Just Call Me Mama Malibu.

Dean's job is relocating to one of the most delicious places this side of the Grand Canyon--Malibu. Pont Dume, to be precise, and we have boldly decided to ditch city life for the slower, softer and gentler existence to be found nestled in the wild and rural terrain of the canyons just a stone's throw from the beach.

There are no apartments to speak of in Malibu, just a smattering of multi-million dollar homes precariously perched upon ocean-side cliffs, hidden on hillscapes behind scrubby brush and retaining walls, or on sprawling ranches found down long windy dusty dirt roads. That's it--not much to speak of as far as shopping, or touristing, or hollywooding--it's surprisingly rural to those who visit for the first time. So, what's a multi-million dollarless family to do if they have chosen this destination as home? Search for the rare humble guest house even though they are breathtakingly overpriced and severely under square-footaged.

Nevertheless, we're ready, oh, so, ready to dodge the grimy, noisy, crowded, stink of the city. Malibu is not far from where we are now living, but it sure feels a world away. We are ready for green and grass and nature and quiet and flowers and creeks and ocean and breeze and wildlife and rocks and dirt and leaves on trees. We are ready for a few adopted hens and farm fresh eggs. We are ready for a goat and farm fresh milk and cheese. We are ready, after a 10 year wait, to adopt a dog who will trail our heels through the lush expanse of the 20 acre horse ranch we found this past weekend.

The house is small but rustic. All it needs is a little loving hand. The land it's on is oh so huge and pristine and ours for the exploring, gardening, flowering, romping and picnicking. I can't wait for Noah to rub each horses nose in the morning before breakfast. I can't wait to lunch on the beach everyday. I can't wait to water my edible garden at sunset and wake to the song of birds and dance of squirrels. We will inhabit this cozy little cottage for only a year, two at most (or who knows, maybe we'll fall in love and stay forever)--until we move on up to the pacific northwest in search of a permanent homestead, a home we'll own.

In the meantime, we are giddy with excitement for our last adventure as wanderers, as house freelances and the freedom it provides--the freedom to wax and wane from place to place until we've scratched all the itches to live wherever we want to live until it's time to wander no more. This really will be nothing less than a really long vacation--Noah and I frolicking around the ranch and beach with Dean scampering to his dream job by weekday and hiking and BBQ'ing and sunbathing at week's end.

It's not all roses and pickles though, isolation does enter my mind. I have already begun to seek out Malibu mommy groups, music classes and playgroups for Noey Finn and I--which are few and far in between as far as I can tell. We are so active with other mamas and babies here in the city that I am not sure if this will provide a welcomed rest or forced seclusion. Only time will tell.

In the meantime, it's Malibu or bust, baby.

All In A Good Day's Play: The Flora, Fauna and Us, At The Huntington Edition.

Those not lucky enough to live in visiting proximity of The Huntington Library, Art Collections & Botanical Gardens simply do not know what they are missing. And even that is an understatement of great proportions as The Huntington is a kind of heavenly utopia nestled in the quaintly sublime suburb of Pasadena, San Marino.

I had visited once before--to see a stunning and rare visiting installation of English poet, painter and print maker, William Blake, back when I was a fledgling grad student. The experience then was pleasant. I was moved most by the incredibly detailed and individualized copper plates that Blake used to relief etch his poetry onto rather than by the sheer enormity and astute aesthetic plenitude of the gardens themselves.

I visited again yesterday--the first Tuesday of the month is free--with Noah Finn, Asami and Kai. Instead of a notebook, I was loaded down with a stroller, snacks, diapers, sippy cup and a few days supply of "what ifs" stuff. We didn't make it far in the first hour or so--strolling only a few feet each time before someone had to go to the bathroom, take a snack or stroller break, or "investigate" a puddle and it's contents that we had just passed. Well into the second hour, once we finally began making headway, we wandered through and by gardens of splendor and plenty--gardens that had used up every last drop of recent rain to color themselves bolder than ever. We found ourselves veiled by a colorful symphony of wildlife--bumblebees, butterflies, geese and chirping birds--clover flowers, green green grass, dew-covered petals and scampering squirrels.

The children's garden by far was the highlight of the day. Water pools, rock gardens, animal-shaped bushes, rainbow tunnels, misting tee-pees, mini vine-covered arbors, tiny foliage cottages--it was a place for hobbits and fairies.

It's funny how you experience things so differently when you are towing tots. Things you never paused to even note before become central attractions and things that once took priority before are quickly forgotten. At the end of it all, as Noah and Kai snoozed in their strollers while we walked from the exit to our car, I took note of how much I enjoyed visiting The Huntington this time. It was so different from the first. And despite the lack of art present by what some might hail as the "greatest artist Britain has ever produced", I had all I needed right there with me--my dear sweet friends and my beautiful boy, Noah Finn.

