Ellen Pompeo on The View

Did you guys see Ellen Pompeo on The View last week? I didn't either. But I read about it all over the internet. In case you missed it, too, here it is:

Photo from Celebrity-Gossip.net
Ellen Pompeo, The View, May 12, 2011

Pompeo's appearance sparked a crazy amount of comments and stories on celebrity gossip websites. What do you think? I understand where both Ellen (who has a bi-racial child with her husband of color), and host Sherri Shepherd (an African American) were coming from. In essence, Ellen, either clearly or not so clearly, was trying to say that she wishes we could get to a place where skin color is not an issue. Sherri's point was that today, it is still an issue and that means there currently is a need for the NAACP and black colleges. Ellen's perspective is a hopeful one; Sherri's is a practical one.

I didn't love the way either woman delivered their respective points, but I did love the jumpsuit Ellen wore. So seventies fashionista chic, right?!

Drugstore Cowgirl II: Rimmel London

Blogger lost its mind last week. It was frozen in "read only" mode for two days. This meant the deletion of some posts and comments. One comment I received that was unfortunately lost in blog space, was on my Drugstore Cowgirl post from last week. The commenter, Maria, asked about Rimmel London products. Since I'm trying to make Drugstore Cowgirl a regular blog subject, I thought I'd answer her question using today's post.

Part of me loves Rimmel. Mostly because when I think about the company, I think about Kate Moss, their former spokesperson, who undoubtedly has the best style in the whole big fat world. And their new spokesperson, Zooey Deschanel, is ever so adorable, too. When it comes to this British beauty company, I think some of their products are great, but there are some that don't quite work for me.

The lip liners or pencils are good (I like Pure and Red Diva). They have more moisture and a wider pencil tip than most, so you can actually use them as a lipstick (I would suggest still using a base coat of lip balm). I also fell in love with their eye pencils (Sable). They are not chalky, nor do they smudge easily. And they feature a just-the-right-size blending sponge at the other end of the pencil. The blush is better than a few other drugstore brands I've tried and is the one I'm currently using on my own cheeks. I like the color choices of the lip gloss and the fact that they have an SPF. They're moist and not too gooey, but one kiss on a baby's cheek and you need to reapply that sucker.

I'm not in love with their mascara (I'm forever faithful to Maybelline New York) or their lipstick (it's a little watery or not thick enough for me so that it rubs off and smudges too easily). One thing I've discovered is that you should check the color of the actual makeup beneath the packaging, which is often quite different than what's inside. Oh and how I wish I could give their packaging a mini makeover (I love the crown logo but am not loving the club-y, 1980s iridescent purple of everything). Because as you may consciously or subconsciously know, packaging can make or break almost any purchase.

Naked in Nordstrom

Have you ever been standing in the dressing room of some shop or department store when a small child pops their head between the floor and the door or the wall and stares at you practically naked? I have. And I always hated it. No, it's not like he/she was thinking, "Oh, she looks bad in her underwear," but it still made me feel self conscious. Well, during a morning shopping trip today, Sabine did this and I felt horrible for the naked lady in the neighboring room. I told the little monster/peeping tom that people need their privacy. She actually listened to me and stopped visually harassing the poor woman. But then she opened the door to MY dressing room and ran down the fitting room hallway, where people were standing and waiting for rooms. She loves elevators and escalators and was running FAST in their direction. So instead of putting my clothes back on, I ran out in my underwear and snatched her up before she was gobbled up by any large, child-eating electronic device. Let's just say that it's now five o'clock and I have NOT recovered from being seen running through Nordstrom department store in my bra and underwear. And I don't think I ever will.

And yes, I totally look EXACTLY like this in my underwear.

It's T-Shirt Time

You guys, J.Crew has the most simple, soft and stylish t-shirts on the face of the earth.

I haven't gotten sick of stripes, and I love the long sleeves and buttons.

Translation: It's the small things or small victories. Je t'aime anything French.

This one features vintage lace. I love the plain white.

Drugstore Cowgirl I

As I mentioned in my bio, I used to edit and write for Allure magazine in New York. In the area of the editorial offices, we had a room that was perhaps the size of a master bedroom called the beauty closet. The space was home to every beauty product that was sent to the magazine that we either did a story on or that a company wanted us to do a story on. There were rows upon rows of every hair product you could imagine. There was every brand of sunscreen, self tanner, skincare product and makeup, including lipstick, mascara, foundation, blush, bronzer and false eyelashes. There was every color of nail polish, makeup bags, cases, compacts, brushes, tweezers, mirrors, blow dryers and flat irons. You get the idea. I didn't pay for a beauty product for two years. And I did so many stories on treatments and procedures that I didn't pay for a haircut or color or facial or massage for two years either. I was taking bottles of Creme de la Mer home for free, and even had my teeth whitened as research for a story.

