For the most part, I like the rain.  I like the sound of it, the puddles, the unpredictability of which way a downpour will sometimes blow, and the fact that it gives me an excuse to stay inside all day with my little guy and play games, pretend we’re superheroes and paint.

And I like rain accoutrement – the wellies, the coats, and the umbrellas.  After watching Mary Poppins as a child, I had a fascination with umbrellas that lasted a few months.  I’d borrow my granny’s black umbrella, open it up at the top of the sloped driveway, hold it up high and run down, waiting for the umbrella to works its magic and elevate me.  On several occasions, I slipped on the oil-slicked surface – with the bruises and cuts to prove it – but I continued nonetheless, hoping that one day that umbrella would bump me up to the skies.

Cut to a few decades later when my wish was that Mary Poppins herself would appear with her bottomless carpet bag and pull out of it something that would allow me to push my son in his buggy without becoming drenched while braving cats-and-dogs rain.  Like I said, for the most part, I like the rain, but not when I was trying to figure out a buggy/stroller raincover while holding an umbrella in one hand (and the majority of the time, with a crying baby/toddler who was not too keen on a raincover).  And I wasn’t too fond of the rain when I was attempting to simultaneously hold an umbrella and push a buggy.  Ambidexterity is not overrated.

I somehow only managed to find out about the Buggy Brolly after my son was out of his pushchair, but I suspect that even had I known about this brainchild of a mother of three, I may have opted for one of the more interesting choices below.  So, rain rain go away, come again after the pram pushers have had a chance to pick up a UFO cap.

Chemical coveralls

Nubrella

UFO Cap

Bicycle raincoat

Brella bag

Disposable poncho raincoat

Umbrella raincoat

Umbrella hat

Japanese umbrella

Hands-free umbrella

I used to travel heavy.  By heavy, I mean when my son and I travelled to the US last year, three of the carry-ons were full of his toys, books, markers, stickers, and puzzles.  It wasn’t that I thought he actually needed all of this for the 11-hour flight, but I was concerned for the welfare of our fellow passengers.  I didn’t want any of them to be privy to a meltdown in the skies.

On the way to the flight gate – a beast of burden carrying my son and these huge bags (so colossal that they didn’t fit in the handy “check if your carry-ons are small enough to be considered carry-ons” guide near the check-in counter, but I winked and smiled at the counter attendant and managed to finagle my way through) – I vowed to find the toy of all toys.  I was on a quest for the ultimate all-in-one little darling’s doodah that didn’t require me carrying half our home, the toy that came complete with bells, whistles and foghorns, with cry-proof gadgetry (for the little guy and me), with harm-proof gadgetry (for passers-by and passengers in the seats near us), and with educational gallimaufry.

A few months after this trip, my son was in hospital and a friend of his let him borrow her iPad.  Complete with games, books and movies, this little rectangular piece of technology became the Apple of his eye (amusing myself with that pun, I am).  This book-sized piece of modern machinery was the toy I had been searching for, the holy grail of playthings.  This extraordinary curio eliminated the need for me to carry 30lbs worth of child amusement accoutrement.

When my son left the hospital, his pa bought him his own iPad.  It was a true blessing as distractor during various tests at subsequent hospital visits.  Almost a year later, and I’m slightly embarrassed to admit that I love his – ahem, our – iPad as much as him.  Don’t tell him, but I occasionally play with some of his apps when he’s not around.  That reminds me, where the heck is that iPad charger?

Here are our five favourite entertainment, game and book iPad apps for little ones right now:

Scribblify
Compatible with iPhone and iPad
Age recommendation:  4+ (if using alone, but if playing with a parent/carer, I think it could be used at 2+)
Cost:  $0.99 in the US, £0.69 in the UK

Scribblify is my and my four-year-old son’s favourite iPad app.  We play with this drawing and painting app the most, and it never gets old.  It keeps him engrossed for at least an hour at a time, and the art pieces he creates really are amazing.  My dad told me David Hockney creates exhibition-worthy art on iPads, and as I perused Sir Hock’s creations, I have to admit that I thought to myself that my little guy’s masterpieces are worthy of an exhibition.

This app does not require any artistic abilities to create figurative, abstract, surreal, or scenic art pieces. With effects, 28 different brushes/textures and hundreds of colours – varying values, combinations of colours and custom blends – children and adults alike are only limited by their own imagination.  And although the age recommendation is 4+, if a parent is using Scribblify with a little one, a munchkin as young as two could easily enjoy the app.  We love the horizontal, vertical and quadrant mirrors.  Remember when as a child, you’d fold paper in half, cut shapes with scissors, unfold the paper, and see the mirror shapes on both halves?  Well, imagine that, but in electronic form.  We also love the fact that we can share Enlai’s  works of genius with friends and family on Facebook or by email.

Drawing Pad
Compatible with iPad
Age recommendation:  4+ (if using alone, but if playing with a parent/carer, I think it could be used at 2+)
Cost:  $1.99 in the US, £1.19 in the UK

This portable art studio app is delicious.  Whenever my little guy chooses this app, I become the kid in the candy shop.  If you and/or your mini-me have any sort of art appetite, this will satisfy your hunger.  Enlai loves opening up the electronic drawer filled with brushes, pencils, crayons, a blending tool (we call it “the smudgy”), markers, stamps, paper, stickers, and rubbers (erasers for my US compatriots).  When any one of the tools is tapped, a range of colours is presented.  The coloured pencils alone offer about 60 different hues.

Nevermind that Apple chose Drawing Pad as “iPad App of the Week” in several countries, or that it has been featured on nytimes.com, usatoday.com, and awarded Editor’s Choice Award from Children’s Technology Review.  What I – a mama whose role often includes acting as foremost funmaker and principal picker-upper – love about this app is the fact that it keeps my little fella entertained for at least as long as it takes me to do some cooking and washing, and sitting down to take a breath and doesn’t present a whole new mess to clean up.

Enlai taught me how to use two fingers to rotate and resize the stickers, and he sometimes magnifies the stickers so much that they become the background for his drawings.  He loves that he can save his art should he be interrupted – potty breaks happen, as do meal and bath times – and reload it later to continue his touchscreen tour de force.  And just as we can with Scribblify, we are able to share Enlai’s art with friends and family on Facebook or by email.

Elmo’s  Monster Maker
Compatible with iPad
Age recommendation:  4+(my opinion is that if shown how to use it a few times, a toddler aged 3+ could use it alone, but if playing with a parent/carer, I think it could be enjoyed at 1+)
Cost:  $3.99 in the US

We both laugh out loud every time we use this app.  Elmo prompts us to select one “blank” monster from a choice of five and then to decide on something for the top of the head, the eyes and the nose.  The choices alone make us giggle, including Elvis wigs and lampshades for tops, fried eggs and Groucho Marx glasses for eyes, and disco balls and butterflies for noses.

We go into chuckle overdrive once our monster is created because we are then given the option to allow him to dance, pose for a photo, or play.  If we choose the former, the monsters dance to different tunes, from polka to country to some 80s keyboardy tune.  Some of their dance moves and dance faces have me in stitches.   If we opt for Elmo to snap a photo, he asks the monsters to say “cheese”, the screen momentarily goes white (as if an actual camera flashes), and the shot – complete with different backdrops – can then be retrieved in the iPad photos.  Enlai’s favourite is the play mode, when Elmo comes out to play with the monster.  He sometimes says “boo” and startles the monster or does random things with the monsters, like ducking so as to miss a rubber chicken or pretending to ride a roller coaster.

