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Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Friday, September 23, 2011
Day 12: 11 Hour ‘Til L.A.
We flew back home on Tuesday, September 6.
We left the Corinthia in the morning and got a ride to the airport from our friend Graham, saving us a lot of hassle with luggage on the Tube and a lot of money if we had taken a taxi. When we got to the airport, we tried to be a little smarter than we had been when we left, and told Mikey we’d have a snack in the lounge before getting on the airplane. Understanding that that was the way it was done and one didn’t jump onto the airplane upon arriving at the airport, Mikey was fine with it.
We try to make new mistakes, not old ones.
Business class on British Airways is worth every penny (though, of course, we were upgraded, so that’s easy to say). Our seats reclined fully into beds, and we drank champagne for 10 hours, which are two elements which rather well go together. One poor lady in sartorial hijab, who we took to be a nanny, was in charge of five under-5s, also in business class. Every once in a while, one of them would pass by us, and strike a pose before she came through to sweep him up. By about the half way point of the flight, at least one, and usually two of them were sobbing, and the woman looked like she was about to join them. We looked at Mikey, contentedly watching Rio or Kung Fu Panda 2 on his seat’s monitor, and were very grateful.
Airline travel, no matter the class, is claustrophobic and dull. Eventually, if you’re me, you sit on a sandwich. Drinks end up in your lap. Things go in your hair, God knows what. That’s on your own. Add to that a 2-year-old, and you get a whole hell of a lot messier. 10 hours later, you’re ready to go.
I asked Mikey when we were finally getting off, “Did you have fun on the plane?”
“Yes,” He said enthusiastically. “We go again on the plane.”
“Okay,” I nodded. “We’ll go again on a plane to visit Grandpa and Grandma at Thanksgiving, okay?”
“Okay … Is that today?”
We’re not a typical family: one British (Ian’s passed his citizenship test, but hasn’t been sworn in yet), two Americans; same-sex parents, adoptive child; white parents, biracial child. We have a domestic partnership in California which is recognized in Europe, but not the United States. We have a legal birth certificate that we carry with us, which says that by some miracle, Ian and I are Mom and Dad (I’m the Mom). When we asked for our customs form, we were told one per family, but we didn’t know what that meant. We considered ourselves a family, and so did California, where we were landing, and Europe, where we were coming from.
It turns out that we needed two, but we didn’t get that information until we were in front of the customs agent, an hour after landing, after Mikey had learned that if he repeats the word “Bodato, bodato, bodato” (which we assume was a combination of “bidet” and “potato”) over and over again, he can finally make me turn all the colors of the rainbow.
Despite our aggravation, we got our luggage, and came up the ramp at Tom Bradley International Terminal at LAX, where a long line of people were holding signs, waiting for their foreign relatives and friends to arrive. Mikey had already decided that he needed to push his stroller at that point, and I was next to him, trying to help keep him from pushing into walls and the folks around him.
Suddenly, Mikey noticed all the people behind the barriers on the other side of the ramp, and he began waving at them. It took a second, but soon practically everyone began waving back, and some were clapping, as if greeting a film star. Mikey kept smiling and waving to the crowd, welcoming him back to Los Angeles and home.
“That’s the future President of the United States!” someone shouted from the crowd.
I swear.
Seemed like the perfect end to our first trip abroad, this spectacular welcome home.
We left the Corinthia in the morning and got a ride to the airport from our friend Graham, saving us a lot of hassle with luggage on the Tube and a lot of money if we had taken a taxi. When we got to the airport, we tried to be a little smarter than we had been when we left, and told Mikey we’d have a snack in the lounge before getting on the airplane. Understanding that that was the way it was done and one didn’t jump onto the airplane upon arriving at the airport, Mikey was fine with it.
We try to make new mistakes, not old ones.
Business class on British Airways is worth every penny (though, of course, we were upgraded, so that’s easy to say). Our seats reclined fully into beds, and we drank champagne for 10 hours, which are two elements which rather well go together. One poor lady in sartorial hijab, who we took to be a nanny, was in charge of five under-5s, also in business class. Every once in a while, one of them would pass by us, and strike a pose before she came through to sweep him up. By about the half way point of the flight, at least one, and usually two of them were sobbing, and the woman looked like she was about to join them. We looked at Mikey, contentedly watching Rio or Kung Fu Panda 2 on his seat’s monitor, and were very grateful.
Airline travel, no matter the class, is claustrophobic and dull. Eventually, if you’re me, you sit on a sandwich. Drinks end up in your lap. Things go in your hair, God knows what. That’s on your own. Add to that a 2-year-old, and you get a whole hell of a lot messier. 10 hours later, you’re ready to go.
I asked Mikey when we were finally getting off, “Did you have fun on the plane?”
“Yes,” He said enthusiastically. “We go again on the plane.”
“Okay,” I nodded. “We’ll go again on a plane to visit Grandpa and Grandma at Thanksgiving, okay?”
“Okay … Is that today?”
We’re not a typical family: one British (Ian’s passed his citizenship test, but hasn’t been sworn in yet), two Americans; same-sex parents, adoptive child; white parents, biracial child. We have a domestic partnership in California which is recognized in Europe, but not the United States. We have a legal birth certificate that we carry with us, which says that by some miracle, Ian and I are Mom and Dad (I’m the Mom). When we asked for our customs form, we were told one per family, but we didn’t know what that meant. We considered ourselves a family, and so did California, where we were landing, and Europe, where we were coming from.
It turns out that we needed two, but we didn’t get that information until we were in front of the customs agent, an hour after landing, after Mikey had learned that if he repeats the word “Bodato, bodato, bodato” (which we assume was a combination of “bidet” and “potato”) over and over again, he can finally make me turn all the colors of the rainbow.
Despite our aggravation, we got our luggage, and came up the ramp at Tom Bradley International Terminal at LAX, where a long line of people were holding signs, waiting for their foreign relatives and friends to arrive. Mikey had already decided that he needed to push his stroller at that point, and I was next to him, trying to help keep him from pushing into walls and the folks around him.
Suddenly, Mikey noticed all the people behind the barriers on the other side of the ramp, and he began waving at them. It took a second, but soon practically everyone began waving back, and some were clapping, as if greeting a film star. Mikey kept smiling and waving to the crowd, welcoming him back to Los Angeles and home.
“That’s the future President of the United States!” someone shouted from the crowd.
I swear.
Seemed like the perfect end to our first trip abroad, this spectacular welcome home.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Day 11: Fun With Cubism & Him Got No Head
Gentle reader will notice we’ve steered clear of culture in our wanderings through two world capitols. This wasn’t merely because of our creeping philistinism or a belief that Mikey couldn’t handle a museum – though, when we passed the Louvre on our arrival in Paris, Mikey literally passed out. It was nap time, to be fair, and we were in a gently rumbling cab.
In plotting the trip, I had multiple itineraries, and some of which included museums. In Paris, I noted the location and a possible day to visit the Musée de Rodin sculpture garden, the Picasso museum in the Marais , the Centre Pompidou, and even – based on Amanda Kaiserman’s recommendation – the Musée de la Chasse, which is a museum of taxidermy … which might’ve been too creepy for even me. In London, I had the British Museum, the Museum of Childhood in the East End, and the V & A, which is supposed to be very child-friendly. We never made it to any of those places, and I blame the good weather for that. For the most part, we wanted to be outside.
On the last day in London, however, we were meeting our friend Helen, her mother, and her daughters, and they told us to go to the Tate Modern in the south bank. Mikey, of course, wanted to go by Tube, and we didn’t really know where we were going so we wound up there a bit early.
It’s a spectacularly cavernous space, and upon entering, I thought Mikey might be tempted to see whether it echoed with the same booming clamor as he was able to create in the Resnick Exhibition Pavilion in his hometown museum, LACMA. Instead, we headed up to the top floor which is called the “Under 5s Zone,” a “creative, physical and sensory exploration of themes inspired by Cubist artworks.” A neat idea, a playground interpreting work by Georges Braque and Juan Gris: to Mikey, it was a slide, a maze, and a climbing wall. And, as luck would have it, Helen and her family had also arrived early, and so Mikey had Lily and Lulu, two older little girls to explore it with.
We had lunch in Café 2, sensibly located on the 2nd level, and then we all walked across the Millennium Footbridge over the Thames, from the Tate Modern to St Paul's Cathedral.
There were the usual buskers in front of the Cathedral, including a man in a suit, whose hat was evidently floating above his open collar.
“Mikey, look at that funny man,” I said to Mikey, who was oblivious, chasing Lily and Lulu around.
He looked and he stared, and then he screamed, “HIM GOT NO HEAD!”
This was not an amusing illusion to a 2-year-old. It took a few minutes to calm him down. For weeks after, if we made any reference to someone bonking or hurting their head, Mikey would whisper, “Like him in London?”
When Mikey had settled down, we said our goodbyes, and were off to meet our friends Sarah and Craig at the Mandarin Oriental. By the time we settled for drinks and food in the Bar Boulud, Mikey was stretched out on the banquette, sound asleep. God knows what his dreams were like.
In plotting the trip, I had multiple itineraries, and some of which included museums. In Paris, I noted the location and a possible day to visit the Musée de Rodin sculpture garden, the Picasso museum in the Marais , the Centre Pompidou, and even – based on Amanda Kaiserman’s recommendation – the Musée de la Chasse, which is a museum of taxidermy … which might’ve been too creepy for even me. In London, I had the British Museum, the Museum of Childhood in the East End, and the V & A, which is supposed to be very child-friendly. We never made it to any of those places, and I blame the good weather for that. For the most part, we wanted to be outside.
On the last day in London, however, we were meeting our friend Helen, her mother, and her daughters, and they told us to go to the Tate Modern in the south bank. Mikey, of course, wanted to go by Tube, and we didn’t really know where we were going so we wound up there a bit early.
It’s a spectacularly cavernous space, and upon entering, I thought Mikey might be tempted to see whether it echoed with the same booming clamor as he was able to create in the Resnick Exhibition Pavilion in his hometown museum, LACMA. Instead, we headed up to the top floor which is called the “Under 5s Zone,” a “creative, physical and sensory exploration of themes inspired by Cubist artworks.” A neat idea, a playground interpreting work by Georges Braque and Juan Gris: to Mikey, it was a slide, a maze, and a climbing wall. And, as luck would have it, Helen and her family had also arrived early, and so Mikey had Lily and Lulu, two older little girls to explore it with.
We had lunch in Café 2, sensibly located on the 2nd level, and then we all walked across the Millennium Footbridge over the Thames, from the Tate Modern to St Paul's Cathedral.
There were the usual buskers in front of the Cathedral, including a man in a suit, whose hat was evidently floating above his open collar.
“Mikey, look at that funny man,” I said to Mikey, who was oblivious, chasing Lily and Lulu around.
He looked and he stared, and then he screamed, “HIM GOT NO HEAD!”
This was not an amusing illusion to a 2-year-old. It took a few minutes to calm him down. For weeks after, if we made any reference to someone bonking or hurting their head, Mikey would whisper, “Like him in London?”
When Mikey had settled down, we said our goodbyes, and were off to meet our friends Sarah and Craig at the Mandarin Oriental. By the time we settled for drinks and food in the Bar Boulud, Mikey was stretched out on the banquette, sound asleep. God knows what his dreams were like.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Day 10: The Tiger, The Eye, & The Social Butterfly
The Corinthia is a wonderful, stylish hotel with all the mod cons and then some, and it really can’t be beat for geographical convenience, right on the river at the Millennium Bridge, next to the Embankment Tube station. It’s also right down the street from the Strand and the Vaudeville Theatre, where we were set to go see Mikey’s first West End play, “The Tiger Who Came To Tea.”
It was the last day of Kids’ Week in the West End, which for 14 years has been dedicated to making theater more family-friendly, offering free or discounted tickets for children, special workshops, and other events. This particular play was the only one in the Under 5 set that fit in our schedule.
The play is based on a famous book by Judith Kerr, which I hadn’t read, and I considered whether we should get it for Mikey before the play. Instead, we decided to prompt discussions with Mikey about what he thought the tiger was like – nice or scary or somewhere in between? We all decided that we sure hoped he wouldn’t turn out to be very scary. Ian and I hoped the same for the audience of Under 5s.
