Leading Child-Led Lives

As if my already complicated life isn’t complicated enough we’ve added backyard chickens to the mix. When our 10-year-old son begged us to take home Blackie and Pecker -- chickens he had hatched from eggs at The Realm Creative Academy-- my first thought was: No. Absolutely not. We live in an urban/suburban community. If we don’t have time to walk a dog, we certainly don’t have time to care for chickens. But he was adamant and my husband and I found ourselves, (as we are wont to do with both of our children - no judgements please) giving in. It’s just two chickens we said after perusing enthusiastic blogs on the net.  How hard can it be? And won’t it be fun to have fresh eggs? We have an organic garden so we’re already sold on the benefits of producing our own food. Cut to 2 ½ mos. later and I'm now obsessed with our chickens. Obsessed with their health and happiness -- along with my children's and cat's of course. These creatures are so much smarter and more sociable than I expected. I honestly had no idea they would be so much fun.

Every morning the kids and I go out to feed them hand picked clover, grass and wormies from our compost. I’ve read up on various life hacks to help me figure out ways to stave off their boredom (something I didn’t know was a problem but apparently is with these curious creatures). I now cram chunks of cabbage and greens into whiffle balls and homemade hanging baskets jerry-rigged from whisks, zip tied and suspended from the wire ceiling.  I’ve also studied ways to keep their coop clean while expending the least amount of effort -- and hopefully today’s trip to the hardware store to buy some vinyl flooring, a stall rake and a wet vac will be the ticket to making this job easier.

I marvel at how my husband and I have become "these" people we used to read about and sometimes mock, sometimes marvel at. Part of a growing movement called Urban Homesteading. Our evolution to living a more alternative lifestyle wasn't something that we sat down and actually mapped out, it just sort of happened. 

We're two transplanted NY'ers raising children in California who decided to try growing our own vegetables to get our kids to hopefully become more interested in eating them. We started composting when our son became terrified about the effects of global warming on the environment. And by looking for ways to help alleviate his fears we stumbled upon something that not only helps us reduce our waste and grow bigger vegetables but in a small way helps heal the land.  We became homeschoolers not out of a desire to be hippies but as a result of feeling like we were losing our beautiful boy -- whose painful struggle to fit in the traditional education system given his learning disabilities -- was crushing his spirit and belief in his awe-inspiring capabilities. (Thank God I have a husband who was willing to take this on). And now we've embarked on this latest venture -- raising backyard chickens -- because we gave into this beautiful child's tears that melted our resolve NOT to take on such an ambitious responsibility. 

It's only recently occurred to me that we are living child-led lives, because in truth our children have dictated our choices.

And as I watch my kids growing up in this work-in-progress household -- as I try not to scold my 3-year-old daughter for picking and eating under ripe vegetable and cheer her when she miraculously finds the ripe ones -- as my son digs worms from the compost to dump in the garden or give to the chickies as snacks -- as his curious mind devours every new experience and turns it into a learning adventure -- I wonder what new adventures lie ahead for us all. 

I guess we'll just have to ask the kids.

Making Time For Friends While Still Leaning In And Buying Diapers

This would be Sandra Stone with Sara Hook and me in high school at the University of North Carolina School of the Arts backstage getting ready to perform in one of the most punishingly cruel, maniacally demanding pieces I've ever done in my life.  

For those of you who don’t know I was a professional Modern Dancer before becoming a writer.

If you haven’t read my previous blog about this piece  http://andthencamehenry.blogspot.com/2012/03/what-i-learned-from-dance.html it was one of those seminal, life changing moments.

The music for the dance was the Adagietto from Mahler's 5th

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zGiZgAE2wQ8

I chose to share this recording because it gives context to what I’m feeling and is closest in timing to Mahler's original vision - which for me is the only way to experience it.

I’m writing about dance again because I just spent the week with Sandy and her family (they just left this morning) and I already miss her in a way that has caught me off guard.  Leveled me actually.  Made me examine the nature of friendships and the impact they have on our lives.  My life to be exact.