My little guy somehow figured out how to tickle the monsters (this is not an obvious option in the app).  One day, Enlai came running from his room to my shower, excitedly shouting, “Ma, you won’t believe this!  Come and see this!”  I asked if there was a fire, rodents or bugs involved, to which he shouted in reply, “No, it’s the Elmo monster.  He’s ticklish!  And the other one plays a trumpet!”  He discovered that if you do absolutely nothing (i.e. ignore Elmo’s prompts to press a button) and just watch the monster for a few seconds, one of them plays a trumpet, one chomps on an apple, and others yawn, doze off or say something funny, among other things.  The sounds of some of their voices crack me up.

One thing I love about this app is the fact that it’s seasonal.  The options and backgrounds change according to season and highlight different objects we often see during particular times of the year, such as bunny ears and Easter eggs in the spring, seashells and ice cream in the summer, Christmas baubles and reindeer antlers in the winter, and acorns and leaves in the fall.

The Monster at the End of This Book
Compatible with iPhone and iPad
Age recommendation:  4+(my opinion is that if shown how to use it a few times, a toddler aged 3+ could use it alone, but if playing with a parent/carer, I think it could be enjoyed at 2+)
Cost:  $3.99 in the US, £2.49 in the UK

With narration by lovable, furry Grover, touch-point animation and silliness wrapped up in more silliness, this quickly became an adored app.  Our fuzzy blue friend spends the story worrying about the monster at the end of the book, aiming to convince us not to turn the page.  The clever software developers of this app must have children, because if you tell a toddler to not turn a page, what do they do?  Exactly.

The fact that Grover helps little ones learn to read by speaking the words of the story as they appear on the screen was lost on us.  And although the fact that this app reached No. 1 in books in the app store, was the recipient of the Editor’s Choice Award in the Children’s Technology Review and was named one of Babble’s Best Apps for Kids of 2011 is wonderful, but once again, all these accolades were completely lost on us. Enlai and I both just appreciate the story, silliness and interactivity.

Because Grover is genuinely frightened at the possibility of confronting the monster at the end of the book – even becoming a comical drama king with shrills and arms thrown in the air – he ties down pages with knotted ropes, nails wooden slabs, and builds brick walls, all in an effort to keep us from turning the pages.  Little ones are able to decide the pace of the story as their touch determines whether the story stays static on one page for several minutes or whether they turn the page as soon as the prompt to do so pops up. Telling you what happens with the monster at the end of the book would be like disclosing what happens at the end of The Godfather trilogy.  I can’t bring myself to do it.  Rest assured that there is a likelihood of  laughter, not tears.

Toy Story
Compatible with iPad
Age recommendation:  4+(my opinion is that if shown how to use it a few times, a toddler aged 3+ could use it alone, but if playing with a parent/carer, I think it could be enjoyed at 2+)
Cost:  Free

If you and your little one have watched the three-part Disney dynamo that is known as the Toy Story franchise, then it is likely you will enjoy this app, if for nothing else than it affords an opportunity to interact with familiar and cherished characters.

While we are yet to take full advantage of all the app has to offer, including an interactive book , games, colouring pages, two sing-along videos and two games, Enlai colours the three colouring pages nearly every time he has the iPad in his hands.  He has even developed his own stories around these pages that have nothing to do with the actual Toy Story plot.

With this app, your little ones can hear the story read aloud, and can even record their own narration to listen to (or for younger children, their parent’s narration).   On each page, we can tap the screen to play various sound effects and character voices.  While I like the games – Parachute Drop and Toy Barn Maze – Enlai is not very interested at this stage.  The two sing-along videos – You’ve Got A Friend In Me and Strange Things – come with lyrics, and we’ve probably watched the former video about 20 times over the last ten months.  I think the main appeal of this app is the price and the choice.  It’s not a one-trick piece of software; there’s a lot on offer.

Now then, it can’t all be fun and games, can it.  Watch this space for my and Enlai’s review of our top handful of educational apps for precious offspring.  In the meantime, happy apping.

Here I am, my little Enlai, contemplating underneathness and upsides.  Optimism holds my hand, but occasionally I feel its fingers loosening.  And it is during these moments that I think of you, your curiosity, your laugh when I do my master Winnie the Pooh impersonation, your top-o-the-lungs shouting to anyone who would listen at the playground that you needed a plaster because your ma tripped and fell while chasing you, your desire to kiss my eyelids just as I’ve always kissed yours.

After a decade together, your pa and I are divorcing.  All three of us have new adventures in our paths ahead, and despite the inevitable adversities that go hand-in-hand with separation and change, I think we should feel reassured, feel warm.  There is still – and always will be – a genuine love and affection between your pa and me, so let’s choose to be excited about embarkations, about the opening of different doors.  The fact that the movers had to take the door off of the hinges in our new home in order to fit things in should not be lost on us.  Metaphors leak truths, my son.

There are benefits to bond breaks.  In addition to gaining insight into ourselves and life, we are given an opportunity to stop, to stop and be grateful.  To pause and think about how we must never take anything for granted.

What I want you to know is that I loved your pa with every part of my being.  He was my everything.  His eyes mesmerised me (as did his calf muscles), but it was his intelligence, his wonderment and lust for learning, his dark sense of humour, and his sensitive soul which enamoured me.

On our first date, your pa talked about Hemingway and made me smile.  I talked about how one of Haruki Murakami’s books changed me.  I told him about a poetry class I was taking and a Bukowski poem about stirring beans that I liked, and he started in with Auden and Yeats.  We talked about visits to Greece and France and Japan and China and how we’d like to go back.  He told me he spent his summers at camp in the Hamptons, and I told him that I spent mine in Oakland, picking blackberries and raspberries and eating green tea ice cream.  We laughed a lot.  And five hours later, with everyone else in the restaurant long gone and the staff staring at us as if to say, “Happy to see that you two are having a great date and all, but can we wrap this sh*t up,” your pa drove me home.  I think it was evident to both of us that we liked each other.  But, more significantly, I think it was evident that we needed each other.

Following this first date, there was rarely a day when we didn’t see each other.  I took him to see Buena Vista Social Club in concert, and to my surprise, your pa stood up and starting dancing in the aisle.  And even though he was dancing to a beat that only he seemed to hear, I threw my arms up, shook my hips and joined him, and once again, we laughed.  My sweet son, I can only say that you are fortunate that you inherited your sense of rhythm from your ma.  A few weeks later, I invited him to hear David Sedaris speak.  We laughed so hard, we cried.

Not long after this, your pa gave me a present:  ee cummings’ complete poems.  Wherever life takes me, this book will always travel with me, to remind me that “love is more thicker than forget”.

Fast forward a bit, and I can tell you about the time we had our own two-person Super Bowl party, complete with a trip to Fatburger to stock up on some fatty burgers, chilli cheese fries oozing with grease, onion rings dripping with oil, and cookies and cream milkshakes.  After eating and drinking this lardy line-up,  we lay on the bed comatosed.  We fell asleep and missed the Super Bowl.