Everyone’s first play in London should be in the precipitous nose-bleed section, in a chair perched on an incline that challenged your balance, and Mikey’s seat certainly qualified. For a pound, we rented a pair of binoculars, but I don’t think Mikey ever agreed to look in the end with the smaller lenses.
Mikey squirmed a bit from lap to chair to lap, but when the play began, he was absolutely mesmerized for 55 minutes. He shouted “tick tock” with all the other kids when the cast signaled they were changing the clock, he laughed when the silly daddy tried to put his shoes in the toaster, and he and every other child in the audience flew into the air with fear and excitement when the tiger made his appearance.
If you haven’t read “The Tiger Who Came To Tea,” forgive this spoiler, but, basically, the tiger eats everything. The little girl and her family still hope that he’ll come back, and buy a big tin of Tiger Food if he does, but Mikey decided that “The tiger wasn’t nice.”
“Why not?”
“He didn’t share,” Mikey explained. But he still loved the play, and wanted to go back. Over the next couple of days in London, he continued to ask where the tiger was now.
We met up with our pal Teresa who was in London, working on a movie. It had begun to rain lightly, so we borrowed an umbrella from the front desk and headed across Millennium Bridge towards the London Eye, which Mikey called the Big Wheel.
Another activity perfectly suited for a toddler, letting him run from one end of the glass box and shout out, “Hi Big Ben! Hi boat!”
Back down in the rain, we caught a taxicab to the home of our friends Peter and Gary, in Islington near Sadler’s Wells, the dance theater. Mikey fell asleep in the cab, and we laid him down on the sofa in their living room, giving the four of us an opportunity to catch up. When Gary served the traditional Sunday roast with all the fixings including Yorkshire pudding, Mikey woke up and joined us. He ate everything, and when the time came for dessert, Gary offered him the choice between two of his favorite things: “Ice cream or pie?”
“I would liiiiike,” he considered the options, and then perhaps his mind went back to Madame A. at the Hotel Crillon. “I would liiiike the … boiled egg, please!”
Gary accommodated our eccentric child, so Mikey had a boiled egg while the rest of us had sweets.
That night we met up Teresa again, and had another friend to introduce Mikey to, Bettina, at the bar at the Corinthia. Mikey was at his flirtiest best while we drank and chatted, and the staff insisted on bringing him some chocolate cream lollipops to spoil him a little more.
Because clearly, that’s what he needed.
It was the last day of Kids’ Week in the West End, which for 14 years has been dedicated to making theater more family-friendly, offering free or discounted tickets for children, special workshops, and other events. This particular play was the only one in the Under 5 set that fit in our schedule.
The play is based on a famous book by Judith Kerr, which I hadn’t read, and I considered whether we should get it for Mikey before the play. Instead, we decided to prompt discussions with Mikey about what he thought the tiger was like – nice or scary or somewhere in between? We all decided that we sure hoped he wouldn’t turn out to be very scary. Ian and I hoped the same for the audience of Under 5s.
Everyone’s first play in London should be in the precipitous nose-bleed section, in a chair perched on an incline that challenged your balance, and Mikey’s seat certainly qualified. For a pound, we rented a pair of binoculars, but I don’t think Mikey ever agreed to look in the end with the smaller lenses.
Mikey squirmed a bit from lap to chair to lap, but when the play began, he was absolutely mesmerized for 55 minutes. He shouted “tick tock” with all the other kids when the cast signaled they were changing the clock, he laughed when the silly daddy tried to put his shoes in the toaster, and he and every other child in the audience flew into the air with fear and excitement when the tiger made his appearance.
If you haven’t read “The Tiger Who Came To Tea,” forgive this spoiler, but, basically, the tiger eats everything. The little girl and her family still hope that he’ll come back, and buy a big tin of Tiger Food if he does, but Mikey decided that “The tiger wasn’t nice.”
“Why not?”
“He didn’t share,” Mikey explained. But he still loved the play, and wanted to go back. Over the next couple of days in London, he continued to ask where the tiger was now.
We met up with our pal Teresa who was in London, working on a movie. It had begun to rain lightly, so we borrowed an umbrella from the front desk and headed across Millennium Bridge towards the London Eye, which Mikey called the Big Wheel.
Another activity perfectly suited for a toddler, letting him run from one end of the glass box and shout out, “Hi Big Ben! Hi boat!”
“I would liiiiike,” he considered the options, and then perhaps his mind went back to Madame A. at the Hotel Crillon. “I would liiiike the … boiled egg, please!”
Gary accommodated our eccentric child, so Mikey had a boiled egg while the rest of us had sweets.
That night we met up Teresa again, and had another friend to introduce Mikey to, Bettina, at the bar at the Corinthia. Mikey was at his flirtiest best while we drank and chatted, and the staff insisted on bringing him some chocolate cream lollipops to spoil him a little more.
Because clearly, that’s what he needed.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Day 9: Conspicuous Consumption & The Healing Power of Spicy Soup
Honestly, traveling by train is as stressful as traveling by plane. There’s still customs, and immigration, and there’s a childkin running around your ankles and he loses the ticket you gave him to play with, and you think that Club 3 means Car 3, until you get to Car 3, and you suddenly realize no, you’re in Car 12, and you start running, running, running with baggage banging around behind you and holding Mikey’s hand until he wants you to pick him up, and then alors, there you are, in your little nook of four chairs facing each other across the table and you start ordering wine, and you don’t stop until you reach London.
All that said, train travel is jolly. You can look out for farm animals, and unlike slower forms of transport, if you miss them, then more will be right ‘round the corner in about two minutes. And, again, the food on Eurostar compared to any plane is really good. Mikey ate all of his and then half of mine.
When we got to St. Pancras, we caught a taxi to the Soho Hotel to pick up the bags we left behind, and then on to our next hotel, the Corinthia. It had only been open a few months, but our taxi driver said in his opinion, it was the best hotel in London.
We checked in and went to our room, which wasn’t a suite, but had plenty of space for Mikey’s bed and lots of fruit and other snacks laid out. After we made a few phone calls, confirming plans for the next couple of days, we realized it was just us three. No fabulous friends to meet up with. Ian knew that he wanted to go to a restaurant called Bangkok for dinner, but it was up to me to plan what we would do in the hours up to that.
The first time I went to London, almost 20 years ago, I went for business and spent almost the entire time in a convention center (sorry, centre) in Islington. I managed to get out, and twice I caught a cab to a place I needed to go: once, to the Tower of London, and the second time, to Harrod’s.
With Mikey, we went easy and opted for Harrod’s. Next time, the Tower for sure.
Harrod’s is supremely depressing. Even when you go with a 2-year-old, and head straight to the 4th floor, where the pet store is, and you spend time checking out every puppy and kitten there. Even then. The rest of it is the most vulgar of merchandising to make the fair maidens of Beverly Hills blush. There is nothing without a designer label. Nothing for a 2-year-old to be excited about under 50 quid. And the elbowing and shoving to get to this shit which will be outgrown in no time makes one weep for western culture. And eastern and southern culture too, because it wasn’t just blond-haired blue-eyed folks doing the grabbing.
Mikey was obviously fine amid our angst. He’s pick up something, and if it was too horrible, which it always was, we’d say, “Look at that! Wow, what a thing. Let’s put it back now, because it doesn’t belong to us, right?”
It worked!
The boy was so good, we took him to a Waitrose (which is a sort of mini-mart) in South Kensington, where we let him grab whatever he liked and we bought it for him, like we wouldn’t do at Harrod’s. He was perfectly happy, particularly when he spotted a 6 pack of “Scotch Pancakes.”
“Are those pancakes with Scotch in them?” I asked Ian.
“They’re like American pancakes,” Ian assured me. “Little to no whiskey in them.”
Mikey loved them, and that’s most of what he ate when we went to Bangkok, the restaurant which made Ian remember life in London when he first moved there in the 70s. He was a punk, a dressing horse for Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren, swathed in bondage outfits with a huge purple Mohawk. Bangkok was there at the time, with a delicious, burning, sinus-clearing soup, which was good then and good now.
“Picy!” Mikey said, and he was right.
All that said, train travel is jolly. You can look out for farm animals, and unlike slower forms of transport, if you miss them, then more will be right ‘round the corner in about two minutes. And, again, the food on Eurostar compared to any plane is really good. Mikey ate all of his and then half of mine.
When we got to St. Pancras, we caught a taxi to the Soho Hotel to pick up the bags we left behind, and then on to our next hotel, the Corinthia. It had only been open a few months, but our taxi driver said in his opinion, it was the best hotel in London.
We checked in and went to our room, which wasn’t a suite, but had plenty of space for Mikey’s bed and lots of fruit and other snacks laid out. After we made a few phone calls, confirming plans for the next couple of days, we realized it was just us three. No fabulous friends to meet up with. Ian knew that he wanted to go to a restaurant called Bangkok for dinner, but it was up to me to plan what we would do in the hours up to that.
The first time I went to London, almost 20 years ago, I went for business and spent almost the entire time in a convention center (sorry, centre) in Islington. I managed to get out, and twice I caught a cab to a place I needed to go: once, to the Tower of London, and the second time, to Harrod’s.
With Mikey, we went easy and opted for Harrod’s. Next time, the Tower for sure.
Harrod’s is supremely depressing. Even when you go with a 2-year-old, and head straight to the 4th floor, where the pet store is, and you spend time checking out every puppy and kitten there. Even then. The rest of it is the most vulgar of merchandising to make the fair maidens of Beverly Hills blush. There is nothing without a designer label. Nothing for a 2-year-old to be excited about under 50 quid. And the elbowing and shoving to get to this shit which will be outgrown in no time makes one weep for western culture. And eastern and southern culture too, because it wasn’t just blond-haired blue-eyed folks doing the grabbing.
Mikey was obviously fine amid our angst. He’s pick up something, and if it was too horrible, which it always was, we’d say, “Look at that! Wow, what a thing. Let’s put it back now, because it doesn’t belong to us, right?”
It worked!
The boy was so good, we took him to a Waitrose (which is a sort of mini-mart) in South Kensington, where we let him grab whatever he liked and we bought it for him, like we wouldn’t do at Harrod’s. He was perfectly happy, particularly when he spotted a 6 pack of “Scotch Pancakes.”
“Are those pancakes with Scotch in them?” I asked Ian.
“They’re like American pancakes,” Ian assured me. “Little to no whiskey in them.”
Mikey loved them, and that’s most of what he ate when we went to Bangkok, the restaurant which made Ian remember life in London when he first moved there in the 70s. He was a punk, a dressing horse for Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren, swathed in bondage outfits with a huge purple Mohawk. Bangkok was there at the time, with a delicious, burning, sinus-clearing soup, which was good then and good now.
“Picy!” Mikey said, and he was right.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Day 8: Jardin d’Acclimation
On our last full day in Paris, we went to the Bois du Boulogne to the Jardin d’Acclimation. An amusement park which has been charming children since Napoleon III opened it 150 years ago, it promised to have the ponies which had been so elusive to us. Even if the horses were in the south of France vacationing with their friends from the Jardin du Luxembourg, we figured it was a good excuse to take the Métro somewhere. Mikey may be a city boy, but public transportation is exotic to a child of Los Angeles. They’re all trains to him, and they’re all Thomas the Tank Engine.
When we got to the Jardin, we found we just missed the in-park train which runs every 20 minutes, but Mikey immediately found the ponies – in this case, the mechanical ponies which take you on a very bumpy ride. I rode along with him twice, and then he said he was ready to go on his own. Unfortunately, the rules were that solo riders had to be 5 or older. This unfair, ageist policy triggered one of the very few melt-down tantrums of the trip.
Ian finally showed him what three was on his hand, for three years ago which he would be in a week. Then he showed him what five was on his hand.
“When you’re that many fingers old, we’ll come back and you can ride the pony by yourself.”
“Okay,” Mikey sniffed.
And then we were off, on a boat ride, over vents that blasted mist, round a merry-go-round, into a hall of mirrors, and on Mikey’s first roller coaster which only scared him when the car went very fast through a dark tunnel. We spotted llamas and donkeys, and then lo and behold, ponies. At last, Mikey got his pony ride.