What’s weird is that I haven’t seen Sandy in YEARS - we connect from time to time on FB - but it’s not like I think about her everyday, yet being with her this week has brought up such powerful emotions.  

Maybe it’s because we were in boarding school together at such a young age - that certainly accounts for developing close bonds.  I also think that when you dance with someone - perform on stage - you form an even deeper connection because you learn to depend on each other in this incredibly primal way that transcends everyday life.

So there’s that.

But there’s also the fact that I allowed myself to take walks with her this week.  I made time for our two families to sit down and actually have dinner... together.  

I.  Took.  The.  Time.  To.  Be.  With.  Her.

And it was worth it. 

Hanging out with Sandy has gotten me thinking why I don’t prioritize making time to see friends on a regular basis.  Because it's not like I don't have friends and it's not like I don't want to see them.

It’s pretty obvious that when we’re younger we simply have more free time and as we get older we get caught up in life's responsibilities - the day-to-day minutia.  My go to excuse is frequently, “I can't do XXX right now, I'm on deadline."  Then there's the mundane, seemingly important bullshit, "We’re out of diapers.  Did you pick up the dry cleaning?” Yes, we adults have more responsibilities to our families, to our work - but there is something to be said about having a responsibility to yourself and this underrated notion of hanging out - whether it be taking walks with a friend or listening to music or just having a good laugh.  I’m lucky that my husband has become my best friend, but even he and I don’t hang out nearly enough. 

Take away from this week.

Make time for friends while still leaning in and buying diapers.

Ode To An Older Parent And Tribute To The Veteran In My Life

Growing up I was acutely aware (from as far back as I can remember) that I had a much OLDER dad. Even though he looked young - he was still overweight, not in great physical shape, worked hard traveling for business and hardly ever home.

I remember always comparing him to my friend's fathers who were much younger, seemingly athletic and home.

I dreaded the day I would lose him - but knew it was inevitable and when it happened I was devastated.

Even so, knowing what I knew then - what I know know - I'd take my geriatric, diabetic, overweight, Members Only jacket wearing, New York born and bred, former Jew converted to Unitarian Universalism, lefty liberal father over any one of my friend's younger, tanned, tennis playing, golf shoe wearing, Floridian Republican dads any day.

I'm grateful I had a father who was of another era.  Who possessed an incredible sense of humor.  Who turned my sisters and me onto Mel Brooks, Sid Ceasar, Allan Sherman, Ernie Kovacs - when none of my friends even knew who they were.

To think that I was raised by a man who during WWII photograhed Roosevelt, Stalin, & Churchill at the Big 3 Yalta conference.  Who dined with King Farouk and sang for fun around the piano with Edie Cantor.

Wow.

As a young Jewish man, the war was highly personal for my father.  But by the time my sisters and I came along he almost never discussed it.  I didn't really understand until I was older what it meant for him being Jewish to be one of the first Americans let into a liberated camp (I think it was Birkenhauer).   I can't imagine what horrors he saw. That's probably why his photo albums from the war are filled with landscapes of Egypt - portraits of children and camels - soldiers playfully partying.  He only kept a few pics from Yalta and a blurry, disturbing photo of a bloated, mutilated Mussolini after he had been hanged and cut down by the mob - plus a couple of artifacts tucked in his dresser drawer - an electric razor he traded a German POW for and a handmade picture frame made out of old coins from an Italian POW.  But that's it.  The war was not something my father chose to define himself by.  As a child I never understood his choice to enlist.  The sense of duty he must have felt as both an American and Jewish man...

To me he was just my dad.

A man who may have come from a different era, but was never out of step with the times.  And even though he gave up his dream of being a professional photographer (he'd been courted by Life Magazine) once he returned to civilian life - my father continued to take photos - to be an artist.  His sense of composition and lighting was superb.  He was still taking photographs up until the time he got sick.