Needless to say, things have changed. Since I no longer work for a beauty magazine and am a stay-at-home mom, I went from using Chanel, Shisedo and Yves Saint Laurent to wearing Covergirl, Revlon and L'Oreal. I cruise the aisles of Rite Aid and CVS, looking for my next makeup fix or the perfect shade of lipstick. And shockingly, it's kind of fun. The stores and these brands are so affordable and I've no one to impress other than Sabine and Kadin, who are very forgiving. This allows me to buy often and experiment. If it doesn't work, I toss it or give it away to my teenage neighbor. And if it does work, I just paid $7.99 for my new look.

Recently, I've discovered that the new Covergirl Lip Stain that everyone is talking about lasts about five seconds and then it looks like you have no lip color on at all. I've discovered that NOBODY makes better mascara than Maybelline (look for the pink-and-green application tube, which I promise gives you longer, thicker lashes than any department-store brand). I found that L'Oreal Paris's Infallible Never Fail Lipcolour Compact lasts FOREVER (if you don't take it off before bed, your lips will be rosy in the morning...highly recommended for an early relationship sleepover, when you want to wake up looking as good as you did the night before). And lastly, Maybelline New York makes the most wonderfully forgiving Dream Matte powder, giving the MAC powders some serious competition.

Again, no one is paying me to say any of this since I don't have any advertisers. I just feel like I need to share my secrets and let you know that having been on both ends of the beauty spectrum has taught me that you don't have to spend a million dollars to look and feel gorgeous.

L'Oreal Paris's Infallible Never Fail Lipcolour Compact
lasts forever and comes in this vintage cigarette lighter-like packaging.

Maybelline New York makes the most
wonderfully forgiving Dream Matte powder

Gift Horse

I need to buy an affordable gift for a friend, who has the most simple, beautiful style. Here's what I'm thinking:

,

Set of five glazed mini vases from CB2, $24.95

Three-piece lotus candleholder from CB2, $14.95

Older, Not Old

I'm such a jerk. The other day, I took Sabine to the library and we bumped into a woman and her young son, who we see around the neighborhood a lot. Whenever I see her, we always chat. She's super down-to-earth, warm and funny. During one of our conversations, she told me that her husband was older than she was. About two days later, I saw her at the farmer's market with a man who was much, MUCH older. Like, maybe at least 35 years older. He was definitely older than my dad and had white hair and a white beard. The difference in their age struck me.

There were all these moms who knew each other and were chatting and socializing (The South Pasadena farmer's market can feel a little like high school, which I ditched as often as I could). She and the man weren't chatting with anyone. But they also looked like they were on their way out. I made a point to approach them anyway and say hi to her and introduce myself to him. I don't remember exactly what I said, but it was something like, "Oh so you're Michael's dad blah blah blah." They were polite but looked at me strangely and kind of muttered something and said they had to go. I felt DUMB. I should've just let them leave and said hello the next time I ran into them. But I was trying too hard to be nice or make them feel comfortable, or maybe, make me feel comfortable. I don't know. I actually walked away feeling good about myself...good, but awkward due to their hasty departure.

When I saw this woman today, she was with her son--and a really hot (not hotter than my husband, of course) guy, who looked older, but not that much older, than I am. He was tan, fit and sort of George Clooney-ish (but maybe in his mid-to-late forties). She made a point to introduce him to me immediately, saying, "This is my husband." Man, did I feel like a butthole. I've never left a building more quickly.

Here I am feeling offended if people see me and Sabine and assume that I adopted her or that I'm the nanny. I looked at this woman and the old man she was with and probably assumed that her father or her friend or her neighbor was her husband. I did the very thing that I was complaining about. My assumption was based on appearance (and a small amount of information) and I completely over compensated as a result. I over thought the entire situation and totally embarrassed myself. What else is new?

My New Obsession

Illy issimo, a cold cappuccino drink that is so super delicious and the perfect antidote to making it through the afternoons your child decides to only take a thirty-five minute nap and then cry for no reason until bedtime. And nobody is paying me to say this since I've zero advertisers. I taste tested it in Von's yesterday, then bought a four-pack. (Illy is the best...and these are yummier and have more caffeine than those to-go-Starbucks-in-a-bottle thingies.)

Bye, Bye Baby

Ugh. Sabine was a tireless and dramatic mini mental patient yesterday. She napped for thirty-five minutes and then cried off and on until bedtime for no good reason (no, really. there was NOTHING wrong). And bedtime was its own adventure. It took her over an hour to fall asleep. She cried if I held her. She cried if I didn't hold her. She cried when I lay next to her. She cried when I didn't lay next to her. She threw the pillow off the bed, then cried because she wanted the pillow. Pure torture. And I'm pretty sure I cried  at some point out of pure frustration.