Four months after our first date, your pa invited me to drive up the California coast for the weekend on the back of his motorcycle.  He taught me how to give the secret hand signal to fellow riders, and a motorcycle mama was born.  It was during this weekend that your pa proposed to me.  I did not expect it at all, and after he asked, I sat there silent for about 15 minutes.  He handed me the gold and fuchsia plastic ring that came out of a vending machine a couple months prior (when I asked him if he had any change so I could get a treat from the machine), and when I saw this ring, I knew that your pa understood me.  I said yes.

To mark the occasion, we indulged in some highly recommended spa treatments.  I wondered if he might retract his proposal due to the events that unfolded after the spa visit.  Your pa decided to get a head and neck massage, and I opted for a facial.  Halfway into my facial, I heard the spa technician say, “Hmmm.  Let’s try something different.”  She wiped my face, applied something else, and said, “Hmmm.  Hmmm.”  I asked if there was something wrong, and she said, “Have a look for yourself.”  She held up a mirror, and after looking in it, I said, “Hmmm.”  My face was bright red, with even brighter red bumps all over.  I was obviously allergic to the secret potions she used.  She wiped my face of all products, and I said I thought it best to end the facial.  I walked back to our room in a makeshift bathrobe burqa.  I took a shower, and just as I was getting out, your pa walked in.  He said he couldn’t really lift his head up because he was in so much pain from his massage, and I said that was a good thing because a funny little thing happened to me at the spa.

Shortly thereafter, we moved in together and lived in sin.  It was during this time that we realised the continual compromises required when one of us is a hoarder and the other a minimalist.  For the record, the one who you call pa is the former.  It was during this time that I found out that your pa had a penchant for midnight barbecues.  He doesn’t like to be rushed when he cooks.  And it was during this time that I roasted some spicy chicken and managed to measure ingredients incorrectly, and your pa nearly had to go to the A&E from cayenne pepper ingestion.

It was during this time that your pa read poetry to me in the buff.  And I started to write love letters to him and stick them in his briefcase whenever he had to travel.  And it was during this time that we initiated DJ nights, when we’d sit down in dim light, drink wine and take turns playing each other songs.  For every one of these nights, I could count on your pa to play Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash singing “Girl from the North Country”.  I often wondered if it was the emotion in the song itself or whether he was thinking of a former love when he listened to this song because he would usually cry.  To this day, I don’t know where the tears came from, but if it was for a former love, she is lucky to have spent time with your pa.

When we were planning our wedding, we were both eager for the ceremony to be modest.  We decided to marry in Greece, and there were six people in attendance, including us and the officiant.  It was a day with water, with anticipation.  It was a day with a motorcycle crash and contemplation.  A day with gyros and laughter.  A day with ignorance as to how to tie a bow tie and a sunset concocted just for us.  A day with Procol Harum singing at an unexpected moment, a day with what felt like an entire island on their terraces to cheer us on.  A day of love on top of love on top of love, a day that nobody can ever take away from me.

Cut to a few months later, when we moved from the West Coast to the East Coast of the US.  On our departure, we met Grandpa Tony for lunch.  I don’t think it was easy for him to say goodbye, and it wasn’t for me.  Watching through the windshield of your pa’s Alfa Romeo Spider Veloce, I saw your grandpa tell pa something and give him a hug.  When your pa got in the car, his eyes were welled up with tears.  I asked him what grandpa told him, and he said, “He just said that I better take care of you.”  And your pa said he would.

This cross-country adventure of ours, my sweet Enlai, has to go down in history as one of the most reckless and necessarily amusing trips in history.  For our first night in Arizona, we checked into a dubious motel.  You should’ve seen the suspicious stain on the carpet of this motel room.  I felt a little nauseous, but your pa was roarin’ to go to Denny’s for a Grand Slam this-or-that or a this-or-that skillet or scramble.  I told your pa I would just have a bite or two of what he was having.  I didn’t sleep at all that first night, for fear that the stain perpetrator would be back for more.  I know humans can sometimes exaggerate the size of things, but I kid you not when I say that this stain was the size of a dromedary whose belly was swollen after eating his fair share of grass and fallen leaves that day.  And the stain was not a nice colour.  Then there were all the armadillo road kill in Texas, the strange petrol station in Oklahoma, the dry county in Arkansas, and all the big rigs in the rain that insisted on frightening the bejesus out of me.  I fed your pa ham, cheese and olives as he drove, and we sang along to Eric Clapton (your pa unapologetically singing all the wrong lyrics).

After our moving truck arrived in Washington, DC shortly after we turned up, your pa and I had a pizza picnic in a small space among cardboard box walls.  We ate in light borrowed from the street lamps outside our big windows, laughed, and fell asleep in each other’s arms next to a half-eaten pizza.

One day, while living in Washington, DC, we ventured to the Maine Avenue Fish Market for some goodies.  Upon leaving with a belly full of blue crab, I jumped on the back of pa’s motorcycle.  What was supposed to be a ten-minute ride home turned into me almost losing my life.  Your pa forgot to take the correct exit, and we ended up on some highway in Virginia.  It wasn’t the shock of the 120mph speed that nearly killed me; it was the fact that the strap from the helmet that flew off my head was wrapped around my neck and choking me.  When we finally pulled off the highway, I told your pa that I would be getting a taxi home.  We laughed hysterically – he from genuinely getting a kick out of the situation and me from disbelief that I was alive – as I rubbed the strap burn on my neck.

On one occasion while in DC, one of my friends said he had a chance to move to London for work.  I extolled the virtues of living in such an amazing city and told him he should not let the opportunity pass.  Your pa overheard my conversation and asked if he detected a hint of my wanting to live across the pond because he wouldn’t mind.  We both worked hard at making the possibility of living and working in London became a reality, but it was really your pa that took the reins.  I gladly galloped.

The day came, and we were living our first week as Londoners.  The initial transition was not an easy one, particularly for me.  Your pa recognised this and did what he has always done – be there.  We had Sainsbury’s Indian in a Box dinner nightly, with forks and spoons that were loaned to us, unbeknownst to the loaners.  We listened to BBC radio on our Grundig.  We were pals on yet another amazing voyage.  And we were very much in love, always holding hands.

There was the time in Paris when we sat in the Jardin du Luxembourg – one of my favourite places in the world – and nearly fell asleep in our chairs.  The time your pa made the mistake of hanging his coat on the decorative hook at that Parisian bistro, when the moustachioed host came sprinting over, shouting,  Monsieur, noooooooo…..”  The time we had the oysters, Sancerre and the most delicious cigarette at that restaurant near the Cimetiere du Pere Lachaise.  As we were leaving, the waiter ran after me and presented me with one of my most prized possessions – an ashtray.  The time we had a huge meal before going to the Picasso Museum (which we never went to because the meal carried on, and the museum closed).  We finished the feast with the best Roquefort I’ve ever tasted.  For one reason or another, we didn’t have to pay for the meal, and if you ever hear your pa say, “Merci pour le Roquefort,” he is referring to something he has received gratis.  There was that blue light that your pa knows I crave seeing with my own eyes, and he gave me that light.  There were all those walks in the rain, and the time during one torrential downpour when we sought refuge under an awning near Le Bon Marché with several strangers.  Your pa pulled me close to him and held me tight.