The negatives of my father's photographs from WWII are stored in the Library of Congress anonymously - because photographers from that time were not given credit for their work. But my family knows they are there.   And we're proud.

In honor of Veteran's Day - I honor the veteran who means the most to me.

Arthur Lionel Benjamin - home movie edited by Julia Benjamin Salleres

Time Out For Thanks

These days are a blur. Between work. Kids. Work. Sleep. Eating. Kids. Work. Scooping litter. Sorting recycling. Watering the garden. Work. Kids. Kids. Husband...

Ah, the husband. The last on the list.

Not fair I know, but as the other adult in my life I assume he'll understand. He knows the hectic schedule I'm keeping these days. And as anyone who works in the entertainment industry (in any capacity) knows, once you hit production it's non-stop adrenaline pumping make your deadines no matter what.

It's fun. It's exciting. I love it.

But when you're in the thick of production it rarely leaves little time for anything else...

This is difficult to explain to a just beginning to understand language 18-month old. Somewhat more possible to explain to an 8 going on 9-year old - and extremely possible to explain to the man who is my soulmate.

The person who understands everything about me and has for 20 years.

I know it's unfair he gets shifted to last on my priority list.

He doesn't deserve it.

In fact, he's in the kitchen now making a gourmet dinner at my request.

Not much of a post I know.

I just felt compelled to say thanks to the dear man who is the glue that holds our family together.

And now back to downloading scripts into iannotate on my iPad - so I can travel paperless on my trip to cover production on set in Vancouver tomorrow.

Juggling, Guilt And The Never-Ending Battle Between The Two

The constant in my life revolves around when to find time for myself.  Being a working mother, a lot of guilt creeps in.  If I carve out an hour to work-out, read a book or do some exploratory writing on a new project in my spare time, then I’ve missed valuable playtime, cuddles, giggles and splashing baths. But if I don’t take a beat and center myself – feed my creative process – I suffer and am less able to be fully present at home.  

The dilemma is a good problem to have. Lucky me to have both a career that I am passionate about AND a family that gives me the deepest fulfillment imaginable.  Don’t think for a minute I am ever complaining about that.  What I am trying to get at the root of is, what is the reason behind my guilt and how do I eradicate it from my life?

Taking care of my needs first, is the equivalent of what the airlines advise in case of emergency.  Parents are advised to put their oxygen masks on first, BECAUSE how can you put on your child’s if you’ve suffocated and are dead?  It’s a simple analogy but powerful, nevertheless.  Yet, even though I know this, I still put myself through the same head-trip from time to time.  And the thing is I know I’m not alone.

I read an article the other day on the content site About.com – my go to for just about everything these days http://workingmoms.about.com/od/todaysworkingmoms/a/workguilt.htm that said “10 percent of mothers working full-time give themselves the highest rating for their parenting and just 24 percent of mothers working part-time give themselves a 10 as a parent, according to a Pew Research Center survey.”

The article, and several others I devoured, all left me with the same obvious conclusion – working mother’s guilt is universal, and maybe one reason is because women, at least women of my generation, were taught we were somehow supposed to be able to have it all – careers, bear children, rear them, manage a household, and be fulfilled with nary a hair out of place.  Anyone with half a brain knows that’s completely unrealistic.  No one can manage two FT careers at the same time.  Ask any CEO.  That’s why they delegate. Which got me thinking about delegation and why it brings up a whole other level of guilt for me.

I’m one of the fortunate women who have a husband who is willing to be the primary parent.  My amazing husband is (and I admit this freely) better suited at parenting than me.  He’s kind, caring and incredibly patient, plus he’s skilled in math (I have a BFA in modern dance and an MFA in theater – which leaves me ill equipped to tackle even our son’s 2^nd grade math homework – there, I’ve outted myself. I suck at math. It’s just not the way my brain works.), plus he’s also funny and has the most wonderful way with people, which comes in handy when navigating the whole social school scene.