She finally passed out at 9:45. Dude, I can barely stay up that late. She's always been an early riser (lucky me!), but we just had a stretch where she was sleeping until seven. She would just play in her crib for maybe an hour before screaming at the top of her longs to be plucked from her little cage. But it looks like those days are over. I was sure she would sleep later today because her nap was so short and because she went to bed so late. Nope. The little monster started rattling her cage (kicking the bars of her crib repeatedly) at exactly 6:25. I watched her for a bit on the video monitor and then rolled over and turned my back to the monitor, thinking I could lie in bed for at least another thirty minutes. Five minutes later, I hear a big thump. I flip over and check the monitor. The crib was empty. That twenty-month-old, uncivilized powerhouse CLIMBED OUT OF HER CAGE. She finally figured it out. I knew it was coming. But isn't that supposed to happen when they're like two or two-and-a-half? I secretly dream about hammering posts to the top of the crib in an effort to make  it taller and keep her inside. But then I couldn't lift her out. I've heard there are crib extenders, tent-like coverings, but they're supposedly hazardous and can choke or suffocate them. Really? Are they sure about that? I'm sure she'd be fine. She could loosen whatever might get wrapped around her neck, couldn't she? I mean she just figured out how to climb out of that thing at 1.5 years-old. Besides, I have a monitor so I could see her and rescue her before anything happened, right?

I'm kidding. I won't buy the crib extenders. But I do fear going to sleep tonight. I'm hoping she waits until after six to climb out of that easy-to-escape crib again. I'm in no way, shape or form ready to wake in the middle of the night and perform some Super Nanny-style back-to-your-bed sleep training (We'd let her sleep in our bed if she would actually sleep, but she wakes and cries throughout the night.).

It's time for a bigger bed. It's time for knee pads and a helmet. It's time to seriously think about if we are really ready to do this all over again with a second one. And it's time to remember that, good or bad, no phase lasts forever and that as a parent you have to just roll with your little one, maintaining a flexible mind--and body--as often as you can.

Go the F*ck to Sleep by Adam Mansbach

A million bloggers have already posted this and it's been featured in The New York Times and  The New Yorker, but I'm posting it anyway since it was sent to me by my friend, who is L.A.'s coolest children's librarian. It's also a genius accompaniment to today's second post, Bye, Bye Baby. I swear that little shoeless nugget on the cover is Sabine: at home with the tigers, or any other fearless, wild animal.

"With illustrations by Ricardo Cortes, Go the F*ck to Sleep is beautiful, subversive, and pants-wettingly funny--a book for parents new, old, and expectant. You probably should not read it to your children." --Amazon.com

"Total genius." --Jonathan Lethem, author of Motherless Brooklyn, father of two

"A children's book for grown-ups! I really did laugh out loud--hilarious!" --David Byrne, musician, father of one

(*Available October 2011)

Holiday Shmoliday

Yesterday was Mother's Day. I was going to write about how much nicer this holiday is now that I'm a mom. (We don't do much, but it's usually an I-feel-really-lucky kind of day.) But then I remembered what it was like before I was a mom. And I thought about all of the people I love and the ones I don't even know who maybe loathe this holiday as much as I did for a period of time.

I remember that one year after my mom died, a co-worker asked me for suggestions for a great brunch place in the Venice/Ocean Park area (where I was living at the time) where he could take his mom for mother's day. I wanted to spit hot coffee in his face and then go home and lie in bed for two weeks. I would walk around town and see pastel-colored signage for Mother's Day gift ideas. I'd see vomit-inducing TV commercials that announced, "Tell your mother how much you love her with a blah blah from blah." I'd want to scream at the screen, "I can't TELL her ANYTHING, you arsehole." You couldn't go into a store without Mother's Day being shoved down your throat.

I was about thirty years-old when I lost my mom and I felt like shite on the bottom of your shoe for years. But when I think about a friend's situation, I feel like shite mixed with rotten eggs. My friend's sister died when she was in her late thirties. She had two children who were under the age of fourteen. I had my mom until I was thirty. How do you deal with being a motherless grade schooler and teenager? And how does my friend contently celebrate mother's day with her own children, knowing that her niece and nephew lost their everything way too soon? And how does her mother celebrate this holiday without mourning her eldest daughter?

It's f"cked up.

So on this mother's day, I didn't skip through wildflowers, eat brunch at a fancy restaurant and write poetry about being a mom. Instead, I squeezed Sabine every chance I got. And I thought about my mom every chance I got. And then I thought about all the people who've lost their mothers. And all the people who've lost children. And also, all the people who desperately want to be mothers but are not able to (because at one point, I was there, too).

Here's a great NPR piece that is the perfect accompaniment to this post: StoryCorps: Children Remember Their Mother's Influence. And it might just break your heart (which is okay because it's the day after the holiday).

Tiny Teepee

Can't wait to get one of these for Sabine. So Cool. Once she falls in love with it, we can go to Big Sur and stay in a yurt on a bluff that overlooks the Pacific Ocean. No, Really.

Images (top and bottom) from rikshawdesign

Taco Thursday

Since yesterday was Cinco de Mayo, Kadin (husband) and I agreed we would have a six pack of Dos Equis with lime and tacos from the La Estrella taco truck in Highland Park for dinner (the best tacos you will ever eat in your entire life and every taco you eat after this will taste like Taco Bell). We've been super excited because we were addicted to the taco truck for awhile, but recently cut back (oh, you know, our guts were growing faster than Sabine was growing taller). The evening before Cinco de Mayo, Sabine came down with a fever and has been a limp biscuit for the last day and a half. So at about noon or so, I call Kadin at work and here's how (part of) the conversation went:

Me: My sister's car broke down so I don't know if she'll be able to hang out on Saturday. Might change our plans entirely. Just a heads up.