For more pictures of our day at The Huntington, visit us on flickr.

History In The Making: The Crappy Cellphone Picture Edition.

We've been busy lately, but in the best way. Daddy has been filling his mornings before work with satisfying solo projects and Noah Finn and I have filled our days cavorting around town with our best mommy and baby pals.

This past Sunday, after a family morning in the park outing with one of my mommy groups, we went to brunch with Asami, Kai and Atushi. Despite the posh Larchmont Village neighborhood and the attention to aesthetic detail of the space we found ourselves dining in, the food was barely mediocre and my slice of "freshly baked" tart cherry pie . . . well, I won't bore you with my cantankerous criticism. But, still, the afternoon was serene . . . frolicking in and out of shoe shops, our favorite organic kid's store owned by Punky Brewster, and past a sidewalk dog adoption event. After pouting for some time, Dean finally caved and approved the addition of a dog to our ever growing family. So, I am excited to report that we'll be combing local shelters in the coming weeks and months in search of the perfect mutt for us to rescue from certain death and love forever and ever.

Okay, but, back to Sunday . . . after our Larchmont afternoon, we ventured to Trader Joe's to battle the parking lot crowds for a highly prized patch of Trader Joe's asphalt in an effort to wrangle up an easy dinner. As Dean walked around the car to retrieve our little toddler who had been unusually quiet during the short car trip, I sat sulking in the passenger seat (Dean had not yet relented and caved in on the dog issue at this point).

And. Then. Dean shrilly shrieked. And, then he loudly panted . . . "oh. my. god." several times.

It appeared as if Noah Finn had decided that costumes were required attire for Trader Joe Sunday's and he was intent on coming prepared--he was painted head to toe in a lovely shade of "fig". It was everywhere and by everywhere, I mean everywhere.

You see, Noah and I had driven the hour drive up to Canyon Country just the day before to attend a going away party for very dear friends of ours. In a desperate effort to silence the backseat crooner during the drive, I handed him my small make up bag that I carry in the diaper bag. I don't wear much make up--just chapstick and a little under-eye concealer to hide my black bags of sleep deprivation--so it mostly contains holistic first aid supplies for Noah and a few OB tampons that Noah loves to chew on--wrapped, of course. Noah loves this little pouch of tiny treasures and I always revert to it when in any sticky screaming situation. But, apparently there was one rogue tube of lipstick remaining from past days of yore when my lips were more decorated that Noah not only found but stashed in his carseat for "later", as it appears.

The funny thing is that Dean and I laughed--we laughed until we were crying and until, well, we made Noah cry. He is crying in the pictures above because he was left in the carseat so long as we laughed chuckled and wiped away our tears of sheer hilarity. The best part of it all was that it broke the tension--the terse dog conversation dissipated into a fit of family laughter and I think that it can be attributed with lightening things to the point of Dean finally giving in upon his return to the car from the store.

You see, the weekend was a great two days of parenting woes and follies that ultimately resulted in the addition of a new family member--soon. The only damper was that our camera was no where in sight. Unfortunately, I had to snap pictures of Noah's face painting antics, as well as, his first trip to the Los Angeles Natural History Museum with my camera phone--phooey on poor photography to mark major moments. At least it was all documented. It's Noah Finn history in the making.

Noah's First Pho.

As I've said on here before, living in Los Angeles--for going on 10 years now--is a real love/hate kind of relationship. One of the things, however, that I love, love, love about this city is the incredible diversity--ethnicity, religion, language, art, culture, food, yadda, yadda. You can expose yourself to any plethora of adventurous anything anytime of the night or day.

Vietnamese food is one of those cuisines that's hard to come by in great quality unless you are in a larger city, like L.A.--or in Vietnam, of course. Los Feliz, an artsy little nook of town just east of downtown, has one of the yummier Pho shops I've come by and Noah Finn had his first dish last week . . . funnily enough, with a little German friend of his also named Noah. The two Noah's eagerly dove head first into their bowls of broth, tofu, noodles, wood ear mushrooms and fresh basil, bean sprouts and lime. So much so that they were covered from head to toe in rice noodles resembling something of a Pollack food painting. My friend, Caro, documented the aftermath with her iPhone.

I'm guessing we'll have to Pho again real soon. Noah clearly dug it.

Airtime.

