Where in the world is my mother?

I miss my mom. She died fifteen years ago and today would have been her birthday. I'm not quite sure exactly where she is right now. I'm not talking about the Grand Central Station in the sky, heaven, or whatever you believe happens to you after you die. I'm talking about her remains. She was cremated right after she passed away in 1991 and for the longest time she was kept in an urn, in her armoire, in our family home. That is until my sister decided to remodel the ancestral home last year. Since everything was going to be put in storage while the house was being revamped, my dad decided to take my mother on a little "road trip" to Spain for the summer. Yes, you read correctly, my father packed my mother's ashes up and shipped her off to Europe with him.


I was caught up in the "waiting for Makena's referral" vortex, my sister was caught up in tossing, organizing and selling forty years' worth of accumulation and before we knew it, dad had slipped out with the Samsonite and with mom in tow. By the time we came up for air, Dad was sipping Sangria on the Costa del Sol, my sister was up to her ears in plaster dust and I was -- come to think of it -- I never did come up for air, I was still in the vortex.

My mother's French cousins were called in for a "closure" intervention and quickly offered up the family mausoleum in this little village in the Pyrennees. It made sense, Mom could finally be laid to rest in a place that had meant a lot to her as a child and where she would be surrounded by her relatives.

OK, so we had about a five month window when this could have all gone down, reasonably calmly and in an organized fashion. I could have torn myself away, flown to France, hooked up with my dad and sister and checked out where mom would be laid to rest. But that would have been too simple, too planned. For months nothing happened and just when I get the "last call" to travel to China to formally adopt Makena, my dad realizes that his six months in Spain are up and that he has to come home. So he lights a fire under his posterior and contacts the cousins (via letter because a stamp is cheaper than a call and he didn't have their E-mail) and the cousins quickly whip up a mass, an interment and a luncheon (attended by the mayor of the village,) giving us two weeks' notice to attend.

Classic, I'm in Chongqing (we've had Makena about two days) when I get word that this is going down. I'm told via E-mail from my sister, that Dad is on his way to the Pyrennees with the urn and that she is scrambling to get airfare on zero notice, to be there in time. My husband and I debate the merits of booking me and Makena on a flight to Paris from Guangzhou and returning home after the burial, but then we realize that even if we moved heaven and earth to get me there, that I would not make it on time and that, furthermore, we would have had to re-adopt Makena in the States! Bottom line, I come to the conclusion that mom has been dead a long time and that she would forgive me for not being there.

So what does this really have to do with Chinese adoptions? Nothing. Except that six months have gone by since we've had Makena (and the ashes were relocated,) it's my mother's birthday, and I happen to read in one of the adoption forums that a Chinese girl, with the help of her Dutch parents, was able to track down her biological family in Chongqing, China. And I just lost it. It made me cry. I immediately thought about Makena and what something like that would mean to her...I started wondering about what kind of courage it took to undertake that kind of hunt -- the whole "if you love something, set it free" thing and I just cried some more and then my thoughts turned back to my mom and how I still missed her and how I wished that her grandchildren could have known her. And where the heck was she?

And then I just let it go because I realized that I know where she is. I've known it all along.

Happy birthday, mom.

Isabelle

PS The picture posted is the last photograph that was ever taken of my mom and me (about a month before she passed away.) It's damaged because it was lost at sea and then, by some miracle, was found when it washed up on the shore. Now, that's a LONG story!

I have a dream

What is it with parenting? You spend the first six years married without children, then you have the "one," raise him for six years before you realize that you're turning him into a little Emperor and that this can't be good for mankind, so you decide to bring number "two" into the mix to teach number "one" how to care and share. So what's the matter? Nothing. The baby is adapting very well and thriving and we feel very lucky that Jack is, more often than not, always pleased to see her -- but I can't say that it's been a walk in the park. On the best of days, I go to bed feeling like I'm a productive member of society raising healthy well-adjusted children. On the worst of days, I feel like I'm losing my mind, my autonomy, and staring into a pit of despair, raising children who will end up in therapy the minute they leave the house because their mother is whack. This could very well be the onset of menopause (gulp).