Kadin: Oh okay. How is Sabine doing? Is her fever gone?

Me: No, it's still the same. She's really hot and seems worse. She will only lie on top of me. Just wants to be carried. Hasn't eaten anything today. She just sits in my lap and cries every 10 minutes in complete misery. It's been a long day. And now I feel like crap. I think I'm getting it. It would totally suck if I'm getting it. Or if she's still sick on Saturday because then I can't hang out with my sister. Do you think I'm getting it?

Kadin: Does that mean we're not having tacos for dinner tonight?

Me: Yes, we are still having tacos. And I'm having LOTS of beer.

Images (top and bottom) from The Great Taco Hunt

Happy Friday...and happy almost mother's day...

The Dream Catcher

Bookworm
Image by Adele Enerson for Mila's Daydreams, from Huffington Post

My Precious Pearl
Image by Adele Enerson for Mila's Daydreams, from Huffington Post

Surfer Girl
Image by Adele Enerson for Mila's Daydreams, from Huffington Post

Up
Image by Adele Enerson for Mila's Daydreams, from Huffington Post

 Adele Enerson (Mila's Daydreams), a mom and advertising copywriter who lives in Helsinki, creates imaginative scenes (ideas about what a baby dreams) with household items while her daughter, Mila, is sleeping. A book of her fantastically beautiful depictions, When My Baby Dreams, is scheduled to be published in January 2012 by HarperCollins.

A Dozen Wonders

Doesn't she look insane?!

1 Why can my 1.5 year-old very clearly say "octopus," but can't seem to pronounce "please"?

2 Is it wrong to let your child eat puffs off the floor of in Target because you hadn't even paid for them when she spilled them and her picking them up one by one and putting them in her mouth distracts her so you can shop?

3 Is it wrong to also let her eat peanuts off the concrete floor of the patio in the backyard?

4 Why does she have to stick her finger so deep into my ear socket that everything now sounds fuzzy and I have a constant headache?

5 Why does she know how to take her diaper off even when I put it on backwards?

6 Why don't I seem concerned when I come downstairs and she's standing on the glass dining room table chugging--and thoroughly enjoying--cold coffee from my commuter mug?

7 Would people look at me weird if I took her to a cantina in Pasadena today--Cinco de Mayo!--after naptime and ordered a margarita for me and nachos for us to share?

8 Why would she rather eat hand lotion or sunscreen than the delicious piece of cheese I just put in front of her?

9 Why does she throw any pillow, blanket, doll or stuffed animal over the side of her crib before she lies down and goes to sleep at night?

10 Why does she play hide and seek by running into the middle of a room, lying on the floor face-down and covering her eyes? Does she really think I can't see her? (There goes the genius theory.)

11 And why does a huge clan of screeching parrots have to park it in the tree outside her window each morning, waking her up at  6:00 a.m.? And since when do parrots live in abundance in South Pasadena? Shouldn't parrots only be in Costa Rica, Florida or the pet store? I officially hate parrots.

12 While shopping at Old Navy, do other kids try to ride the plastic dog, talk to the mannequins and scale the employee ladder with a bathing suit wrapped around their neck?

The Want

The new Anthropologie catalog came in the mail yesterday...

The seaside maxi dress that makes you
want to swim in the ocean and lie in the sand.

The glittery, bright orange top
that will flatter and make a statement.

The flirty corset top that makes
you want to hop on a plane to Istanbul.

The gauze-y poncho you can
throw over anything and everything.

Balance, Crossing the Line, and Props for Normalcy

Yesterday, I went to American Apparel's website because I love their stuff and want to buy more clothes for Sabine that she doesn't need. Um, has anyone ever noticed that in many ads or on websites for kids' stuff, there's often only one mixed or one African American baby, one Asian, one Hispanic and the rest are Caucasian? I didn't notice before I had Sabine. But now I do. I wish there were three of EACH...or just that it was more balanced. I don't want Sabine to grow up and look at this stuff and feel lonely or marginalized or different (although differences can be good or interesting, too).

The second thing I noticed when I looked at the women's section is that the female models look more like pubescent teenagers than they do women. There's a whole slideshow section within the "What's New" portion of the website. These poor girls look like they were lured to some weirdo's house in the San Fernando Valley for an innocent photo shoot-turned-practically-kiddie-porn. They look like uncomfortable, self-conscious deer in headlights who are being coerced into taking their shirts off. You know the camera man is probably a total creep. Oh that's right, it's Terry Richardson (If you know who he is, you know "creep" is an understatement.). I like the clothes, but geez.

This is Diane. Watch her little slideshow, and like me, you'll want to rescue
her and inject her with some fully clothed self confidence and self worth.

On the bright side, look at this woman (maybe she's young, too, but at least she's fully clothed)...how much do you love that she's not super skinny? She's normal. Yay. Finally.

Small Style

I'm loving the kids' line of clothing at American Apparel. So simple. So hip. I think Sabine needs this stuff ASAP (she DOESN'T NEED to see the half-naked models/teenagers they're calling "women" on that website)...