It's no secret to close family and friends that Dean began working for Beck shortly after the birth of Noah Finn. It was a rather surprised and unplanned job move that couldn't have been timed much better if we had planned it. The hours are so much better then what he kept on the Hollywood studio clocks and Beck's home studio, where he works much of the time, is just a few cycling blocks away from our home for Dean--and let's face it, it's a pretty dreamy gig for an Audio Engineer.

The latest project to be released is Charlotte Gainsbourg's new album that Beck produced called IRM--just released this month. Those of you who aren't familiar with her French pop legend father, Serge Gainsbourg, have been living under a musical rock and should get acquainted with him a.s.a.p.--your ears cannot claim they existed in the 20th century and not have heard this mighty Euro crooner. While Charlotte has a sometimes similar whispery sultriness to that of her dad's hypnotic style, she stands quite firm in her own right, too, as a chanteuse and actress.

Our hands down all time favorite radio station, that happens to be here in Los Angles, KCRW 89.9, aired a live in-studio session and interview with her and Beck taped back in December where Dean joined as Engineer. As it aired this morning, Dean and I went about our usual morning tasks while listening--Dean packing his lunch and I, just having put Noah down for a nap, was showering. When all of a sudden Dean storms into the bathroom with that crooked and satisfied half smile across his face that I recognize to announce, "Hey, Doodle--you missed it. They just said my name on the radio!"

Yes, it's true that Dean gets his name in the liner notes of all projects that he works on (including this one), but there's nothing like hearing your name in the "thank you" list on-air. And, shucks, I missed it.

To see a few cameos of Dean during the live taping session (he's in the navy & cream striped sweater in the background), click here--even if you don't want to see Dean it's well worth a view--Charlotte and Beck make an enchanting duo. To hear Dean's name said aloud over the Los Angeles air waves, you'll have to "listen" as opposed to "watch" the session here--but let's face it, unless you're tuned in to the radio, listening just isn't as much fun.

Félicitations, Dean, félicitations!

Peek.

. . . a boo. I see you. I am finally coming out from beneath that virtual rock I have been hiding under.

What's been happening while I've been hibernating? Leaps and bounds I tell you, leaps and bounds. Noah has been growing in leaps and bounds. He's walking consistently as of this past week, he's talking--"banana" is by far the most impressive member of his very new dictionary--and he's destroying. As I have been absent from my orphaned mama blog, Noah has been sprouting at an ever alarming pace. Therefore, I shall be absent no more--MAMA IS BACK--you have my word, as there is just too much occurring each and every day not to document and share it all with my fellow friends, family and readers.

So here we are to report on the latest happenings in the Surette-Nelson abode . . .

Getting reacquainted with home, our cats, our life-pace here in SoCal has been a long standing project. This past week was Dean's first back to work full time since we've been back, Noah and I had a debilitating stomach bug through it all, and the past six days have been a record setting event of rain, hail, wind and storms for Los Angeles. Between bouts of nausea, Noah and I schlepped ourselves out of our frequent fits of cabin fever to enjoy several indoor playgrounds round about the city--"Amy's Playground" in South Pasadena, "Naya's Garden" in Silverlake and "Kidspace Children's Museum" in Pasadena. We have playdated, walked in the rain and had cozy dinner parties with our bestest of mommy & babe duos, Asami & Kai. And on Friday, we went with some of our favorite baby and mommy pairs, dragging Daddy along behind us, for a zenning dose of "Mommy, Me & Daddy Too Yoga" at "Golden Bridge" in Hollywood. All I can say is--blissful, simply blissful. The first 45 minutes are spent with the adults stretching and straining while the little ones romp and wobble about and the second half is a singing and dance freeplay for all. The event was capped off with some tantalizing mung bean and rice stew, garbanzo bean dhaal and a walloping vegan red velvet cupcake. We have decided to make it a weekly family outing and look forward to next week!

Now, on into our weekend we venture. With a new stroller (we bought the Quinny Buzz this week!) and finally a blue sky and some sunshine, we are ready to take on the weekend with great gusto. By nightfall, I shall slave away at my incredibly tardy Christmas and First Birthday thank you's for Noah Finn that have yet to write themselves and hop in with the outgoing mail--and finish the book on that I've been delving into before zonking out on the couch--"Nothing To Envy: Ordinary Lives In North Korea" by Barbara Demick. While not especially well written, it is interestingly informative and a startlingly stark reminder of how lucky I am to have not been born in North Korea.

In the meantime, happy Saturday to all and welcome back, to me!

P.S. New pictures from our December on the left coast are up on flickr and new videos will be up on YouTube by Monday.

As Absent As An Ant At A Plastic Picnic.