Aside from my kick-ass husband, we have a loving PT nanny, so daddy can attend to his needs – writing, gym, running errands, and hustling our son to his after school classes.  There is a system in place in our house that works. Well.  Our kids are happy, thriving, and seem bonded to me in a way that doesn’t scream neglectful mother.

Then why do I still feel such pangs of guilt? 

Is it gender related?

I read in my late night Internet searches (no guilt taking time for yourself when the whole house is asleep) that habitual guilt is more intense in women than in men.  Studies show women tend to be more empathetic than men, and it appears to be genetic. This isn’t to say men don’t feel guilt; they’re just able to shake it off faster, whereas women can’t.

So where does this leave me in my quest for balance?

Nowhere.

This is my life.  Because of the demands of my job, there will be times I can be at the Spring Sing and times I miss the Halloween Carnival.  Times I choose to work on my craft and times I play with my kids (like tonight rolling a ball back and forth with my daughter before putting her down to bed).  There will be times I miss the sweetness of putting the kids to bed and times I don’t.  I just have to deal with it.

So my long-winded conclusion is, there is no solution.  Our mother’s were wrong.  Women can’t have it all.  If I want to be a good mom and productive and fulfilled at work, I have to accept this…

…without guilt. 

Ending A Friendship With Dignity And Grace

I’ve had boyfriends tell me they were only dating me to try and get to my older sister (crushing).

I’ve had friends tell lies behind my back in 2^nd grade (hurtful and confusing).

I’ve had a beloved teacher con me into believing that he had gotten me into a prestigious summer theater program abroad, only to find out he had absconded with all of my money – ripping me off for thousands of dollars (cruel and inexcusable).

But I have never had a friend “drop me” me.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve had friendships end. Drift away. Outgrow themselves.

It’s only natural as we get older, and the demands on our time get more intricate, that we condense our energy and prioritize.

But this was different. 

There’s a first time for everything, and having this person recently break her year long silence to tell me that yes our friendship was definitely over (something I suspected months ago when emails and phones calls went unreturned) was certainly a first.

Let me preface by explaining that it’s not like this person and I were ever really that close – not like we saw or talked to each other every day or anything like that. Yet even with the recent email admission that what I suspected was true – the friendship was over – I still felt/feel a sense of incompletion.

Is it because I wanted better closure? Because I felt somehow I deserved more respect?

Yup.

I wanted her to have the courage to sit across from me and have an adult conversation about it. If someone wrongs me (or I perceive they’ve wronged me) I confront them. And that’s what I wanted. Honest confrontation, not cowardly ducking.

This is why even after it became obvious she wanted nothing to do with me, I occasionally continued to reach out. I didn't do it because I wanted to be her friend anymore. I wanted an explanation and I wanted it said to my face.

All of this has gotten me thinking about etiquette and what is the proper way to extricate oneself from a friendship that is no longer working/satisfying/a priority.

What I’ve learned is that ignoring the situation doesn’t make it go away and using email to deal with it is even worse than ignoring it. 

If for any reason you are thinking of shedding a friendship my advice is to: 

1.  Evaluate the relationship. If it is no longer working for you for whatever reason…
2. Sit down with the person and tell them how you feel. Do not do this via text or email.
3.  Be prepared for the fallout.
4. When it’s over don't talk shit about the other person or try to force mutual friends to take sides. Be the bigger person. Avoid gossip and move on.

Simple.

Mature.

Advice for an increasingly impersonal world.

The Lasting Effects Of The Mini Family Vacation

Spring Break is officially over. Henry is back at his 3rd week of school and statewide testing is in full swing. Frances turned one on the 23^rd and my mom's 10-day visit ended today. The two weeks H had off seem like a far-off, distant memory and yet the lasting effects of that quality family time spent together are still being felt.

Why?

We got away and took a vacation – our first ever as a foursome.

