You Listened

How many times had you crept into their rooms at night and pressed your face against them to hear the soft hiss of baby breathing, to feel that warm, sweet milky breath in your ear, always needing that reassurance that yes, mama, those babies in your care are strong and sure and thriving. It only had to happen once, that pivotal moment when you had to choose: either tell yourself you're being ridiculous or trust your intuition.
You sensed the monster, the fire that slipped into his room, and before that, the carbon monoxide, with its vile tentacles spreading out from his lungs to veins to blood, and yours too. You listened. That voice. Check the baby. Check the baby. You pressed your cheek against his, heard that baby breathing, the steady rhythm. You listened. You laid down beside him. And because you chose to trust yourself, he still breathes today.

#tinystories

Meeting my Muslim Neighbors

Islamic Society of West Valley/ Inter-faith dinner

Last week, my eleven-year old son Evan confided in me that he’s been having some fears about ISIS, because of all that he’s seen on the news, and heard from friends at school. He told me that a few days before, a delivery man wearing a turban came to our front door to deliver a package and he was afraid that it might be ISIS with a bomb.

I realized that this was a pivotal moment for him, so I stopped what I was doing and we had a long talk. I told him that the delivery man was most likely a Sikh, first of all, and Sikhs are not affiliated with ISIS. Second, I told him that Muslims make up 21% of the world’s population, and just as the KKK do not represent Christianity, the violent people of ISIS do not represent the religion of Islam, and are only a tiny fraction of a percentage of Muslims. I also told him that in 2015, toddlers handling their parents guns killed more people in America than terrorists did, so the probability of him running into a terrorist are, again, a fraction of a percentage. (He’s a math kid, so he likes this percentage stuff.)

But I realized that what might matter for him more than percentages would be to have a positive experience with the muslim community. So I reached out to my friend Virginia Classick, the inter-faith queen of the gun violence prevention movement, and asked for her help. She suggested that I attend an inter-faith Ramadan dinner at my local mosque.
Evan was so nervous on the way there. “How long will it be?” “What If I’m dressed wrong?” “What if I’m the only white kid, and everyone thinks I’m weird?” “What if I don’t like the food? Do I have to eat it?”

When we arrived, we were warmly welcomed, and within minutes, Evan ran off with a pack of kids to the children’s classrooms upstairs, where they played together for hours. It turns out, one of the kids, Raif, is a classmate of Evan’s. Now they are friends.
The highlight of the evening for me, aside from the amazing food (which Evan happily ate), was when we were all welcomed into the mosque for evening prayers. I sat on the floor in the mosque next to Muslims, Christians, Jews, and Sikhs. And as the plaintive song of prayer filled the room, and the worshippers bowed and knelt, we could hear the rumble of our children’s footsteps upstairs, and their laughter as they chased each other down the halls.

The Imam pointed out that though the Arabic is the language of their prayers, the congregation at their mosque were people who spoke many different languages and were from very different cultures. In the front row were congregants from India, Iran, Kenya, Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, Indonesia and others. The overwhelming takeaway from the evening was community, unity, love and service.

Evan is not the only one who benefitted from this evening. I, too, made many new friends. Farha, Ashia, Namia, RevFelicia Parazaider from the Love Revolution in Berkeley, Stephanie from the Vineyard Christian Church, and I even ran into a few old friends there: my activist friend Spike Dolomite Ward, and long-time friend Cantor Mike Stein. Standing next to me in the photo (in the pretty pink jihab) is my new friend Farha. She is originally from India. We talked about mostly mom stuff: our kids schools, the best local programs, the winning academic decathlon program at the local high school that her son had participated in (he is now at UCLA), and the challenges of middle school. We also talked about the misperceptions being spread about “Sharia Law.” Farha reminded me that amongst the first of Sharia laws are prayer, charitable giving, and fasting as reminder of what we are grateful for (sound like any other religion you know?). Everyone I spoke to from the Mosque warmly embraced and welcomed us, and invited us to come back, anytime.