I feel like my brain has shrunk since Makena arrived into my life. I feel distracted and it takes super-human concentration to remember the simplest of tasks. My husband thinks that a black hole has formed inside my head and that it is slowly sucking up any remaining ounces of logical thought I have. The size of said matter so monumental that it has its own weather pattern. Normally, I would take offense, but I just thought that his analogy was so funny and biting, that I've decided to own it.

Are children contagious? Does having one make you want to have two? Does having two make you want to have three? I had a dream recently that woke me up and kept me awake for the rest of the night because it felt so real. It actually scared me because I knew that I couldn't keep it to myself and I also knew that sharing it would spew chaos into our delicate family ecosystem. So what was this monumental revelation? I dreamt that the director of our agency had called me personally to tell me that he wanted to place a teenage girl into our family. My heart leapt, I was so shocked and excited by how real it all felt. I don't know if it was the thought of being mother to another child or the fact that I could contemplate it without having to change more diapers or schedule feedings and naps, but it made me really emotional. I also knew, before I even woke up, that sharing this dream with my resident astronomer was going to be like having to navigate a minefield on the way to a 75% off Barney's warehouse sale -- very risky.

I just couldn't let good enough alone. I just had to "casually" mention this dream to my husband. I laughed, making light of it, I even dragged Jack into it by volunteering that he wouldn't mind having another sibling (he wants one) and, boy, was that NOT the way to go about it. Mentioning a number "three" at breakfast when we were trying to recover from a sleepless night with number "two" wasn't the best time to bring the subject up. Damn that black hole!

My husband dropped the sports page and stared at me for a long moment -- probably wondering which institution he was going to park me in -- and then he told me (without blinking) that he was done having children and that I could adopt as many of them as I wanted with my next husband. Conversation over. I felt like a meteor exploding upon entry into earth's atmosphere.

Nice. So I stewed, annoyed, wondering if I was just taunting him with it for argument's sake (which I may or may not have a habit of doing sometimes) and not at all serious about it, or if I was now determined to latch onto the idea of a Chinese teenage daughter because he hadn't expressed any interest or curiosity in my dream. I called my girlfriend (the one whose coat tails we rode through the adoption process) and I invited myself over with Mak and Jack so that they could play with her kids and because she had mentioned wanting a number "three," too, and had also been told "no."

Since we had so much in common, I asked her for a "teenage Chinese daughter adoption dream" intervention. I wanted to find out from her how she had gotten over it. Well, first things off, she hadn't, so the intervention was already on shaky grounds. But she did let me talk and she tried to help me analyze what it all meant. Initial diagnosis: sleep deprivation. Then we started wondering whether adoption could be addicting. We even hypothesized how long it would take to get divorced, lose ten pounds, find someone worthy enough to start dating again, get married and then convince number "two" husband to adopt a teenage daughter and the numbers just didn't add up. First,I'd be seventy by the time this could theoretically work out. Second, I love my husband, he is a wonderful dad (whose only flaw happens to be a lack of sharing when it comes to the television remote control) we have a great life together and why would I want to risk losing it all? Third, and more importantly, I realized that the dark hole in my brain had not sucked up all the logic because I came to these conclusions on my own (ok, maybe I had a little help)!

Ha! Just laughing about it diffused the whole situation. An enormous weight was lifted off my shoulders and I almost felt normal on the drive home. And ever since then, I have been more productive and organized than I have been in months. Which really isn't saying much, but it is progress.

So where are things now? Well, I have earmarked our donations for the Big Sisters program at Half The Sky (see link) and I feel better knowing that by sponsoring some of the older girls who still haven't been adopted, that I might be helping them realize some of their dreams of getting a higher education, even if I can't be their mom.

Isabelle
Who can't post pictures because she seems to have misplaced her camera charger...so much for being organized.

Big Fish

This is the photograph that will haunt my husband for a long time to come and I have to secretly admit to being happy that this sixty pound tuna got away because I know that if it hadn't, it would have been stuffed and hung on a wall in my house for me to stare at and dust, occasionally.