Okay weird title, right? Well, that's just how I have been feeling as of late. Absent and weird. Not weird in a bad way necessarily, just weird as in a weird way. But as for absent . . . today marks the one week anniversary of our arrival home from our month long voyage to the land of cold, cotton and fried chicken. North Carolina was packed full of family--lots and lots of family--and eating and sitting and visiting and eating and sitting and visiting and eating and sitting and, well, you get the picture. Don't get me wrong, we loved, really truly loved, spending that much time with doting family members and we even managed to frolic outside maybe three or four times in all. But, come on folks, we venture out into the great expanse of SoCal's sunny 70's at least three to four times a day. You can call it cabin fever or southern cuisine overdose, but whatever it was it had me feeling down right lethargic and all nappy by noon.

The holidays were glorious and Noah's first birthday was a blast. Flying was challenging seeing that he is now intent on crawling and walking into every nook and cranny that appears the filthiest and most difficult to shimmy into. He is now talking more than ever. Not recognizable words (unless you count "mama", "dada" and his all time favorite for the last three months--"ball") but not baby talk either. He's got something to say and it sounds a flair Icelandic when it all comes out garbled and inflected--think Sigur Ros on helium. He's thinking and doing and playing with real purpose now--real intent and concentration and method. It is amazing to watch him amass more and more skills with each passing day. It seems that he can observe something only once before he has it nearly mastered.

So, we are home sweet home now--still unpacking suitcases and pounds around the middle that unfortunately managed to sneak their way through the airport security check. As we get back into the rhythm of our daily lives here in Los Angeles--breakfast and walks with daddy in the a.m. and lunch, playdates and dinner with mama in the p.m.--I realize something that I am truly excited to come home to--other than our abandoned cats and piles of bills--the mama and baby friends that we have made over the last year. These connections and bonds made with women struggling through the hardest year of their life together with me as I struggle alongside of them have been life changing and simply heart warming. I cannot wait to see how much each baby and mama have grown and changed as they all enter into this second year together with me and Noah Finn.

It's so nice to have family and friends to come home to--even if they reside at homes upon opposite shores.

P.S. Pictures from the trip are coming soon.

Los Angeles.

Los Angeles. It's a real love-hate relationship between me and this city by the oily sea. It's smoggy, it's crowded. It's dusty, it's overpriced.

But, on other days I simply swoon at its beauty. It's natural, natural beauty.

Here are a few unedited images captured by my husband less than a mile from our home during his morning walks with our little Noah Finn.

What a beautiful, beautiful place this can be.

It Ain't Easy Being Green.

I muttered these words like a manic mantra under my breath today during the two hours and change that I wasted trying to find a store that sold cloth diapers in the "great" metropolis of Los Angeles. And, guess what? I came up bare bottomed.

It ain't easy being green . . . in L.A., anyway. That's right, a city of almost 10 million people hasn't managed to muster up a few square feet of floor space devoted to moms who are making a concerted effort at ridding the world's landfills of chemical coated and synthetic gel filled poo pants. Yet, there are more farmer's markets and biodiesel peace bugs than I can shake my diaper pail at.

This past weekend, we lazed away our Sunday afternoon in a snugly lush valley just an hour northeast of here . . . among burning sage, drum circles and barefooted dred daddies bouncing vegan tots on their naked knees. So why, in a west coast city of this size and "perceived" embracement of everything natural and eco, is finding cloth diapers sans the internet so hard to do?

We had been ordering all of our cloth diapering supplies from a mom and pop venture out of Portland, Oregon called Babyworks, since Noah was born. The Owner, Pauline, walked me through the daunting dance of being a new parent and cloth diaper doer with gentle skill. Just the mere thought of venturing out into the world to discern one colorful all-in-one from a waterproof pocket diaper was simply too much to bear during those early months. We had many a long telechat. But now those supplies of early are growing much too tight for the buns and tummy of our sprouting little greenie and we yearn for fresh dooty duty gear.

I, too, am finally ready to physically branch out into the wide expansive universe of reusables and want to peruse the many varieties there are for the pickins'--with my hands, my fingers, my eyes--with all of my five senses, I want to shop. One of the many reasons we chose cloth diapering was to circumvent the wasted energy and resources used for the production, packaging, shipping, etc. of disposables. We longed to buy local. After all, we figured, how hard would it be to find cloth diaper supplies in a city where plenty is it's middle name? But, discovering only one diaper cleaning service in the suburb of Pasadena that was so sub par we decided to scrub our own hemp prefolds should have been more than a subtle clue.