When I finally rounded Evan up to leave at about 10PM, he was happily lounging with his new pals playing Super Mario Brothers in one of the children’s classrooms. As we left, he said, “That was really fun. I’m so glad we came!”

So am I.
Mission accomplished.

Evan with his new pals.

“Oh Me of Little Faith”

As many of you know, I’ve been on a daily practice of meditation and prayer, and my life has begun to shift. (If you read any of my blogs from the disastrous years of 2010 and 2011, you know I’ve come a long way. Faith was my only way out of darkness.)

         My seven year old, Evan, has walked in on my practice on a few occasions. “What are you doing?” he’d ask.

Meditating,” I’d say.

“That looks boring…”  he’d say.

I pray for my children every night. My two oldest are on their own paths to faith, unsure, maybe a little bit cynical, as I was when I was raising them. But Evan came along at a time when I am stronger in my faith. And what exactly is my faith, you might wonder? I have faith that there is a grand intelligence that created a world so perfect and full of beauty and wonder that I could never squash it into a simple definition with my feeble human brain. I know that it cannot be encapsulated completely by a book, or words. I know it is something you must discover in your own heart, in your own way. I know there have been times when I was saved from certain disaster, times when I was lifted above the abyss. I know that we survived being asleep in a burning house while poisoned with carbon monoxide. And I’ve lived long enough to know that my prayers are eventually answered in unexpected ways.

The other night, as I was praying for Evan, I decided instead to pray with Evan. I knelt next to his bed.

“What are you doing?” he whispered.

“I’m praying for your health and happiness and safety,” I said.

“How do you do it?”

“You talk to God in the language of your own heart, and if there is something you need help with, you ask.”

“I want to ask something,” he said, and then he proceeded with this prayer: “Dear God, I want to know if you are real so please send me a message. If you are real, drop a hat out of the sky and let it land on my front porch.”

“Hmm…that might be a little tough,” I said, “because hats don’t fall out of the sky so you’re asking for a pretty big miracle.”

“Well, how about a flower, then? If you are real God, please put a flower on the porch by 7:30 am so I can see it before I leave for school. You should be able to do that because you make flowers.”

Not wanting to interfere with his prayer process, I smiled and kissed Evan good night. Before I walked away I added, “God doesn’t always answer our prayers in exactly the way we want, and not always when we want…just so you know.”

I then vacillated about whether I should go outside in my bathrobe, pick a flower and leave it on the porch. I didn’t want him to be disappointed in the morning (Oh me of little faith). Eventually I decided not to interfere.

The next morning I was sitting on my bed reading. The cat budged my bedroom curtains open to watch the birds outside, and that was when I saw something yellow out of my peripheral vision. I got up to investigate. There was a yellow daisy laying on our deck. It was 7:22 am.

“Evan! Come here, quick! You have to see this!”

Evan stepped out onto the deck and scooped the yellow daisy up. He started jumping up and down, “He’s real! He’s real! I can’t believe it, God is real!” (Oh little he with faith)

My eyes filled with tears for this tiny miracle. Not only was it a flower, it was one of the silk daisies we’d used to decorate for Taylor and Aya’s wedding three and a half years ago, and just as Aya and Ayumu are about to come back to the U.S. Where had it come from?

So, is God real, or is this just a coincidence? Each of us has to decide. Each of us will struggle with faith through the blessings and hardships in our own lives, and I know Evan is no exception. He will have his good days and his bad. If he is anything like me he’ll have moments where he loses faith completely, and will have to fight hard to gain it back. But he will always have this sweet little story…of a yellow daisy that dropped from the sky and landed on his porch before 7:30am.

Maybe I should have let him stick with the hat request.

(Oh me of little faith…)

People...Who Needs 'Em?

Leave it to my seven-year-old to ask questions that plunge me into an existential crisis.

Lately, Evan has developed a fear of bees. To quell this fear, I take him hiking, and let him observe the bees at work. I tell him to notice how the bees aren’t interested in harming him, only in doing their own important work. When he asks why their work is important, I launch into a big explanation of bees importance in the cycle of life, how they pollenate the plants other species need to survive, and how, if they didn’t exist, humanity as we know it could virtually be wiped out.