The Gods of good taste and home decor were shining on me that day.

Am I a bad wife? (Don't answer that.)

Is - relieved

Spam

I gave my husband a day of sports fishing for Christmas this year. I thought it was original, somewhat convenient -- since we happened to be in Hawaii -- and wouldn't clutter up the shelves or take up closet space like some of my past gifts (unless, God forbid, he actually caught a monster fish and decided to get it stuffed!)

I scheduled the expedition for Christmas Eve so that all the boys could fish together and they set off bright and early like the manly-men that they were, for a very long day at sea. Auntie and I promised them that we would cook whatever they caught and that it would be our Christmas Eve dinner. No pressure. Spam sushi was on the menu if they came home empty handed. You know, the canned ham that won't ever spoil? Otherwise known as the Hawaiian salt-lick.

They were true hunters and gatherers and Jack caught a skipjack and a tuna all by himself! For an eight-year old, he is a veteran of a dozen fishing expeditions, mostly lake, so this was a big deal! The charter company filleted the fish and they came home with twenty-five pounds of tuna steaks. I've never tasted fresher fish in my life! We sliced up the skipjack and ate it like sashimi and poke (a Hawaiian ceviche) and I marinated the steaks and grilled them and it was awesome!!!!!! Auntie took care of making us some deliciously tropical Mai Tais (she's an excellent bar tender) and it was a most excellent celebration and a special first Christmas Eve having Makena finally be a part of our family.

However, since this was "day two" of our vacation, I couldn't see us eating our way through twenty more pounds of fish, no matter how yummy or "Atkins" it was. I know I could have frozen it and taken it home for New Year's but we decided to give it to some locals to enjoy and they were thrilled. As promised, Santa found Jack on the North Shore and managed to spoil him -- go figure -- and his awe and enthusiasm confirmed that he still believed in the man. But I have to admit that the best gift of all (a slightly terrifying one at that) was the gift that Makena gave us! She started to walk! Life, as we know it, is officially over AGAIN!

Ladies and gentlemen, I present: Frankenbaby.

Happy New Year!

Is - watching my children grow up too fast!

Surf and Turf

Falling under the category of "How to get exhausted on vacation without really trying," I planned a "less than twenty-four hour" turnaround to take my family from the picturesque snowy mountains -- home, and then up at the crack of dawn the following day -- to catch a flight to Oahu and the North Shore for the second exciting week of Jack's winter break. I would have fired my travel agent except that the person was me!

Added "perk" to the stress was me slipping on black ice at a gas station as we were leaving the mountains. If the card-reader at the pump had worked, none of this would have happened. If I had been carrying Makena into the gas station to pay in person, she would have taken my full weight as I slipped and crashed to the ground. I guess that was the miracle, A) that I wasn't worse off than a severely bruised elbow, B) that I wasn't carrying the baby.

Needless to say my little 4.7 double axel (for artistic impression) shaved four hours off my travel turn-around budget and poof! Gone was the time I had allotted for the pre-trip manicure, pedicure and waxing. Thank God, I packed Mak and Jack's luggage and Santa's presents, the week before. I didn't have to worry about forgetting something key. Unfortunately, I ended up shaving and butchering my legs and wishing I'd had a more "European" approach to body hair. Do you really need to know this?



Anyway, the kids were All Stars and behaved charmingly on the flight over. I discovered that sucking on ice chips and punching the numbers on the seat-phone were Makena's favorite pass times. Jack actually said "please" and "thank you" to the flight-attendant, learned how to play Solitaire and let me sit in the window seat with Makena while my husband fed me Advil at regular intervals to help the swelling go down on my elbow.


When we got to Haleiwa, we all happily discovered that the rental agent had slapped some lights on a plastic palm tree. Jack grumbled that it wasn't a pine tree so I hastily explained that eight-pound, 6 ounce, baby Jesus (quoted from Talladega Nights) was born in the Middle East and that I suspected that the original Christmas Tree was actually a palm tree. Ha! Am I good or what?