And Berlin on my 30^th birthday.  I indulged your pa with his love of schnitzel and bratwurst, and he my love of art.  The day we ate a meal while looking out the window at the Gendarmenmarkt is inscribed into my bones, as is the meal that nearly made us miss our flight because we didn’t want to leave.  Try as I might to take a stab at German phrases, your pa could only laugh at me every time I attempted to say anything.  He’s the language maestro, I’m the listener.

Your pa has been my biggest fan, and I his.  When he has felt like the universe was against him, I told him I would fetch our coonskin hats, and we’d put up a fight together.  He has encouraged me, and he was sincere in his encouragement.  He has taught me more than anyone ever has.  And I’ve taught him.  At the very least, he knows a bit more about tamales and hip hop.

When I said I wanted to have a child, your pa knew.  And you, my precious, precious Enlai, were born of love.  Your pa was the first to see you when you were born, and his first words were, “It’s a boy, and he has my arches.”  Every opportunity he has to brag about you, he takes full advantage.  As far as my love for you, I know you know.  I will never falter in showing you.

Things happen in a marriage, my sweet son, which make it irreparable.  But just because the marriage is broken doesn’t mean the friendship is, or for that matter, that the family is.  We remain The Three Musketeers.

There are empty spaces in this tale.  These spaces are for your pa to fill in your conversations with him over the years.  Or for you to ask me about.  I will always be more than happy to tell you whatever you would like to know. If ever you detect a hint of sadness in my demeanour in the coming days, weeks, months or years, it is only because life is so short.  It is so short that your pa and I were only allowed to have so many of those extraordinary moments of silence as husband and wife when we were both so moved to be sharing an experience with the other that no words needed to be spoken.  Your pa and I comprehended that silence, breathed that silence, and in my experience, not many humans do.

There is this way your pa would switch gears when he drove his car, and with me in the passenger seat next to him, he would always put his hand on my leg in between, in a “I’m here, always” way.  I know he still will be.  And I will be for him.  And we will be for you.

Here we are, my prince.  Four years under your belt now.  Time is moving too quickly and today in particular, I remind myself to hold onto my moments with you, to hold onto them really tight.   Happy Birthday to the only human being I know who prefers warm apple juice and cold blankets.  Thank you for everything over the last year, including:

The time when we watched something spooky, and you asked, “Ma, were you shaking in your boobs?”

Your bravery in the hospital and for defeating the baddies who invaded your bloodstream and kidneys.  And for being such a fearless little soul for all your subsequent hospital visits.

Declaring one morning before school that you no longer needed your beloved blanky, the same blanket that you would never so much as allow to leave your sight.   A week later, you introduced me to your new imaginary friend, Blanky Boy.

Constantly trying to take off your clothes, even in the rain.  That was a nice touch attempting to wear your birthday suit at your birthday party.

Teaching me that I am in fact perfectly capable of pretending to be Bert, Ernie, SpongeBob, Patrick, Sir Lancelot, King Arthur, Echo Echo, Humungousaur, Scooby Doo, Shaggy, Rapunzel, Flynn, Baloo, King Louie, Captain Jack Sparrow, Will Turner, Incredible Hulk and Iron Man immediately upon waking up on a Saturday morning, all in the span of 15 minutes.

Showing me how your muscles start bulging 2.7 seconds after taking your vitamin or a bite of broccoli.

Pretending to be Santa Claus whenever I put extra bubbles in your bath.  With a foamy head and chin, you couldn’t resist asking me to tell you everything I wanted for Christmas.

Telling me, “Even though I can’t marry you ma, I’ll always be your sweetheart, prince, pumpkin, love, and…what else do you call me, ma?”

Saying, “Fresh bread, no smell like it in the world,” when we smell bread baking on our walk to school.

Proclaiming that my Swampfire and Wolverine voices sound too similar, and that you would appreciate it if I didn’t mix them up because they really shouldn’t sound alike at all.

Being the most affectionate person I know, and for laughing and loving and having such a lust for life.

Common.  Usually mild.  Typically requires no special medical treatment.  All this was lost on me, for as a mother, I dreaded chicken pox more than weaning, more than potty training, more than the bedtime routine gone bad because some little fella has decided that bedtimes are overrated, and he’s opting out of the night-night nonsense. 

I’m no good with bumps, red and blistery or otherwise.  I get the itchies when I see protuberances on noni, lychee and particularly craggy squash.  When I noticed three suspicious varicella-zoster virus spots rearing their ugly little heads on my son’s groin as I changed his nappy/diaper, I felt the urge to scratch my forearm, and then my wrist became a bit itchy, and then my left heel started itching, and then my ants in pants dance commenced. 

In denial, I decided that it was nappy/diaper rash.  Or possibly a sudden allergy to our washing soap/laundry detergent.  Best to give him a bath, google a good cognitive behavioural therapist who could help me control my impulse to scratch the non-existent bumps on my own body, and get some sleep. 

But I had difficulty sleeping.  I woke up every couple hours to check whether any new bumps had surfaced on my wee prince.  I didn’t find any until my son woke up, complaining that his back and belly felt “scratchy”.  I lifted up his shirt and was astonished how three bumps could turn into about 100 in a matter of hours.  

I called my son’s doctor as soon as I knew she was in and asked if we could come in for the ol’ verification of chicken pox.  A few hours later, and Dr. Make Sure made sure.  She prescribed some calamine lotion and said I might consider giving my lumpy lad some ibuprofen, acetaminophen and/or Piriton for children and bathing him with Aveeno body wash with colloidal oatmeal. 

Unfortunately, neither the calamine lotion, nor the Piriton or Aveeno baths were effective in eliminating any discomfort.  I sought other remedies and was fortunate that both recommendations proved successful.  A friend suggested “pouring a bunch of bicarbonate soda” (baking soda) into warm bath water and letting the little guy soak in it for as long as he wants.”  I was giving him four or five baths a day.  And my husband read that a particular homeopathic remedy, rhus tox, seemed to work for several situations of the swellies.  He picked up some of the stuff, which is apparently extracted from poison ivy. 

I asked my husband, “So, you want to seriously harm our son and put me into itchy overdrive?  He already has chicken pox and now you want to give him poison ivy, too?”  He responded by explaining how these things work – inject chicken pox to prevent chicken pox.  Chew a rhus tox (aka poison ivy) pill and prevent the itching and restlessness poison ivy presents.  I understand it all, but for whatever reason still find it difficult to grasp that the chickenpox vaccine, which contains a weakened form of the chickenpox virus itself, works by causing the body to reproduce its own antibodies to protect against the disease. 

Rhus tox worked though.  I told my son they were “magic chocolate pills” that erased chicken pox, and he went for it.  He was asking for the pills like Ashley Cole asks for his nude photos or Charlie Sheen asks for his “goddesses”.  

I also made sure to trim my son’s nails as I knew he would be tempted to scratch.  I trimmed my own nails while I was at it and decided an antihistamine for mama would be a good idea considering her own skin tickles. 

Unlike some parents I know who buckle under the quarantine pressure and let their munchkins roam freely, with the possibility of infecting all the other children who come in contact with The Itty Bitty Infector, I was Queen of the Quarantiners.  Luckily, we lived in a large apartment complex at the time, and while we stayed inside all day – admittedly driving each other crazy with respective cases of cabin fever – in the evenings we turned into nocturnal creatures lurking in the dark and running up and down the long hallways.  And on the two occasions when someone appeared in the hallway, my son became Blanket Jackson’s twin.  I held his blankie over his head and ushered him to the nearest exit. 