Good Hair

Sabine has curly, curly hair. It's not the texture of an Afro, but it's curly with some amount of frizz to it. I, too, have curly, frizzy hair. But I regularly have my hair blown out or straightened. And since she's only one-and-a-half, there's no way I'm taking Sabine to get her hair blown out. Nevermind the fact that she'd chuck the brush and the dryer across the room, chew the cord, eat the hair product and jump up and down in the chair until it was sufficiently broken.

The thing is, I don't want to straighten her hair even when she's older. Her curls are beautiful. But why don't I think MY curls are beautiful? And how can I teach her to feel good about herself and love her curls when I pay way too much money to have mine sucked out of my scalp by pulling and yanking with hot instruments until there's smoke wafting above my head and my face is shiny with sweat? Someday she's going to notice that mine is straight and hers is curly and she's going to wonder why.

From the time that Sabine was born until about six months ago, I did wear my hair curly. I did so because I wanted to lead by example. I would teach her to love herself by learning to love this part of me. But I hated the way my hair looked for that entire year. I felt ugly and frumpy and frizzy. I was reminded of being in the third grade, when the vocabulary word of the week was "frizzy." My teacher was struggling to give the class a satisfying definition of the word, so he asked me to stand up and used my hair texture as his in-the-flesh illustration. Everyone laughed (which inspired me to feign a stomachache and stay home from school the next day).

Ugh. So I guess I sometimes still feel ugly because I have frizzy hair. And I still look at women and girls with long, straight locks that you can run your fingers through--and I want that, and not what I've got. Apparently, so do billions of other people. Have you guys seen the Chris Rock documentary "Good Hair"? It details what black women go through to have straight, smooth hair. It's crazy: the amount of time and money they spend and the harsh chemicals they endure (In one scene, he submerges an empty soda can in the chemical used to straighten hair--lye--and the can is completely dissolved.). All of this because they feel their own hair texture isn't pretty or good enough. Rock made the documentary because his little girl, Lola, one day longingly referred to her Caucasian friend's hair as "good hair." Doesn't this just kill you? A tiny girl already feeling like what is naturally hers isn't good enough?

I don't want this to be Sabine. But at some point, I'm sure that it will be. And there's absolutely no way that I can look her straight in the eye and tell her that she is beautiful and that her frizzy curls are beautiful with straight hair on my head. For that reason, I'm going to wash my hair and wear it curly tomorrow. And I'm going to try--again--to love myself just the way I am so that Sabine has a better chance of loving all of who she is.

And if that doesn't work and I find myself going straight again because the hair thing is just bigger than the both of us (I'm pretty sure it might be), then I will do my best to teach Sabine to like who she is even if she's not in love with her hair. I will support her in her effort to express herself through her hair and her clothes; to experiment with being different and being the same; and arriving at whatever place she feels the most comfortable when it comes to her appearance. I will tell her that while people do judge you by the way that you look, what's inside is far more important.

I Love You, Stinky Face...

...is Sabine's most favorite book right now. She likes to read it at least three times a day. And I owe a small fortune to our local library because it's way overdue. I have to admit that I love it, too. In an over saturated children's book market, it's so hard to find stuff that engages Sabine and is fun for us to read or makes us laugh. This one does all of that. It's kind of a more imaginative version of Guess How Much I Love You. Check it out.

Happy Birthday

The front of a card my mother gave to my cousin when she had her first child.

Happy Birthday, Mama. I love you to the moon and back and think about you every day. I tell Sabine about you as often as I can. Every time we see a crow, I hope that means you are somehow, maybe watching over us. I wish you could see her. You would fall in love with her just like I have. And I wish I could see you. And tell you that I finally understand how difficult and beautiful it is to be in this position. But also, I wish I could tell you that I finally have some understanding and knowing of how loved I was by you. And that's everything. Because now I know that it was the most.

It hasn't gotten easier, it's just been longer since you left. It was way too soon and nothing is the same. You made us better. We miss you. And maybe it's too painful and impossible to all be together without you. But today, we remember all of it and how much we love each other no matter what. And we celebrate the day you came into the world and made it a kind of beautiful that no one else could.

I hope that because I'm part of you, you're always with me...Laura

Not So Tiny Tunes

Sabine, when she was first born, at Kaiser hospital in L.A.

Before I had Sabine, I would ride in cars with friends and their little ones, listening to children's music. I hated it. It drove me cah-razy. The music was bad or annoying. And usually the adorable peanut in the backseat wanted to hear the same song over and over again. I promised myself that I would never listen to children's' music while someday hopefully driving around with my own backseat nugget. I figured that if I stuck to my music, nugget would like it, never knowing what he/she was missing (at least for awhile).

I'm proud to report that I've actually achieved this for the time being. I'm shocked and grateful. Driving with loud music, the windows down and the wind in my hair is one of my most favorite things to do (and was greatly missed during my New York City subway-riding days).