By then, it was mid-day, and the boy was tired. Too tired to even complain when he found out he was also too young to go on a trampoline. I think he was relieved. Minutes later, he was curled up in his stroller, and minutes after that, we were on the Avenue Charles du Gaulle, having wine in a café.
While Mikey slept, we took the Métro back to the 1st and the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, and spent a few hours shopping.
Mikey woke up when we got to our hotel in time to dress to meet our friend Richard and Roberto, who live in a gorgeous apartment in the 9th near the Opéra. I’ve unfortunately forgotten the name of the restaurant they took us to, which was pure old Paris, a series of candlelit chambers, where Mikey ate rabbit.
Occasionally, in between the courses, when we were tired of sitting, we went outside into the dark streets of Paris to jump in mud puddles and say bon soir to strangers.
Like you do.
Ian finally showed him what three was on his hand, for three years ago which he would be in a week. Then he showed him what five was on his hand.
“When you’re that many fingers old, we’ll come back and you can ride the pony by yourself.”
“Okay,” Mikey sniffed.
And then we were off, on a boat ride, over vents that blasted mist, round a merry-go-round, into a hall of mirrors, and on Mikey’s first roller coaster which only scared him when the car went very fast through a dark tunnel. We spotted llamas and donkeys, and then lo and behold, ponies. At last, Mikey got his pony ride.
By then, it was mid-day, and the boy was tired. Too tired to even complain when he found out he was also too young to go on a trampoline. I think he was relieved. Minutes later, he was curled up in his stroller, and minutes after that, we were on the Avenue Charles du Gaulle, having wine in a café.
While Mikey slept, we took the Métro back to the 1st and the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, and spent a few hours shopping.
Mikey woke up when we got to our hotel in time to dress to meet our friend Richard and Roberto, who live in a gorgeous apartment in the 9th near the Opéra. I’ve unfortunately forgotten the name of the restaurant they took us to, which was pure old Paris, a series of candlelit chambers, where Mikey ate rabbit.
Occasionally, in between the courses, when we were tired of sitting, we went outside into the dark streets of Paris to jump in mud puddles and say bon soir to strangers.
Like you do.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Day 7: Jardin du Luxembourg, Shopping, Snails, and Mikey Plays Boules
The night before, we talked to Amanda about child friendly restaurants in Paris. By child friendly, I don’t mean places where enormous mice riding skateboards serve pizza, I just meant cafes where Mikey could get up from the table and run around from time to time, brasseries that weren’t perched on the edge of busy roads. The perfect place occurred to her while we were sitting at Cremerie – Restaurant Polidor: we needed to go Café Paul. The food was excellent, but more to the point, it was located on the periphery of a quiet trafficless square called the Place Dauphin in the quiet island where Paris was born in the middle of the Seine between the banks, the Île de la Cité.
So we had a second date with Amanda scheduled.
In the morning, though, we packed up from the Hotel du Danube, and left our bags – including our expensive puppies – in the lobby, while we went to the Jardin du Luxembourg. We knew they had a playground and a pony carousel, and when we told Mikey, he couldn’t wait. After a few minutes of searching the typically French, gorgeous, well-organized grounds, we found among the chestnut trees, the carousel, but no ponies. At the grounds to the playground were the ominous words, “Les poneys sont absents pour une durée indéterminé.” Uh oh, time for a distraction from disappointment!
Fortunately, the playground proved to be diverting not only to Mikey, but to us as well. Mikey was certainly the only child wearing a tee-shirt and jeans – all the French children played in the sand and fell off slides into the dirt in the hautest of finery and frippery. We got to drink nuclear espresso, that what the French call “café” out of whisper thin plastic cups which melted in our hands, and watch the nannies and their charges. And we got to learn that regardless of culture and language, playground push-fests and melt-downs are universal.
We took a taxi back to our hotel on the left bank to collect our luggage and then moved across to the Hotel Daniel on the right bank. As comfortable and friendly as the Hotel du Danube had been, the Hotel Daniel was even more so, and the junior suite was just what we required. We had lunch in the restaurant with Marie Segal, a fabulous PR agent and an old friend from Ian’s misspent youth, and then we felt it was time to give the right bank shopping some equal time.
Fortunately, Mikey crashed in his stroller mid-way to the Galeries Lafayette, so we were able to shop just for ourselves, all up and down the Boulevard Haussmann. It was very necessary because we packed light, and after seven days, two pairs of pants are not enough. Especially when you have had a 2-year-old, frequently one who is eating or needs a diaper change, on your lap 50% of the day.
The kid slept so soundly, we were even able to investigate the Bordeauxtheque in the Galeries Lafayette, where fabled vintages are displayed like modern relics in black plexiglass in a hushed, cathedral like atmosphere.
Mikey did not wake up until we were at home, post-shower, with new clothes on, drinking our new wine, ready to head out to meet Amanda. Of course, he was a little predictably tetchy, and difficult to motivate, so we were about a half an hour late. Fortunately, Amanda had some entertainment, watching the boules players and the Tai Chi in front of the white marble Palais de Justice.
Dinner was great, and Mikey had his first snails, which he loved (garlic and butter, what's not to love?) though that wasn’t quite enough to distract him. While I caught up with Amanda, Ian took Mikey out in the square, where he interrupted a group of exceptionally attractive French teens playing a game of boules.
Mikey charmed them, and they showed him how to play.
“Is he having a good time in Paris?” one of the young ladies asked Ian, after everyone survived Mikey hurling a two pound metal sphere this way and that.
“He loves Paris.”
“And Paris is honored to have him.”
Yes, it was a bit of Gallic hyperbole, but really, truly, what’s wrong with that?
So we had a second date with Amanda scheduled.
In the morning, though, we packed up from the Hotel du Danube, and left our bags – including our expensive puppies – in the lobby, while we went to the Jardin du Luxembourg. We knew they had a playground and a pony carousel, and when we told Mikey, he couldn’t wait. After a few minutes of searching the typically French, gorgeous, well-organized grounds, we found among the chestnut trees, the carousel, but no ponies. At the grounds to the playground were the ominous words, “Les poneys sont absents pour une durée indéterminé.” Uh oh, time for a distraction from disappointment!
Fortunately, the playground proved to be diverting not only to Mikey, but to us as well. Mikey was certainly the only child wearing a tee-shirt and jeans – all the French children played in the sand and fell off slides into the dirt in the hautest of finery and frippery. We got to drink nuclear espresso, that what the French call “café” out of whisper thin plastic cups which melted in our hands, and watch the nannies and their charges. And we got to learn that regardless of culture and language, playground push-fests and melt-downs are universal.
We took a taxi back to our hotel on the left bank to collect our luggage and then moved across to the Hotel Daniel on the right bank. As comfortable and friendly as the Hotel du Danube had been, the Hotel Daniel was even more so, and the junior suite was just what we required. We had lunch in the restaurant with Marie Segal, a fabulous PR agent and an old friend from Ian’s misspent youth, and then we felt it was time to give the right bank shopping some equal time.
Fortunately, Mikey crashed in his stroller mid-way to the Galeries Lafayette, so we were able to shop just for ourselves, all up and down the Boulevard Haussmann. It was very necessary because we packed light, and after seven days, two pairs of pants are not enough. Especially when you have had a 2-year-old, frequently one who is eating or needs a diaper change, on your lap 50% of the day.
The kid slept so soundly, we were even able to investigate the Bordeauxtheque in the Galeries Lafayette, where fabled vintages are displayed like modern relics in black plexiglass in a hushed, cathedral like atmosphere.
Mikey did not wake up until we were at home, post-shower, with new clothes on, drinking our new wine, ready to head out to meet Amanda. Of course, he was a little predictably tetchy, and difficult to motivate, so we were about a half an hour late. Fortunately, Amanda had some entertainment, watching the boules players and the Tai Chi in front of the white marble Palais de Justice.
Dinner was great, and Mikey had his first snails, which he loved (garlic and butter, what's not to love?) though that wasn’t quite enough to distract him. While I caught up with Amanda, Ian took Mikey out in the square, where he interrupted a group of exceptionally attractive French teens playing a game of boules.
Mikey charmed them, and they showed him how to play.
“Is he having a good time in Paris?” one of the young ladies asked Ian, after everyone survived Mikey hurling a two pound metal sphere this way and that.
“He loves Paris.”
“And Paris is honored to have him.”
Yes, it was a bit of Gallic hyperbole, but really, truly, what’s wrong with that?
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Day #6: Naked Man, Furry Puppies, and Dinner With Amanda & Hemingway
Day 6 began as a sort of a dream where we had no idea what time it was. While we were over our jet lag, our iphones never adjusted to European time, and when we called the front desk on waking, we asked what time it was, and we think they said in French that it was eight o’clock. When we got ourselves together for petit dejeuner in the little room off the central courtyard, we got the feeling from the polite staff that we were a trifle late. And then when we set off down the street afterwards, we noticed the sun was high in the sky, and we went in one more time to see what time it was. About quarter ‘til eleven.
Nous sommes en retard!
(And no, that doesn’t mean we’re idiots)
We were meeting a friend at eleven thirty some miles away. The hotel was the grande dame très chic of marbled Parisian hotels, the Crillon, fitting because our friend is a grande dame très chic herself. She’s famous, so we’ll call her Madame A.
As we scurried along the Seine for our lunch, we had to stop short when we got to the statues in the Jardin des Tuileries.
“Penis!” cried Mikey. “Boobies and penis!”
There are other interesting statues in the eastern fountain in the gardens, a minotaur and a centaur, but first the boobies of a nude woman caught Mikey’s attention, and then the penis of a nude man. In later research, I discovered the latter statue was “Cain Venant De Tuer Son Frére Abel (Cain Coming From Killing His Brother Abel)” by Henri Vidal, intended to capture that remorse most of us feel when we kill a sibling. Mikey recognized at once that the naked man was “sad” and we asked him why.
“Maybe the sun burn he’s butt?”
We met Madame A. in the lobby of the Hotel Crillon, and she swept us out to the central courtyard and her usual table. There was a buffet brunch and Mikey thought the miniature salade Niçoise looked interesting – but only as a vehicle to eat little quails’ eggs. Madame A. immediately instructed the staff to bring Mikey a dozen quails’ eggs, and while he ate them, we drank our champagne. Suddenly, there was a need for a diaper change (these things happen even in the most elegant of places), and I took him off to the bathroom. Mikey discovered a toilet brush and found that to be as much fun as anything else in Paris thus far.
When we returned and had finished our brunch, Madame A. said she needed to give Mikey a gift so she took his hand in hers and brought her to the shop. She showed him bears and bags, scarves and books, and then a little stuffed puppy he immediately crushed to his chest, love at first sight.
“Look,” said Madame A. “He has a daddy.”
She handed Mikey a larger version of the puppy. I touched them too. They were soft. Too soft. Then she found an even larger puppy, and tried to give it to Mikey, asking if he wanted all three, but he shook his head. “Just two.”
The saleswoman murmured something discreetly in Madame A.’s ear.
“Vraiment?” Madame A. shuddered. “Oh la la … Mikey, which one do you want?”
“Two, please, to match.”
Since she had been pushing for three, Mikey was hardly being grabby. Madame A. agreed and the puppies were wrapped in gold foil and put in a large bag. After our kisses and thank yous for brunch and the gift, she said to Ian, “Perhaps you could put them out of the way when Mikey’s friends come to play? They are chinchilla.”
Mikey loved cuddling his puppies, but they weren’t enough to put him to sleep in the cab or at our hotel, so we spent the afternoon shopping on the left bank until it was time for dinner with an old friend of mine, a great jewelry designer named Amanda Kaiserman.
When I say she’s an old friend, I first met her when I was about Mikey’s age, and besides being lovely, glamorous, and funny, she’s sweet and generous and willing to meet up with us in kid friendly locations. We were told that a restaurant in the 8th called Cremerie – Restaurant Polidor was ideal for introducing kids to brasserie food. It was an old favorite of the Lost Generation, and we later saw it in Woody Allen’s latest movie as the place where the modern day character meets his hero Ernest Hemingway.
Unfortunately, Mikey’s exhaustion finally caught up with him and he fell asleep on the hard wooden stools before Amanda arrived, and didn’t wake up until dinner was over.