As my search dismally dead ended today at a few wrong numbers of bygone baby stores, I once again had to turn to my trusty mouse and keyboard to quell my cloth diaper yearning. So, Heather and Shannon at the Cloth Diaper Outlet in Springfield Oregon, thank you for making cloth diapering supplies readily available to us lowly residents here in the city of Angels. Apparently, this city's little angels poop in plastic.

Down In The Dumps.

I've been lagging on my computer duties for at least a week, I'll admit it. I haven't been posting stimulating or interesting mama blog fodder, responding to e-mails, commenting on my favorite blogs, OR posting Noah pictures to flickr and Noah videos to You Tube--point in short . . . I am so sorry Noah's grandmas and great grandmas.

The thing is, it has been hot--I mean real hot. And, L.A. is burning like hell burns. Or at least as I imagine hell would burn if there was a hell? Plumes of brown mask the setting sun turning it into a blazing bright red disc heavy on the hazy horizon. Today ash covered the car and I asked myself again why people pay one million dollars to own a crappy fixer upper in this car-centric shaky piece of pavement by the cold, cold oily sea.

And, well, let's get down the real reason I've been absent--after a delightful afternoon with friends on Sunday, Dean dodged L.A. for a business trip early, early Monday. Ever since, it's just been me and Noah Finn. We're holding down camp just fine, but I certainly can't wait until daddy's plane hits the pavement tomorrow at 4:05 p.m.

And while I am being all down and out about life in Los Angeles this week, let me include a little shout out for the crazy homeless Hispanic lady wearing a pink wig that was screaming in broken Spanish at the top of her lungs at the construction workers jack hammering behind our apartment yesterday--just next door to Noah's window while he was napping--for the first and only time that day. And, let me not forget, since it's already flowing like lava from Mt. Vesuvius, the dumpster diver digging for bottles in the bins next door day before yesterday while Noah was napping--for the first and only time that day.

Oie. Oie. Oie! Los Angeles. You are not a good friend.

So, for now, all of the fabulously fun stuff that I have planned for this blog is going to have to wait one more night . . . or two.

Life's A Beach.

Spending a Thursday in Malibu is never half bad--even if it's overcast.

Many people don't realize that Southern California beaches are not always toasty warm and sunshiny like Hollywood so inaccurately depicts. Frankly, during our nearly 10 years beaching here in the sunshine state, our water's edge lounge fests are usually more overcast than sun soaked. It's the cities that are always sunny and bright--the dense ocean fog just has a hard time burning off on most days. And due to the lack of humidity--even at the beach (compared to the east coast)--the lack of sunshine leaves seaside visitors with very cool and windy days. Combine that with the frosty frigid Pacific and you have an image of L.A.'s sandy retreats that is quite different from that depicted in Baywatch.

But listen to me, all doom and beach gloom. I honestly, love the beach that way. I mean don't get me wrong I do take pleasure in pulling out my sunglasses and soaking in a bit of vitamin D, but a cloudy day at the beach in a city that perpetually shines is a welcome day indeed.

The salty air. The rusty kelp. The greedy seagulls. The playful dolphins. The crashing waves. I just can't get enough of any beach no matter it's flaws.

Noah and his trusty mate, Kai, had a thrilling time taking in the sensory feast that the ocean has to offer while Asami, Dean and I picnicked and snapped shots of them wallowing on the sandy shore.

Before I put Noah into the bath tonight, I took a long deep breath with my nose buried in his silky hair. I wanted to breathe in the beach before I washed it all away. So as not to soon forget our beautiful day.

This One Wild And Precious Life.

So, the daily literary quote rss feed on my igoogle home page has done it yet again. It's prompted me to pause and deeply ponder. And, random chance would have it that it was another Mary Oliver quote that was the catalyst.

I perhaps have been an unknowing closet fan of hers. Despite a Bachelor and Masters degree in Literature, I never once stumbled upon her in my studies--her thought provoking work has only recently dashed across my path and caused me to pull over for a pit stop.

After reading:

"Tell Me, what it is you plan to do with your one wild and precious life."
(Mary Oliver, American Poet)

I began to wonder what I am doing--what I will do--with my one wild and precious life.

Dean and I watched "Revolutionary Road" this weekend and for those of you who have yet to see it, it too, makes you think--think about just the kinds of questions that Oliver's quote prompts . . . will I settle for mediocrity, comfort, routine, stability and forgo living out dreams, desires, (non-destructive) impulsive urges, and yearnings? Will the house, kids, cars, bills, responsibilities whittle down my whimsical wants into empty suburban shells of lone gone aspirations?

