunk of my day reading or sleeping or drinking Slurpees. My mother-in-law called to ask if we could celebrate Jonah's birthday while we're there. Inwardly I cringed but I know myself. Give me a couple weeks and I'll be stuffing another pinata and trying to find a good theme for the celebration.

Jingle Bells Batman Smells

This morning as Dave was getting the girls out the door to school, I heard a loud groan and then Georgia's unmistakable "mmmoo" sound that she makes when she is trying to stifle her sobs. I raced down to see what was going on, and Dave motioned for me to go with Millie to get her coat on while he talked to Georgie.

Millie was in tears at this point. "Georgia's crying and she won't tell me why!" she almost shouted her betrayal. These two are 22 months apart and function as a pair, Laverne and Shirley, Ernie and Bert, Frodo and Sam, Thelma and Louise. I snuck back into the dining room and asked Dave what was up. Apparently Georgia went into the garage hunting for a scooter and came upon the giant cardboard box that contained the dollhouse they got for Christmas. From Santa.

My 9 year old looked me in the eyes and whispered in horror, "I know the truth. There is no Santa." This is the little girl that spent the better part of Christmas Eve writing a letter to Santa, asking thoughtful questions about his middle name, when his birthday was, and what were the reindeers' favorite treats. I hugged her fiercely and told her that Santa is part of the spirit of Christmas and that it's okay to choose to believe. Dave said there's magic on both sides of it: that now she could be part of the fun of helping with stockings. It felt so rushed, trying to assuage this loss of childhood.

It happened for Jonah much earlier. He was 6 or 7 and it was spring time and I had bought some plastic eggs. He stopped on the stairs and said, "There's no way a giant rabbit goes around taking baskets of candy to kids... And if the Easter Bunny isn't real, there's no way there's a tooth fairy... Oh no. Santa..." I just stood there watching these wonderful mythic icons of childhood fall like dominoes as he processed the logic of it all. For the next year whenever he said the name Santa, he'd make air quotes with his fingers. Jonah needed no comfort, just threatening. "If you tell your sisters, or even talk about this with ANY kid under the age of 12, you'll never get a single thing from 'Santa' again!" And Jonah has enjoyed the shift in role. He loves to help pick out trinkets for Easter Baskets and hide eggs. He seemed relieved in a way. He's logical, like Dave. Needs things to make sense. Be tangible.

But Georgia...ouch. She clearly needs some yuletide talk therapy that could not happen at 8:17 this morning. I watched her dry her eyes as they raced to the bus, Millie still puzzled and hurt at her other half's refusal to share her pain. During the day I imagined the dominoes falling in Georgia's mind. Santa gone. Mmmoo. Tooth Fairy? Mmmoo. The Giggling Leprechauns? Mmmoo (she even believes in the mythic holiday creatures our Irish neighbors dream up).

She had a friend over after school and then violin, homework, etc. We never had a second alone to talk. But at 9pm she snuck out of her room to find me. "Mom, Millie wants to know why I was crying this morning. I can't tell her. I can't. What do I say?" Our friend Rachel is visiting, and we just looked at each other. I had no idea what to tell her. She doesn't want to erase the sugarplums that dance in Millie's head. But this is her SISTER. Her BFF. She has to tell her something. So I handed Georgia a lie to give to her sister. "Tell her you were thinking about Emma, [Georgia's gerbil that died last month] that made you cry, but you don't want to talk about it." "But..." she stammered, knowing this was false. "It does make you cry when you talk about Emma. Just tell her." How do you explain that honesty is not always the best policy?

I kissed her off to bed and wanted to cry a little myself. I should have made time to have a private talk with her. I should have had a better response this morning. Dave and I have a pretty good standardized spiel for the sex talk, but not for Santa. I hate seeing them lose their faith in the magical, mystical aspects of childhood. I want my kids to believe in stuff, stuff that can't be seen or touched or proven but stuff that gives them hope and faith in things bigger and better than us. Because I want to. Sometimes I respond like Natalie Wood in Miracle on 34th Street when it comes to the metaphysical: "I believe. I believe. It's silly, but I believe." Faith is fragile.