“So now you know how important bees are, and why the world needs them.”

He seems to accept this answer, and is slightly less afraid of bees.

Days later, we’re out on a hike, and he asks, “Why are we important?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean like…bees make honey and pollenate the flowers and all that. But what do people do?”

“Well, we make art and build beautiful cities and …”

“No, I mean, what do we do that’s important to keep the planet alive?”

And every answer I come up with….(we feed the homeless, we save animals from extinction, we plant trees…) is something we humans do as a result of some disaster we’ve created (poverty, extinction, deforestation).

Later, still struggling for a good answer for my kid, I go online and find nothing, save for a few philosophical discussions on message boards, and a YouTube video of Barbra Streisand singing, People…people who need people. But here’s a question. Does any other species, does the planet, in fact, need people?  One message-board-person hypothesizes that we are driven to create and build, and therefore perhaps we can one day save the planet from destruction by an asteroid. Well…it’s a stretch but. Maybe.

I’m not an anthropologist. I’m sure there are a lot of great reasons humans are needed in the circle of life, but I am currently stumped for an answer.

Anyone?

The Questions of a Child

The Thinker

Driving home from school each day, these are the questions I get from Evan, almost seven years old. They come out of nowhere, and I'm never quite ready for them...

When is the future?

Who is the first person that caused the traffic?

Why can’t we go fast and slow at the same time?

What is war?

When was Santa Claus born?

If Santa is old, does that mean he’ll die soon?

Can children die?

Did Hitler kill children? Even babies?

What is disease?

Can children get a disease?

Will you die before me, Mommy?

Is magic real?

Who is the world's youngest person?

Who is God?

Why did someone kill Martin Luther King, Jr.?

Will someone kill Santa?

This is just last week's worth of questions. It has always been my policy to answer my children's questions in a simplistic, age-appropriate and honest way. But tell me...what is the simple answer to any of these?

Oh how I wish he could stay in the magic bubble of belief where Santa and toothfairies are real and children never die and good guys always win. But as I watch him ingesting my "simple" answers, I can see him changing. No longer is he the five-year-old boy that didn't know what the word "death" meant, nor the six-year-old boy who believed that all people lived to be 100 years old. 

I can only hope to keep improving my own outlook on the "real world", to expose Evan to beauty and art and culture and philanthropy, and hope that he inherits faith and hope from us as he makes his way into this crazy-beautiful, messy, chaotic world of wonder. 

In the meantime, I'd better steel myself for next week's questions...

A Lesson In Courage

The other day, Troy, Evan and I were in the mountains walking our dog Stitch when Evan developed a sudden fear of red ants on the ground. These are the same ants we walk over on our hikes every single day, but now he wanted me to carry him and protect him from the ants. I saw this as a perfect opportunity for a life lesson.

“Evan, do you know what courage is?”

“No, what is it?”

“It’s when you feel afraid of something, but you do it anyway. That’s how you build courage. Building courage is the only way to become brave.”

He thought about it for a moment.

I continued, “Do you want me to carry you or would you like to try using your courage?”

 “I want to be brave!” He said, and then marched right over those ants with a smile on his face.

Each day since, he storms through the fields over those ants, and calls out “Look Mommy! I’m brave!” He feels great about himself. He feels empowered, and that’s what I want for him.

Evan loves bugs- this is a caterpillar he found.

Courage is a muscle that becomes weak and atrophies without use. As far as I’m concerned, it’s never too early for Evan to start flexing this muscle. Lord knows he’ll need it later in life. I've relied on this muscle more than any other for the past two years. 

If I try to shield my son from the difficulties of life, how will he have the confidence or skills to face challenges on his own? How will he respond to new situations, or to a bully on the playground?