This was the first time we weren't going to be home for Christmas and Jack was really concerned that Santa Claus wouldn't know where to find him. I assured him that I had mailed his letter to the North Pole with a forwarding address but he was very skeptical and moody. My brother and sister-in-law suspected that Jack's distress was an act meant to extract more gifts and that he didn't really "believe." They actually challenged me to confront him about it (They don't have kids) and for a while it felt as if I was living an episode of "Curb your enthusiasm" because they kept bringing the topic up. It was quite funny and nerve racking at the same time. Ultimately, is was a big "No way" because I wasn't going to be the one to pull Santa's sleigh out of the sky.

A hasty trip to Foodland provided us with some cheap colorful ornaments to hang and I would have added Leis to the trimming but my brother-in-law asked me not to embarrass him with the purchase...So I bought the National Enquirer instead and read it in plain view, in the check-out aisle, as we waited to pay. Now that was embarrassing!

Aloha.

Isabelle

Cool Runnings

The start of Jack's winter break was a hit (in more ways than one.) After this, we changed the sledding course to a less steep angle with a wider gap between trees...Call it Darwinism or the miracle of Christmas, but this incident made us realize that we definitely needed helmets in this terrain. It further confirmed my standing as "mother of the year."

We spent the first week of Jack's winter break up in the mountains and it was fantastic, we got there just ahead of a snow storm that left us with a few feet of snow and a good base for skiing. I managed to squeeze Mak into the same fleece one-piece Jack had worn when he was a baby (one of the few things I kept) so she was somewhat weatherized to have fun in the elements and loved it.

Jack's friends Conner and Olivia came along with us for the week and it was a blast. We always had to have our guard up because we never knew whether we would be assaulted by a barrage of snowballs or not.

We were also joined by Mak and Jack's Uncle and Auntie who showed up with a new fleece for Makena in girl colors.






This could have been a good alternate holiday picture but given the speed at which I operate these days, our friends and family would probably have received it around Valentine's day.

Is - slowly surrendering to the invasion of pink in my life...

Holidaze

There should be an award for getting two kids to sit still long enough to capture that "special moment." You know the one. The one you send out to all your friends and family that screams "we are soooo happy and content and wish you all the same." Yeah, well, appearances can be deceiving because our session was a family circus, a tragi-comedy full of tantrums and fits.

Once I had decided on the holiday neutral location, the Martha in me dared coordinate the kids in hues of blue. I figured the color would work well for Hanukah, the fire for Christmas and the orange bench for Kwanza. I tried to cover everything.

It was a commando mission Rambo would have been proud of. First, I had to time it right. I had to spring the photo shoot on my cinematographer brother-in-law who happened to be visiting. I had to do this within moments of sunset "magic hour" to inspire him to do this willingly. Then, I had to extract Jack from his bedroom while he was having a playdate and change him into some clean clothes. I banked on having all of five minutes to do this, so a shower was out of the question. Last, I had to hope that Makena would wake up from her nap with enough time to change her, snack her and keep her clean and happy long enough to capture that magical moment.

Of course, things never go as planned.

I even tried to bring Tiger into the picture but that proved disastrous after his wagging tail smacked Mak in the head...

One has to suffer for art.
















Then by some miracle, the sea parted, Tiger chased after a bird and there was calm. This is the shot we happily and gratefully settled for. The message I wrote was "Peace," which is what I wish you all for 2007.

Peace,

Isabelle
No resolutions, just resolved to try a little harder to be the best that I can be.

I can chew my shoe

A good indication you might be tired is when you wake up in the morning and you brush your teeth thinking that the sunscreen tube you are holding is actually the toothpaste. Not only did I squeeze a good dollop on my toothbrush, I actually worked up a furious lather in my mouth before my brain computed that it wasn't some god-awful European licorice flavor-gone-bad brand but actually sun block. I thought for a moment that I was going to have to call Poison Control for myself. Blegh. My tongue was UV protected to the count of 45, thanks to my anti-aging Neutrogena sunscreen.