When I go upstairs to check on the kids before I go to bed, I know what I'll find. Jonah will be sprawled across his bed and if too much light leaks in as I open the door, he'll grumble until I restore the dark. Bea will be in her room, closet light on, waiting another hour or so to sneak into my bed, hoping Dave is too zonked to notice. And I'll bet that tonite Georgia will have left her bed to sleep with Millie, legs and arms entwined so that I can never separate one girl's limbs from another, just like the gerbil sisters sleeping in a furry pile in their cage. I'm sure of it. But I'm not sure what's going to be harder for Georgia, knowing St. Nick's secret, or having to keep it from her other half.

Mean Mommies Take Manhattan: Part 1

Some girlfriends and I went to NYC this last weekend to celebrate 3 of our birthdays (I turned 30/11!). We had so many adventures it's hard to know where to start so I'm just going to hop to my favorite one and get to the rest at some future point in time (perhaps the 12th of never?).

We decided to be tourists and get tickets for one of those hop on and off double decker tour buses that schlep you around the city. On one particular leg of the journey (Empire State Building to Canal Street) we had a very informed guide whom I'll call Mr. White. Mr. White was 50ish with silver hair and everybody on the bus loved him--except me and 5 Indians tourists. When we got on the bus Mr. White didn't even ask us if we had tickets. He saw me fishing for mine and waved a hand as if to say, "That's okay, if you know where the stop is, then you must belong." I can't say why he bugged me other than I felt like he expected our full attention, like it was a scholarly lecture. If I had to cough I thought he might stop talking and give me that "yes missie, we're waiting for you!" look. I'm happy to hear about Daniel Burnham designing the flatiron building but if I want to chat with Denise about dinner plans, then I shouldn't have to do it stealth, should I?

And the nail in the coffin came when an Indian family got on board and sat down. Mr. White said to the man, "Do you have tickets?" "Yes," replied Mr. Brown. "Where are they?" said Mr. White. Pulling them out of his pocket, Mr. Brown held up the tickets, "Here they are" and goes to put them back. Not so fast. Mr. White, who has not asked to see a single person's ticket while we were on board motions for Mr. Brown to come back to him, "I'll need to see your ticket." The poor man was turning red and I was too--it was clearly a race thing. 5 white ladies get on and no tickets needed. But people of color? That's another story... I shook my head as Mr. Brown walked back to his seat.

Meanwhile, across the aisle and 3 rows back Lisa is eating up every word this guy says while simultaneously trying not to hurl. The woman behind her, bless her soul, was vomiting uncontrollably into a bag, leaning forward towards Lisa with every retch so that she could feel the vibrations. Just as Linda T. is a sympathetic cryer, and wells up every time someone so much as sniffles, Lisa is a sympathetic barfer as are her 6 kids. Not fun. At one stop, a man comes on to sell water and when he leaves, Mr. White escorts him down the steps (everyone is up top) and has to get off to let him pass. Next thing we know the doors are closed and we are off, leaving our guide in his dust. Now some of us think the driver got confused, and honestly thought Mr. White was on board. But others of us (me and the Browns) were thinking, I'll bet the driver has been itching to ditch Mr. White Supremacy.

Sande elbows Lisa and says, "Grab the mike!" Without hesitation, as if she's spent her whole life talking to crowds of people in high decibels, Lisa jumps into the tour guide seat, turns on the microphone and starts banging on the metal stairwell: "Hey driver!! You left the tour guide. You've gotta stop!" The driver slows down, Mr. White, out of breath and clearly pissed, comes within inches of the door...and the driver hits the gas and takes off again. I hate to admit it, but a thrill ran thru me. The entire bus jumped to their feet to see what would happen next.

At this point Lisa the Mom kicks in: "Mr. Bus Driver, our guide is not on board. He is chasing the bus and needs to be let on. Pull over right now. I am not joking." The bus keeps going, Mr White keeps running. Lisa smacks the side of the metal stair rail and demands that the driver stop the bus this instant. If the bus hadn't start to slow down, I swear she was going to go, "ONE. TWO. Don't make me say THREE...." While we waited for our guide to rejoin us, Lisa sat back and relaxed, having successfully negotiated with the errant bus driver, and made some observations about the architecture of the buildings around us, tossing off a joke or two, all the while chatting into the microphone like a pro.