When Dean and I met, I was in my last year of college as an undergrad and had joined the Peace Corps. I was headed to teach English in the humid and untamed jungles of Thailand. But, when he proposed that I move to Los Angeles with him after 9 months of a make-your-knees-weak-can't-concentrate-sweeter-than-honey romance, I agreed. It seemed exciting--not quite Thailand--but 3,000 miles away from home nonetheless.

Almost a decade later I can say that I have lived a wild and precious life--here in Los Angeles. We have lived out this time in arguably one of the grooviest places to possibly spend your 20 somethings. But now we want more. Both of us.

What we will do with our one wild and precious life?

Now that we have a baby, I do not believe that the answer to that question has to fit into a nicely packaged square box. I do not believe that we have to cease continuing to live the life we dreamed of living, say, before we birthed Noah Finn. I am not being unrealistic. I do admit that accommodations and adaptations and even concessions will have to be made. But I do hold firmly to the idea that a responsible and familial-friendly version of the life you've always dreamed of is attainable--even with a family--even without a large bank account--even if you are told you can't.

Studying the subject for years now that I love, marrying Dean, birthing Noah and being fortunate enough to stay at home to raise him is half of my answer to this question. But I am only 30 years old. I have a long wild road ahead to travel and precious things yet to explore.

Dean and I are deciding now how to answer this question. We have been and still are planning a move in the next few years. We are seriously considering Portland, Oregon. An organic farm just outside of the city limits sounds divine. We have talked about Paris. Riding a red bicycle with a baguette in basket and pants rolled just above the ankle sounds pretty heavenly too.

Silly, you might say? Why, you might ask?

Why not? . . . I would respond. Why not?

So, now . . . you tell me in the comments below if you feel so obliged, what it is you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

Temporary Blogging Brown Out.

If the Fire Department in our neighborhood can take the day off due to budget restraints, then why can't I? They call them "Brown Outs". I guess hoping that "Brown Out" sounds nicer than "we are closing because the state pissed away your tax money and now you and your family may die a grisly fiery death because of it".

Anywho, "Little Foodie Feasts" have taken off more quickly than I expected and I am proud to announce that I will be holding the workshops regularly at my home. As I busily make fliers, workshop handouts, blog over at Feeding Little Foodies and pound the pavement spreading the word, I am admittedly too brain depleted to wittily blog after getting my teething monster to bed.

But, not to fear, I will return and return soon. I have a notebook I have been filling with topics running round my head as of late.

AND, I will will be featured as a guest on Domestic Dork's blog next week while she's off visiting family on vacation. So, please do check out my post "Pooptastic, Pooperiffic! The Adventures of Solid Wastes." It promises not to disappoint!

DirectionLESS.

I am without direction. Not in life, but in my car. I have a cruddy internal compass and I am easily distracted. These two qualities combined make for a very unsuccessful 4-wheeled voyage.

Imagine this: It's hot. It's summertime in Los Angeles. Your air is working and its working hard. You have "Sesame Street Sings the Alphabet" CD on repeat to soothe your sweaty screaming infant in the backseat. You're late, again, and you realize you've passed the street you were looking for . . . again. You're stuck in traffic. You give up. You pull to the side of the road to console your baby and . . . yourself. You eat the plate of cookies intended for the playdate--the one you'll never make it to.

Poor Noah Finn.

My husband must get on average, at least five panicked, frustrated or sobbing (it depends on the day) calls a month from me pleading for him to stop what he's doing at work and Google map me to my destination. It doesn't happen often, but every once in a blue moon, he doesn't answer--he's busy (imagine that, he's at work!). And then I call my dad. My dad lives 3,000 miles away in North Carolina.

The thing is, we have lived in California for almost 10 years now. That's no sneeze in the familiarity bucket. That's a decade's worth of burning rubber on southern California's potholed and pathetically congested paths of earthquake cracked asphalt. Why can't I find my way?

I know where I am going most of the time, but I just cannot reliably seem to always get myself there.

Does this direction dilemma sound familiar to anyone? Please say yes, then I won't feel so . . . lost.

Art Is Meant To Be Seen, Not Heard.

Says who, anyway? Us, being devout lovers of all things music, have frequently questioned this--but not so well as our little Noah Finn did today at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA).

During on our evening stroll through the La Brea Tar Pits, just blocks from our house and next door to LACMA, we decided to take advantage of the free after 5:00 p.m. deal at the museum in order to see the visiting installation, "Your Bright Future", by 12 contemporary Korean artists. While meandering through the cavernous hall housing Richard Serra's 183-ton ribbon of weatherized steel, Noah discovered his voice in a way he never had. Shrieking his high-pitched shrills of joy as we advanced from one immensely large exhibition space to the next, Noah nearly shattered Gimhongsok's glass case containing Mao and Nixon's 1972 Cold War milestone conversation--and what a pity that would have been. Sheesh, near miss.