Don’t get me wrong our family has taken trips before visiting relatives. I say trips because I don’t count those visits as vacations, since there’s always a lap or a shoulder to burp on, an extra hand to change a diaper. And when we’re at my mom’s, forget about seeing Henry. He disappears with his older cousin Joe to play video games, watch movies, and do whatever it is they do for hours on end.

No, we knew this trip would be totally different.

Traveling with kids, in our case an 8-year-old and a 1-year-old, presents challenges. Frances is a scheduled baby – not something we foisted upon her, it’s just who she happens to be. If she’s not down for her naps and bedtime like clockwork she turns into a shrieking, little, albeit cute, red-faced monster. Also, she’s entered an incredibly annoying I hate being in my car seat phase. This means if she’s not asleep when she's in the car our cute little red-faced monster will undoubtedly make an appearance. Knowing all this sweet hell lay before us, my husband and I decided so what?

We’ll never get this time back.

Go for it.

I have vivid, wonderful memories of traveling with my family as a child. We would drive (all five of us - three little girls and my parents - packed in the car) to Wisconsin from Florida. If my parents survived the chaos of that, then we could manage a two hour drive for a quick two night stay (all I could manage to carve out of my busy schedule).

Oh but all the gear - diapers, stroller, toys, bottles, formula, wipes, jammies, books, and, and, and, and, and...

I confess I have always had a secret mad crush on the nattily dressed families who seem to travel well with multiple kids. In airports, I find myself staring longingly at the fresh faced, relaxed parents, smiling and laughing as their perfectly well behaved children trot behind them, toting their one minimum, snugly packed wheelie bags and small, cheerful candy colored knapsacks filled with what I can only assume are the few carefully chosen toys they’ve been allowed to bring.

These people are not we. We are not they. Nor will we ever be.

We, with our (until recently) one child, have always been the family at the airport with the mismatched, over-packed luggage, rushing through security only to find we packed an errant full bottle of water or giant tube of sunscreen in our carry-on.

How could we ever pull off this mini-vacation with grace, dignity and jocularity?

Easy.

We were, I decided, going to act like adults and suck it up. After all, a vacation is a privilege that I’m grateful we are lucky enough to be able to take.

I'm sharing the discoveries we made in the event some of you might find them helpful when planning a sojourn in the SoCal area.

First on the agenda, where to go? The age spread between the kids is big – seven years. They (understandably) have completely different interests. Frances is a smarty sponge, yet has the attention span of what you’d expect from a fidgety one year-old. Her main interests lately are cruising, banging things together and mouthing everything in sight. At the moment, big boy Henry loves Star Wars, Ninjago and Justice League Unlimited (it’s very important that I make the distinction that JL Unlimited is cool but regular JL is babyish. Got it? Good.) H also has a new obsession, the history of the American Presidents.

Okay, so in order to entertain them both all we needed to find was a child friendly, action packed, history filled destination.

We gave H a few choices and when he heard Legoland (in Carlsbad, CA) http://california.legoland.com/ had just opened a new Star Wars exhibit http://california.legoland.com/explore/rides_and_attractions/miniland_usa/STAR-WARS-Miniland/, the deal was sealed. Good choice. We’d been to Legoland before and knew the variety of attractions would appeal to both kids. Plus, its slow, easy pace and bright, colorful visual stimulation would be perfect for Frances.

Done. Decision made.

Next on the agenda, where to stay? We’ve been to the San Diego area before and bunked at a few very nice hotels. But for this trip we wanted something even more special – not only family friendly, but lovely and laid back. After some research we landed on the historic Hotel Del Coronado in Coronado, CA.

We've heard about the Del for years from friends who rave about it. Perusing their website, http://www.hoteldel.com/ - looking at the beautiful, white, seaside Victorian palace, with its perfectly manicured grounds leading right to the beach - it looked like just the right spot. 

