hollywood housewife

happy father's day

Most of the time, Mondays are for Mommies. But today I'm singing praises for the dads who made me a mom.

I knew The Gorilla would be a good dad. He has a way with children - with people, really - that is undeniable. He is the Pied Piper of....everyone. He makes the most mundane task more fun. Any sort of party can be dead until he walks in the room. A day spent with him can be, without exaggeration, life changing.

These qualities, as you can imagine, work well in fatherhood. I predicted it, yet watching it come into being has still been so surprising, so utterly joyful for me.

I delight in my children, but The Gorilla’s biggest pleasure in all the world is playing with the kids. And I don’t say this lightly, as the man takes a lot of pleasure in life. I chose a partner whose steady soul calms my wringing hands. I married the fun to my practical.

So imagine my relief when he became the dad who gave baths, and makes breakfast every day, and remembers to pack the lunchbox according to strict preschooler instructions. He turns the tedious parts of parenting into belly laughter. Every day is a memory with you, my love.

The older I get, the more I turn into my father. We have the same soft spots, the same tendency to react this way or that. I have always seen my dad as a man of true integrity, but it wasn’t until I was a parent that I could appreciate what it takes to hold to your values in the face of adversity. When you’re unsure, or when people are telling you otherwise, when you have to point your heart due north and keep walking.

I force myself not to take my parents for granted, but they make it hard not to believe that everyone just loves their kids and loves on their kids, forever amen. They make the loving part look as easy as a knife through better.

I didn’t marry a man who is much like my dad in temperament or style. But my dad set my compass for truth, and I’ve tried not to waver.

Happy Father’s Day to you.

 

*top photo by sean cliver

a conversation with my child about fame

Pigtail was in the car while I was on the phone with The Gorilla. His big voice comes over the speakers through the Bluetooth system when we're talking, frequently making the kids giggle and wonder where he is hiding.

He was telling me about his night out and mentioned that he met up with a well known athlete.

"Was he swamped?" I asked, meaning by fans that sometimes make a dive bar scene a little less cozy.

"Not really," said The Gorilla. "A little, but it wasn't bad."

"What does swamped mean?" inquired the little voice behind me. Once we prodded her to ask what words meant if she didn't understand, I've been forced to try and define most of my lexicon.

"In this circumstance, I'm asking daddy if people approached his friend to take a picture with him or get his autograph."

"Why would people want to take his picture?" she wondered.

"Because he's on tv sometimes, so people know who he is."

I was at a stoplight, my foot firmly on the brake.

"Just because he's on tv?" she furthered, still confused.

I glanced in the rear view, at my little child who didn't understand that being seen by the public on a regular basis was in fact a phenomenon.

Her daddy finally piped in.

"If Elmo were sitting and eating lunch, wouldn't you want to go talk to him?"

"YES." she said, in awe of picturing Elmo eating a meal but also in reverence to the name alone.

"It's kinda like that." He finished, triumphantly. I smiled to myself and moved the car forward to make my turn.

Pigtail stared out the window, a little bored.

A few minutes later as we entered the freeway she asked, "Is there traffic?"

Oh, my baby Angeleno.

the silly is the best part

By Sunday evening I was over it. When The Gorilla asked why I was grumpy, I said something about the sheer amount of quality time we'd spent together. Weekends are usually reserved for family, but with last week's houseguests then a tummy bug, there had been a lot of hours of being in the house all together. I was itching for some time to myself, without interruptions, without chubby arms reaching upward.

So I left the house in a hurry - late, but wearing lipstick - and sped through Hollywood for the last showing of Expressing Motherhood. I took the glass of wine offered, sank into the theater seat, and I was tearing up before the show even started. The cast bios alone got me. Have I mentioned I was a little on edge?

when grateful looks a lot like sad

Mommy Mondays have been a staple around here for as long as this blog has existed. But sometimes I sit down to write about parenthood and there’s nothing there. I am lucky to have healthy and happy kids. I knock wood just saying that. The trials and tribulations of a typical preschooler and a typical toddler, they just aren’t always interesting.

And while I know I may not always feel this way, for now I couldn’t dream of giving up writing about parenting on Mondays. Women sharing their stories, I’m passionate about that. Our stories aren’t always about our mother-ness, and I’m really glad I keep the mom talk to once a week. But at this stage in my life, and in many of your lives, it’s a common thread that we can share and connect on first.

I’m just recently home from Mom 2.0, a blogging conference that, despite the name, isn’t all about moms. The conference was at the gorgeous Ritz Carlton in Laguna Niquel, and because of a schedule mistake, I had the hotel room for an extra night. I took the opportunity as an early Mother’s Day present and went down early and enjoyed a beautiful day by myself by the pool, with two books and my journal. I got a massage, I ordered room service. It was lovely. Spending time by myself being pampered is the most opposite of being a mother, and for those 24 hours I relished it.