And as Noah squealed at registers migrating whales off the Pacific coast perhaps heard at that moment, Dean and I laughed ourselves to tears. We cared not for the few studious and stuffy patrons eying us from across the room (because, heck even the security guards were buckled over in amusement). We just mosied on through realizing that before Noah Finn, we used to be just like that--thinking that art was reserved for some special sect of childless persons clad in all black who mulled over the minutia of supposed symbolism and nuanced meaning during late Sunday brunch with friends named "Thad" and "Evie".

No. Noah single-handedly shattered the silent stuffy glass box constructed around the art of viewing art. He made it accessible for all--even families with a bright red stroller and an almost 7 month old tot who likes the sound of his own voice . . . especially when echoed in a large room filled with conceptual art.

On our walk home, Noah reasoned that art is meant to be seen and heard . . . and we said that we enjoyed it much better that way.

::::
P.S. A happy, happy birthday to my beautiful sister who turns 21 today. My gosh, how old I do feel.
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To Party Like A Rockstar . . . Again.

So, alas, we have graced another celebrity birthday party . . . same family, different child's super special day. But this time, instead of an incredibly coiffed flock of petting zoo friends it was a Star Wars themed bash!

The news of each kid coming as a Star Wars character sent me scrambling last week to find the perfect get up for little Noey Finn's first costume gala. I found the cutest costume that perhaps has ever been spotted--an infant Chewbacca suit--but surprisingly, I could not find it anywhere in the city so we had to settle for ol' Yoda instead.

Noah still rocked the event and the long green ears. He had an incredible time watching all of the other party munchkins throw around lightsabers as they recreated movie action scenes and the hired Darth Vader tied long colorful balloons into dogs on leashes, flowers and bunny rabbits.

May the peace be with you and this pea, Papa . . .

Our Cats Star Spotted Today.

Lucky me--I was not here when a "said" famous person came by our house today with Dean. I am not being sarcastic, I was lucky--lucky that Noah and I were at a playdate, otherwise this person would have seen me in the holey pj pants, cat fur covered t-shirt and oily forehead that I usually slough around in while home with Noey all day.

I know it's no fun for you that I can't tell you who, but that's just the way it is in Hollywood. It wasn't an especially glamorous visit to our abode anyway. Him and Dean were dropping off our beach chairs and Noah's extra car seat in order to free up some space in our old Honda station wagon (which Dean was driving him around in--yikes!) so that they could haul stuff in the back of it today. And, lucky me (again, I am not being sarcastic because I would have been mortified if I were home)--there were piles of laundry on the love seat, spit up stained throw pillows on the couch and two strollers parked in the middle of the living room.

It always amazes me that no matter how long we live in Los Angeles, how many stars we spot around town, how many cool people Dean gets to work with, or how many people we both meet through his work, I still get star struck and giddy like a little girl. It's possible that our cats, Linus and Miles, who were home, felt the same way.

Mommy Group Mutiny.

Noah and I just returned from what was to be a pool playdate by the beach, but it ended up being a livingroom playdate instead because the ocean fog never burned off and it was too cool to swim--yes, Hollywood has deceived you, this is typical of Los Angeles, even in the summertime. And while Noey now naps, I am left pondering all of the ways in which a good mommy conversation can go bad.

We had a wonderful time, but during our playdate the topics of sleep methods, vaccinations and television came up. And while the children casually played unaware of the slight intensity that ebbed and flowed as moms voiced then skirted the more controversial aspects of these issues, I quickly realized that I could be one of those "moms"--the mom who is talked about when they're not in the room, the mom who chooses paths scolded by the AAP, the mom who *gasp* doesn't believe in "crying it out" or in babies watching T.V. and is waiting to vaccinate. As the moms chatted, I at times found myself eager to share my ideas and the decisions that we had made on these topics. But, I kept finding myself self-censoring instead.

I don't want to lose all of these nice new mommy and tot friends that Noah and I have just made. Heck, we are just beginning to emerge into the world of pre-noontime playdates for a change. But, am I the only mommy that doesn't want her baby to cry himself to sleep in a cold and empty crib (despite the fact that we have been having sleep difficulties since he was born!)? Are we the only parents that have chosen an alternate vaccination path after doing hoards of very conflicting and confusing research and experienced our own vaccination horror at the 3 and 4 month checkups? I am sure that we are not--it's just that we can't, as moms, always feel comfortable enough to casually chat about these topics because of the taboo that surrounds them and plain and simply, not wanting to hurt someone's feelings, I guess.