Luckily, Sabine has always loved music. When I was five months pregnant, we took a family trip (with my in-laws) to St. Thomas. It was Carnival and Kadin's mom was super excited to take us to the parade. I was excited, too, until I arrived and saw there was no seating, no shade and a lot of walking in the hot sun along the parade route (Who am I kidding? I hate parades. I just never admit it because everyone else seems to love them and I don't want to be called "jaded." Again.). I was crabby and miserable until I felt Sabine start to kick inside my belly. It was one of the first times that I REALLY felt her kick. The other times felt more like indigestion than a growing human being moving around inside her little aquarium, also known as my gut. But it was as if she were kicking to the beat of the music. She wasn't really, but she was moving consistently and A LOT and she stopped when the music stopped. And since then, she starts moving her body every single time she hears music. It doesn't matter where she is or who is around, she starts dancing and smiling.

Now, remember my "What Do You Do All Day?" post, when I said that I would tell you why I was lucky to be Sabine's mama even though I went on and on about her insanity? This is one of the reasons. When we climb into the car together and I turn on music and roll down the windows, Sabine starts kicking her legs and moving her arms. She throws some clapping in there once and awhile and smiles the whole time. And when I stop at a light, I do the same thing and her smile grows even bigger. And we don't care who is watching in the car next to us. If we're in a store and hear a tune we like, it's the same thing. We dance as if no one is watching. And it feels really good to be that unselfconscious--that free--for the first time in my life.

Here's our current playlist (This is music we agree on. She's a tougher critic than I'd like her to be):

1. Sex on Fire--Kings of Leon (by far, her new favorite)

2. Annie Waits--Ben Folds

3. Zak and Sara--Ben Folds

4. I Feel It All--Feist

5. Sealion--Feist

6. Let England Shake--PJ Harvey

7. August Day Song--Bebel Gilberto

8. They Say Vision--Res

9. Sunday Morning--K-OS (definitely her all-time favorite)

10. Anything by Gorillaz

11. Breakdown--Handsome Boy Modeling School

12. Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots--The Flaming Lips

...and if she's not into **THIS**, I will seriously lose it. Modest Mouse and Oukast? Found out yesterday and thought I'd died and went to music heaven.

Calypso St. Barth

Calypso St. Barth for Target is available on Sunday (May 1)! Happy almost Mother's Day to me. I remember living in New York and wandering around NoLita. I was obsessed with the shop there and everything in it (loose-fitting pieces in colors like turquoise, fuschia, tangerine and lemon with just the right amount of beading or trim or sparkle detail...making you want to run off to Istanbul or Morocco or the South of France or Portugal). Of course, I couldn't afford it on the slave wage I was making as an editorial assistant at Allure magazine. But now it's super affordable because it's at Target!

P.S. My special shopping secret that I really don't want to share but will anyway is at the Calypso St. Barth website. If you shop their online sale section but wait to purchase until they advertise for 50% off the sale price, you will seriously score.

P.P.S. Sabine tried to eat coffee grounds, a quarter, and a tube of my favorite fuchsia lipstick while I was writing this.

Mountain Climbing

Before I met the man who is now my husband, I planned a three-week trip to Peru. The idea was to work and live in an orphanage for two weeks and then hike the Andes for four days to see Machu Picchu. I was interested in volunteering at an orphanage because I was in my late thirties, boyfriend-less and felt destined to be a lonely, old and childless cat lady. The orphanage work (caring for the kids and helping to repair the building, too) was in preparation for a possible future adoption. I really wanted to be a mom (and figured that if there was a motherless child out there, maybe we could be less lonely together). The hiking to Machu Picchu idea came about because I was writing and editing for an architecture magazine and wanted to see what a mountain-high, fifteenth-century Inca compound looked like. But I almost died getting there.

Here's most of a post-trip letter I wrote to my fellow Cusco, Peru, orphanage volunteers (who were smart enough to daytrip via train to Machu Picchu):
 

...I'm still trying to pull it together after returning to CA. Haven't unpacked yet. Still need to develop my pics. AND I need to go to the doctor to have my ankle looked at. Why? Because I sprained it on the treacherous, life threatening, can't-believe-it-was-that-difficult, pushed-me-over-the-edge (literally and figuratively) damn Inca Trail. Man, it was by far the most difficult thing I've ever done. And it was as mentally taxing as it was physically horrible. It rained most of the time. There were loads of rocks and mud which meant it was difficult to keep your footing. I, of course, fell down the side of a small cliff and inherited loads of bruises and cuts and blood all up the side of my body. I got dehydrated one day. And on the last day, I sprained my ankle. Someone lent me their walking stick, since apparently two legs weren't enough for me. So the stick helped me hobble to the finish line on that last day, when there was an obscene amount of rain and it was pitch black because we left at 4 a.m. I'm pretty sure that I literally crawled a portion of the muddy, rocky trail on that day. Dignity is overrated. I was so bruised and exhausted and one-legged...no shower in four days...and my guide, Jose Titto, still kept trying to make out with me. Geezus. It was funny and scary and amazing and beautiful and overwhelming and impossible all at the same time. I hiked my ass off and still kept a good pace (was never last) and was one of the only people who carried a pack the whole time. I was trying to be tough/authentic--everyone else hired a porter to carry their packs for them. Silly me.

