I Love a Navidad Recital

I love me a children's holiday recital. They are precious and highly entertaining for me. Here's Mina and her crew from yesterday's program. Why they are all wearing easter egg hats beats me, but all in all, great times. Especially when I know Mina is pretty much just lip synching up there; that is until her favorite song comes on which is Feliz Navidad. When Feliz Navidad cues, her eyes light up and she pumps both fists. She belts it out: "FELI NAVIDA! FELI NAVIDA! FELI NAVIDA HOSPERO AN-NYO EEEE FELISSSIDA!" The best is when the chorus comes around and she does the snake with her head. "I WANNA WISSS YOU A---" And I'm thinking, "Go Mina, Go Mina, it's yo birthday."


At least she sings now. Up until last year she just sat in the sea of singers, not upset, not trying to get down, but just sat there and listened to her friends sing songs. She'd bop her head and look around at her classmates, giving them moral support. She'd look into the audience, just appreciating the moment and the scene. And when the song was over, she would clap emphatically.





Guess who's never been like that? Mmhm, Maya. During her first recital in pre school, the teacher held out a microphone in front of the kids as they sang. During the song, Maya inched closer and closer to the microphone until she was trying to wrestle it away from the teacher. Her mouth would be all on the microphone yelling out an ear-blasting You Better Watch Out. Nothing like a three year old's amplified heavy breathing. Here's Maya now. Check her out with the gorgeous theater face and the "caroling hands." Her recital was last week, but believe me when I tell you that I have known every single song by heart since Thanksgiving. If I didn't hear "Mami, listen to this . . ." three times a night since mid-November, I would check her temperature. Maya's the type that if she messes up one syllable of a song, she'll start again from the beginning. She will also ask, "Do you think my singing sounds better this time [sings entire song] or this time [sings same song entirely]?" I'd say, "They both sound pretty good, baby." And she'd reply, "Let me do it again then until one really sounds better." I would then muffle my soft weeping.

Maya's recital was held in the gym of the local high school because someone thought it would be a good idea to combine all the neighboring elementary schools, the middle school and high school recitals into one! Hmm, gee, no, not a good idea. So, they sardined us into a stanky gym on wobbly fold out chairs all at one level insuring that no one beyond row three could see shit. There were twenty long rows that stretched the length of the gym. We were shit out of luck. So Husband and I just had to stare at all the other parents. It was then I realized that the lighting in the gym was so hideous it could've made Jennifer Lopez look like a hag. It accentuated eye bags and dark circles, defined lines creases; made everyone look like they had some kind of skin disease. It was like a white, black light. Everyone's hair shone an orange tint. Holiday nails came to life and jean jumpers with embroidered santas on them looked technicolor. I was trippin! After the show had started, a dad strutting in wearing full Marine dress-up clothes -- with the sharp blue nero jacket and the navy pants with the sweet red stripe down the side? He had a crew cut and metals and the shiniest black shoes on planet earth. And since none of us parents could see our children singing, all five billion of us just stared at the Marine walking with puffed chest down the aisle. With the lighting he glowed and a haze of color trailed him. I waited for some gung ho parent to start the Slow Clap for him.

So this recital kinda sucked. I told Maya genuinely, though I may regret it later, "I liked it better when you sang the songs by yourself."

But no recital has been the same since the girls stopped going to Anneliese. Anneliese is a school founded by a funky German woman that emphasizes creativity in learning. Both girls attended from age two through kindergarten, and it is the raddest school ever; dream-like really. For those of you that do not know the OC area, there is a canyon carved in the hills of Laguna Beach that starts at the footsteps of the beach and runs about six miles inland. It is a fantastic piece of curvy road sandwiched by palm-filled lush hills and sporadic fields where permanent easels are set up for the painting clubs that grace the area. On the east side of the canyon, Anneliese is tucked away against the hills occupying an old Mormon school that was originally built in 1888. Since Anneliese took it over, she has built a bird sanctuary housing breath-taking peacocks and lovely swans. There is also a pig on the grounds and two llamas named Cosmo and Como Se Llama. Apart from the main school house that looks like a mission, tiny round bungalows were built to hold only one class. A long circular desk lines the wall. All the students face each other in this circle. These bungalows are so heart-warmingly wonderful, I don't know one adult that doesn't want to play School in there for the rest of their lives. Other gorgeous touches of the school: Mexican-tiled sinks, children's art framed from floor to ceiling; wood wagon-wheel chandeliers and home-cooked vegetarian meals. At Anneliese, they teach in five different languages, German, French, Spanish, Japanese and English. I slapped myself every single day of the seven years we were part of their community. I shed small tears reminiscing, but my heart swells near capacity with the fact that the girls were able to start their school careers with such a goddamn bang.