I am not bellyaching. Okay, maybe I am, perhaps I am even being a little overly dramatic--but I don't mean to be. Really, I am proud of the decisions that we have made and respect those of others, don't get me wrong--I just don't want to go back to the "O Mothers, Where Art Thou?" days again!?

We actually do know quite a few crunchy families like us, I guess I just didn't hang out with any today. *pout, pout*

All In A Good Day's Play.

I've decided to begin a new weekly installment called, "All In A Good Day's Play" where I will chronicle, once a week, our day in snapshots! Enjoy! Here's the first edition . . . it will go something like this . . .

Our day in snapshots:

• 11:30 a.m.--Noah's menu for today, pre-pureed.
• 2:00 p.m.--Post afternoon nap failed photo attempt at Mama trying to get a good pic of that blasted first pearly white.
• 5:00 p.m.--Swinging in the park after "Story and Songtime Summer Mondays" at the library.
• 6:00 p.m.--Toes apparently taste better then carrots at dinnertime.
• 6:15 p.m.--What's left of dinner. Our sake cups make excellent feeding cups!
• 6:30 p.m.--Teething on a carrot and getting undressed for bath time giggles.

(3:59 pm: Too bad I don't have a snapshot of this part of our day, but it's too good to be left out even without the pic.

Noah and I were stroller racing down the sidewalk headed to the library for "Story and Songtime Summer Mondays"--of course we were running a wee bit late and wanted to make it in time for the opening tune. When, all of a sudden, a section of sidewalk missing concrete sent the buggy flipping over frontwards with me flipping over the top of it before rolling off sideways splayed on the ground with the front of my shirt above my head.

Okay. I can laugh about how funny this was now. As a matter of fact, the mom who was behind me with her little tot Liam is probably at home recounting the spoof at the dinner table as we speak. As a further matter of fact, after she picked up the carnage and ensured we were okay, she went on raving for the better part of storytime about how we should sue the city. But, I was terrified at the time. Had my little Noey Finn not been strapped in, and perhaps, had I not had the footrest propped all the way up for him to kick his feet against, he could have eaten the sidewalk in a much worse fashion than I. But since he came away from it all completely unscathed, now, I can allow myself to chuckle.

Damn L.A.! When are they going to get out of constant budget crisis long enough to repair our ailing streets and sidewalks!?)

To Party Like A Rockstar.

We don't want to run the risk of being banished from future guest lists, so the party host will remain anonymous . . . in other words, don't expect any scoop spilling or tacky TMZ tattling tidbits in this blog . . . but Noah was invited to his first rock star birthday yesterday--and it rocked. Rock stars--or at least rock stars with babies--party just like us . . . well, almost . . .

Gifts and beautiful people abound, the party was equipped with a "home delivery" petting zoo that was cute enough to make Old McDonald rethink his farming aesthetic. Under the shade of a tree sat "Lil' Red's Traveling Buckaroo Ranch" where a two-foot high freshly painted red picket fence housed together for two hours (and two hours only for the well-being of the animals, we were told) the following: one large white duck with a bright yellow beak, one big fat freshly sheared sheep, two brown-spotted chickens with lively afros (one of which spent the entire time standing on the back of the sleeping sheep), one black pot-bellied, one absolutely adorable white bearded billy goat and a frisky miniature black pony--and tied around each animal's neck was a neatly pressed bandanna.

Next to the pen was a golden brown pony ride ready with saddle and stirrups and adjacent was a bunny snuggling station--a small area with cushions laid on the grass and napkins (poop protectors) for your lap where you could snuggle baby bunnies until all of your bunny snuggling yearnings were satiated.

What was even more incredible then the fact that this myriad of farm animals were so happily cohabitating, was the sheer cleanliness of the entire operation. A husband and wife team clad in movie set quality matching bandannas, cowboy hats and flannel shirts saw to every detail all the while taking people on pony rides. The animals were groomed to the point where you would feel perfectly comfortable eating off of their well-fed backs. Tied to the outside of the fence with ribbons were small vintage napkin lined buckets holding hand sanitizer--and not a single turd was in sight.

It's so L.A., isn't it? Instead of going to the farm, let's bring the farm to us! Nevertheless, Noey Finn partied like an animal--slobbering on each four-legged friend as if to say "you're too clean, so here, take that!".

As fun as the petting zoo party was though, I suddenly feel exceptionally unfit and underfunded to host Noah's first birthday--which is still a far and away 7 months off. Perhaps we could pen together Miles and Linus for petting, and if we're feeling extra extravagant perhaps we have enough time before the big day to teach them a trick or two?!