I want him to get a jump on this, so life doesn’t kick his ass later. The truth is, we’re all going to be faced with situations in life that scare us, and when that happens, how are we going to rise to meet it? Are we going to run away and hide? Expect someone else to deal with it for us? Stuff our fear away through addictions? Denial?  I want my kid to walk into his life with courage.

I have learned the hard way, the only way to get through life is to face challenges head on. And it’s never too early, or too late, to start. 

Adventures in Parenting Evan

Our Evan
Photo by Alex Sears

All three of my children have impacted who I am, the way I think, and view the world. But this kooky little character who came along most unexpectedly in my forties, well, he is the daily twist in my life plot. Let me illustrate for you. Here’s a glimpse into just one day with my five-year old, Evan.

Morning:

This kid doesn’t just wake up. He bolts upright and out of bed like he’s been shot from a cannon. I hear his thunderous footsteps throughout the house. He is not just awake, but instantly on fire for life.

Late morning:

He’s alone in his room, lining up his stuffed animals as contestants on Wheel of Fortune. He is Pat Sajak.

Lunch:

At a restaurant, he orders a hamburger. My child has shunned all meat since he was born, never tried it, even as an infant.

“A hamburger?” I ask, “But you’ve never eaten a hamburger before. Are you sure?”

“Mommy, you told me it’s good to try new things, so today I want to try a hamburger. I LOVE hamburgers!”

So we order him one. When it comes, he takes the top bun off and says, “What’s that brown thing?”

“That’s a hamburger, honey.”

“No, I mean this round brown thing in the middle- what is it?”

“It’s hamburger meat.”

“I don’t want the brown thing, just the hamburger.”

So he takes the brown thing off and proceeds to eat his “hamburger” – two white bread buns with nothing on them.

Afterward we go to the library to drop off an overdue book, and make a quick bathroom trip. On the way out, the librarian, who knows us, asks if she can find Evan anything special today. She knows he’s a big geography buff, and usually asks for atlases, or foreign language books.

“No, thanks” he said as we walked out. But then he says he wants to go back and tell her something really important. He ran back like he had the biggest news in the world.

“Excuse me, Ma’am?” (He knows good manners always get full attention)

“Yes, Sweetie?”

He says, LOUDLY, “I just wanted to tell you we only came to the library today because my Mom had to pee.”

Outside the library, Evan stops at the wishing well. He drops his penny in with a wide-eyed look and a big smile.

“What did you wish for, Ev?”

“I wished I was made out of honey so I could lick myself!”

Afternoon:

We stop at Toy’s R Us, as I promised to buy him a toy he’d earned by getting gold stars on his “no nail biting” chart. He decided on a Power Rangers “Samuraizer”.  He was giddy to open the package in the car. As I freed the “Samuraizer” from it’s packaging he twiddles his fingers and says, “Come to Papa, Samuraizer!”

Bedtime:

I read him his story, tuck him in, and turn out the light. Just as he’s dozing off, he calls me.

“Mommy?”

“Yes?”

Eyes still closed…”You should get pajama jeans,” he said groggily.

(muffling giggle) “Really, why’s that?”

“Because they’re so…(zzz)… comfortable, you’ll want to wear them..(yawn)  all the time.”

“Okay honey. I’ll give that some thought. Good night.”

Zzzzzzzz….

(He was even a funny baby- see pics below)

Evan started walking at 9 months, when he was barely bigger than a wine bottle. I'm not going to explain why he's walking around with a wine bottle. 

We call this pic "Sticker shock"...Only 2 bucks?? No way!

Mother Guilt, Part 2

Last month in my blog “Mother Guilt”, I worried that my youngest son Evan might not remember all the good times we’ve had; playing Candyland on the floor, reading books together and building castles out of blocks, but instead might only have memories of me yelling at him and sending him to his room. After all, it’s a human flaw that we remember our injuries much more clearly than our victories, the bad over the good, the insult over the compliment. It’s impossible to know what a person will hold onto and carry in his heart.

Cut to this morning. Evan came running into my bedroom, his underwear backwards and on the OUTSIDE of his pants (I don’t even ask anymore), and he says he has a great idea.