That was the final straw. I decided to start taking better care of myself this week, because I realized the hard way that my energy and "focus" batteries were at an all time low. I started by addressing my back pains and carpo-tunnel aches that were a result of going from carrying zero to sixteen pounds, as I did, when we adopted Makena. Yeah, I know, I should have done the sit-ups. Whatever. So I marched myself into the chiropractor's office thinking that I would get one adjustment and be out of there, but the guy was slightly dumbfounded by the state of my back and told me that it would take a minimum of five sessions before he could have some effect on my posture and pains. Nice. In any case, I lay face down and I swear I've never heard so many "cracks" come out of my spine and neck (as opposed to the wise cracks that come out of my mouth). I think I may be an inch taller since the first session!

I also decided that I needed to dig up my "What to Expect The First Five Years " book because after spending several sleepless nights over the Thanksgiving holiday, I finally realized that Makena's "one year" molars had come in (duh) and those suckers are big. When the bottom ones appear, I won't be sticking my finger in her mouth anymore -- unless it's to pull out a live worm -- as I did recently. It was a "catch and release" and she pitched a crying fit because she didn't get the pleasure of swallowing it.

It takes a special skill to extract theses things from her and I have discovered that she has a cruel streak and that she derives a certain pleasure from locking her jaw around my index and clamping down. If I scream, as is usually the case, she giggles with pure delight. Thank god I'm not squeamish though, because when it comes to dealing with bugs in this family, I am the spider and moth relocator. I'll even give the odd earwig another chance at love, life, and the pursuit of moisture -- but as long as it heads outside. If you are cricket and you are in my house, you are out of luck, you get fed to Jack's geckos.

Makena had her "one year" check-up at thirteen-and-a-half months because the pediatrician wanted us to spend more time with her (between visits) so that we could better discuss her development. As far as statistics go, she weighs 19 pounds and stands 29.5 inches. She is creeping up the charts in height, closing in on the 50% and coasting at a 12% for weight. She babbles incessantly, continues to point, and I am beginning to suspect that the word "dat," that she always says, may be her attempt to call out "Jack."

She claps. She shakes her bottle on command and she likes to gouge babies' eyes when she meets them. She also has a good enough sense of balance to sit on a skateboard and be pushed along for a few feet. She loves her rice porridge, any kind of meat or fish, steamed carrots, green beans and yogurt. She is partial to pineapple, rice crackers, seaweed and noodles. She does not do well with any soy products. She doesn't digest them or sleep well if she has eaten them so they are no longer a part of her menu. I am inclined to think that wheat may cause her similar problems. The doctor also gave us permission to run out of formula and start her on whole milk, so I guess she is getting the nutrition she needs, but part of me wants to keep going until she is about 18 months. Mostly because we will be traveling and milk tends to taste different in other parts of the world and I want to keep things the same. I may just put milk in a sippy-cup and see how she likes it before I let formula go completely. Yes, I'm talking to myself.

On the downside, Makena continues to be fascinated by the toilet -- which is such a drag because now I have to get those seat locks. I'm not so concerned about her diving head first into the bowl, as I am worried about the "souvenirs" Jack's friends leave behind when they come to visit. It's very frustrating. Not everyone, it seems, has been taught to put the toilet lid down, let alone flush!

Finally, she took her first three steps this week and I think that she realized how monumental this milestone in her development was because she is now determined to practice every chance she gets and insists on holding our hand for balance. She is on the move everywhere, to the point where she is starting to pitch fits when we carry her. I am seriously worried that the minute she knows she doesn't need our help to go from point A to point B, that she will be off and running without looking back. I also have the sneaking suspicion that this precise realization will happen on the flight to Hawaii in a couple of weeks. I am inclined to book Jack and my husband on separate rows and have them pretend not to know us just to ease my stress. Which brings me to another "Isabelle is penitent" moment: I was always shocked, and I'll admit, that I also looked down on people who "harnessed" their children and "walked" them about in crowded places. I thought they were paranoid. Well guess what? I'm paranoid. I think Makena's "active" disposition may have won me admittance into that club and I can't believe it but I do understand those people because I now know where they were coming from. I hope I am wrong about Makena's "don't look back" attitude because if I wasn't able to leash-train Tiger, what the heck am I going to do with her?