Lucky for him it was time for ice cream.
Nous sommes en retard!
(And no, that doesn’t mean we’re idiots)
We were meeting a friend at eleven thirty some miles away. The hotel was the grande dame très chic of marbled Parisian hotels, the Crillon, fitting because our friend is a grande dame très chic herself. She’s famous, so we’ll call her Madame A.
As we scurried along the Seine for our lunch, we had to stop short when we got to the statues in the Jardin des Tuileries.
“Penis!” cried Mikey. “Boobies and penis!”
There are other interesting statues in the eastern fountain in the gardens, a minotaur and a centaur, but first the boobies of a nude woman caught Mikey’s attention, and then the penis of a nude man. In later research, I discovered the latter statue was “Cain Venant De Tuer Son Frére Abel (Cain Coming From Killing His Brother Abel)” by Henri Vidal, intended to capture that remorse most of us feel when we kill a sibling. Mikey recognized at once that the naked man was “sad” and we asked him why.
“Maybe the sun burn he’s butt?”
We met Madame A. in the lobby of the Hotel Crillon, and she swept us out to the central courtyard and her usual table. There was a buffet brunch and Mikey thought the miniature salade Niçoise looked interesting – but only as a vehicle to eat little quails’ eggs. Madame A. immediately instructed the staff to bring Mikey a dozen quails’ eggs, and while he ate them, we drank our champagne. Suddenly, there was a need for a diaper change (these things happen even in the most elegant of places), and I took him off to the bathroom. Mikey discovered a toilet brush and found that to be as much fun as anything else in Paris thus far.
When we returned and had finished our brunch, Madame A. said she needed to give Mikey a gift so she took his hand in hers and brought her to the shop. She showed him bears and bags, scarves and books, and then a little stuffed puppy he immediately crushed to his chest, love at first sight.
“Look,” said Madame A. “He has a daddy.”
She handed Mikey a larger version of the puppy. I touched them too. They were soft. Too soft. Then she found an even larger puppy, and tried to give it to Mikey, asking if he wanted all three, but he shook his head. “Just two.”
The saleswoman murmured something discreetly in Madame A.’s ear.
“Vraiment?” Madame A. shuddered. “Oh la la … Mikey, which one do you want?”
“Two, please, to match.”
Since she had been pushing for three, Mikey was hardly being grabby. Madame A. agreed and the puppies were wrapped in gold foil and put in a large bag. After our kisses and thank yous for brunch and the gift, she said to Ian, “Perhaps you could put them out of the way when Mikey’s friends come to play? They are chinchilla.”
Mikey loved cuddling his puppies, but they weren’t enough to put him to sleep in the cab or at our hotel, so we spent the afternoon shopping on the left bank until it was time for dinner with an old friend of mine, a great jewelry designer named Amanda Kaiserman.
When I say she’s an old friend, I first met her when I was about Mikey’s age, and besides being lovely, glamorous, and funny, she’s sweet and generous and willing to meet up with us in kid friendly locations. We were told that a restaurant in the 8th called Cremerie – Restaurant Polidor was ideal for introducing kids to brasserie food. It was an old favorite of the Lost Generation, and we later saw it in Woody Allen’s latest movie as the place where the modern day character meets his hero Ernest Hemingway.
Unfortunately, Mikey’s exhaustion finally caught up with him and he fell asleep on the hard wooden stools before Amanda arrived, and didn’t wake up until dinner was over.
Lucky for him it was time for ice cream.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Day 5: Le Bateau Mouche d’Amour
Arriving an hour before our train to France at St Pancras station, we find the place eerily still. That is because everyone in the know knows that these trains are like wild beasts, impossible to predict until they alight on one particular track ten minutes before they are set to depart, and it behooves everyone to wait until that magic moment to form a mob and storm the Eurostar. Even if a certain 2 year old has decided to take his shoes and socks off but moments before.
The ride once we crashed it was enormously civilized, and we took advantage of the policy of unlimited refills of our rosé. I also practiced the address of our hotel, and what to say to our taxi driver when we arrived in Paris. “S’il vous plait, nous conduire à St Germain des Prés, à l'Hôtel du Danube, à cinquante-huit Rue du Jacob.”
Moments after we arrived at the Gard du Nord, we were in the queue, waiting for a taxi. Suddenly, there was a parting of the line, and we were ushered through, with the explanation, “You have a family.”
This, by the way, was the way we were treated throughout Paris. So much for the reputation of the prickly Parisiens.
I told the driver, “Sivoplay, noo condwere a San Germahn day Pray, ah Lotel du Danyoob, a sickant wheat roodoo Jaycub.” And miraculously, he took us there!
Hotel du Danube we picked because it offered a reasonably priced suite, but Room #16 was big (for a European hotel room) with enough space for a cot for Mikey, and a little cheaper, so we went for that. The downstairs was pale green and the upstairs was tangerine toile, patterns and colors that only the French can get away with.
Mikey was asleep, after being absolutely perfect on the train, so we waited until he woke up to begin our exploration of Paris. Despite the quality of the double-decker tour the day before, we decided to its equivalent in Paris, the tour down the Seine on the bateaux mouches. We walked from our hotel halfway across Paris along the river before giving up and letting a nice taxi driver, who didn’t have a taxi, but a bicycle with a carriage in back take us the rest of the way to the launch.
The boy did not have a lot more interest in the tour than he did in the double-decker, though he did enjoy screaming at the top of his lungs (like everyone else) when we passed under a bridge. No, what inspired him was a little girl about his age named Simone. She was cute and chic, possibly Senegalese, and Mikey followed her all over the bateau, giving her hugs when she’d let him. Ian and I took turns chasing the two around the boat.
When we’d catch them in an embrace, those around them would smile and say, “Ah, c’est Paris.”
Sadly, the relationship was not to be, and by the time we were back on dry land, the aim was to find food. In no time, we were at a café on the left bank, and Mikey devoured a plate of charcouterie and we found our way home. Eventually.
Turns out it’s really damn easy to get lost in Paris, which isn’t necessarily bad when you’re not in a hurry.
The ride once we crashed it was enormously civilized, and we took advantage of the policy of unlimited refills of our rosé. I also practiced the address of our hotel, and what to say to our taxi driver when we arrived in Paris. “S’il vous plait, nous conduire à St Germain des Prés, à l'Hôtel du Danube, à cinquante-huit Rue du Jacob.”
Moments after we arrived at the Gard du Nord, we were in the queue, waiting for a taxi. Suddenly, there was a parting of the line, and we were ushered through, with the explanation, “You have a family.”
This, by the way, was the way we were treated throughout Paris. So much for the reputation of the prickly Parisiens.
I told the driver, “Sivoplay, noo condwere a San Germahn day Pray, ah Lotel du Danyoob, a sickant wheat roodoo Jaycub.” And miraculously, he took us there!
Hotel du Danube we picked because it offered a reasonably priced suite, but Room #16 was big (for a European hotel room) with enough space for a cot for Mikey, and a little cheaper, so we went for that. The downstairs was pale green and the upstairs was tangerine toile, patterns and colors that only the French can get away with.
The boy did not have a lot more interest in the tour than he did in the double-decker, though he did enjoy screaming at the top of his lungs (like everyone else) when we passed under a bridge. No, what inspired him was a little girl about his age named Simone. She was cute and chic, possibly Senegalese, and Mikey followed her all over the bateau, giving her hugs when she’d let him. Ian and I took turns chasing the two around the boat.
When we’d catch them in an embrace, those around them would smile and say, “Ah, c’est Paris.”
Sadly, the relationship was not to be, and by the time we were back on dry land, the aim was to find food. In no time, we were at a café on the left bank, and Mikey devoured a plate of charcouterie and we found our way home. Eventually.
Turns out it’s really damn easy to get lost in Paris, which isn’t necessarily bad when you’re not in a hurry.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Day 4: Double-Decker
After breakfast on the fourth day in England, we decided to do the ultimate touristy activity. The double-decker bus tour.
Why? Memory fails.
Truly, to be honest, I’m not sure what we were thinking except that we understood we could get on and off, so we imagined a leisurely drive around the town, popping off to say hullo to the ravens in the Tower, or have a pint, or get knighted, and then back on. What actually happened is we passed Parliament, pointed out Big Ben, and then someone on the bus said they wanted to go see the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace, and before we knew it, we were off and far in the maddening crowd.
We were close to Hyde Park, which is close to Kensington Garden, so I suggested that we walk on and see the Peter Pan statue and the Princess Diana playground. It would have been a fine destination, but closeness is relative, and we had the bad luck to run into some police on horseback. This made Mikey remember that he had missed out on the horses in the New Forest, and all of the sudden, nothing but horseplay would do. Specifically, he wanted the policemen to get off their horses and let him have his turn.
Time for a nap came quickly and with tears, and Mikey was asleep before we were five minutes in the cab bound for the hotel. A few hours later, when Mikey woke up, we told him that we had to go to the store and get some wine and snacks because we were having a few friends over, old friends of Ian's who were dying to meet him. The prospect of having folks over he could show off to appealed to him, and before long, Mikey was singing and dancing, and doing his latest trick, drawing with his feet, to the delight of all.
The next morning, we went to St. Pancras to catch the Eurostar to Paris.
Why? Memory fails.
Truly, to be honest, I’m not sure what we were thinking except that we understood we could get on and off, so we imagined a leisurely drive around the town, popping off to say hullo to the ravens in the Tower, or have a pint, or get knighted, and then back on. What actually happened is we passed Parliament, pointed out Big Ben, and then someone on the bus said they wanted to go see the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace, and before we knew it, we were off and far in the maddening crowd.
We were close to Hyde Park, which is close to Kensington Garden, so I suggested that we walk on and see the Peter Pan statue and the Princess Diana playground. It would have been a fine destination, but closeness is relative, and we had the bad luck to run into some police on horseback. This made Mikey remember that he had missed out on the horses in the New Forest, and all of the sudden, nothing but horseplay would do. Specifically, he wanted the policemen to get off their horses and let him have his turn.
Time for a nap came quickly and with tears, and Mikey was asleep before we were five minutes in the cab bound for the hotel. A few hours later, when Mikey woke up, we told him that we had to go to the store and get some wine and snacks because we were having a few friends over, old friends of Ian's who were dying to meet him. The prospect of having folks over he could show off to appealed to him, and before long, Mikey was singing and dancing, and doing his latest trick, drawing with his feet, to the delight of all.
The next morning, we went to St. Pancras to catch the Eurostar to Paris.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Day 3: The Cat & The Bidet
We checked out of the Mill after breakfast, and went to visit the freshly minted couple, Helen & Simon Rhodes. After some exchange of photos and some gifts of clothing to Mikey, and a few more games of “Stahp it!” with Cousin Lauryn, we were off again to London.
Our aim was to try to make it to our hotel in Soho to drop off our luggage and then the rental desk of Alamo in Euston Station before 4:00 pm. Mikey was a little upset that he still hadn’t seen any horses, but since we had stayed at the Soho Hotel before, I felt confident in making him a new promise, “We’ll try to find some horses in London, but I promise you that we will find the biggest cat you’ve ever seen right in our hotel.”
The black ten foot tall Fernando Botero bronze in the lobby was as promised.
We dropped off our luggage, and zipped over to Euston station just in time. The Tube ride back to Soho was loud, and Mikey sat through it in stunned silence. When we finally got out, he said, “We do it again now?”
Later, we promised, we had to rush back to the hotel, drink some champagne, and explore our room. Of course, the bathrooms at the Soho are gorgeous and well-appointed, by which I mean they came with a little more than Mikey is used to at home.
“What this?”
“It’s called a bidet,” I said.
“Bidaydo?” he repeated back, curious why a potato, which he had eaten before fried, mashed, diced, and riced, would be ceramic and toilet-like in its natural state.
“Just bidet,” I said. “It’s to wash your bottom.”
Of course, he had to try, and let's just say he found it delightful. I think he’d still be on it in a state of ecstasy if we didn’t drag him off.