Evan: I know, Mommy! I’ll pretend I’m YOU, and you pretend you’re ME, okay?

Hmmmm….I thought, this is a great way to see how he views me, plus I’m always up for a good game of make believe.

Me: Okay. Starting now, you are Mommy.

Evan: (in high squeaky voice) Hello my precious boy!

Me: sigh…

Evan: I’m going to make you lunch. What would you like?

Me: Hmmm… how about cookies and cake?

Evan: No honey, that’s not good for you. But I’ll make you a peanut butter sandwich.

Me: Thank you Mommy

Evan: What nice manners you have! You’re going to get a sticker on your chart! And after your lunch you can have ice cream.

Me: Can I have a big huge chocolate ice cream with chocolate sauce?

Evan: No – that will make you too hyper. Then he thinks for a minute. Wait! I changed my mind. You CAN have chocolate! It’s good for you!”

He hands me a toy.

Evan: I bought this present for you today!

Me: Oh boy! Why do I get a present?

Evan: Because you’re my precious boy and I love you soooo much.

* sigh*

Mother guilt…alleviated. At least for today.

Chutes and Ladders

Today I played a marathon game of Chutes and Ladders with my four-year-old son and let me tell you, that game is not for the faint of heart. It gives “Risk – the Game of World Domination” a run for its money.

The object of the game is to move the 100 spaces to the winner's spot at the top. Along the way, you are provided “Ladders” where you get to skip many spaces to move up the board, and then there are “Chutes" - long slides that punish you and send you reeling back to the bottom (sound familiar?).

Lately my son’s been preoccupied with the idea of winning. In fact, everything is an opportunity to win. He finishes a glass of milk, slams it down empty on the table and claims, “I win!”

So we play games like Candyland or Don’t Break The Ice and when he wins, he shouts out “I win and you lose, Mommy!” He doesn’t say it with any malice, and technically he’s right, but I explained to him that even in winning we must be gracious, and encourage the other person for playing a good game. So now when I lose, he gently pats me on the back and says in a sweet sing-songy voice “Congratulations, loser.”

So today we’re playing the game, and I just happened to get lucky and make it to the winners circle. I won. His face was a little sad. He dropped the dice and started to pack up the game.

He said, “Aren’t you going to say Congratulations loser to me, Mommy?”

And suddenly, the importance of this moment sunk in. My son isn’t a loser because his roll of the dice was different than mine. He didn’t lose because his journey set him back on the gameboard. My head was spinning as I related this preschool game to my whole life. I could see our history on the multi colored spaces….

The Dexter’s Real Life Chutes and Ladders:

1993- My struggling business finally turns a profit after four years of loss. “LADDER”

1994 – It burns down. “CHUTE”

2003 – We take out a loan and build my husbands recording studio, which is booming with business. “LADDER”

2004 – It floods. “CHUTE”

2010 – We’ve finally paid off our debt. “LADDER”

2010 – We’re being sued. “CHUTE”

But did we ever pack up the game and walk away? Nope. We kept rebuilding, kept going after our dreams even with the knowledge that although other “chutes” could be in our future, the winners circle was still up there.

So I told my son, “Wait a minute, why don’t you finish the game?”

He looked at me confused, “But I lost, Mommy”

I answered, “Just because one person makes it to the top first, doesn’t mean the rest of us are losers. You keep going.”

So he did, and bless his little heart, every time he got to the very top, he’d land on this one terrible chute that would take him right back to the beginning. And I’ll be damned if that didn’t happen four times in a row. It got to the point where he was laughing so hard when it happened, he fell over in his chair. It took him another half hour to finally make it to the winners circle, but boy oh boy was that a sweet moment. We jumped up and cheered. Isn’t that just like life?

In teaching my son this lesson today, I think I’m the one who really learned the value of never giving up. When I think of the times I’ve been so discouraged, the times I just knew that someone else had already done it better, faster, slicker than me, whatever it was, and I just wouldn’t try. All the times I packed up the game and walked away, because someone else had made it to the top first – they had written the better song, the brilliant book…I walked away from my own chance to win.