Help!

Is - not all that I am cracked up to be.

Foul play

I'm exhausted. The last of the 25 guests who rolled through our mountain house to celebrate Thanksgiving with us have just left. Makena is asleep, the kitchen is trashed, and Tiger is collapsed on the couch with a rawhide hanging out his mouth and bloated with gas from having been fed too many scraps.

If you are wondering where Jack and daddy are, they are in town in a clean house, asleep, and getting ready for school and work tomorrow. I've stayed back a couple of days, to put the house back together and await new appliances (pictured,) especially, the new dishwasher. The old one broke the day before T-day and was repaired -- with a lot of begging on my part -- but ultimately, I was told that it wouldn't last ten more washes.


I did two sacrilegious things this year to mark Makena's first Thanksgiving with us: I ordered an "already cooked" Turkey AND a half-gallon of gravy. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE to cook, I'm the type of person who gets excited when she opens a set of Le Creuset pots or stainless steel mixing bowls for Christmas. My idea of a good souvenir is to come back with a cookbook from the places I visit (which reminds me that I didn't get one in China!) I love food. I love Iron Chef --my sister, on the other hand, would use those gifts as a weapon and clobber you over the head with them for even thinking about getting her that, but I digress...

I've never committed high culinary treason before --I've also never had two children or twelve guests (plus three extra dogs) spend three days with us-- so ordering the bird made sense at the time. And, I'll be honest, I wasn't sure that my first husband would pull off frying the turkey (at altitude), so I wanted to be safe. I say "first" husband because he was deservedly insulted by my lack of faith in his frying abilities and gasped when he found out that I couldn't even own up to the gravy.

Well guess who ate crow? Moi. Not only did his, not one but two, fried turkeys come out perfectly cooked and delicious but my overpriced bird was RAW. Sure, it looked golden and mouth-watering on the outside, on the inside it, was uncooked and cold. There was a collective gasp from the crowd and they sort of looked at me with pity. I even tried a bite of "sushi turkey" hoping against hope that it wasn't as bad as it looked. Adding further insult to injury, the yam risotto that I had proudly prepared before coming up (to save myself the trouble of cooking in the mountains) was still frozen! I was 0 for 3. Thankfully, since the rest of our friends were serious foodies, there was no shortage of amazing side dishes or dessert (a special golf-clap to Tamara for her Yam pie with caramelized Cabernet sauce and whipped cream.)

Jack stuck to the turkey and freshly baked pumpkin bread (not made by me, of course) and the only one who actually ventured to eat my, subsequently defrosted and disastrously microwaved, risotto was Makena (who thankfully didn't throw it up.)



Our place was a revolving door with groups of friends arriving as others left and it was fantastic -- all be it exhausting. Although Makena handled it all beautifully by day, by night, it was awful. I realized too late in the game that all the festivities (and three new dogs in the house) had her overly stimulated to the point where she couldn't sleep. I spent two entire nights with her sprawled across my chest in an effort to help her. But the only angle that was acceptable to her was upright. So I contorted myself in an armchair and pretended I was on the flight back from Guangzhou and that I could do this. I could find that zen place between delirium and nervous breakdown and make it through the night. Thankfully one of my girlfriends handled making breakfast for everyone on those two days and Makena and I got to sleep in. Tragically. I didn't pack my make-up so I could have looked better.

I wouldn't change a thing about the weekend (except to have my concealer on hand and maybe serve everything on paper plates so that I wouldn't spend so much time washing dishes.) I want Makena to be able to hang with us when we have large groups of friends around -- as Jack does -- and I am thankful that she doesn't seem to have held these disruptions against me. I'm thankful for Makena and Jack's brilliant personalities and extremely thankful that I wasn't served divorce papers for dessert -- although I have been suspended from cooking duties for next year's meal.

In the meantime, I plan on having a serious word with the grocer who sold me the raw Tom Turkey because I suspect that was foul play!

Is - on a diet.
PS Makena spent a great part of the weekend chasing, Earl, our friend's hairless chihuahua (pictured above.) Makena's friend Josie had a bublebath together. Last, our friend Tony also helped her ride a skateboard for the first time. Look for Makena in the XGames of 2017.