Our aim was to try to make it to our hotel in Soho to drop off our luggage and then the rental desk of Alamo in Euston Station before 4:00 pm. Mikey was a little upset that he still hadn’t seen any horses, but since we had stayed at the Soho Hotel before, I felt confident in making him a new promise, “We’ll try to find some horses in London, but I promise you that we will find the biggest cat you’ve ever seen right in our hotel.”
The black ten foot tall Fernando Botero bronze in the lobby was as promised.
We dropped off our luggage, and zipped over to Euston station just in time. The Tube ride back to Soho was loud, and Mikey sat through it in stunned silence. When we finally got out, he said, “We do it again now?”
Later, we promised, we had to rush back to the hotel, drink some champagne, and explore our room. Of course, the bathrooms at the Soho are gorgeous and well-appointed, by which I mean they came with a little more than Mikey is used to at home.
“What this?”
“It’s called a bidet,” I said.
“Bidaydo?” he repeated back, curious why a potato, which he had eaten before fried, mashed, diced, and riced, would be ceramic and toilet-like in its natural state.
“Just bidet,” I said. “It’s to wash your bottom.”
Of course, he had to try, and let's just say he found it delightful. I think he’d still be on it in a state of ecstasy if we didn’t drag him off.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Day 2: Two Ducks & A Wedding
In a reply to my Day 1 description in this blog, my friend Maryanne Stahl, a teacher, novelist and passionate devotee of waterfowl, said that she was pleased that I finally posted something nice about ducks. Usually I reference ducks and geese only in the context of foie gras. Maryanne, with that in mind, you may want to avoid the bit of this update.
Our second day in England began with full English traditional breakfasts. If you’ve never indulged (and no one except very fat English people indulge in this very often), it consists of bacon, sausage, fried eggs, grilled tomatoes, and optional fried bread, beans, and/or black pudding. Black pudding is not to be confused with the common American Kraft chocolate pudding, but is basically blood and fat congealed into an attractive splat. I know, and it’s yummy. So there.
Mikey ate all of that, and then demanded some tea. Of course, he gets what he thinks he wants, which we decided was milk warmed with a few dribbles of tea.
After breakfast, we were told that the hotel resident tame duck, named by her owner Crispie, had arrived. Crispie was happy to meet Mikey, which she showed by nibbling on him, which most of us decided was more than fair for being poked in the eye "gently."
The wedding was at 2 o’clock, about an hour away in Lyndhurst, so at 1 o’clock, our niece Lauren tore through our hotel’s parking lot and we roared after her. Through tight forested roads we raced, by in large remembering what side of the road to be on, until we arrived at the city hall with a minute to spare. Once again, Mikey had fallen asleep before he had a chance to see any of the New Forest ponies he was desperate to see, and he stayed asleep all through the ceremony, where his Papa accompanied Aunt Helen down the aisle to give her to Simon Rhodes.
The reception was at a huge hotel another half an hour away, and by then Mikey was awake and ready to party. The back lawn was vast, and while Helen and Simon tried to get pictures taken, Mikey and Cousin Sapphire-Jade chased after each other. We were brought inside for dinner, and Mikey found his place in the receiving line, hiding behind the curtains to avoid the tickling clutches of Cousin Lauren.
“Stop it!” he would snarl from behind the curtains.
“Stahp it! Stahp it!” Lauren would tease in perfect imitation of his American accent, which he thought was hilarious. This interchange became the repeated game of the evening. Even days later, Mikey would ask to play “the game,” where I would be Cousin Lauren and say “Stahp it!” and he would call me “Crybaby!” and then eat me.
After dinner, the dance floor came out and Mikey and Cousin Sapphire-Jade danced for approximately four hours straight. Occasionally, they let others, like the bride and groom, out on the floor.
Finally, we dragged Mikey home, back to the hotel. Despite his obvious exhaustion, Mikey did not want to sleep. We felt like a snack too, so we went down to the bar and ordered the special, which was duck rolls.
Mikey took a bite and said, eyes widening, “This Crispie Duck who bite me?”
“I think it’s a different duck,” I assured him.
Mikey still had his revenge.
Our second day in England began with full English traditional breakfasts. If you’ve never indulged (and no one except very fat English people indulge in this very often), it consists of bacon, sausage, fried eggs, grilled tomatoes, and optional fried bread, beans, and/or black pudding. Black pudding is not to be confused with the common American Kraft chocolate pudding, but is basically blood and fat congealed into an attractive splat. I know, and it’s yummy. So there.
Mikey ate all of that, and then demanded some tea. Of course, he gets what he thinks he wants, which we decided was milk warmed with a few dribbles of tea.
After breakfast, we were told that the hotel resident tame duck, named by her owner Crispie, had arrived. Crispie was happy to meet Mikey, which she showed by nibbling on him, which most of us decided was more than fair for being poked in the eye "gently."
The wedding was at 2 o’clock, about an hour away in Lyndhurst, so at 1 o’clock, our niece Lauren tore through our hotel’s parking lot and we roared after her. Through tight forested roads we raced, by in large remembering what side of the road to be on, until we arrived at the city hall with a minute to spare. Once again, Mikey had fallen asleep before he had a chance to see any of the New Forest ponies he was desperate to see, and he stayed asleep all through the ceremony, where his Papa accompanied Aunt Helen down the aisle to give her to Simon Rhodes.
The reception was at a huge hotel another half an hour away, and by then Mikey was awake and ready to party. The back lawn was vast, and while Helen and Simon tried to get pictures taken, Mikey and Cousin Sapphire-Jade chased after each other. We were brought inside for dinner, and Mikey found his place in the receiving line, hiding behind the curtains to avoid the tickling clutches of Cousin Lauren.
“Stop it!” he would snarl from behind the curtains.
“Stahp it! Stahp it!” Lauren would tease in perfect imitation of his American accent, which he thought was hilarious. This interchange became the repeated game of the evening. Even days later, Mikey would ask to play “the game,” where I would be Cousin Lauren and say “Stahp it!” and he would call me “Crybaby!” and then eat me.
After dinner, the dance floor came out and Mikey and Cousin Sapphire-Jade danced for approximately four hours straight. Occasionally, they let others, like the bride and groom, out on the floor.
Finally, we dragged Mikey home, back to the hotel. Despite his obvious exhaustion, Mikey did not want to sleep. We felt like a snack too, so we went down to the bar and ordered the special, which was duck rolls.
Mikey took a bite and said, eyes widening, “This Crispie Duck who bite me?”
“I think it’s a different duck,” I assured him.
Mikey still had his revenge.
Day 1: LAX to Lymington
On Thursday, August 25, 2010, at 2 o’clock in the afternoon, we tip-toed into the dimly lit preschool room, where soft music was playing, being careful not to step on any of the little bodies of the sleeping children scattered on mattresses across the floor. Mikey was sound asleep when I picked him up, but he opened his eyes to ask, “We go on plane now?”
Yup. We were off. On the way down, we told him what we were going to do. We were going to drive our car to JohnnyPark, take the bus with our luggage to the airport, get our tickets, check in our luggage, get on a plane, and fly high in the sky until we landed in London, England. It all went according to plan, more or less (Johnny Park is temporarily a two-bus trip to the airport which is a little exasperating to those of us schlepping big suitcases but not to Mikey) until we checked in our suitcases and got our seat assignments. Mikey’s understanding of the arrangement was that next we go to the airplane and fly.
“But Mikey, we have to wait because the plane isn’t ready yet.”
“We go to plane now!”
We tried another tact, telling him that even though (God knows) we weren’t flying First Class, by hook and by crook, we could get into the First Class lounge at LAX where we could mingle with movie stars. That held no charm. Finally we got him up there by explaining that we could watch the planes from the lounge. Unfortunately, it turned out that the lounges, while still lovely, have changed since the last time we were privileged to visit and don’t afford views of the planes. More disappointment.
“But, look, a buffet! Pizzas and mozzarella! Can we interest you in the gin and tonics which look really good to us right now?”
He was mollified with playing with the ipad until we got the word from the hostess that our plane was boarding. As we left, we saw another family being escorted out of the lounge because their child’s crying was disturbing the other travelers. Coulda been worse, we said.
The plane ride itself was great. Mikey’s flown a couple times before and has been great except for the time when he had a cold which turned into an ear infection at 10,000 feet. Still, this was an 11 hour flight in the middle of the night. We had the ipad, and British Airways had inflight cartoons. After a couple hours, the cabin lights dimmed.
“It’s night-time?” Mikey asked. We told him, yes, it was, and he curled up on his seat and went to sleep for 8 hours, until we were about ready to land.
London greeted us with the traditional August chill and rain. When we made it through customs and got our luggage, Alamo greeted us with the news that their power was off and they were confirming registrations and credit cards using their cell phones. So it took forever, and Mikey spent his time jumping in mud-puddles.
We told Mikey that we were driving down to the New Forest to see Papa’s sister, Mikey’s Aunt Helen who he had never met, getting married. He’s been to two other weddings, and while he loves parties, he was more interested in hearing about the New Forest ponies. Traffic was rough, being a bank holiday weekend, and by the time there were any horses to be seen in the forest, loping idyllically through the banks of ferns, Mikey was fast asleep.
We checked into our hotel, the Mill at Gordleton, which we never would have found except by the power of GPS in our rental. It is a beautiful old converted water mill on the river Avon, surrounded by fish ponds and duck ponds, and modern sculpture. We had the Miller’s Suite, so Mikey had his own room and we had a living room. Mikey was the only one of us not in danger of banging his head on the low rafters.
We had cream tea in the garden, and then Helen, Cousin Lauren, and Cousin Sapphire-Jade came over. They were still finishing arrangements for the wedding, but they wanted to see us and let Papa wrestle with Sapphire-Jade, who is 5, and Mikey. Afterwards, we drove into town to see the ferry to the Isle of Wight and have some fish and chips.
Mikey fell asleep around 10 o’clock and it was the end of our first day in England.
Yup. We were off. On the way down, we told him what we were going to do. We were going to drive our car to JohnnyPark, take the bus with our luggage to the airport, get our tickets, check in our luggage, get on a plane, and fly high in the sky until we landed in London, England. It all went according to plan, more or less (Johnny Park is temporarily a two-bus trip to the airport which is a little exasperating to those of us schlepping big suitcases but not to Mikey) until we checked in our suitcases and got our seat assignments. Mikey’s understanding of the arrangement was that next we go to the airplane and fly.
“But Mikey, we have to wait because the plane isn’t ready yet.”
“We go to plane now!”
We tried another tact, telling him that even though (God knows) we weren’t flying First Class, by hook and by crook, we could get into the First Class lounge at LAX where we could mingle with movie stars. That held no charm. Finally we got him up there by explaining that we could watch the planes from the lounge. Unfortunately, it turned out that the lounges, while still lovely, have changed since the last time we were privileged to visit and don’t afford views of the planes. More disappointment.
“But, look, a buffet! Pizzas and mozzarella! Can we interest you in the gin and tonics which look really good to us right now?”
He was mollified with playing with the ipad until we got the word from the hostess that our plane was boarding. As we left, we saw another family being escorted out of the lounge because their child’s crying was disturbing the other travelers. Coulda been worse, we said.
The plane ride itself was great. Mikey’s flown a couple times before and has been great except for the time when he had a cold which turned into an ear infection at 10,000 feet. Still, this was an 11 hour flight in the middle of the night. We had the ipad, and British Airways had inflight cartoons. After a couple hours, the cabin lights dimmed.
“It’s night-time?” Mikey asked. We told him, yes, it was, and he curled up on his seat and went to sleep for 8 hours, until we were about ready to land.
London greeted us with the traditional August chill and rain. When we made it through customs and got our luggage, Alamo greeted us with the news that their power was off and they were confirming registrations and credit cards using their cell phones. So it took forever, and Mikey spent his time jumping in mud-puddles.
We told Mikey that we were driving down to the New Forest to see Papa’s sister, Mikey’s Aunt Helen who he had never met, getting married. He’s been to two other weddings, and while he loves parties, he was more interested in hearing about the New Forest ponies. Traffic was rough, being a bank holiday weekend, and by the time there were any horses to be seen in the forest, loping idyllically through the banks of ferns, Mikey was fast asleep.
