Baba, Papa, Night Night

Charlie And Lola

Here in Parentville, "Charlie and Lola" is one of our favorite animated shows. Favourite family programmes, I suppose I should say, since it comes from England and, unfortunately, only lasts 15 minutes at a time, rather than the standard 30.

It's the charming story of an older brother and younger sister and the fun adventures they find themselves in, all rendered in a simple yet whimsical line-drawing style and filled in with broad markers and scraps of fabric/paper that look like something unearthed from your grandmother's attic. (It always reminds me of what poet Stevie Smith's drawings would look like if they came to life and weren't so suicidal and depressive.)

John especially loves the program because I think it reminds him of what Finn and Shea will (hopefully) be like in a few years. He loves it so much, in fact, that he's been in a funk since the PBS syndicate here in Southern California changed its regular air time a couple weeks ago and he's now unable to watch it with Shea during their early morning father-and-daughter bonding session before work each day. "Bear in the Big Blue House totally sucks," he recently vented, in response to the show that took C&L's former slot. Priorities, people; we've certainly got 'em.

As siblings, Charlie and Lola occasionally spat, of course, but it's always in a kind, respectful, very British and articulate kind of way. Charlie, the infinitely patient older brother, is continually charmed by his silly and funny little sister, while Lola, the feisty sparkplug of a little sister, adores her older brother and wants to be part of everything he does. Idyllic? Yes. Realistic? Probably not. Heartwarming nevertheless? You betcha.

In the morass of insipid children's programming and uninspired, flat animation, C&L is a viewing highlight. Its visuals are dear without being saccharine, its music playful without delving into Muzak, and its message sweet without being preachy. Well done, Charlie and Lola. May our children one day love you as much as their parents do.

Mother's Day Arrived A Week Early

I treated myself to a haircut yesterday--a nice one, at a salon where they offered me freshly brewed French roast coffee and white chocolate Macadamia nut cookies as I devoured celebrity gossip magazines on the plush, oversized ottoman lounge chair in the lobby.

I realized it had been about 14 months since my last cut--I was about seven months' pregnant with Shea at the time, who managed to kick my insides through most of the appointment, making it hard to STAY STILL to make sure the cut turned out straight--and my hair was looking a bit scraggly, to say the least.

Funny thing about having kids: most of your attention gets focused on making sure they're fed, cleaned, clothed, color coordinated, etc. I, however, find myself most days in a black or (mostly) white t-shirt, a pair of jeans, and my Rainbow sandals. It's my standard uniform--not one that I love, but one that works.

And my hair? Although I take a sliver of pride in the fact that it gets washed every single day, that's where the love stops. It usually gets thrown up into a ponytail or clip, up and out of the way of grabby baby hands. More than once I've taken it out of the clip at bedtime to find that it's even still a little wet, since I didn't ever get around to drying it. But BY GOD, it's clean. (The 16-year-old me just rolled her eyes and took a step back out of embarrassment.)

How some women manage to look great while mothering small children just eludes me. I feel like there's a reason doctors wear scrubs, not Prada, during surgery: it's a messy job, one filled with exposure to random bodily fluids, and casual, loose-fitting clothing (which, when it gets inevitably stained, can be easily washed, thrown away or even burned in a HazMat incinerator) seems to fit the bill best.

Ferragamo heels? Seven Jeans? Juicy Couture? Really?

(Quick aside: I ran into Pete Sampras and his model/actress wife, Bridgette, and their son at Legoland a couple years ago. And the thing that struck me most from the encounter wasn't that one of the greatest athletes to play the game of tennis and I were chasing our toddler sons around the playground together, but rather just how put together--well rested, well sculpted, well dressed, and well coifed--Mommy Sampras looked. I noticed her waaaaaaaayyyyy before I noticed Pete and his urgent need for a pedicure. And, although she kind of grunted at me when I apologized for accidentally stepping on her toe while I was trying to take Finn's picture as he played on a toy next to their son, I tipped my wrinkled and erratically stained hat to her. Yes, she probably had plenty of hired help to take care of her son so she could take care of herself, but she was still a mom of a young boy. A somewhat humorless one, granted, but still a mom. And she was lookin' good.)

