Like a Motherf**ker

Cheryl Strayed, in her then-anonymous column, "Dear Sugar," advised one of her queriers to "write like a motherfucker." I like that advice. A lot. I'm guessing so do a lot of people since apparently The Rumpus is making a killing on the WLAMF mugs.

I've been thinking about that advice over the last few weeks. I do indeed write like a motherfucker. I write like a motherfucker at 5 a.m. I write like a motherfucker at midnight. I write like a motherfucker whenever I get a motherfucking chance. I got a rejection letter from this one magazine that I really, really, really motherfucking wanted to be in and I cried like a motherfucker. Then, I got up the next day and motherfucking submitted the same piece to another publication... like a motherfucker.

Also, I used to run like a motherfucker and now I try to not parent like a motherfucker.

And, I pogostick like a motherfucker and write about my ass like a motherfucker.

Lastly, the results of a spree of taking a whole lot of motherfucking pictures of my kids.

Cool Story, Bro

Saturday night Alden and I were minding our own business, watching some TV, drinking some beer, the usual. When my phone rang, I knew before I even picked it up who was on the other end. There is only one person who would call me at 11 p.m. on a Saturday.

"So there's this rope swing over there. Should I swing on it? I mean, I have to hop a fence to get to it, but rope swing... awesome."

"No, Timmy. No rope swing. Go home."

And then he abruptly hung up, presumably because his friends were approaching and he didn't want to have to explain that he just called his cousin's wife, because of all the things that Kids Today are doing, that is not usually one of them.

I wrote a little bit about my odd relationship with Timmy for The Hairpin. Go ahead, check it out. I'll still be here. Wait, did you leave a fawning comment? No, it's cool. I'll hang around.

It's a short piece, but I could have written so much more. Namely, that I wish I had someone to call back when I was 19 and about to do something stupid. If only I could have just drummed out a quick text to someone whose opinion I valued, "Hey, about to go to a party with no shirt on. Is that a good idea?" Then I might not be so nervous every time I get a "someone tagged a photo of you" notification in Facebook. Ah, the folly of youth.

It's healing to be that person for someone else. I am happy to be the one to say, no, do not go forth and break into someone's backyard so you can play on their rope swing in the middle of the night. This is one of the pleasures of my life, stepping on the inane whims of a teenager.

I can't wait until my kids hit their teens.

The Design and Manufacture of Big Special Memories

If you'd asked me before I had kids if I was ever going cajole my three-year-old into putting on lip gloss, I would have been like, "JonBenét-wha?" But here we are.

The lip gloss was for Beazy's super-special ballet recital. It wasn't really a big deal -- just a little street festival at the YMCA where classes would be demoed on a makeshift stage -- but I wanted it to be a Big Special Memory for her and the informational sheet for parents suggested a touch of make-up and a bun. Though I have misgivings about Beazy getting involved in competition and performance, I was trying to get over it ("it," in this case, referring to That Time My Parents Pushed Me Into Being An Ultra Competitive Runner When I Was Beazy's Age And I Still Shudder When I See Nylon Shorts.) She loves her ballet class, so I thought she'd be into this one-time only special chance to wear make-up, even if I correctly predicted her negative feelings for hairspray. (It's not easy to get a three-year-old's hair to stay in a bun.)

She was in a bad mood that morning, so I was working in overdrive to amp her up. "Oh, Beazy, aren't you so excited to show everyone your dance moves?" But she kept pulling away and muttering something along the lines of, "I don't want cereal, but I need motorcycle class with no cereal. Where's my cereal?" She declined to elaborate on what motorcycle class she was talking about. It remains a mystery.

As the performance time approached, Beazy grew pillier until she was emitting one long, low moan of complaint. Then, when it was time to perform, Beazy refused to get on-stage, cried throughout her class's dance, and then, the minute it was over, cried because she missed her chance to perform. I got a little peeved saying, "Beazy, that was your one chance and you missed it because you were upset. Now your turn is over and we need to go home." Which was not the right thing to say, but it's the kind of thing my parents would have said to me, so it came out of my mouth before I could stop it.

A tantrum ensued and I grew more frustrated and more embarrassed and until finally I sat down on the sidewalk and pulled Beazy into my lap to try another approach. Swallowing my ire, I asked Beazy to tell me how she was feeling. She told that it was too loud and she was scared and the feathers in her costume were scratching her neck. We talked about it until she announced, "Mommy, I feel happy now."

Still, I was frustrated. I didn't say much to her on the way home because every time I opened my mouth I started to say, "I'm sad that you didn't get dance and you didn't have a special moment." Silence was the best I could do. I didn't want her to feel for the first time what it is to disappoint your mother because any disappointment I was feeling was my shortcoming, not hers.