The people in my group were fun but did not even come close to being the kind of human beings that the five of you are. I'm so privileged to have spent that time with you. I'll never forget it.

And lastly, it seems almost absurd that my boss expects me to now sit at a desk and perform for eight hours a day. My attention span is completely shot and I can't sit still for that long. I keep trying to explain to him that in Peru you work for four hours and then sit for at least two hours while someone runs out and gets supplies or moves scaffolding. Eight hours straight? Ridiculous.

So I hope all of you are well...you're in my thoughts...I'll send pics/CD's, notes, etc. soon.

Lots of love,

Laura

I'm just going to be honest and tell you that climbing the Andes felt a lot like childbirth and my first year of motherhood. One took four days; the other took about thirty seven hours and 365 days.  Either way, I highly underestimated both experiences. While I felt as though I should be beaming with joy and wonder, I instead questioned how or if I would make it to the end. And there were times, too, that I felt completely alone. I hiked the Andes alone (I was with a group, but every person was in a pair: couples, friends and family, who helped each other up or down the mountains and slept together in their tent each night.). And even though I have the most wonderful and loving husband and child I could ever imagine, there were times during my first year as a mom that even he couldn't help me and she took so much from me that I wasn't sure I could go on.

But I did make it. And I'm happier and stronger than I have ever been. Sabine gives back about a thousand times more than she takes now. So much so that I miss her when she sleeps and can't wait to see her each morning. There's a light at the end of what can be a dark tunnel of the first year of parenthood. And no, I did not have postpartum depression. That year is just f*cking hard. And everyone is too busy telling you how great having children is that they forget to tell you that it's also terrifying and a lot like careening down a dark road with no brakes, road map or SLEEP and the weight of the world on the hood of a car that you've no idea how to drive. But there's a light. I promise.

The Steez of a Lady

There's a deliciously cute bag I'm currently jonesing for. It's at Lady, a most stylish and hipster-y boutique in Eagle Rock (part of L.A.). Lucky for you, Lady stuff is available online, too.

This chic tote is so architectural and reminds me of a mid-century modern pattern (for the editors in the house, I KNOW that "mid-century" and "modern" are redundant, but the term is colloquial and I'm all about accessibility). It's wonderfully large...so if you're a mama, you'll look cool carrying the diapers and wipes...and snacks and toys and extra clothes and jacket and blanket...okay, so you need a small suitcase. Well, this bag stylishly--and affordably--does the job.

Happy Hunting

I've never much been into the Easter holiday. I was when I was little. It was then that my mom still put baskets out for us (I have three siblings) and I believed in the whole bunny idea. But as I grew, she stopped doing baskets and made us sit in church (I was raised Catholic...and I mean RAISED: Catholic grammar school and an all-girls Catholic high school) for what felt like a week in what was usually a too-girly dress for my liking.

But for the first time in about twenty years, I had a different feeling about Easter this year--thanks to Sabine.

It was ridiculously fun watching her hunt for eggs. She has never been so focused. She found more eggs than the other kids and wouldn't stop looking for them even after the hunt had ended. And she didn't even care about the fact that there was candy inside of the eggs. Long after the hunt, she stumbled across a pile of opened and empty plastic eggshells that the older kids had taken the candy from and discarded. Sabine thought she'd hit the jackpot. She started pointing and speaking Sabine (nobody else speaks this language so we have no idea what she was saying) and falling all over herself to put the brightly-colored shells in her basket as quickly as she could. Of course, there was no rush since no one else wanted them. But I didn't tell her that. I think she's smarter than anyone else. Because when you are old like me--or young like Sabine--you realize that in many cases, the hunt is way more fun than the find. The thrill is trying to get there...and the heart-pounding feeling and the hope and the lofty imagination of what it will be like when you do. Because when you're actually there, it's over or gets old quickly. It's another piece of candy and you've a stomachache from eating too much of it.

Ikea Adventure

Last week, Sabine and I tripped through Ikea in an effort to modestly refresh her room, which is light blue, red, black and white (a layered look inspired by a summer collection by Ralph Lauren Home from two years ago). We wound our way around that maze of a megastore and Sabine unmade the beds, climbed on top of tables, sat in drawers, hid behind draperies, ate a few meatballs then fell asleep in her sling (my arms) in the checkout line.

Here's what we took home:

this, too:

these:

and this:

What Do You Do All Day?

Photo by John Broeckel

I'm a stay-at-home-mom to a nineteen-month-old. A surprising number of people ask me, "What do you do all day?". It's almost never a person who is currently a mother to a baby or a small child. Because if you were, you would NEVER ask such a thing.

Maybe the curious cat who is asking said absurd question has seen me walking behind Sabine as she totters down the sidewalk. And maybe it looks like we have all the time in the world; nowhere in particular to go; and not a single care. When it comes to Sabine, that's exactly what's happening inside her blossoming brain. In my case, that's a big fat lie.