The hotel was built in 1888 and is a National Historic Landmark teeming with history. (Big plus for us with Henry). A host of celebrities and dignitaries have stayed there and even one of my favorite films, “Some Like It Hot,” was shot on premises. Most exciting though, is the resident ghost they boast to have. Henry flipped when he heard about the ghost, but got even more excited when he heard about all the presidents who have been there – including FDR (his number 1 favorite), Benjamin Harrison, William Taft, Lyndon Johnson, James Earl Carter, Jr., & William Jefferson Clinton to name a few. Did I mention the kid’s gone gaga for Presidential history?

The plan was (and I say was because nothing ever goes as planned, right?) to arrive late Monday afternoon and explore Coronado, then eat dinner at the hotel and hit the sack. Tuesday we would eat breakfast at the hotel then onto Legoland. The late afternoon would be spent visiting a dear old friend from grad school and his wife and kids. Dinner that night would be at the hotel again, after which we would fall blissfully into bed and sleep 8 full hours. Wake. Eat breakfast. Stroll on the beach and leave. The drive there and back to LA I would use to prepare for an important upcoming meeting.

I then made a series of lists, determined to pack conservatively. I didn’t want us lugging around our usual unnecessary crap this time, so I charted out the kids outfits for each day, carefully counted out diapers, formula, bottles, snacks – limiting the choice of toys they could take – harder for Henry, easier for Frances. My husband and I threw a few things in our bags (this time I made sure they matched) and off we went.

First glitch.

We left about 3 hrs. later than planned.

I know we’re not the only family who has trouble getting out of the house. Blown out diapers, dilly-dallying. It happens.

On the drive to San Diego baby slept – thankfully – while big brother read books and played games on the iPad, leaving dad some rare brain space for his own thoughts. I wore earplugs and worked the entire way. 

Nice.

My fantasy was materializing. Maybe we weren’t nattily dressed, but we definitely were proving to be a relaxed and happy family.

2 hrs. later, as we drove over the Coronado Bridge, the baby woke up and our little red-faced monster made her 1^st appearance.

H, who has gotten very good at comforting his little sister, held her pudgy hand and kept popping her paci back into her mouth. Somehow, despite her shrill shrieking, we managed to take in the sights. Coronado is the most adorable little beach town – http://www.coronadovisitorcenter.com/CVC/History.html

http://www.coronadovisitorcenter.com/CVC/Photos.html  – and I immediately wished we had booked a longer stay.

Fried from the last few minutes of our drive, with our eardrums bursting, we arrived at The Del and instantly, miraculously F calmed down. Maybe because the lobby has such a dark paneled, welcoming, turn of the century, tranquil vibe. Henry stared wide-eyed with excitement, noting how everything looked like the pictures he’d seen in the history books he’s been reading. And I knew just what he meant. If it weren’t for the luxurious pool, spa and all of the comforts of 21^st century pampering, it would be easy to think you’d stepped back “Somewhere in Time.” Again, I immediately wished we had booked a longer stay. 

Checking in, the staff couldn't have been more lovely and attentive. They even gave Henry a pass to the Kid’s Club – too bad we wouldn’t be there long enough for him to check it out. 

Our initial plan was to have dinner at the hotel with H (we had wanted to eat at their restaurant 1500 but there was no availability so we opted for the more casual Sheerwater. We had reserved a babysitter for the wee one. F is, as I said, super scheduled and we knew taking her to dinner wouldn’t be fair to her. There are a few babysitting services that work with the hotels in the San Diego area. An email exchange with the hotel’s concierge suggested we use http://www.destinationsitters.com/ (they turned out to be excellent, btw – I highly recommend. We will definitely be using them again). While waiting in line to talk to the concierge about our dinner reservation, I overheard him making a reservation for another family at a restaurant called Urban Solace http://www.urbansolace.net/ a casually chic neighborhood place that sounded unbelievably delicious. We are foodies in this house and the description he was giving of some of the menu items had me drooling like a Saint Bernard in the Sahara.

Change of plan. We booked a table at Urban Solace then went to our room to unpack and get settled in. 