We had cream tea in the garden, and then Helen, Cousin Lauren, and Cousin Sapphire-Jade came over. They were still finishing arrangements for the wedding, but they wanted to see us and let Papa wrestle with Sapphire-Jade, who is 5, and Mikey. Afterwards, we drove into town to see the ferry to the Isle of Wight and have some fish and chips.
Mikey fell asleep around 10 o’clock and it was the end of our first day in England.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Lesson Learned
Mikey started at preschool last week. There are dozens of daycare centers in walking distance, including the one he attended for the last 9 months, but the shortcut for finding a quality preschool is to go to the website for the National Association for the Education of Young Children (http://www.naeyc.org) and do a search for the schools that are accredited by them in your area. We got this from Jenifer Wana’s book “How To Choose The Best Preschool” where she writes “Because the process is so rigorous and time consuming, fewer than one in ten preschools has NAEYC accreditation. If a school has this accreditation, you can be pretty confident that it’s a high-quality program.”
Of course, this insider tip is not exactly on the QT, and the NAEYC-certified school in walking distance from our house turned out to have a 9 month waiting list. So, while we waited, Mikey went to a fine but not outstanding daycare, and we hoped he would get enough education from home.
The second best way to educate is to model expected behavior. The best way to educate is to say no. As in, “No, this is all my broccoli, not for you!” and watch as your child sneaks giggling into your lap to eat your broccoli off your fork before you make it to your mouth.
The lessons learned are seldom the ones you tried to teach. Over and over again, Ian in his British way will tell Mikey, “No, eat properly with knife and fork.” “Don’t chew on your brush. Brush your teeth properly.” “No, Sprog, you’re scaring the cat. Pet him properly, please.”
Mikey listens sometimes and obeys, and sometimes doesn’t. Tonight, however, he demonstrated that he learned his first adverb. We were playing cars together on our bed, and I was slouched over the pillow.
“Sit up, daddy, like this,” he said, getting into the position what the yogis call sukhasana, and we call “criss-cross applesauce.”
“OK,” I said, half-propping myself up.
“No, Daddy,” he sighed. “Sit properly.”
Lesson learned.
Of course, this insider tip is not exactly on the QT, and the NAEYC-certified school in walking distance from our house turned out to have a 9 month waiting list. So, while we waited, Mikey went to a fine but not outstanding daycare, and we hoped he would get enough education from home.
The second best way to educate is to model expected behavior. The best way to educate is to say no. As in, “No, this is all my broccoli, not for you!” and watch as your child sneaks giggling into your lap to eat your broccoli off your fork before you make it to your mouth.
The lessons learned are seldom the ones you tried to teach. Over and over again, Ian in his British way will tell Mikey, “No, eat properly with knife and fork.” “Don’t chew on your brush. Brush your teeth properly.” “No, Sprog, you’re scaring the cat. Pet him properly, please.”
Mikey listens sometimes and obeys, and sometimes doesn’t. Tonight, however, he demonstrated that he learned his first adverb. We were playing cars together on our bed, and I was slouched over the pillow.
“Sit up, daddy, like this,” he said, getting into the position what the yogis call sukhasana, and we call “criss-cross applesauce.”
“OK,” I said, half-propping myself up.
“No, Daddy,” he sighed. “Sit properly.”
Lesson learned.
Friday, July 1, 2011
A Bad Dream
Mikey had a nightmare this morning. He’s had nightmares before which woke him up and made him scream or cry, and sometimes required him to run to our bed in the middle of the night, but this is the first time he articulated what scary thing had happened to him.
“Papa! Papa!” Mikey called. Papa is Ian. I don’t take it personally anytime Mikey calls for Papa instead of me, Daddy. I’m mature that way.
“What is it?” Ian asked him. “Honey, Papa’s here.”
“No!” Mikey was still asleep and screaming. “Papa ate my foot!”
With that, Mikey fell back asleep. Ian and I slept for a while ourselves, and then started getting dressed. Mikey is starting preschool next month and we talked about Ian taking him there this morning, for a special event where they’re bringing in sea creatures for the children to see. Then I couldn’t take it anymore, and started laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“’Papa ate my foot!’” I said.
“You’re mean.”
“If I’m so mean, how come you were the one eating his foot, hmm?”
Like I said, I’m mature that way.
“Papa! Papa!” Mikey called. Papa is Ian. I don’t take it personally anytime Mikey calls for Papa instead of me, Daddy. I’m mature that way.
“What is it?” Ian asked him. “Honey, Papa’s here.”
“No!” Mikey was still asleep and screaming. “Papa ate my foot!”
With that, Mikey fell back asleep. Ian and I slept for a while ourselves, and then started getting dressed. Mikey is starting preschool next month and we talked about Ian taking him there this morning, for a special event where they’re bringing in sea creatures for the children to see. Then I couldn’t take it anymore, and started laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“’Papa ate my foot!’” I said.
“You’re mean.”
“If I’m so mean, how come you were the one eating his foot, hmm?”
Like I said, I’m mature that way.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Nursery Jewel
As Mikey was being put down to sleep tonight, Ian came in and held out his fists. “Choose one,” he said. Mikey chose the right fist, and Ian opened it up to show a brilliant blue plastic gem. Our friends had given it to him a week ago, and Mikey loved to play with it. Sometimes it put it in his mouth a little, and we’d quickly tell him no, and he’d relent.
After lights out, Ian heard Mikey coughing, and when he came into his room, he found Mikey on the floor. “Mikey, where’s the blue diamond?”
Mikey pointed to his mouth and giggled.
“Ted!”
Ian and I tore the room apart, looking for evidence that Mikey hadn’t swallowed the two-inch diameter disc. While we did it, we kept grilling him, “Where is the diamond?” If you listened in, you’d imagine we were agents of a smuggling king pin, “Where is the diamond, Mikey?”
Mikey just pointed to his mouth and articulated it very plainly, “I put in my mouth, and I eated it.”
Of course, I rationalized that if the diamond had cleared his windpipe, he must be fine, but Ian pointed out that it wouldn't digest at all and would end up stuck in his small intestine and cause a blockage. We kept telling Mikey that this was serious, we were going to the doctor if he really swallowed the diamond, and he stuck to the story through laughter and tears. We knew the diamond had been in the room and couldn’t be anywhere else except inside him.
We live just a few blocks from the Valley’s only pediatric trauma center at Northridge Hospital so we brought him there.
They got us through in no time, though we shared the ER with some pretty sick folk and Mikey spent the whole time in a fabulous mood for a toddler at midnight. There were choruses of “Spiderman! Spiderman! Is he strong? Listen, bud, he got radioactive blood!”, there was practicing his rolls and somersaults (“You know, these floors are regularly splattered with blood and vomit,” a passing orderly let us know, in case we didn’t know), and there was telling the 12-month-old with the high fever weeping in his grandma’s arms, “Don’t cry, baby. Don’t be sad.”
I used my phone to check us into the hospital on Facebook, “Ted Peterson & Ian Smith are at Northridge Hospital Medical Center – Oh Mikey, did you really swallow that plastic diamond?” And the replies were predictable. “Don’t worry, Ted; it will come all right in the end” was one. “This too shall pass” was another.
The doctor was good, though there was a passing moment of weirdness. (“You’re both his dad? How that happen?”) The results of the xrays were inconclusive. He said to be on the look-out for abdominal distress and faintness of breath. We went home and put Mikey to bed at 1:30 am.
While padding down his pillow, Ian found this in the pillowcase.
So the good news is that Mikey doesn’t swallow huge plastics gems, and doesn’t need surgery. There will be no abdominal distress or faintness of breath.
The bad news is that when asked where something is, if he doesn’t know, he points to his mouth and says he ate it.
After lights out, Ian heard Mikey coughing, and when he came into his room, he found Mikey on the floor. “Mikey, where’s the blue diamond?”
Mikey pointed to his mouth and giggled.
“Ted!”
Ian and I tore the room apart, looking for evidence that Mikey hadn’t swallowed the two-inch diameter disc. While we did it, we kept grilling him, “Where is the diamond?” If you listened in, you’d imagine we were agents of a smuggling king pin, “Where is the diamond, Mikey?”
Mikey just pointed to his mouth and articulated it very plainly, “I put in my mouth, and I eated it.”
Of course, I rationalized that if the diamond had cleared his windpipe, he must be fine, but Ian pointed out that it wouldn't digest at all and would end up stuck in his small intestine and cause a blockage. We kept telling Mikey that this was serious, we were going to the doctor if he really swallowed the diamond, and he stuck to the story through laughter and tears. We knew the diamond had been in the room and couldn’t be anywhere else except inside him.
We live just a few blocks from the Valley’s only pediatric trauma center at Northridge Hospital so we brought him there.
They got us through in no time, though we shared the ER with some pretty sick folk and Mikey spent the whole time in a fabulous mood for a toddler at midnight. There were choruses of “Spiderman! Spiderman! Is he strong? Listen, bud, he got radioactive blood!”, there was practicing his rolls and somersaults (“You know, these floors are regularly splattered with blood and vomit,” a passing orderly let us know, in case we didn’t know), and there was telling the 12-month-old with the high fever weeping in his grandma’s arms, “Don’t cry, baby. Don’t be sad.”
I used my phone to check us into the hospital on Facebook, “Ted Peterson & Ian Smith are at Northridge Hospital Medical Center – Oh Mikey, did you really swallow that plastic diamond?” And the replies were predictable. “Don’t worry, Ted; it will come all right in the end” was one. “This too shall pass” was another.
The doctor was good, though there was a passing moment of weirdness. (“You’re both his dad? How that happen?”) The results of the xrays were inconclusive. He said to be on the look-out for abdominal distress and faintness of breath. We went home and put Mikey to bed at 1:30 am.
While padding down his pillow, Ian found this in the pillowcase.
So the good news is that Mikey doesn’t swallow huge plastics gems, and doesn’t need surgery. There will be no abdominal distress or faintness of breath.
The bad news is that when asked where something is, if he doesn’t know, he points to his mouth and says he ate it.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Top 10 Father's Day Songs
There are a lot of great songs out there for Mother’s Day, but for today, in celebration of my first Father’s Day of being an actual legal dad, I thought I’d try to find the best songs about being a dad.
I’m not counting songs with Papa or Daddy or some combination in the titles which use the words for something other than a father. For example, “Oh Daddy” by Fleetwood Mac which is about Christine McVie’s bandmate Mick Fleetwood, “My Heart Belongs To Daddy” (I don’t think that’s a real Daddy, unless incest in implied, in which case, shame on you, Cole Porter and Mary Martin!) or “Gone Daddy Gone” (as much as I love the Violent Femmes).
Honorable Mention. “Father Figure” by George Michael. Misses the list because although it’s a good though slow song, it’s not really about an actual father. Still I think it fits, in a weird way. As for the video, George Michael smokes like it’s his hard duty, and this has to be the apogee of shoulder pads on thin women. Bless.
10. “Whatta Man” by Salt n Pepa (featuring En Vogue): Not specifically for Dads, though there is a shout out to her man spending “quality time with his kids when he can” and, of course, “You so crazy. I think I wanna have your baby.” Mostly it’s about a “mighty mighty good man,” which is what a dad needs to be.
9. “Daddy Cool” by Boney M. Okay, the Daddy in this is probably not a real great Dad. He might be the same kind of non-Dad Daddy that is in the “My Heart Belongs To Daddy,” but it’s so funky and Boney M is such awesome awesomeness, I can’t leave it off.
8. “Papa Don’t Preach” by Madonna. Madonna doesn’t get much credit for depth, but now that I’m a dad, I realize what good advice is in this song, and not just about pregnancy.
7. “Papa’s Got A Brand New Bag” by James Brown. Of course.
6. “Papa Loves Mambo” by Perry Como. Unh!
5. “Beautiful Boy” by John Lennon. Must be the sweetest song written by a father to a son. Made bittersweet by that father leaving too soon.
4. “Children Will Listen” by Stephen Sondheim. I think of this so many times when I look into the boy’s eyes.
3. “Color Him Father” by The Winstons. “I think I’ll color him love.”
2. “Blessed” by Elton John. Sir Elton just became a father, but this song from 1995 shows that he was ready to be one 16 years ago. “You’re a child in my head. You haven’t walked yet. Your first words have yet to be said. But I know, you’ll be blessed.” I don’t know about the people with the bat heads in the video but I’ll repeat after Mikey each night that I promise you that, I promise you that.