And the holiday recitals at Anneliese were off the chain. We would cram into the main building that was decorated like a movie set with large, fresh garlands lacing the chandeliers and children's stain glass art hanging in the windows causing colorful casts of light. With parent-packed wood benches on persian rugs and the smell of sour kraut and apple cider in the air, the children would fill the stage and sing holiday favorites in different languages. One year they sang a holiday song in Swahili. The individual teachers have complete creative license and they would teach the kids according to their own culture which translated into the Mexican Hat Dance (see Mina in costume), a Peruvian number or an old French song. Sometimes the teacher would teach the children popular songs. I am completely choked up now thinking about the year Maya sang I Believe I Can Fly complete with sign language. Or when Mina's class did Iz's version of Somewhere Over the Rainbow? IN CHILDREN'S VOICES? Waterworks for days, now even. It was all so beautiful beyond compare.

We pass by Anneliese every day in the canyon. Every day we say, "Hi Anneliese" just like every time we see the ocean there is a female chorus in the car, "Good Morning Ocean!" It feels good to salute things that have been good to you

Cosas

Why Parenting Rocks, Part #2,345:
Mina: "I have a wiener. I have a wiener." She points at her crotch.
Maya: "For your information, you do not have a wiener. You have a VA-CHINA."
Mina: "I have a china. I have a china." She points at her crotch, dancing.
Me: "Don't be showing your china off at school."

Pro-mo-tion Time!
She's gonna P-I-iss-ed, but I have to introduce you do my friend Green Whale. I've only known her a few months, but I have grown very fond of her in this short time. She is passionate and fascinating. And now she has started a blog! Her writing is interesting and beautiful, each post like a polished pearl.

self portrait tuesday

This is my second entry for the reflective theme for Self Portrait Tuesday

Head in the clouds.

24 Hours of Holiday Kid Fun

Last night Maya & Mina's Tae Kwon Do studio had their annual holiday party. Every year there is a lame potluck with the obligatory seven-layer dip and swedish meatballs that smell like sweet, fermented rot. There is a sundry of other processed crap. The studio/warehouse is lit starkly and you have to sit on the floor mats to eat your crappy pot luck so don't come dressed in a skirt or anything nice for that matter. But what we all look forward to is the annual talent contest. Every year there is a fantastic mix of talent and no talent. This year a kid came up and told one terrible joke. The End. Lots of violinists and pianists play rushed versions of Silent Night. Some kids sing holiday songs Star Search style. The holiday after 9/11, a three year old came up and sang I'm Proud to Be an American, and . . .even my lefty liberal eyes were wet. IT WAS A THREE YEAR OLD, PEOPLE.

The reigning champ of the TKD talent show is Heath who just happens to be Maya's nemesis. They came up together in the program and got their black belts together. They spar against each other constantly. They have similar personalities. And I think they have a little thing for each other. Yo, if I was Maya's age, I'd be in love with this kid! Maya usually isn't shy about admitting her crushes, but they both get a hard time at the studio if they're too chummy so they keep any kind of likie likes on the down low.