I had to inform our friends that they may have been at risk of being infected, and one mom asked if I would be having a chicken pox party, and if so, could she please RSVP.   She was among the parents who believe that purposely exposing their youngsters to the virus allows the kiddos to acquire some immunity to the disease in a safer and more effective manner than using vaccines.  No pox parties, no measles merrymaking, or flu flings coming from this camp.  I couldn’t bear the thought of knowing I was responsible for inflicting any sort of pain or discomfort – not to mention physical and possibly emotional scars – on a child. 

One dad who didn’t know whether he ever had chicken pox called his mom to find out, and she said she couldn’t remember.  Not remember?  What in the name of all that is holy?  I told him I felt it was particularly important for him to steer clear of us as according to the Mayo Clinic, chicken pox can affect male fertility.  A high fever associated with the pox can temporarily decrease sperm production.  And, the virus is also capable of causing inflammation of the testicles, which can result in testicular shrinkage and infertility.  This is more common with mumps but still occurs occasionally with chicken pox.  Bulging balls and no more babies is serious business, I told him, so he needed to dodge the chicken pox bullet. 

I have one mom friend who contracted chicken pox and then two weeks later, her son woke up with the irritating knobs.  And another mom whose poor older son has had chicken pox twice.  As we walked together, she told me she was on her way to get her younger son the pox vaccination. 

I’m grateful that my little fella had chicken pox a couple years ago and remained relatively unscathed.  He didn’t really have a fever, abdominal pain, sore throat, or headache – common symptoms that appear alongside these bothersome bumps.  And he didn’t develop any bacterial infections or other complications.  Phew.  

I’m not sure I could handle a case of the horrible humps again.  Even writing this and thinking about the bumps on my son’s eyelids, his scalp, behind his ears, and in the folds of his bum cheeks gives me a bad case of the itchies.  He has two barely detectable scars, and I’ve tried to explain to him that these scars represent a rite of passage.  He asked, “You mean like the grazes on my hands and knees are a secret passageway?”  I respond, scratching my head, “Um, ya, that’s precisely what I mean.”

It started out as a day like any other.  Except as the afternoon approached and then the evening, the email arrived.  Sent by a fellow mum, the email said that she’d been thinking about how we mums rarely get the opportunity to let our hair down together without the saplings and that in the next couple years, as our mini-me’s graduate to big kid school, we’ll probably see less of each other.  And rarely may turn into never. 

Never?  Unthinkable, unless one of us was forced to move to Timbuktu or Nar Nar Goon.  This email served as the initiation of what has become our mums’ monthly “learn-things-we-never-knew-about-one-another-while-laughing-‘til-our-bellies-ache-and-our-eyes-are-filled-with-tears-and-living-it-up-as-if-we-don’t-actually-have-to-wake-up-at-6am-to-‘mummy, mummy, mummy’” evenings. 

I’ve enjoyed our first three get-togethers immensely, and I always anticipate the next.  They remind us mums to remember ourselves, something we so easily forget to do while being a mother, partner, friend, and workmate.  

Our first mamapalooza was at one of the mum’s homes.  As we sat around the table eating her homemade yummies and charcuterie courtesy of a fantastic tapas restaurant and drinking wine, we talked about anything and everything.  We discussed the Royal Wedding and how it made us think of our own weddings and honeymoons.  I told the gals how I crashed on the back of a motorcycle hours before my wedding in Greece (which in my mind means I’m not legally married because I said my vows while on painkillers and wasn’t completely “there”), and one of my closest friends responded, “Lisha, I’ve known you for all these years, and I never knew you got married in Greece!”.  What I find funny is that she could probably tell you the type of nappies/diapers I used, the brand of baby wipes, the snacks my son most prefers, how my son’s potty training went, whether or not my son has had chicken pox yet, and what superhero my son most wants to be, but she never knew this.  We oohed and aahed over one another’s honeymoons, and I told them that due to my crash and subsequent pill-popping, my honeymoon kicked off with a game of Scrabble and some sleep, nothing more. 

We talked about who bid for Olympics tickets, art shows, and the more interesting Japanese sex fetishes.  Yikes.  Now those are some fetishes.  And eventually we said good night, and I walked home pensive, listening to Procol Harum.  You see, my husband and I walked down the aisle (read: I limped down the cliff) to Procol Harum’s “Whiter Shade of Pale”. 

The second matriarch social summit was at Kitchen Club in Soho.  One of the mums organised the evening for us, and we had the venue and the chef all to ourselves.  My palate did cartwheels, my belly handstands, and I still drool when I think of the kablik tatlisi with cream.  But, as was the case during the previous dinner, the conversation was the highlight.  We couldn’t help but talk a bit about pregnancy and labour, nannies and babysitters, and schools, but the good substance started after we had a few glasses.  I learned that marriage counselling exists even in the healthiest of unions, but perhaps more importantly, I received a lesson in geometry – one friend intimately described the difference between a Hollywood and a Brasilian while using her fingers to demonstrate geometric shapes.  And I was educated on vajazzle.  Really?  With rhinestones? (a day later, there was mention from one mom of a possible penazzle). 

 And the most recent Girls Gone Wild Without Their Wee Ones night out, organised by yours truly, involved nameless Lithuanian drug dealers, pills dissolving on our tongues and poo that powered the making of our meal.  Courtesy of my friend Abi, who runs Rambling Restaurant, currently a cafe/restaurant out of a decommissioned ambulance in the Urban Physic Garden, we enjoyed a nice meal outdoors with about 20 other strangers.  I think we’d all agree that the highlight of the meal was the miracle pills which – after dissipating in our mouths – made sour lemons, limes and rhubarb taste like sweet somethings.   I don’t know about the other gals, but after I took my pill, I could swear I had visions of Allen Ginsberg and Timothy Leary doing a moondance around our fire pit.  As we mums all talked about how great the smell and crackling sounds of the “campfire” were, one mum decided to ask one of our hosts who her miracle pill dealer was, to which she responded, “A nameless Lithuanian.  I give him money, he gives me the stuff in a bag.”  On a serious note, these pills are frequently given to patients undergoing chemotherapy as it eliminates the metallic taste in their mouths that they often experience while undergoing treatment. 

To add to what was already a relatively surreal experience, I found myself requesting gherkins from our hosts; I was eager to test their power against this miracle pill.  I was sucking on one as another mum told how she just read in the loo that our meal was powered by poo.  Yes, this was the night I almost choked on a gherkin.  Ahem.  Apparently, the pill hadn’t made her hallucinate.  The toilet does actually package poo and wee into a cartridge, and the cartridge is emptied into an anaerobic digester. The digester converts human waste into natural gas and fertilizer.  And then, as is typical after dinner, we were offered popping candy.  Yes, popping candy.  I ate a whole pack of the apple flavour myself and loved every minute of it. 

On our way home, I vowed to buy myself more popping candy and not to ever introduce it to my son for fear that he wouldn’t share the fizzing fun.  And, because the fire pit reminded me of roasted marshmallows – the “meal” I “cooked” the first night I stayed in my very own apartment – to buy some marshmallows and when my son’s old enough, roast them on the hob with him.  