1. “Father & Son” by Cat Stevens “I know I have to go.” Perfection.
(The Anti Father’s Day Song) Papa Was A Rolling Stone by the Temptations
I’m not counting songs with Papa or Daddy or some combination in the titles which use the words for something other than a father. For example, “Oh Daddy” by Fleetwood Mac which is about Christine McVie’s bandmate Mick Fleetwood, “My Heart Belongs To Daddy” (I don’t think that’s a real Daddy, unless incest in implied, in which case, shame on you, Cole Porter and Mary Martin!) or “Gone Daddy Gone” (as much as I love the Violent Femmes).
Honorable Mention. “Father Figure” by George Michael. Misses the list because although it’s a good though slow song, it’s not really about an actual father. Still I think it fits, in a weird way. As for the video, George Michael smokes like it’s his hard duty, and this has to be the apogee of shoulder pads on thin women. Bless.
10. “Whatta Man” by Salt n Pepa (featuring En Vogue): Not specifically for Dads, though there is a shout out to her man spending “quality time with his kids when he can” and, of course, “You so crazy. I think I wanna have your baby.” Mostly it’s about a “mighty mighty good man,” which is what a dad needs to be.
9. “Daddy Cool” by Boney M. Okay, the Daddy in this is probably not a real great Dad. He might be the same kind of non-Dad Daddy that is in the “My Heart Belongs To Daddy,” but it’s so funky and Boney M is such awesome awesomeness, I can’t leave it off.
8. “Papa Don’t Preach” by Madonna. Madonna doesn’t get much credit for depth, but now that I’m a dad, I realize what good advice is in this song, and not just about pregnancy.
7. “Papa’s Got A Brand New Bag” by James Brown. Of course.
6. “Papa Loves Mambo” by Perry Como. Unh!
5. “Beautiful Boy” by John Lennon. Must be the sweetest song written by a father to a son. Made bittersweet by that father leaving too soon.
4. “Children Will Listen” by Stephen Sondheim. I think of this so many times when I look into the boy’s eyes.
3. “Color Him Father” by The Winstons. “I think I’ll color him love.”
2. “Blessed” by Elton John. Sir Elton just became a father, but this song from 1995 shows that he was ready to be one 16 years ago. “You’re a child in my head. You haven’t walked yet. Your first words have yet to be said. But I know, you’ll be blessed.” I don’t know about the people with the bat heads in the video but I’ll repeat after Mikey each night that I promise you that, I promise you that.
1. “Father & Son” by Cat Stevens “I know I have to go.” Perfection.
(The Anti Father’s Day Song) Papa Was A Rolling Stone by the Temptations
Monday, June 6, 2011
A Blog Entry to Embarrass You in Years Ahead, Mikey
Mikey has been practicing his potty skills and so has been spending more and more time sitting on the toilet or his potty with his big boy underpants around his ankles. Tonight, as usual, we talked about this and that while he sat on the potty.
He decided that everyone was a color. I’m blue. Papa and Mikey are pink. Grandma is orange, and Grandpa is purple, and sorry, Dad, so are monkeys. That led us to sing about eight silly monkeys dancing on the bed. Then we discussed how our fingers individually were one, one, one, one, one, one, but they were also one, two, three, four, and five, which we agreed was interesting.
Then there was a pause, and Mikey looked at his todger, still waiting for the impulse to pee, and retracted the foreskin, and said, “Look, Daddy. It’s Sir Topham Hatt.”
If you’re not familiar with the bald-headed character from the Thomas the Tank Engine series, he looks like this.
Mikey later incorporated my reaction to that into the act when he repeated it for Ian’s benefit.
“Oh my God,” Mikey said, holding his head in his hands, giggling. “Oh … my … God …”
He decided that everyone was a color. I’m blue. Papa and Mikey are pink. Grandma is orange, and Grandpa is purple, and sorry, Dad, so are monkeys. That led us to sing about eight silly monkeys dancing on the bed. Then we discussed how our fingers individually were one, one, one, one, one, one, but they were also one, two, three, four, and five, which we agreed was interesting.
Then there was a pause, and Mikey looked at his todger, still waiting for the impulse to pee, and retracted the foreskin, and said, “Look, Daddy. It’s Sir Topham Hatt.”
If you’re not familiar with the bald-headed character from the Thomas the Tank Engine series, he looks like this.
Mikey later incorporated my reaction to that into the act when he repeated it for Ian’s benefit.
“Oh my God,” Mikey said, holding his head in his hands, giggling. “Oh … my … God …”
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Purrrfection
I swear I’m not bored, not in the least, I’m overworked ... but I’m suddenly aware of a feline soap opera in my neighborhood.
A couple weeks ago, we saw a small calico cat in our backyard with three kittens, obviously fairly newborn. They might have been born right there, possibly under my very nose, while I was trying to set up a three wire trellis for our Mourvèdre vine (yes, poor to mediocre wine coming soon!) or dealing with the loss of the third, littlest olive tree in a pot.
My friend (and former boss) Tim risked blood loss to gather up the feral cats in his neighborhood and bring them in to be fixed before releasing them. I’m an animal lover too. Well, frankly, that’s a silly phrase. Is there anyone out there who doesn’t love some animal? Yes, I know, there are the Michael Vicks, but that’s lack of education. No one smart, no one with any empathy can believe animals are any less than humans, especially the ones of the cat and dog varieties. Yes, I digress, but the point is I’m an animal lover too, and instead of making everyone miserable schlepping animals to the pound in a crate, I think of short-term rather than long-term solutions. I just feed them.
This is the microcosmic equivalent of feeding homeless people instead of teaching them a trade. It’s easy, and so I do it. Sorry. Part of my excuse was that I want to teach Mikey about being careful around strange animals while maintaining empathy. (That looks awfully good on paper, doesn’t it?) Here’s how the routine has been for the last couple of weeks:
We’ll be out in the backyard. Mikey will notice the mother cat, who is generally on the other side of the pool fence from us, yowling.
“Mama cat hungry!”
So we go inside and get water (or milk if Daddy is feeling especially generous) and cat food (apologizing to our own cat Floyd) and being very, very careful not to spill, and then more carefully that the cats who might be scared of us don’t scratch, we bring them out to the cat and her kittens. Now, her kittens are adorable. You could watch the three of them (one black, one black with white paws, and one calico like her/his mom) all day long run around our backyard, onto the furniture, playing with Mikey’s cars and pool toys, and wrestling around.
I don’t know if it was Ian or me who first looked at the adorable creatures at play and mused, “Where do you suppose they’re pissing and shitting?”
So there’s that. But they’re so cute, what does it matter?
This morning, the kittens’ charm was lost on Mikey for the first time. He saw them playing with his baseball in the back yard, and hammered on the glass door, “No, cats, that’s my ball!”
“You’ll scare them!” I warned.
“Okay,” Mikey replied, and hammered harder on the window.
Then, just now, I saw a new figure in the backyard. A long sleek black cat, who gave the kittens a obligatory pat on the head, and then proceeded to mount the mom.
The kitten daddy.
And my poor fixed fluffy Floyd cat just watches from the window and thinks, “The drama!”
Friday, May 27, 2011
A Year Ago Today, We Brought Our Son Home
We were a little nervous about meeting the stranger. I had an email from our social worker saying that Michael’s social worker “really didn't express any major concerns and said that you guys were going to fall in love with him.” We weren’t sure if that was just words, since they were desperate to find a quick home for him, but we were optimistic, if, like I said, a little nervous.
Two children we had brought into our home had already been returned, lost back into the system. A 5-month-old infant who had taught us the basics of diaper changes and play, rocking and feeding, and that we really wanted to do this and might be good at it, and then a toddler who taught us not to take our eyes off one of those for a second. We had just kissed Baby A goodbye 24 hours before. This was our third-time-is-a-charm or third-strike, however it turned out.
That was May 27, 2010, one year ago today, when Ian and I brought our son home. He had with him a suitcase of all his possessions: a couple tee-shirts, a couple pairs of sweat pants, a ball, an Etch-A-Sketch, and a small plastic truck.
That’s unbelievable to us now. 365 days have flown by, and yet, it’s hard to believe there was a time when he wasn’t ours, and we weren’t his. How is it possible we weren’t there for his first smile, his first words, and his first steps?
We don’t concern ourselves much with what we didn’t share with him during his first 20 months on the planet, because he’s all about the future, not the past. This week, it’s break-dancing in front of the TV in imitation of the contestants on “So You Think You Can Dance,” and reading a new favorite book "Making the Moose out of Life," and telling our nanny Sally “I don’t miss you, I miss Daddy,” and eating Floyd’s dry cat food in order to get Papa and Daddy to cry, “Mikey, nooooooo!” while he giggles.
Thank you for making May 27th, 2010 to May 27th, 2011 so much fun, little boy, our pride and joy, our son. And infinite years to come.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
La Coccinelle Jolie et Son Bébé Dansent!
The lyrics go:
Jolie coccinelle
Emmène-moi, emmène-moi
Faire un petit tour de soleil
Chatouiller le ciel avec toi
Roughly (according to the record company Putomayo who put out this album together with other children’s songs across all cultures) translated as:
Pretty ladybug
Take me away, take me away
Let me take a ride around the sun
And tickle the sky with you
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Mikey's First Passport
Ian is British, and his sister, Mikey’s Aunt Helen, who is as of yet still known only from photos, is getting married in August in what will be the second great royal wedding of the year. Once we got a new birth certificate for Mikey, we went to get a new social security card and a passport.
That doesn’t mean that there wasn’t some awkwardness at the post office. You can’t get a new passport for a child under 16 without having them be present, and with current budget cuts, the post office is only open certain hours on weekends, so we joined a long line filled with fidgeting kids. When “Tony” (not his real name – oh, wait, actually, yes, his real name), the only person present handling the passport work got to us, he first looked at Mikey’s photo and deemed it unacceptable. Luckily, there was a place right across the street where Ian could take Mikey and get an emergency pic taken.
Yes, it was obviously that Mikey looked too cute and cheerful in the first photo, and that isn’t likely how he would look during a transatlantic trip. Actually, the problem really was that his face was too big in the first pic for the facial recognition software they use. You’d think in this day and age where Picasa and Facebook and dozens of other available-to-the-public programs can recognize your fuzzy, pixellated face from miles away, the feds would know how to do it too, but best not dwell on what that means for airport security.
The other part of the experience which was a little awkward, was Tony slowly catching on to the fact that Mikey was adopted by two men. When I got to his window, Ian was outside chasing Mikey around the parking lot, playing the new game Mikey invented, Spiderman versus Sharkman. All three of us have to be present, so Tony asked for my son to come to the window.
“And you wife,” he added.
“Hold on, I’m waving to my son and partner,” I said, gently correcting him while I gestured to them to come in.
When Ian and Mikey came over, we chatted away while Tony looked to the birth certificate to the application, and back and forth, a couple times, not sure what to say. I didn’t want to say anything and make any assumptions about what he was thinking. Ian chatted with the people behind us in line, and Mikey played on the floor with their kids.
Finally: “Which – who is the father?”
“We both are,” I said. “We adopted him.”
Since I had put the adoption certificate down together with the application and birth certificate, the fact of his adoption shouldn’t have been a surprise. We had filled out the form as appropriately, all Tony had to do was copy. Once it finally sunk in, Tony filled in the form, took our $105, and said we’d get his passport in 4 to 6 weeks. And then we’ll be on an 11 hour flight to London.
Hold on, let me let that sink in.
Oh boy.
That doesn’t mean that there wasn’t some awkwardness at the post office. You can’t get a new passport for a child under 16 without having them be present, and with current budget cuts, the post office is only open certain hours on weekends, so we joined a long line filled with fidgeting kids. When “Tony” (not his real name – oh, wait, actually, yes, his real name), the only person present handling the passport work got to us, he first looked at Mikey’s photo and deemed it unacceptable. Luckily, there was a place right across the street where Ian could take Mikey and get an emergency pic taken.