Shoot first, ask questions later

What do you call the person who packs up her two kids on the spur of the moment, takes a couple of carry-on, and flies to Seattle for three days? My husband called me his "frontier woman" as he loaded us into to the car for the drive to the airport. That was me, Is-a-crazy, flying solo last weekend.

My oldest girlfriend, who I have known since I was nine years old (she shares the title with her sister,) was going to be in Seattle to do the interior design of a private jet for some billionaire who lives up there. She hadn't met Makena and I didn't know when I would be going to Montreal, so since we were on the same coast and I was suffering from writer's block, I decided to shake things up and take the bull by the horns and I quickly booked myself on a super cheap-non-refundable-no matter-what Expedia package so that she could meet the baby and have a visit with Jack. Seattle also happened to be where another family, we traveled to China to adopt with, happened to live so it all seemed like a reasonable adventure and meant to be. I'd kill two birds with one stone: reunite Makena with one of her China cousins and have her meet my jet-setting friend.

If I had paid closer attention to the Weather channel and noticed that they were having record-breaking rain storms and cataclysmic floods up there, I may have hesitated. If I had been told that trying to get my rental car at nine-thirty on a Saturday night would turn into a two hour fiasco as I dragged luggage and pushed a stroller with a crying baby and a sleep-walking eight year old up in the elevator and across the sky bridge, into the parking lot and back to the airport terminal THREE TIMES because every direction I was given was wrong! Only to finally make it to the airport car rental site and discover that it was closed and reading a notice that told me to grab a shuttle and head to Timbuktu to pick up my vehicle -- To finally get there and be told that all the computers were down and that they were unable to verify my reservation... To finally get the car and to have to drive exhausted into an unfamiliar city -- in a rain storm -- because it only started to rain the minute I got in the car -- I may have stayed home!

Nevertheless, around the stroke of midnight, we made it in one piece and the hotel was extremely accommodating. When they rolled the crib into the room, I had flashbacks of Chongqing just before we got Makena and I wondered how the baby would deal with everything when she woke up and found herself in a strange bed, in a hotel room, and what impact that might have on her. Jack mumbled something about "room service" pancakes and bacon before passing out and I fell asleep watching an episode of "Flip that House," a remodeling show full of insane people with dubious decorating and remodeling tastes.

Sunday was great. Our China friends and my girlfriend met us at the hotel and we walked to the public market in the rain and ate lunch and then strolled to the aquarium. I worried that Jack would complain about all the walking but I slipped him a twenty (for hardly complaining at the airport) and he spent the rest of the afternoon figuring out how to spend it. Finally settling on a stuffed Ecoli virus toy. It was a toss up between the Ebola and polio ones but the fringe is what finally sold him. Besides, with all the Spinach fiasco, Ecoli was on his mind.



Monday was spent visiting the Space needle and the science museum and Mak and Jack were total troopers. The flight home was uneventful and the crowning glory was Makena returning home, seeing Tiger and her bedroom, and breaking out into this huge smile followed by a twelve hour sleep through the night!

Yeah! I'm so glad I shot first and asked questions later. We had the best time.

Is - a- loving Seattle.

The 200 year old man

My husband loves breakfast at any time of the day, so when I asked him what he wanted for his birthday dinner the answer came as no surprise. I tried to think of various places that serve breakfast all day -- Denny's came to mind -- but I decided that Nate 'n Al's, a deli in Beverly Hills, would be more fun and would offer those who didn't care to have eggs for dinner a greater range of choices. I spoke to the (young) assistant of one of our guests to give him the directions and details for the soiree and he was speechless. He was stunned that I would host a dinner at a deli and not follow it up with a round of drinks at a bar or some dancing. Yeah, well that's happens when you suddenly have 2 kids and the big "45" is in your rear-view mirror and you don't want to cook and scrape pancake batter off the kitchen counter, let alone your hair. The small group who attended were amused and thought the whole thing was cool and original.