After ripping the driver a new one, Mr. White gets back up top looking like his heart was going to stop after chasing us for about 3 blocks. As he reaches for the mike, Mr. Brown stands up, walks towards him and says, totally deadpan, "Do you have a ticket?" Mr. White sort of "ha has" and grabs the mike but Brown isn't done with him. "Where is your ticket?" Mr White pulls his I.D. badge out from his coat and Mr Brown steps forward: "I'm gonna need to see that." White's jaw dropped, but he held it out, and Brown said, "Oh okay, you're fine." He turned around to see me grinning from ear to ear and then gave me a giant high five before returning to his hysterically laughing family.

As much as some of us enjoyed Mr. White, we decided to get off at Canal Street to pee and shop. We do have 22 kids between the 5 of us, so our bladders aren't what they used to be (except for "camel bladder" who Kelly suffered thru endless bathroom breaks and suggested that maybe if we didn't all drink so much Diet Coke we could go two blocks without doing the potty dance). Lisa put a tip in the jar as we left, though I think she should have charged for the show.

One day of parking in the theatre district: $26
One ticket to the Empire State Building: $15
One 24 hour pass on the City Sights bus: $39
Watching your girlfriend hijack a doubledecker: priceless.

[one of these things is not like the other--no wonder our bladders were bursting]

[One of the many McD's we visited on our trip--steer clear of Burger King, skanky restrooms]

[Our new friend Rupert, one of the fun sights we saw, along with Angela "Murder She Wrote" Landsbury]

The Good the Sad and the Furry

The Good: my birthday was this weekend and I had two nights of good food and good games.("Wise and Otherwise" is a crack up--sort of Balderdash with obscure proverbs that you have to finish, such as, "An old Japanese saying goes, 'By poking the bush....' "and the real ending is something about snakes. For real.) I also got some fun gifts. Here is a sampling:

The Sad: Georgia's gerbil Emma died Saturday morning. After chores, Zsa went to check on Emma and noticed she was barely breathing. Dave and I had resusitated the gerbils once before when they were sick, but sweet little thing died in my hands as I did rodent CPR (stroking her chest fur). Poor Georgia came unglued, then Millie, and Bea, not wanting to be left out, made herself cry too. "Emma was the firstest gerbil we ever had!" Wahhhhh! "Emma is a dead Emma!" Wahhhhh. When she had no more tears for Emma, Bea started contemplating other things that made her sad: "We have no more crackers and will have to go the the store to get some!" Wahhhhhhh. [here is Zsa with Emma last month]

The Furry: Gerbils are social creatures and the books say they need a companion to thrive, but introducing a new one is tricky. So we headed to our local Petco and talked to the lady who suggested we get two new young sisters, so that even if Minky rejects them they'll still have each other. Jonah picked out the one that looked like a miniature squirrell.

Georgia got one that looks like a chipmunk with a star on its forehead. She said to me, "When I can trick my mind into not thinking about Emma, I don't feel so sad." She named hers Sarah, and Jonah named his Casey in honor of the FBI handlers on "Chuck," mine and Joe's new favorite TV show.

Here is Millie with the survivor Minky. [Please check out Millie's front tooth that sticks STRAIGHT out and refuses to fall out. We've taken pliers to it and wiggled it to death and Thursday night I got out 3 kinds of thread and the damn root busted the thread. ] We were warned that the "old" gerbil will often reject the new ones and to introduce them slowly, having different cages, etc. Sweet Minky was delighted at her new playmates and got anxious when we took them out of her cage. So while there was no fighting amongst gerbils there was contention with the kids over how to lodge them and in whose room.

That afternoon the Snow girls came over to attend Emma's funeral. The weather was warm enough that I could dig a hole in the patch of ground next to big rocks where I have ground cover roses growing. Her coffin was a heart shaped pink box from the dollar section of Target and her shrowd was a pink napkin Parry gave me that Emma liked to shred. We all got teary. Georgia bawled.

When the 3 gerbils were still having a lovefest that evening, Dave took Bea and Millie back to Petco to even out the numbers. We purchased the last gerbil sister for Bea so there's a pairs in Joe's room, and a pair in Georgia & Millie. Bea is so excited that she has a gerbil and she can't stop talking about it: "I have a gerbil stister her name is Rhino she is orangey and soft but hers claws are scratchy like my mom's nails so I don't wanna hold Rhino my new gerby. She's orange." She here's a picture of Rhino and since Bea's too scared to hold her I'm adding one of Bea doing gymnastics. This is her version of a backbend which she calls a "bangaroo."

Thanks for sharing my happies and my sads.