Yes, it was obviously that Mikey looked too cute and cheerful in the first photo, and that isn’t likely how he would look during a transatlantic trip. Actually, the problem really was that his face was too big in the first pic for the facial recognition software they use. You’d think in this day and age where Picasa and Facebook and dozens of other available-to-the-public programs can recognize your fuzzy, pixellated face from miles away, the feds would know how to do it too, but best not dwell on what that means for airport security.
The other part of the experience which was a little awkward, was Tony slowly catching on to the fact that Mikey was adopted by two men. When I got to his window, Ian was outside chasing Mikey around the parking lot, playing the new game Mikey invented, Spiderman versus Sharkman. All three of us have to be present, so Tony asked for my son to come to the window.
“And you wife,” he added.
“Hold on, I’m waving to my son and partner,” I said, gently correcting him while I gestured to them to come in.
When Ian and Mikey came over, we chatted away while Tony looked to the birth certificate to the application, and back and forth, a couple times, not sure what to say. I didn’t want to say anything and make any assumptions about what he was thinking. Ian chatted with the people behind us in line, and Mikey played on the floor with their kids.
Finally: “Which – who is the father?”
“We both are,” I said. “We adopted him.”
Since I had put the adoption certificate down together with the application and birth certificate, the fact of his adoption shouldn’t have been a surprise. We had filled out the form as appropriately, all Tony had to do was copy. Once it finally sunk in, Tony filled in the form, took our $105, and said we’d get his passport in 4 to 6 weeks. And then we’ll be on an 11 hour flight to London.
Hold on, let me let that sink in.
Oh boy.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
O, You Scary Cow
Saturday night, Mikey didn't want to go to bed, so we said, "Tomorrow, you want to see animals?"
"Huh?"
"Horses, chickens, cows. What sound do cows make?"
"Mooo," Mikey said. "I see animoos."
"Yes, you go to sleep now, and when you wake up, you see animals."
Cut to 3 am. Mikey climbs up in our bed. "I see animoos. I see animoos now."
We explain that animals are sleeping, and we won't go to see them for 6 hours so he should go to sleep. He can't. Too excited. Keeps listing all the animals he's going to see (including sharks, fishies, and octopus ("ottopoos"). We can't sleep either, perhaps because of the excited toddler bouncing up and down on the bed.
Finally, it's 9 am, and we pack up our picnic lunch (including the requisite bottle of wine for us) and head for the Gentle Barn. It’s a great place (www.gentlebarn.org), a home for farm animals who were neglected and abused. Mikey falls asleep in his car seat. When he wakes up, he sees his first horse.
"Animoos, yay!" he cries. "Yay! Yay, animoos!"
We get out and see the horses and then the cows. Mikey's eyes widen. He hadn't expected them to be so big.
Then the cow looks at him and goes, "MOOO!"
Mikey runs into my arms. As he wakes up more, he gets less frightened, particularly when we go to smaller critters elsewhere in the farm. He even helps me feed the horses some carrots. But still, whenever he sees something he's not sure about, he calls it a "cow" or "scary cow."
"Look at that piggy, Mikey! It's huge!"
"Scary cow," Mikey nods.
"Huh?"
"Horses, chickens, cows. What sound do cows make?"
"Mooo," Mikey said. "I see animoos."
"Yes, you go to sleep now, and when you wake up, you see animals."
Cut to 3 am. Mikey climbs up in our bed. "I see animoos. I see animoos now."
We explain that animals are sleeping, and we won't go to see them for 6 hours so he should go to sleep. He can't. Too excited. Keeps listing all the animals he's going to see (including sharks, fishies, and octopus ("ottopoos"). We can't sleep either, perhaps because of the excited toddler bouncing up and down on the bed.
Finally, it's 9 am, and we pack up our picnic lunch (including the requisite bottle of wine for us) and head for the Gentle Barn. It’s a great place (www.gentlebarn.org), a home for farm animals who were neglected and abused. Mikey falls asleep in his car seat. When he wakes up, he sees his first horse.
"Animoos, yay!" he cries. "Yay! Yay, animoos!"
We get out and see the horses and then the cows. Mikey's eyes widen. He hadn't expected them to be so big.
Then the cow looks at him and goes, "MOOO!"
Mikey runs into my arms. As he wakes up more, he gets less frightened, particularly when we go to smaller critters elsewhere in the farm. He even helps me feed the horses some carrots. But still, whenever he sees something he's not sure about, he calls it a "cow" or "scary cow."
"Look at that piggy, Mikey! It's huge!"
"Scary cow," Mikey nods.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Another Toy Story
I woke up this morning to Mikey in my ear in a conspiratorial hiss: “Mickey Mouse and Woody … fuck.”
Even three-quarters asleep, I knew he was talking about two of Disney’s beloved characters, Mickey Mouse and Woody, the cowboy character voiced by Tom Hanks in the Toy Story franchise, of which Mikey was a great fan. Still I had to ask, “Mickey Mouse and Woody, what?”
“Mickey Mouse and Woody,” he articulated carefully, holding up his toy fire truck where he had put his Mickey Mouse and Woody figures. “Fffuck.”
“Yes, Mickey Mouse and Woody in the fire truck,” I agreed.
But that was not the end of the narrative. Unlike the adventures of Woody in Toy Story 1, 2, and 3, the storyline in Mikey’s land of imagination is not professionally produced and scripted. It is not a slave of character consistency, genre constraints, or simple logic. In short order, Mickey had tossed Woody aside (but kept his hat on his own head) and was on board a toy plane, destination unknown. In the seat next to him was a small plastic skateboard and three crayons, Red, Yellow Green, and Cerulean.
“Eeee,” Mikey intoned softly, pushing the plane backwards into the wall. “Crash.”
The crash was not too serious, evidently, because the plane turned around and continued to go backwards until it stopped in front of a twenty-one pound cat named Floyd. Floyd gave it a sniff.
“Nein, nein, nein, Floyd,” Mikey said. “Auf, Floyd. Minen. Minen plane.”
Like most toddlers, Mikey speaks excellent German.
The cat gave Mikey the Usual Withering Look, and then the small plastic skateboard was out of the passenger seat and rolling along the floor. Soon it was wedged into a baby doll’s lips.
“No, baby,” I said, becoming just a bit parental. “Take the skateboard out of your mouth, you could choke. It’s dangerous.”
“No,” said Mikey. “Baby and satebor a-kiss.”
Then there was much smooching noises and the baby doll and the small plastic skateboard went to first base. There is a lot of kissing in Mikey’s play. That’s why I believed that first rumor I heard about Mickey Mouse and Woody.
Even three-quarters asleep, I knew he was talking about two of Disney’s beloved characters, Mickey Mouse and Woody, the cowboy character voiced by Tom Hanks in the Toy Story franchise, of which Mikey was a great fan. Still I had to ask, “Mickey Mouse and Woody, what?”
“Mickey Mouse and Woody,” he articulated carefully, holding up his toy fire truck where he had put his Mickey Mouse and Woody figures. “Fffuck.”
“Yes, Mickey Mouse and Woody in the fire truck,” I agreed.
But that was not the end of the narrative. Unlike the adventures of Woody in Toy Story 1, 2, and 3, the storyline in Mikey’s land of imagination is not professionally produced and scripted. It is not a slave of character consistency, genre constraints, or simple logic. In short order, Mickey had tossed Woody aside (but kept his hat on his own head) and was on board a toy plane, destination unknown. In the seat next to him was a small plastic skateboard and three crayons, Red, Yellow Green, and Cerulean.
“Eeee,” Mikey intoned softly, pushing the plane backwards into the wall. “Crash.”
The crash was not too serious, evidently, because the plane turned around and continued to go backwards until it stopped in front of a twenty-one pound cat named Floyd. Floyd gave it a sniff.
“Nein, nein, nein, Floyd,” Mikey said. “Auf, Floyd. Minen. Minen plane.”
Like most toddlers, Mikey speaks excellent German.
The cat gave Mikey the Usual Withering Look, and then the small plastic skateboard was out of the passenger seat and rolling along the floor. Soon it was wedged into a baby doll’s lips.
“No, baby,” I said, becoming just a bit parental. “Take the skateboard out of your mouth, you could choke. It’s dangerous.”
“No,” said Mikey. “Baby and satebor a-kiss.”
Then there was much smooching noises and the baby doll and the small plastic skateboard went to first base. There is a lot of kissing in Mikey’s play. That’s why I believed that first rumor I heard about Mickey Mouse and Woody.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Best Birthday Ever, Part II: Happy Yoyo
Mikey wasn’t mad about the caviar, but he loved the birthday cake, of course. He had some interest in eating, and lots of interest in blowing out the candle, over and over again while singing his version of “Happy birthday,” which is “Happy yoyo.”
Best Birthday Ever
Last year, I turned 41 and it was a pretty shitty birthday. We had just lost “Baby J.” Today, at 6:45 in the morning, we heard the door across the hall creak open, and little feet pad into the room. And then, my son crawled into bed with us and said, “Daddy, cuddle Mikey.”
Don’t have to do much else to make this the best birthday ever.
Apropos of nothing, here’s a video from Christmas, of Mikey putting on a joke t-shirt I gave Ian and hamming it up.
Don’t have to do much else to make this the best birthday ever.
Apropos of nothing, here’s a video from Christmas, of Mikey putting on a joke t-shirt I gave Ian and hamming it up.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Son O' The Beach
Considering that we live in Southern California, we haven’t taken Mikey to the beach often enough in the 9 months we’ve had Mikey. I count X times: once with Aunt Kelly and Cousin Natalie to the rather grim beach just off Sunset Boulevard and Pacific Coast Highway where we stayed for about 10 minutes; once at the Huntington dog beach, because we were visiting our friends Lindsley and Jonathan; twice in Venice Beach, visiting friends, but only one of those times during the day when a beach is really a beach. There isn’t a great excuse for this negligence on our part. In the first couple of months, Mikey hated the bath and loathed our pool, so we didn’t think a trip to the beach would have been enjoyable for anything (this was, by the way, during the time of the 10 minute visit to the beach with Aunt Kelly and Cousin Natalie, which certainly would be evidence of that theory). Most of Mikey’s outdoor activities could be accomplished in our backyard or at one of the many parks in a three mile radius. Psychologically preparing ourselves to pack up, fight traffic, find parking, deal with crowds, there was always something that took precedence.
Besides, we figured, how much fun could a 2-year-old possibly have on the beach?
Now we know, and we feel guilty of depriving him of the beach, and the beach of him, for so long.
Our friends Georgie and Melissa live a few steps from the sand in Venice, and they love Mikey, so we get invited down frequently as part of his entourage. The last time they invited us down for brunch, which is sometimes a dangerous time for Mikey since his naps are pretty sacred and fall somewhere between 11:30 and 4:00 – basically, the same as brunch. We figured though if we went down early, we could play at the beach for a couple hours and do brunch at 11, and have Mikey in the car by 12. Or ideally, crashed out on a big fluffy pillow at Geogie and Melissa’s, but experience has cast serious doubts on the concept of the nap away from home dream.
Venice Beach, of course, is known as the crazy asylum of beach towns, alternately bohemian, chic, gang-ridden, and commercial, the home of hippies, millionaires, homeless folk, and bodybuilders. There’s no place quite like it, and it’s the second most visited tourist location in California, next to Disneyland. Fortunately, in January, it’s not very crowded, particularly at the pier, where Washington Boulevard turns into the ocean. There were just a couple beach-goers there with us, some ladies doing yoga in the sand, and the sea gulls.
When we had been there at night, Mikey had walked on the sand, looked out at the sea, and declared that he was okay on going back inside. This time as soon as we set him on the sand, he had his sandals off, and was running, shrieking with joy, at the water. At that moment, I realized we, in our madness, had not dressed him anything but a dry day at the beach, so I raced after him to roll up his sweatpants. In no time, he was soaked. We dried him off and put him in outfit #2. He jumped into the waves and fell face first. More drying, outfit #3. Not having an infinite diaper bag with an endless wardrobe of dry clothes, we were glad that we could distract him with other beach activities: collecting shells, terrorizing seagulls, using his favorite phrase “Big butt!” on hapless beach citizens.
We have no choice, we have to commit to trying to get out to the beach every weekend if we can. Oh, and the L.A. Zoo. And the Long Beach Aquarium.
I guess this is the theme of everyone’s childhood – so little time.
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