Anyway, it was high time to make a hair appointment. I ended up getting about four inches taken off, as I'm still not ready to fully commit to the "Mom haircut" just yet. (The 16-year-old me just sighed with a little relief before bailing on my boring litany of maternal pablum to go buy another bottle of peroxide and some frosty pink lipstick.) It was nice to get pampered. To discuss local events and town history with a fun stylist. To wear a skirt and some kitten-heeled sandals just for the occasion. And, for a few hours at least, to wear my hair down and feel like a grownup.

Almost within minutes of being back home, though, I found myself instinctually piling my hair back up into my fail-safe clip--up and out of the way--in order to prepare dinner, unload the washer and dryer, and comfort a cranky Shea as she emerged from her afternoon nap. But before I did, I snapped a few shots for posterity. Who knows when the next visit to the salon will be.

Below are the results, which really don't look that much different than my hair a year ago, but make me feel much lighter. Don't you love my adorable lap accessory? I couldn't think of a cuter way of showing off the new 'do.

Baby Noir

In Japan, Today Is Boys' Day

Mastery of the light saber--"not as clumsy or random as a blaster, an elegant weapon from a more civilized day"--is a critical component of Jedi Knight training.

Tendencies

Pull His Finger

Finn just never seems to tire of fart jokes.

(Neither does his father, come to think of it.)

Our Pets

Trumped

Karin, just waking up, rubbing eyes:
"That was weird. I had a dream that I had Philip Seymour Hoffman's baby."

John, kissing Karin on the forehead as he leaves for the day for work:
"Yeah? Well, I dreamed that I met Jesus."

More Party Pictures

Our favorite neighborhood tree,
which watched over us and our celebration

The birthday girl, enjoying her very first pink cupcake

Shea's adorable buddy, Baby Sofia

Lookalikes Nicole and Baby Skyler

The charming Frankie Dino, Jon and Chrissy

Fashion Diva Christine and Baby Shea

Auntie Gretchen, cupcake goddess

Uncle Eddie, balloon master

Inseparable cousins Reilly and Finney

Uncle Brian, wisecracker

Parental Protest

While watching the news coverage of the various protests around the country this morning I saw a protester holding a sign that said, "Don't Bite The Hand That Wipes Your Ass!"

John and I have since decided to employ this philosophy with Finn and Shea when they're being particularly unruly.

Her First Birthday Party

We celebrated Shea's first birthday yesterday at our local park. It was a gorgeous spring day--not too hot, not too cold--and we were so glad to have family and friends there to share the special day with us.

Shea enjoyed her first cupcake and, perhaps as a sign of things to come, didn't seem to mind being the center of attention. At one point, she had five cameras pointed at her face and she didn't even flinch. In fact, the only time she protested anything at all was when we forced her to take her afternoon nap--nearly two hours after she normally does--because she was unraveling at the seams from all the excitement.

The girl loves a party.

Happy First Birthday, Shea

Sweet Shea,

What fun it has been for us to get to know your charming personality and watch you grow over this last year.

You are our baby joy.

Love,
Mommy and Papa

P.S. We should have recognized your fantastic potential for SCREAMING from the video footage below, shot less than an hour after your birth. A sign of things to come, indeed.
May your voice always be heard.

Birth Day: April 30, 2005, 1:57pm

10 days old

one month old

two months old

three months old

four months old

five months old

six months old

seven months old

eight months old

nine months old

ten months old

eleven months old

one year old

Sometimes She Reminds Me of Jack Nicholson

Twice As Goofy

Watching Her Favorite Show, Teletubbies

Say Uncle

This batch of photos, taken at Finn and Shea's cousin Reilly's third birthday party on April 15th, represents the old digital camera's last day's worth of photos (may it rest in digital peace).

We had a great time celebrating with friends and family and watching the kids tear open the pinata. But the highlight of the day was definitely the arrival of the kids' sweet Uncle Paul--an uncle little Shea and Reilly had never met before last Saturday--who flew in from Denver to visit us all over the last week or so.

Visits from Uncle Paul have been few and far between in recent years, so we all did our darndest to convince him to move to California once and for all. Hopefully, we'll be seeing more of Paul in the future (hint, hint, Denver guy).

Birthday Boy Reilly, flush with his newfound three-year-old power, prepares to take first swings at his birthday pinata

Sister Kendra, handicapped by the beanie, takes a blind stab at tearing the pinata open


The booty -- and subsequent mad scramble


Uncle Paul and Baby Shea, meeting for the first time

John and the kids in a quiet moment