But, quickly, I got restless from being away from my family. After the conference I was anxious to return home, anxious to kiss the faces that mean the most to me. As actual Mother’s Day approached, I felt inexplicably sad. I didn’t know why. I had a wonderful time this weekend with my family. My in-laws were visiting, we ate delicious dinners and took the kids to the aquarium and The Gorilla made chocolate chip pancakes for Sunday breakfast.

But the gap between utterly grateful and slow and melancholy remained. I thought of my many friends who surely avoided a day dedicated to motherhood. I thought of my own mother, her crushing hugs that reside so far away. I thought of my sisters-in-law. I thought of adopted family members. I thought of babies lost and those who will never arrive.

It was sunny and warm on Mother’s Day, so when the rest of the house fell into an afternoon nap, I went outside and stared into space and chastised myself for not feeling cheerier. But motherhood, it isn’t so simple as that, is it? On the easiest day, it’s complicated. And I feel torn about celebrating motherhood precisely because other women have shared their hard stories. And I tell myself that’s stupid, then I tell myself that’s right. Being a woman, both before and after motherhood, admits me to the club.

Having access to the variety in the woman’s club, because of technology and because of thirty-three years of life, I feel indebted. For the sharing of the stories, for the kissing of the babies, for the luxurious ability to feel so grateful that it circles around to sad.

deep breaths are not the answer

Welcome to Mommy Mondays, the one day of the week where I talk parenthood. The good and bad and funny and not. It's hit or miss, really.

On Sunday afternoon while my husband was golfing and I was recuperating from a weekend away, I put both of my children down for a nap and then I laid down myself.

I fell asleep quickly, deeply. I dreamed that while I was sleeping my three-year-old had cut off all of her hair and dyed the remaining bits bright pink. In the dream I was so upset about this that it made me start to have a panic attack. This meant, actually, that I was having a panic attack in real life. In the dream, my heart raced and my throat closed to where I couldn’t breathe. In real life, the same.

Later in the dream my husband found me on the stairs naked except for a furry sleep mask. I had been sleeping, dreaming, walking, and hypervenilating, and I didn’t know where the kids were.

He wasn’t mad at me, but I was very mad at myself. I was still dreaming.

We went down to the backyard, me now in a nightgown, with a sleep mask on top of my head, my daughter with very short, self-dyed hair, and we found my mom with a photographer there to take our family photos. I clung to my mom, physically held on to her so hard that I was almost dragging both of us to the ground. “Help me,” I pleaded with her, staring into her eyes, trying to make her understand that I was having trouble breathing, and that I had lost track of the children.

She assured me that my kids were fine, and that she understood I couldn’t breathe. And that she couldn’t help me.

documenting infertility

I think, when we were young girls laughing and dating and our hair was flying behind us, we couldn't have known the struggles that were to come. And that is for the best.

It took me almost a year to get pregnant the first time, which is on the scale of "normal" but felt anything but as the months ticked by. Just weeks before we were about to take the next medical step I conceived naturally. Those months are nothing compared to what my girlfriends have gone through.

I was in my early twenties when a dear friend first miscarried, her message on my answering machine didn't say it, but said it all. In the last ten years, so many friends' eyes have welled with tears, so many have called with that catch in their voice. So many. So many.

Often theirs went on to be a happy ending. Loss, multiple losses, but eventually a little thing brought home from the hospital or the foreign land. The story goes on. I have two friends whose hearts are breaking this very week.

I have wanted to address this topic here, but haven't been sure how. I know there are resources, forums for those women who are going through the pain and confusion of infertility. I didn't walk this road myself, but it's the most common thing I know that people aren't talking about. Every time I've wanted to write about it, I can't think of anything to say except I See You, I Love You, I'm Sorry You're Going Through This.

So I'm not the right person to lead this conversation, but thankfully there are people who are willing to share their journey.

Noah and Maya have been walking this road for years now. I met Noah a gazillion lifetimes ago when we were both working on a show starring Snoop Dogg for MTV. Back then we were both starting out, both angsty about what was to come of our lives in LA. Noah stayed in entertainment, and life got busy, and a few years slipped by when we were out of touch. When we checked back in, Noah told me what had been going on in their quest to start a family, and he shared that he had been documenting it all in the best way he knows how: video. His wife had been processing her thoughts by putting them into words. Together, they've recently created Don't Count Your Eggs.

The words, the video, there is something really amazing here. As much as I thought I knew about various treatments and emotions, seeing it on screen makes it that much more real. I know their story will be useful to another couple going through this. I know that making themselves vulnerable in this way will have a great purpose. Check out what they're doing, share it if you're so inclined. I believe in the power of this, both for Noah and Maya and also for others who will benefit from seeing the story go down in real time.

Yesterday I met two women - friends for 20 years - who who were working on a different sort of documentary. Sybil Azur & Linda Cevallos-French are talking about the pros and cons of pushing motherhood to later in life, when a generation of women who has been told they can "have it all" wait to have children and were never fully informed of what they might mean for their fertility.