The room was beautiful. Simply decorated in an elegant coastal décor. And they had given us a perfect ocean view of the Pacific. What more could we ask for? After the bellman brought up a sweet crib for F, H unpacked his toys, and we got F all cozy, bottled up and ready for bed.

The babysitter arrived – a lovely young woman who immediately put us at ease. The way she and Frances hit it off helped alleviate any worries I had about leaving our precious cargo with her. F was pretty much ready to go down when we left, so we gave kisses and buh byes and pulled ourselves away. She’s a hard one to part with, our blue-eyed beauty.

As we strolled back through the lobby, Henry peppered us with all kinds of questions about the ghost, so we stopped in the gift shop "Est. 1888." We’d been told by the concierge that the ladies who worked in the shop were experts on the hotel’s history, in particular the resident ghost. So we pumped the cashier with questions and found out some interesting details about this famous spectral visitor – Kate Morgan. I have to admit I even got a few spine tingly chills when she told us items have gone flying off the shelves in the store… spooky. http://www.sandiego.org/article/Visitors/1508 http://www.ghost-investigators.com/Stories/view_story.php?story_num=1 

Divine dinner at Urban Solace. Not to be missed if you ever go to San Diego. Must tries are: warm cheese biscuits with honey butter, duckaroni, arugula salad, beef cheeks and the bacon wrapped trout. We ate like piggies, while Henry educated us on obscure facts about our nation’s presidents. I savor this one on one time with him now. He was our only for seven years and has been extremely patient with his new sister, who gets so much attention these days… dinner that night is one I will remember for a long time.

Home – the hotel – we fell into our beds as a snoozing Frances slept soundly in her crib nearby. The room was comfortably dark and after much assurance from us that the ghost would not make a visit, H fell asleep and so did we.

Next morning, we were up bright and early thanks to our new alarm clock, baby F. Everyone was happy and excited about our Legoland adventure. We ordered room service, deciding it would be easier to eat in the room rather than schlep everyone downstairs. When traveling with kids, the less stress the better.

Glitch number two.

The food arrived just as Frances made it known to all that it was time for her morning nap. Solution? Curtains were drawn and lights dimmed. As we ate in silence, shushing Henry’s every utterance, he grumbled: Not fair!

He was right. It sucked eating breakfast in the dark.

I realized, only after it was too late to move her, that our closet was large enough to hold F’s crib. Note to all parents traveling with babes, bathrooms and closets make nice little nurseries. Babies gets the quiet they need and the rest of the family doesn’t have to do so much tip toeing around. IMPORTANT - MAKE SURE IF YOU DO THIS THE AREA YOU CHOOSE IS LARGE AND WELL VENTILATED! We actually kept the door cracked.

As we quietly waited for Frances to wake up, my husband confessed he had had a strange occurrence the night before. He said it was like someone was pouring a glass of water right next to his ear. Henry was convinced it was the ghost of Kate Morgan.

On our way out, we stopped in to see our friend, the concierge Joe, to thank him and tell him how wonderful last night’s dinner had been. We started talking about the hotel’s history and he very kindly arranged for one of the security guards to give us a private tour of the Crown Room – which was closed at the moment.

Apparently, L. Frank Baum, author of "The Wizard of Oz? books and a once frequent guest, had designed the chandeliers. Another history lesson for Henry. What a perk.

Later at Legoland, H (as expected) had a blast at the Star Wars miniland. The models were amazing and H was totally inspired to go home and work on his own.

He also got to see a 3-D Lego Star Wars movie. Don't ask me what it was about... my focus was elsewhere.

Glitch number three.

Frances was in my lap when a few minutes into the movie she started fussing. One thing I know about my kid, she only cries when something’s wrong (or she wakes up in the car), so Nathan grabbed her and made a mad dash for the door before she went all Christian Bale/Mel Gibson on us. Later, when we hooked back up, he told us she had taken a massive poop. (Of course. It’s always poop). Furthermore, when he changed her she proceeded to pee Lake Eerie all over the changing table. Poor daddy in hell. Solution? None. You can’t predict these things. Babies poop when they have to. Pee also.