I thought of how much I adore these friends, these fellow mums.  And of how much these evenings allow us to remember times pre-children.  Times that perhaps some of us feel guilty wanting back because it somehow equates to not wanting our little ones.  Reminiscing about these moments in no shape or form means we want to give our children back in order to regain such moments; it means our children are lucky to have mums who have had and will continue to have rich lives – who have, I learned, eaten seeds straight from the sunflowers, who have had the most romantic marriage proposals, whose father is a part-time beekeeper, who likes the Beatles song “Something”.  These are mums who have stories to tell and who intend to teach their children to grab life by the collar. 

For a few hours, we have a chance to be gals who are not just mums.  Since the first dinner was initiated, one mum has moved to another country, one mum has given birth and another has separated from her husband.  But one thing remains constant – mums’ night out.  And the next one I’m told involves dancing.  Time to shake what my mama gave me.

When my daughter Lisha asked me to write about what it means to be a father, I thought about what I could say.  That process took me back to a very difficult 10-month period in my life some 30 years ago.  This was a time when fatherhood was a most meaningful aspect of my existence. 

Before I get to that story, I want to say that I have two wonderful stepdaughters, Kim and Lisa, who came into my life afterwards.  Both accepted me and have a special place in my heart.  It was an honor when they asked me to walk them down the aisle at their respective weddings.  This is what happened before they entered and enriched my life. 

“Daddy, I want to live with you”, were the words expressed by my teary-eyed, seven-year-old daughter Lisha – an unforgettable visual forever recorded in my mind.  Her mother and I had just informed her that I was moving out.  It was one of those dreaded moments in life that you hoped you would never have to go through.  When you get married you think it is for life, and you are blind to the mere possibility of a break-up.  My three-year-old son Dylan was oblivious to the enormity of this life changing event.  As a typical three-year-old boy, all he wanted to do was play with me, and with all of the thoughts racing in my head at this moment, the reality hit me that tomorrow, I was not going to spend the much cherished daily playtime with him when I walk in the door at the end of a work day.  It was all very confusing to me, and I know it was devastating for Lisha, and for her to emotionally convey her desire to live with me multiplied the already shattered pieces of my heart, especially knowing that would not and could not happen. 

Before I became a father, I knew that I did not want to be the kind of father that I had.  Through observance of friends’ families and relatives (including watching perfect TV fathers), ideas of what a father should and should not be were formulated in my mind as I prepared for this incredible responsibility.  I wanted to be there for my kids, teach them about morals, values, respect, support their interests, praise their achievements and most importantly tell them I love them every night as I put them to bed.  I would still do this, but now it would be every other weekend.  Two of the happiest days of my life were the days that Lisha and Dylan were born.  Not being a part of their daily life was incomprehensible.  “Pain is just a word, until it swallows you” (to quote myself), and I felt devoured and defeated.  The sight of them waving goodbye to me in my rear-view mirror as I drove away brought tears to my eyes. 

As time passed, it was obvious that despite my efforts, reconciliation was not even on the table.  I was at the lowest point in my life.  I had just had my left hand surgically repaired (I’m a lefty) and held together by several pins.  I had chosen not to return to my place of employment where my wife had contracted work.  I missed my kids dearly and was now facing the realization of moving on in life.  For that to happen I had to take action: I was going to file for divorce.  For some unknown reason, my parents stayed married and much of the time they lived separately and unlovingly.  As many unhappy couples who stay married “for the kids”, that was hardly the case in our family.  My parents had nine children and we all could have used some fatherly love and guidance. 

I could not afford an attorney, so I had to represent myself.  In these pre-Internet days, I went to the library, sought advice and filed all of the necessary documents.  I was determined. Sometimes we never know our own capabilities or the inner strength we have until we are tested.  I made a promise to myself, whether I was successful or not, for my love of my teary-eyed little girl and her request; I would give my best effort, despite the odds, to seek full custody of her and her little brother Dylan.  Lisha has always spoken her mind, and her words were my motivating factor.  I now had to establish some stability in my life as I found a job and moved into an apartment. 

If it wasn’t for heartbreak there would not be so many great songs written by songwriters who lived the experience.  All you have to do is turn on the radio and take your pick.  Music is a saving grace, and a salvation for the soul.  Some of my relatable loneliness, anger and heartache songs at this time were provided by Bob Dylan’s “Blood On The Tracks” his emotional lyrics and delivery of them, I was living. Tom Petty and Minnie Riperton (I was always impressed by her five and a half octave range) were also on the cassette play list.  Lisha and I would sing duets in the apartment and in the car.  I think she believed (probably not) my bragging of a seven octave range even though I never proved it, due to an excuse of one vocal ailment or another.

I had never been as nervous in my life as I was on the day of my appearance in the courtroom.  It is rare for custody rulings to be made in favor of the father, and I was prepared for the worst. As my case was called and the judge began reading the documents, he stopped for a moment and directed his eyes towards me for what seemed like minutes but in actuality was about 20 seconds.  Not only was I nervous but also uncomfortable.  I didn’t know how to react.  Should I smile?  I know I cleaned up pretty good for this important day.  He lowered his head again to finish his review.  He then proceeded to ask me his only question which was, “Is the respondent present?”  I answered, “No your honor, she is not.”  It might have been that as the petitioner who presented a case that the respondent did not contest, the Superior Court judge granted the divorce and also awarded me sole custody of my two minor children.  I was elated.  I would be lying if I said that everything was happily ever after.  Everyone who raises kids knows it is a challenge.  I don’t know how different their lives might be or what direction they would have taken had I not pursued custody.  I am proud that Lisha received a degree in Communications from California State University, Fullerton and a Masters degree in Fine Art from the prestigious Central Saint Martin’s College of Art and Design in London, UK, where she currently lives with her husband Keith and three-year-old son Enlai.  Dylan earned a full football scholarship to play quarterback at University of California, Los Angeles.  Unfortunately, he was forced to retire as a redshirt freshman due to injury.  Soon after 9/11, he enlisted in the Army and presently lives in Germany with his wife Erika and their three sons who are five, three and one.

Lisha loved and adored her little brother.  As a seven-year-old big sister she was mature for her age, even taking on a motherly role.  She has maintained these caring and giving attributes over into her adulthood. I know as far as parenting goes, Lisha and Dylan have improved upon the way they were raised.  We all want to be better parents than ours and in retrospect, I can see where I could have done better.  We live and we learn.  A father’s thought process and approach to issues may differ so much from a mother’s or daughter’s.  Sometimes we are in the dark with our failure to see the obvious because our minds are elsewhere.  Guys do things differently, sometimes without much thought.  For example, when a little boy has to relieve himself, a mother may suggest he hold it until he finds a toilet.  One day, we were on a blended family outing at the Los Angeles County Arboretum.  From his fidgety actions and grabbing of himself (parents of sons know what I mean), I knew Dylan needed to go.  To the dismay of his stepmother and sisters, I gave him permission to go in the bushes and off he ran.  I didn’t know he would urinate on a rare imported tree with a long, difficult to pronounce series of Latin names and in the presence of a small audience.  Needless to say, we rapidly moved along. 

Lisha and Dylan have inspired me since the day they were born, and it was at this difficult time in my life that my love for them as their father gave me the strength to step up for them, to be responsible, all along knowing that a child’s smile and laughter is so worth the effort it takes, including silly behavior.  It is so true that in every man there is a little boy, and it is rewarding to me when that little boy comes out and makes a child happy. 