And that chance is still there for all of us. Some of us may take a long time to get there. We may be middle-aged, hell, we may even be old (Betty White’s comeback at 88? Helloooo!) but we can still have our day in the winners circle. And if we help each other, maybe we can avoid a few of those chutes and get there a little sooner.

**This piece was published in Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Power of Positive

On Mother Guilt...

(is there anything sweeter than babies making snow angels?)

The other day in my writing group, a woman in her mid seventies read a story of her childhood, a vivid memory she had of being three years old, sneaking into the kitchen to steal a swig of castor oil of all things. Her father caught her and whipped her with a belt. She recalled his fury, said she had never seen him that way before as he had always been at a cool distant remove. She was still exploring that childhood experience in therapy. Still. Did I mention she was in her SEVENTIES?

After her reading, we all gave our feedback. I told her that I was pulled out of the story by the intense reaction of her father, with seemingly no reason.

“First of all,” I said, “why on Earth would you be sneaking castor oil (anemia, she imagined) and why would your father be in such a rage over it?”

She couldn’t say. Only knew that he was crazy mad.

“Well…it still doesn’t make sense. Was this the forty seventh time you snuck out of bed, waking your parents by knocking things over in the cupboards and making a mess of the kitchen, because if it was that, I can understand that kind of crazy. I have three kids, the youngest is four years old. I KNOW crazy.”

She hadn’t thought about that, she said. She simply couldn’t remember the reasons. It was only one incident, and it completely formed the way she would choose dysfunctional relationships for the rest of her life.

Oh great, I thought. That’s all she remembers in her mid seventies ….one episode of her father’s rage and she’s still in therapy over it. I’m doomed.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve been crazy mad at my four-year-old son, and banished him to his room “Where the Wild Things Are”– style. It’s for his own well being, I assure you (maybe more for mine). When he’s been torturing the dog all day, chasing the cats, jumping off furniture…I count to ten and breathe, breathe….But when he puts himself or others at risk (my poor, long-suffering cat), that’s when I lose it and turn into a red-faced crazy screaming person.

I drove home from writing group and sobbed to my husband. “I’m a terrible mother! All Evan will remember when he’s seventy years old is me screaming at him yesterday and sending him to his room.” My husband laughed. “Are you kidding me? You love that kid to the moon! Every day I watch him run to your open arms. You read him stories, play games with him. That’s what he’ll remember.”

It’s true. Ninety-five percent of the time I love my kids ferociously. Five percent…well. And I’m sure the feeling is mutual.

Luckily I have two grown children that have already survived growing up with me. My perfect focus group…

I asked my nineteen-year-old son, “What are your memories of being really little – like Evan’s age?”

Nothing really, he said.

Okay, he’s a man of few words, always has been. So I pulled my twenty-four-year old daughter into the conversation. I asked them both to recount all their early childhood memories.

And do you know what they told me? They couldn’t really remember ANYTHING from being that little. Neither of them!

Ingrates! When I think of all the time I spent meticulously planning themed birthday parties and Christmas morning reveals….and they remember nothing?

“You don’t remember your birthday parties?”

Nope.

“Christmas mornings…when Santa busted his ass building you…er, I mean delivering that pink and white playhouse in the backyard?”

Kinda.

Oh the outrage!

So I decided to get creative.

“Do you remember the pony we bought you on your third birthday?”

My daughter looked at me suspiciously.

No…..

“Yeah. Old Sarsparilla. You called him Sassy. Yeah, that’s what you... No, wait….you had that cute little speech impediment. Thathy. Yeah, that’s what you called him.”

She rolled her eyes at me and started to leave the room.

“Wait!” I called after her. “For real…Do you remember me being mad at you when you were little?”

“Well, I just remember that we hated when you were mad. You’re a scary broad when you’re mad.” she said.

I was horrified.