We spent the rest of the day tooling around the park, checking out the mini Washington DC, the bust of George Washington, Dino Island, and of course there was the obligatory stop at the Lego store where Henry was allowed to choose one small Lego set. And Ninjago it was. He was a happy, happy boy.

Late afternoon was spent with our good friend and his family. As the kids played and we caught up on the years since grad school, who would have thought back then that all of our kids would someday be playing together – while the littlest one gnawed on the coffee table?

Exhausted, we decided not to go out for dinner as planned, but to bring in some local pizza at the hotel and chill.

Best idea ever.

It wasn’t part of the plan, but I was learning fast that this traveling well with multiple kids thing required throwing out the schedule and winging it. It’s all about feeling out who needs what when.

This was probably the most important thing I learned on this trip.

Our last day came way too fast. We enjoyed breakfast in the room as Frances slept cozily in the closet – the image of her cherubic little body, all rosy and snug – I’m kicking myself for not taking a picture.

Panic from inside the room. Shh. Baby's sleeping! But it didn't matter. Henry had lost one of his Ninjago snake Legos - the green one - and was totally despondent. We tore the hotel room apart, top to bottom, but never found it. Henry is still convinced Kate Morgan was behind its mysterious disappearance.

After we checked out, at Henry’s bidding, we went on the hunt for poor Kate Morgan’s ghost. As we morbidly traipsed the hallways and stairwells, retracing her fatal steps, trying to feel any sense of her vibration, I soaked in the moment. Our little family was on a ghost hunt that soon would become a memory.

I felt a twinge of nostalgia. I hate when people tell you childhood goes by too fast. The minute your kid is born well-meaning people are always right there to tell you - Take it in. Savor every moment. It've over before you know it.


I know. 


We all know. 

Our ghost hunt morphed into a wandering, meandering tour of the hotel. We happened upon the hotel’s museum - an area off the lobby with a few glass cases filled with historical artifacts - where we learned more about the hotel’s prestigious past. Henry was particularly excited by the presidential memorabilia. God, do I love how much my kid loves history. We explored a few more shops and peeked inside The Sheerwater restaurant, the one we never made it to. What a shame. It had the most spectacular ocean view and the food looked/smelled wonderful.

We then made a pit stop to the hotel's charming candy shop, looked in on the ice cream parlor, and then walked out to the beach for our last photo ops.

Bad call (bad mommy) trying to get the kids to pose for pictures. By that time they had both had enough and proceeded to melt down.

But that wasn't the last glitch of the trip.

No. The very last glitch happened a few blocks from the hotel. We were finally on our way back home when Frances started fussing. 


Uh-oh. 


Her fussing turned into crying. Soon it would be all out monster time.

What on earth, we thought?

Then we smelled it.

Poop.

It’s always poop.

Mostly always anyways.

A heated debate ensued, whether to stop at the public library to change her, or head back to The Del, where we knew they were equipped to deal with such emergencies. And we were so close, why risk an unknown bathroom?


Back to The Del it was.

I grabbed a diaper, some wipes, yanked her out of her car seat and snaked my way through the quickly growing lunch crowd towards the ladies room.

Changing her, she peed Lake Eerie. Now it was poor Mommy hell. I was screwed. I hadn’t brought enough wipes, nor a change of clothes. But thankfully, I did bring a blanket.

Solution? Always bring the diaper bag when changing the baby. No matter where you are. Bring it. That’s a mistake I won’t make again.

The drive home was pretty much the same as the drive there.

Pulling into the driveway, Frances asleep, Henry nose in the iPad, it was hard to believe we’d only been away for two days. It felt like we’d been gone for weeks and who knows? After the success of this mini vacation, maybe next time we will.