Did you ever watch a TV show, play or a children’s DVD when all of a sudden they break out into a song?  Well here is the time in this story where I break out into a poem. 

To see her
on
her Daddy’s shoulders
sitting
on top of the world
like an angel in flight
gobs of security
miles and smiles
of fun
feeling tall
as a tree

To be carried
in
her Daddy’s arms,
thinking
there is no one stronger
and where she is
being held
so firmly
no one
will ever harm her
So happy
that he is there

To have
a loving Daddy
in the home
some
are not so lucky

It is sad
to hear
of absent fathers
who do not
give a damn
or kids
who never
had a man
they could call
their Daddy,
to share
a special moment
like cradling
at bedtime
a story voice
so soothing
tired eyelids
finally surrender
and dreams begin
and love
never ends
and responsibility
rides
on Daddy’s shoulders

Carrying a child on your shoulders is a love bond ride.  When you see kids carried in this manner they almost always have a smile on their face. While at Disneyland recently with Dylan, Erika and the boys, three-year-old Evan was tired, and his dad put him on his shoulders like I used to do with him.  All of a sudden we hear a loud bang and the sky was lit up with colorful fireworks.  As we stopped to watch the show, I glanced at Evan, and I was very sentimentally happy at this moment, to see the wide eyes and smile on his face, with an occasional “wow” and “cool” coming from his mouth.  He was on top of the world!  Watching this loved, innocent, three-year-old boy took me back 30 years where dreams began and love never ends.

With Father’s Day right around the corner, I asked my husband what it means to him to be a father.  For our son Enlai, this is for you, from your pa.  The bit about “to be on time” – I can only say that your pa has put the “late” back in “fashionably late”, often missing the entire event.  When it comes to being on time, follow his words, not his example.

To Be a Mensch

When I was asked by my wife to contribute to this meditation on fatherhood, I said I would do so if forced – a response which was met with the inevitable rejoinder “Consider yourself forced.”  So here ‘tis.

Fatherhood to me is, to a large extent, the art of finding a great mother for your child, something I had the great fortune of doing in my case.  Being a male, with an inherent yen for brevity of thought and the laconic statement, my inquiry, and my contribution, could end there, but I get the sense I have been expected to probe deeper.  And, to be fair, my empathy for Mies van der Rohe aside, I, too, sense that I should provide, and am capable of providing, further insight into this profound, esoteric and highly important subject.

Fatherhood, to me, is like falling off a couch – something that, even with the best of intentions, is very difficult to do well.

For my beautiful three-year old son (soon to be four), my sweet and gentle Enlai who loves to fill the minute with 60 seconds run, I have endeavoured, and shall continue to endeavour, to recognize, cherish and repeat everything that my father (and, for that matter, my dear old mum) did right – and to put the kibosh on all the rest.  Along these lines, I shall, throughout Enlai’s years and mine, strive to offer up, share with and instill in him the following jambalaya of thoughts, exhortations, purported insights and a couple of notes to self:  that to succeed in life one needs wisdom and that wisdom comes from good judgment and that good judgment, alas, often comes from having exercised bad judgment; that Picasso was on to something when he said he wanted to live like a poor man with lots of money; to never decline a wedding or a funeral invitation – even from or for someone disagreeable – for to do so would be very poor form indeed; to lend a hand; to eschew hatred (for anything more than mild dislike is a complete waste of time and energy); before criticizing someone, to realize that he/she may not have had all of the advantages in life that he has had, but if he/she has, well, then, okay, fair enough to slip in an elbow or two whilst passing by; to be a good cook and a good eater and to know that there are few things in life better than sharing a great meal with a great friend; to be a bon vivant; to realize that women, who have the gift of giving life, are thankfully, and extraordinarily, different from men and are to be loved, revered and celebrated for these differences; to be good to his mother; to always tell the truth (for, amongst other things, it’s easier to remember); to take off his hat when a woman enters a lift; to be a free thinker; to travel (and enjoy the journey as well as the destination); to let him know that I love him and will always have his back; to hold the door open and to say thank you when someone holds the door open for him; to not even think about taking the lift at John Lewis or Selfridges when he has good use of his limbs (take the escalator and leave the lifts for the elderly, parents with prams and the physically challenged); to relish a challenge (and a hot dog); to place a premium on learning and education; to be discreet; to pounce on the opportunity to live and work in different cities and different countries; to never stop exploring; to be on time (and to know that time is the most valuable thing you can take from a man); to have a love and appreciation for words, domestic and foreign; to be a mensch; to stand up for himself and others; to realize that the surest way for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing; to keep a cool head and sometimes lose it; to teach him expressions like GIT (get it together) and TCB (take care of business) and let him know that, when the going gets tough, the only thing to do in life is man-up, GIT and TCB; to grow old gracefully; to be tolerant, brave, thoughtful and sincere; to work hard; to realize that self-love is not so vile a sin as self-neglect; to question everything always (and not just to be precocious or a pain in the arse); to realize that, even after all these years of human evolution, after diplomacy has failed, the only remaining effective solution is often, alas, a swift hook to the rib (and any rib will do); to be a man; to be especially kind to the elderly, children and animals; to be inspired and to inspire others; to read books made of paper; to watch all of the films in my and ma’s movie collection and realize that even the bad ones are in there for one fairly good reason or another; to be a gentleman; to savour the moment; to avoid the self-righteous tone unless he truly feels indignant about something and then, well, fair enough, to use it; to stand up to bullies; to listen and dance to all genres of music; to avoid motorized transport if he can walk to his destination in 30 minutes or less; to give blood; to perpetrate acts of random kindness; to realize that a blow upon the back that does not break the back makes the back stronger (and the same can be said of a broken heart); to be a good lover; to understand the value and importance of courtesy, civility, trust and hard work; to forgive but never forget; to have at least one good friend; to persevere; to look before he leaps (which is not to say don’t leap); to share kind thoughts; to have balls, common sense and integrity; to speak his mind and his heart; to look people in the eye when speaking to them or shaking their hand; to never let the bastards get him down; and, perhaps above all, my sweet Enlai, to laugh, to be kind and strong and to love and be loved.

When I think of seagulls, I think of irksome squawks, poo, sausages, and now – death.  I know that they’re birds, animals that are said to symbolise the soul or freedom.  And I know that they’re white, a colour which can signify purity, innocence or virtue.  But any mom who witnessed what I and other moms witnessed this past week would likely join the Consortium to Sort Out Sick-Making Seagulls.  Call it maternal revenge. 

Prior to what shall henceforth be referred to as The Seagull Incident, the idyllic backcloth – picnic remnants that somehow indicate that the words spoken and the laughter shared between bites and drinks will stay with the picnickers for a time, along with sundrenched up-aboves, sporadic swans on the Thames, and children’s chatter – was its own beautiful morsel of life. 

When I first saw the seagull – the eradicator in The Seagull Incident – I was reminded of how my mom would always say, “Rain’s coming,” when we heard their squawks.  I was also reminded of my high school days when the flocks, reminiscent of vultures, would swoop down in a feeding frenzy and attack our lunch remnants.  Minutes later, they’d pinpoint their victims – using a precision targeting system obviously borrowed from the US government – and drop their excrement bombs.  The human screeches served as indicators of who’d been hit.  