The evening was a hoot and the bonus: A celebrity sighting of Larry King eating his dinner. I told everyone who would listen that "this was a birthday fit for a king." I had the waitress put the number "200" on the apple pie (my better half does not like cake) -- thinking I was being clever ala "Mel Brooks, the 200 year old man." Except, in typical Isabelle malapropism fashion, I was off by a couple of thousand years, 'cause it's the Two Thousand Year Old Man and hubby wasn't as amused by my cleverness, as I was.







Mak and Jack were in attendance and carried themselves extremely well, or so I thought. I gave Jack the camera to let him take pictures (and to keep him from complaining that he was the only kid there) and I was shocked to see the framing on some of his shots after we got home. Should I be worried?


Happy Birthday, dude.

Is - a - young at heart.

PS Those aren't my boobs. Consider the picture a gift.

I interrupt this bulletin

I interrupt the usual blogging about my children to remind my dad (pictured with me when I was two) and my sister that, not only did I have a birthday a few days ago, but that I also celebrated my fourteen-year wedding anniversary (a longevity feat by California standards) and that unless the phone lines were down and are still down, I'm wondering why I didn't get a phone call? I don't need gifts. And I understand the concept of saving trees, so I can do without a card, but an e-mail or a message on my voice-mail would have been nice.

And people wonder why I have a birthday complex when it comes to my kids.


Is - getting older by the day

PS this is what happens when your family become blog lurkers.

Halloween

How many elementary school principals, do you know, have to write an open letter to the parents of his students asking them to disguise themselves "appropriately" for the Halloween parade? Ours did, because one too many moms in recent years have shown up on the playground dressed as hookers or sexy she-devils, wearing too revealing an outfit (thinking they are so daring and creative) and he's trying to put a stop to it. Why? Because the audience is fifteen years too young for this kind of exposure! Hello? Don't get me wrong, I love a good party and I don't consider myself a prude but I was shocked when I read the flyer that came home in Jack's folder. Then, I was stunned when I read the next one: "hand out Granola bars and mini carrots instead of chocolates so that we can be "healthy." In retrospect, I can see how the principal was trying to cover our mental health as well as our physical health in those bulletins. Something for everyone, just pick and chose.

Nevertheless, Halloween was a blast this year. Jack and I invited a dozen of his friends and their parents over for a bucket of the "Colonel's best" and some refreshments to kick off the "Trick or Treat through the neighborhood walk". Poor dad could not be with us. He was stuck at a Rolling Stones concert in New York and had to miss out on all the fun and excitement.

We live at one end of this almost rural neighborhood and nobody ever pays us a visit on Halloween, so we've started this tradition of having a few people over for a bite to eat before they go out -- I figure that nothing goes better with candy and chocolate than a bit of grease and maybe a glass of Chardonnay, to put you in a festive mood. So, just after it got dark, we pulled out the lanterns and the plastic to-go cups and chaperoned the kids to the street where all the action happens when it comes to the spectacle of Halloween. We're talking decapitated heads, mummies walking the streets, haunting projections on the sides of houses, women who may have had too much plastic surgery -- you name it - - a very ghoulish experience for the faint of heart.

Jack went as a werewolf. I slapped together his disguise by cutting the horse head off a costume that was too small for him and sticking a werewolf mask over it. The only drawback was Jack's size. I wanted to paint his hands and feet blood red, to compensate, but he wouldn't let me. Then, he insisted on wearing socks with his sandals. Ergo, the photo you see. Scary from the waist up, scarier from the knees down.

Jack insisted that Makena wear the bat costume he wore for his first Halloween (one of the few baby items of his that I have kept) and by some miracle, related to her tiny size, it fit. I managed to snap a shot of her dressed as a bat in front of her Fisher Price house (talk about musical nightmare) and had I had Jack's photo of him wearing it on disc, I would have posted it as well.

I, on the other hand, ended up slapping the cut-off horse head from Jack's old costume on my head and pretending to be the decapitated horse from the Godfather movie. I would post the photo but I'm way too vain. Now, had my husband been in town. I probably would have dressed as Superwoman. I love those red boots!

Yeah, right.

Isabelle