“Scary? Scary how? Did you think I’d ever hit you, or hurt you in any way, or take my love away from you? I mean, how was I scary?”

“No, nothing like that. We just didn’t like when you were mad, so we tried not to do things to make you mad.”

Well, duh. And hallelujah, by the way, because apparently my evil method worked. It’s not necessarily a bad thing for kids to have a small, healthy amount of fear of their parents, in my opinion. My grown kids are both responsible, honest, hard working young adults, who I am very close to, and immensely proud of. And neither of them are in therapy over me….that I know of.

So maybe I did okay, and maybe I am a good mom who gets mad sometimes when her kids are out of control. And maybe the tons of love and happy times we share outweigh the terrible, regretful moments…and maybe they’ll never remember any of it really except for the feeling they had of being loved and safe.

My daughter walks out of the room and I follow her.

“So, how about when we rented the circus for your fourth birthday, do you remember that? Oh how you loved the flying trapeze. And we brought the baby elephant home…and he was your very own pet….”

Wait a minute, she said. I do remember something…

Really, what is it?

I remember that you always exaggerate.

Life Is What Happens

If you had asked me ten years ago what I’d be doing when I was 46, I would have said that my two children would be grown, I would be back in college getting that elusive degree, traveling all the places I used to dream about, and finally writing that book I’d always had in my head. I expected to be sipping espresso in a café in Paris, lost in deep contemplation, engulfed in the reinvention of myself at mid-life. But here I am in this bunny suit.

No, this is not exactly what I had in mind, and yet, I couldn’t be more grateful. My life is a clear illustration of that saying Man plans, God laughs.

In my thirties, I was a rocker Mom. I had put out two albums with my husband, and we were performing every week at clubs on the Sunset strip, while working day jobs, coaching Little League, volunteering at school and on and on. I imagined in my forties things would settle down. I’d be centered, peaceful and wise, pondering the meaning of life, writing books, maybe starting a whole new career after graduating from college.

Instead, I had a surprise pregnancy at forty-one. I now spend my days chaperoning field trips, going to Mommy and Me, play dates, Chuck E Cheese, hosting a wedding for my oldest son, preparing for the arrival of a new grandbaby (another surprise), helping my daughter film a reality show….

The reality of who I am today is so far from the expectation. Life is funny that way. You ask the universe for apples and you get oranges, but hey, I’m not complaining. Today, I am a Mom who tries her best to be patient on the days that Taylors’ band is rehearsing downstairs at deafening levels while the cat is puking on the rug, the dogs are chasing each other through the house and Evan is all but hanging from the chandeliers. I count to ten, take a deep breath and remind myself twenty times a day how quickly these precious years will pass, and how I will yearn for them when they’re gone. Yet I struggle to maintain a sense of self when I am lost in the beautiful, loving, vibrant chaotic mess that is my life.

So I guess its no café in Paris for me, at least not right now. But hey- I’m still writing that book! I’m striving to be a writer in the midst of memory failures. I’m struggling to compose beautiful sentences when in reality I can’t even complete a sentence without being interrupted ten times. And in contrast to the wisdom I thought I’d be spewing forth at this age, these are the actual phrases I repeat all day long;

“I’m the parent, you’re the child”

“Why am I negotiating with a four-year-old?” (I mutter to myself, constantly)

And if I had a nickel for every time I’ve had to say, “Where are your pants?!”

I recognize these days as a rich blessing. Yes, its hectic, but as a person who loves story, I watch the daily goings on and say to myself I couldn’t write this any better.

For instance, the other day we were on the Santa Monica Pier with my brother and his family. We walked past a vendor who had his boombox playing, and my four-year-old Evan spontaneously broke into this crazy, wild dance that just went on and on. Eventually, people started to crowd around and watch him, and one man tossed him a dollar.

A few nights ago, I asked Evan if he would like to help me make lasagna. He answered, “No can do, Mom. I’m doing important things.” If I had written that in a story, the reader wouldn’t believe that a four year old would say that. But he does.