Parenting Beazy is going to become less and less about looking after her physical needs, and more about her emotional needs. It's such a basic human thing -- behaving the way people need you to behave and not the way you want to behave -- but it doesn't come easily to me. I have parents who still don't acknowledge that emotional needs exist. (Said my mother nostalgically after I told her about taking Beazy to see Chimpanzee, "I remember going to the movies with my mom." "That sounds nice," I deadpanned.) My parents would have been furious with me if I'd refused to dance. I probably would have been spanked. I don't want to be like my parents.

After we got home, I gave myself a little time out, and then returned to brush out Beazy's hair and have burgers and popsicles in the backyard. We played kickback and keepaway until one bad kick from me landed the soccer ball on the roof. Alden did an insane Mario 64-style wall kick to climb between two walls and retrieve the ball as we all cheered. And there, without the deployment of lip gloss or hairspray or ten-thousand recitations of "Isn't this going to be SO exciting?!", was her Big Special Memory.

I Wear White Whenever I Want

The many agonies of living in L.A. -- finding decent schools, paying the exorbitant rent, palm fronds falling from trees -- sometimes fade behind all the pleasures of Southern California. I love my succulents and the easy way that they grow here. I love the sunshine and the museums and the very real literary scene that people don't believe is here. I love $5 desayunos and avocados and sugar skulls and the crooked little orange tree in my yard. I love sitting at the park and looking up the IMDB pages of the parents. I love that time I saw Vincent Gallo at Ace Hardware buying nothing but a foot of copper pipe.

Most of the time I'm at peace with L.A. I only leave my little patch of Hollywood (Griffith Park to Beverly from Vermont to La Brea) a few times a week, so traffic is of little concern. I found good preschools for the kids. Beaz has a best friend. We have a new-ish Trader Joe's with decent parking and wide isles. I'm even okay with the beautiful people who make me feel like a squat little troll when I have to stand next to them.

Last week we were in Washington D.C. with Alden's parents and then we went to a cousin's wedding in Baltimore. We hadn't been out east to visit Alden's family in five years. FIVE YEARS! It had been so long that I had forgotten that after every time we come back to our side of the country, I have a major freakout and resolve to move closer to his extended family. I love them! They wander hotel halls at 3 a.m. with coolers stocked with Grey Goose and beer. They keep my kids occupied while I act like a kid. They gossip and laugh and tease and dance and do magic tricks with quarters. They are all awesome and I love spending time with them. Beaz and Kasper are absolutely in love with their grandparents and all their cousins and second cousins and everyone else.

Which is why after every visit, we brainstorm ways to move out there. Alden's best friends from military school are out there (and, incidentally, are some of the funniest people I've ever met). The kids' grandparents are out there. All that family! My dear, weird little giant of a cousin Timmy is out there. And we are not.

But when I think about living there? Oi. One evening Alden and I were able to leave the kids with their grandparents and go to a brewery in Falls Church, Virginia. It was like walking into a living museum of L.L. Bean catalogs. Not only were there no non-white people, there were no Jewish people. There were no people in loud blouses or earrings below their chin. I saw an entire family in Ralph Lauren polo shirts, all of them strictly adhering to a red, white and blue palette. If I had been a teenager in Falls Church I would probably now have several facial tattoos.

It has been explained to me that Falls Church is not indicative of the entire Eastern Seaboard, but it still scared the shit out of me. Then, later, in a Baltimore dressing room I heard a woman say to her friend, "Well, you know what, Susie? If this were Europe you could wear white slacks any time. They don't have rules there." Then they both laughed like, "Oh, those crazy Europeans!" That was not that Baltimore that John Waters taught me about.

Though I realize that I stumbled into some extreme enclaves, things feel different on the East Coast. Also, colder. And not always sunny. And where are they hiding all the cactii, huh? What's up with all those droopy trees? And god, do they ever get tired of brick? Brick, brick, brick. Their freeways are weird and I'll never learn to refer to them without articles. And who's the asshole in charge of making Baltimore navigable and can they fire him? What is up with all the six-way intersections, people? Also, Five Guys is better than In-N-Out, but still inferior to Fat Burger. If we moved there I would have to buy socks.

But I do miss wearing coats. I used to love coats. More importantly, the kids are missing out on something great by being raised away from their extended family. Maybe some day we'll find a way to get Alden a job out there, but since he's linked to The Biz, it's not going to be easy. Or perhaps we just won't wait five years to visit again. The flights were bad, but not that bad. (I'd provide details, but I think I'm over quota on "Horrible Moments in Public With My Two Toddlers" stories.) Perhaps next year.