Their movie is called Pushing Motherhood and they're currently running a kickstarter campaign to finish out the project. You can see the trailer here.

They explore how celebrity culture plays into this and how our culture can't deny our biology. Of course, often there are no easy answers.

I know that many of you are all too familiar with infertility.

I see you. I love you. I'm sorry you're going through this.

the real mother

Welcome to Mommy Mondays, the one day of the week I wax poetic about parenthood. Maybe not the poetic part.

I have this fear that my kids don’t know I’m their mother. I mean, they call me mommy. They shout for me when they’re thirsty or when they’re about to throw up. They know that I live here in the house and that the nanny leaves and grandmother lives far away. But do they know, deep in your gut where you know things, that I’m their mom? That I’m the one who loves them more than any other human on the planet? That I created them and delivered them and live for them?

I worry about it.

When I’ve expressed this fret, my mom and my sister and my husband have all given me A Look. They tell me that children just know, sometimes for better or worse, who their mother is. Of course. This is logical throughout time and history. This is biology. Still, I harbor this nagging doubt that my postpartum issues ruined that bond and my distracted “um hum” cuts that wound deeper.

I’m the first person to set a woman straight when she laments working outside the home or traveling for herself, but secretly, when my kid’s arms reach away from me and to someone else, it smarts like a slap.

Within the confines of “normalcy,” my mom doesn’t really believe that you can scar your kids. If everyone’s doing the best they can, there’s simply no reason for one to whine about their childhood. Mothers of yore with babies strapped to their back in the field didn’t worry about such things. Women these days have too much time on their hands.

I’m one of them. My actual schedule is busy and full, and yet I have space to wonder when these kids' real mother is going to show up at the door.

When she does - when I do - will we recognize one another?

Finally, you’re here, I’ll say. Look at you, you’re a mess, she’ll say. I won’t give them to you, my eyes will flash. I’m never leaving, she’ll drop her bags.

And then me, Laura, and my kid’s mom, Laura, will live happily ever after. Together.

sprained ankle

Once a week on Mommy Mondays I talk about parenting. Or how I fell down. Which isn't that different a thing.

When I was in Oklahoma I sprained my ankle badly. I was wearing flats, holding Pirate, and just stepped off a stair wrong. Since my hands were full, I wasn’t able to right myself, so the ankle kept turning turning turning until we all hit the ground. Pirate thought it was all great fun. I made deep guttural sounds until my mom came running.

I knew it wasn’t broken, but it was so grotesquely swollen and blue that my husband insisted we get an x-ray. The urgent care doctor told me it would probably be swollen and sore for two weeks. I secretly thought this man must have a lot of wimpy patients if he thinks a turned ankle would give me trouble for more than a few days. 

It’s been sixteen days and my ankle remains puffy and tender.

The Gorilla says it’s because I haven’t babied it enough, haven’t kept it elevated, haven’t iced it more than once or twice. Since the stumble I’ve flown home with two kids, mothered and wifed, done daily preschool pickup, provided meals, gone to Palm Springs for the weekend, gone to the grocery store, blogged and read and lived my normal life. Who has time for ice? Ice is cold. Who has time for such an irritating little injury?

Yet, I pause at the top of the stairs. I can’t make it down without gripping the railing tightly. The high heels in my closet are getting dusty. I want to say something introspective about how my gimp has made me slow down and appreciate life. I should tie this all up into a lesson about God sending me the stumble as a teaching moment. But sometimes a sprain is just a sprain. I am not sure God speaks this way.

I am always aware of this tender thing. We eschewed weekend plans for the zoo because I knew I couldn’t walk for hours. By dinnertime I limp just slightly. Just now, typing these words, I can feel it down there throbbing. It doesn’t really matter what my attitude is about a sprained ankle, it is factually sensitive. 

I can’t talk myself out of my weaker places. It has bruised all the way down to my toes. The doctor said it would gradually get stronger, but that I might favor it for a long time. That an ankle turned is more likely to turn again. It doesn’t, as one might hope, callous. 

Maybe there is something to learn here. 

keeping your sanity while traveling with toddlers

Welcome to Mommy Mondays, my one day of the week to gush about my kids.

I got an email from a friend asking for advice on how to fly with her young toddler and I just groaned for her.

The first year of my daughter’s life we flew twenty-six times. We have flown at least every six to eight weeks of her three years. Since was my son was born, I’ve flown with the kids to Oklahoma at least four times (3 hour flights), to our lake house twice (5 hour flights), to Virginia twice (5 hour flights), to Colorado twice, and a few more.

This is at least 20 flights I’ve taken with both my kids who are three years and under. Most of those flights I was solo parenting. So I fair well call myself an expert at this task. Prepare yourself for my infinite wisdom:

It’s not awesome.

easter in oklahoma

We're flying home today after two great weeks in Oklahoma. It was a busy visit, but we're returning to the west coast feeling full of love and gratefulness for family and roots.

We capped off our time in my home state with a happy easter.