We took him to Disneyland last week, and every time something would catch his eye he’d run off. I grabbed him by the shoulders, got right in his face and firmly said, “Evan, you must stay with Mommy and Daddy! You may not wander off!” He replied innocently, “I may only wander ON?” Boy oh boy, that kid knocks me off my feet sometimes. Yes, wander on, my little wonder boy. Keep seeing the world in your kooky imaginative way, and help Mommy to remember to be that way, too.

So this is my life at forty-six. It’s kinda like river rafting. I have no control really, and no idea what lies ahead, but I’m enjoying the scenery, holding on tight and trying to stay in the boat. My three kids have changed my life and pulled me into a world I could never have imagined.

And here I am in this bunny suit.

Our Family is Growing...

What’s going on with the Dexters? No Christmas letter this year? All these cryptic facebook postings…..I know, I owe everyone a million calls, and I have no excuse really, other than the fact that, well, a LOT has been going on over here.

Aside from my recent Charlie and the Chocolate factory moment gone awry, a few much bigger, life-expanding changes have happened in our family.

First of all, In January Cristen and Rob split. Their careers were pulling them in different directions, and the long distance was too much. It was a shock to everyone, and it’s been very hard for her. But she is a strong girl, and she will love again. (Not that it will be easy to find another tall, handsome, successful guy who dotes on her and cooks, but there’s got to be a few out there… she will find him)

In other news, as many of you know, last year when Taylor toured Japan, he met a beautiful girl named Aya. She was already planning to move to the United States to continue her education, so it was perfect. They fell in love, as young people do, spending every free moment together. Maybe they spent a few too many free moments together, because one night Taylor came to me in tears and said we needed to have a serious talk. And I knew. Aya was pregnant.

I know what many of you are thinking right now. Taylor is so young and has so much promise. This will ruin his life. But look, I am the result of an unwanted teen pregnancy. I haven’t ruined anyone’s life so far (that I know of). I fully understand why some people need to decide otherwise. For years I worked with teens in foster care, with girls who had been working as prostitutes and were now pregnant, on probation, living in a group home. I will always vote pro-choice. But in our situation, I couldn’t see a baby being anything other than a gift. An unexpected, life-changing gift, yes, but when you think about it, aren’t all our greatest gifts unexpected?

For several weeks we lived in an emotional whirlwind while Taylor and Aya decided how they would handle this. We told them we loved them and would support whatever decision they made, but if they decided to keep this baby they could live here with us. We would help them raise the baby while they stayed in school and continued pursuing their dreams. Eventually this is what they decided to do.

In November, Aya moved in, and we have all been living as one big, happy, multi-cultural family. She had her first American Thanksgiving and Christmas with us, and we are learning to speak Japanese. Some nights I cook dinner, some nights she does. She absolutely loves Evan. She spends time teaching him Japanese, plays with him, bathes him and feeds him. I can tell she is going to be a great mother.

Aya's due date is June 17^th. She wants to stay home with the baby, at least in the beginning, but in doing so she will lose her student Visa and could be sent back to Japan. She's got to have a green card to stay here legally, so....we had three weeks to plan a wedding. If I pull this off well, I should be awarded some type of Mom Superhero name...I'll leave it up to all of you to decide.

Taylor and Aya were engaged on Christmas Eve, and will be married next Sunday, on Valentine’s Day. They will say their vows up on the mountain behind our home. The same person who married us will be performing the ceremony. We figured that was good luck. After all, Troy and I worked out pretty well.

As John Lennon said, life is what happens while you are busy making other plans. Don’t we know it! None of us were prepared for this, that’s for sure. But hello….the moment is here. So we roll our sleeves up and we say YES to it. We pull together as a family and lift up this young marriage, supporting them through the challenges that every new couple faces.

I'm not saying it will be easy, but through all these changes and upheaval, there is one thing I am absolutely certain of. This little baby will be surrounded with family and love and laughter. Those are things that have never been, and will never be, in short supply around here.

Now, cross your fingers everyone, and chant with me….NO RAIN on Valentine’s Day!!!