Watching the seagull – who by this time was flying in a repetitive circle above one particular spot on the Thames – also took me back to a time when my husband and I had a lazy Sunday, indulging in brunch only steps away from the Pacific Ocean on a beach in southern California.  As we dined outside and were about to take the first bites of our food, a seagull plunged toward my husband’s plate and pinched his sausage.  Absolutely no pun intended here – we’re talking seagulls.  After the bird managed to gobble the last bite, he flew to a nearby swimming pool and gulped some water, presumably to help wash down the banger. 

During The Seagull Incident, a banger was replaced by two live ducklings.  Some moms and I sat along the Thames with our little ones, watching boats go by, pointing at the cows on the other side, listening to the harmonics of the train wheels on the track, and then the seagull abruptly interrupted everything.  After circling above, he dove toward the first duckling – whose mother and six siblings were close by – and trapped it in his beak, carrying it away to eat it.  As this happened, all of us moms were shouting and running toward the seagull in an attempt to scare it away and save the duckling’s life.  Of course, our hollers frightened some of the little ones, causing them to ask what we were shrieking about.  I looked at the other moms, and I don’t think any of us knew how to respond.  One mom and I stared at each other, both searching for clues on the other’s face of how to explain to our little ones what just happened.   Another mom was in shock and continued to apologise for her instantaneous reaction to scream loudly.  Only moments later, having been satisfied with his appetiser, the seagull came back for his main.  Mother duck left with two less ducklings that afternoon. 

Moments like these unfortunately serve to remind us that life strolls – and sometimes leaps – alongside death.  Now – contrary to what my adoring husband may believe – I’m a glass half full sort of person.  I have had my moments of glass half empty and glass with but a few drops left at the bottom, but they are fleeting (note to self:  find a book that uses a metaphor suitable for the inner-workings of the male psyche which explains the difference between pessimism and realism).  

For days, I couldn’t stop thinking about The Seagull Incident, replaying it in my mind, and my glass felt empty.  And for days, my son insisted on telling anyone who would listen about The Seagull Incident, complete with shrill sound effects and flying and diving motions, and with each telling, my heart would break a little.  I’m aware of evolution, of survival of the fittest, of food chains, of nature, of all of it.  But awareness and firsthand, live observations or experiences are different. 

The Seagull Incident has also served to remind me that there is an empathy, a sensitivity that moms have for other moms, often regardless of whether they know each other (I never met the mother duck).  One of the moms present at the Incident said that a few days later, she felt somewhat emotional, saying that the seagull eating the ducklings emphasised for her how short life is and how lucky we are to be able to enjoy it.  At the same time, there is a bittersweet feeling that little ones grow up.  Her little one will start school soon and while she knows that it’s time to let go and move on to the next phase, she’s sad that this wonderful period of her and her little one’s lives is coming to an end. 

I want my son Enlai to aim to understand evolution and to have a respect for both life and death.  My hope is that if in the depths of his mind he understands that we human beings are mortal, he will live more fully.  And I will be here, not to help him see that his glass is half full, but that it runneth over.

My son’s school informed us that tomorrow is the infamous school photo day.  I say infamous because school photos often end up being the things of legend.  The media loves to dig up celebrity school photos and see if any of us unsung underlings can guess who the superstar is from her photo in Miss Knickerbocker’s second grade class. 

School photos really are – as are photos in general – tangible time capsules.  While holding them and looking at them, they can transport us to a time, a moment, a day, weeks, a year.  When I – the very late adopter – joined Facebook, I was surprised to see that several of my school photos were posted, courtesy of past classmates who were part of Operation Embarrass and Humiliate.  There I was, in between Leslie and Carmen, under Bridget and on top of Robert – all metaphorically speaking, for those of you that may be conjuring of images of a Ménage à many on a Twister game.  And out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a couple boys I had crushes on.  And there was Val, who hosted some of the best slumber parties, Tracy, who told me to meet her at the bridge so she could beat me up, and Marie, who performed the best Prince impersonation in any school talent show ever.

I called my mom to see if she could dig up my kindergarten school photo, and unearth she did.  She sent it to me, and after a few seconds of looking at this photo, a world rushed back to me.  I started mouthing the days of the week in Spanish, I could taste churros and Mexican hot chocolate, and I could see my teacher’s face, complete with her massive glasses, curly hair and reassuring smile.

I went to kindergarten and first grade in what some might label an impoverished city about 13 miles outside Los Angeles.  Because the majority of the city’s residents were Mexican, we had a chance to learn both Spanish and English at school.  We were exposed to Mexican culture, via food, stories, songs, objects and holidays.  It wasn’t until I was in college, in a sociology class, that I learned that during the time I went there, my school was one of the poorest schools in the nation.

I don’t remember the school being poor, but I had nothing to compare it to at the time.  What I remember is my teacher trying to instruct me on how to write sentences, explaining the notion of a complete thought or idea.  The paper I turned in looked like this:  Once.  Upon.  A.  Time.  A.  Girl.  Had.  A.  Dog.  Every word represented a complete thought to me, apparently.  I’m sure there is a philosopher or poet out there somewhere who would’ve been proud.  I remember the smell of the paste, and the boy who liked to eat it.  I remember making a card out of wallpaper for my granny for Mother’s Day.  Years later, I had the fortunate opportunity to read said card, and the inside of it read “I don’t know why you and grandpa aren’t together, but I think it’s okay.  I love you.”  This card undoubtedly went down as the most charming Mother’s Day card she ever received.

Yes, my friends, a school photo brings back a myriad of memories (I’d like to thank my hippocampus, my frontal lobes and Sudoku).  My mom made the outfit I wore for my kindergarten school photo, as she did almost all my clothes as a child. 

And ditto for all the inspired hairstyling.  She did the brushing, braiding, rubberbanding, barretting, and bow-tying, often to this kid’s bid.  Regardless of her efforts – as is evident in my kindergarten school photo – my hair wanted emancipation from the follicle.  It had a way of becoming so dishevelled that wayward wisps would end up in my mouth, strong-willed strands would compromise my eyesight, and titanic tangles became the norm.  In fact, this photo serves as a precursor of things to come.  My tousled hair today is still trying to declare its freedom.

How will my son’s hair look for his school photo tomorrow?  I suppose we’ll find out when he wakes up.  I don’t brush his hair.  It’s not because I’m opposed to him learning about grooming, but I have a fear that he might go the way of my beloved, spending twice as long as I do getting ready, making a variety of faces in the mirror – his “You lookin’ at me, you lookin’ at me Deniro look”, his “One, two, combo punch, oh ya, you want some of this Tyson look” which comes complete with mini punches at the mirror, and his “Oh ya, you look good, reeeeal good” look which sends my eyes into rolling overdrive.

As for my little guy’s overall look in his school photo, I’m betting on one of three.  As of late, when I ask to take a photo of him, he gazes at me very seriously, with a “Nobody can get me to smile no matter how much they plead to see my pearly whites.  I am steadfast in my solemn stare”.  After a bit of coercing – or what I like to refer to as chocolate bribery – Enlai will come up with expression number two, which is when he smiles with such fervour, his cheeks push up so much, making his eyes all but disappear.  And the third look is the nonexistent look, when he runs away, shouting, “I don’t do photos!”

I hope he gets a kick out of his first school photo experience tomorrow, and I hope that in years to come, while looking at the photo together, we smile.  Not for a camera, but because we’re both relishing in our own memories of the day.