What do I do all day? Today, I woke up at 6:00 a.m. with a huge headache from the two glasses of celebratory almond-flavored champagne I had yesterday. It didn't matter that I needed more sleep and felt like dog vomit because Sabine was ready to start her day. Her dad goes into her room and plucks her out of her cage, uh, I mean crib, changes her diaper and carries her into our room. She's yelling (seriously yelling, foghorn-style), "maaaa, maaaa, maaaaMA!" the entire time. He puts her on our bed with me and I offer her a water-and-juice cocktail. She takes a gulp, THROWS the cup over the side of the bed and starts pointing to my chest yelling, "mi. mi. mi. MIIIIII!" demanding the breast milk that I am trying so desperately NOT to give her anymore. I try to distract her with Sesame Street while I run downstairs and grab her a cup of yogurt that Kadin can feed her while I take a shower. My warm shower is lovely for the first two minutes, until Sabine notices I'm gone, comes into the bathroom and holds the shower door open so that water pours onto the floor. Soon enough, her pajamas are soaking wet and I am freezing cold. I rush the rest of my shower and towel off the soap I didn't have time to rinse.

Then I try to get dressed. Since Sabine wants to do whatever I'm doing, she tries to get dressed, too. This means she pulls all of my clothes out of every drawer she can reach, then runs around the room with a bra or pair of underwear on her head. She then decides she's tired of being upstairs so she starts throwing toys, or any object, down the stairs so that we will (and she will be allowed) to go down and stay down. I try and stall the descent by offering her toothpaste and a toothbrush (she loves this activity for some reason) so that I can put away all of the clothes she's dumped out.

Now we're downstairs (husband is upstairs getting ready for work, which really means he is reading the newspaper online and watching TV), where I proceed to get Sabine dressed, feed her what she wouldn't eat upstairs, change her diaper at least two more times (during which she runs away and sticks her hands into her own poop, getting it everywhere, which then leads to changing her clothes again and/or a morning bath). In addition (and this is all happening before 9:00 a.m.), I TRY to make myself some coffee, eat a protein bar, put on a little makeup, brush my hair and brush Sabine's hair--always a highly dramatic event. Again, picture lots of running way, crying out and lopsided ponytails.

We are outside fairly early and Sabine is running down the sidewalk. I run after her the whole time, making sure she doesn't run into the street or pass a driveway as a car is coming out. Or step in dog poop or try to drink from puddles on the sidewalk--both of which she does all the time. Since she refuses to ride in the stroller, I usually end up carrying her (Kadin always tells me to stop because she weighs as much as "a small safe." He's not wrong.). The rest of the day includes feeding her lunch, much of which she spits out or throws on the floor; changing many more diapers; putting back the contents of the drawers and cupboards she empties; removing her from tables, chairs and bookshelves she's scaled; and busying her with as many activities as I can think of...all of which she tires of  quickly. If we color or use playdough, she eats the crayons or the dough. She rips the pages out of the coloring books.

For naptime, I lay down with her until she falls asleep and then sneak out. Before falling asleep, she destroys her room. She pulls all of the books from the bookshelf and takes all of her diapers from her changer. She hides in the closet and throws all of the pillows from the bed and the rocking chair onto the floor. She empties her toys chest and the contents of her play kitchen. When she finally passes out, I try to write. The respite lasts no more than two hours so I get very little done.

When she wakes up, we have a snack, more outside time and short-lived activities until her dad comes home. I then DEFROST dinner (thank you, Trader Joe's). I hate cooking and by dinnertime, I'm exhausted. I'd like to order takeout and drink a glass of wine while I wait for it to be delivered  but Kadin and I agreed that I would "make" dinner three nights a week (he makes it two nights, and we eat out on the other two nights).

Sabine empties more contents of the kitchen while I do dinner because she has to be where I am EVERY SECOND. This frees her dad up for more leisurely laptop time. Lucky him. But dad gives her a bath and puts on her pajamas after dinner (and a little TV time) and I get to relax for a whole twenty minutes. Then it's story time, and finally--bedtime! Again, we lay with her until she falls asleep and then transfer her to her crib. Kadin usually falls asleep before Sabine, which means she can't fall asleep because he snores so loud that I want shove a fork into my eye socket. Or his nose so that maybe he'll stop snoring. She eventually drifts off like dad. I put her in the crib and gently wake him up so we can tiptoe out.

It's now just past 9:00 and if we are lucky, we can keep our eyes open long enough to talk and spend a little time together. But sometimes we can't. 

So that is what I do all day. It's more exhausting and requires more patience and dedication than working at any of the major fancy, glossy, 9-to-8 magazine jobs I've had. And though I joke, it's also a hundred times more rewarding, interesting and thoughtful. I just detailed all of the gruesome parts in an an effort to explain how laborious this ginormous job is. But there are so many wondrous and hysterical moments that accompany the crazy ones.

Today's blog post is birth control. In one of the next ones, I will tell you why and how lucky I am to be Sabine's mama. And assuming you can make it through the first sleepless year, you will want to procreate and over populate this country just like the rest of us with a little monster similar to Sabine.