But, uh, check out Heath & Maya at the holiday party not keeping their thing on the down low:

The first year Maya decided to enter the talent show, she just KNEW she had it in the bag. She did a half-assed version of some last-minute lip synch. Then Heath came up, put on some underground house music and did Euro hiphop bboy moves that dropped our jaws. Maya seethed. Especially when he won first place. She vowed to kick his butt the next year. But the next year produced similar results. This year Husband came up with the brilliant idea that I teach Maya and Mina a short merengue routine to dance together with the hopes of bringing down the house. The girls learned it quickly and practiced diligently, especially Maya who was enamored with the prospect of sticking to Heath this year. When we showed up at the party Maya rushed Heath and asked what he was going to do for the talent show. He said, "I'm not doing it this year." Maya said, "Oh great. The year I was going to beat you you're not in it." At least she's not looking for the easy win.

The girls danced really well. It kills me when their little booties swish around merengue style. They were a tad robbed with a third place finish but, feh, what are you gonna do? The Tae Kwon Do crowd is a conservative one and beating a decent violin sonata with some children shaking asses is a tough call. But here's the final dip:

Not twelve hours after this holiday party, we were getting ready for Mina's first little gymnastics event. It was more like a demo, but they called it a Mini-Olympics. Mina didn't give a shit what it was, as long as she could do fifty more cartwheels and got to get up on that beam again. The ages at the Olympics ranged from 5-7 and their outfits were as diverse as professional national team gear to full ballet tutus to pajama bottoms. Watching these kids enthusiastically show off their new skills punctuated by the classic arched pose gets me a little vklempt. Especially the ones with the pajama bottoms or the glasses or the full booty cheek hanging out of their leotard or the ones that run full speed to accept their awards with great intensity -- I love them. All participants received an award which I thought was cool. Mina did great. Only months after starting the gymnastics program she is already long on mad cartwheels and hand stand skills. I love this picture in the winner’s circle:


Immediately after the Mini-Olympics, the girls and I packed in the car and drove up to the LA Zoo to meet Mandy & Melissa for some animal holiday fun. When a zoo is boasting reindeer, you can't miss that. The reindeer pen was situated next to the entrance and as we stared at the surprisingly small animals Mina said, "Mami, these are the ones that were mean to Rudolph." Which only inspired Mandy, Melissa and I to interrogate the reindeer. "Why were you guys so mean to Rudolph, huh?" "I mean, Rudolph didn't do anything to anybody." And on and on. There was a crafts booth set up to color paper reindeer rack hats and after my girls made conservative versions, they took a red magic marker and markered their noses bright red. Cool, good idea. Rudolph Coalition in the house.

There are not a lot of things more fun to me than adding dialogue to a slice of animal life. The animals were game as there seemed to be a little love in the air at the zoo. They were territorial and few were uh, engorged with the idea of love. In the tapir pen, the male seemed to want to get his groove on and Melissa said, "Is nature about to happen right in front of us?" Mina said, "That's a boy alright." I said to the tapirs, "Could you move your nature to the back of the pen so you don't traumatize my child?" But the female tapir wasn't really having it so of course that started this voice over for the scene:
"Hey, baby let me hollar at you for a minute."
"I'm trying eat, beat it."
"Lemme just sniff your butt for a while then."
And . . .on and on.

The red ape exhibit has a new little baby. She's a big hit, and she does not disappoint. She kept climbing up the chain link fence while the mom sat feigning unconcern, but the mom would look up instinctively every three seconds. Until she couldn't take it any longer. She sighed and climbed slowly up after the baby. She pried the little monkey fingers from the fence, no easy task, and with her baby on her chest and a little arm between her lips, she climbed back down. The endearment of the scene tapped at the heart, but you could also see the frustration of a mother's constant vigil right in those mama red ape eyes.

Here are my little red-nose apes using Auntie Melissa as jumpy house:

Bomb-Drop Day

December 7th, among other disastrous anniversaries, was the day my grandmother died. She died of pancreatic cancer twenty-three years ago today, when I was 15.

My grandmother loved me fully without hang ups or resentment. She was kind and passive and gushed over me like no one else. As a child, I loved her so much it hurt. And I never talk about her. Ever. Which is odd. I know I'm only protecting a relationship that I fear might've been imaginary. In 23 years I have not mourned her fully, only in dribbles. I can't seem to articulate to those closest to me what she meant. I can't seem to unlock the box where I keep her. I don't want someone telling me it was different; that she wasn't the life preserver I make her out to be.

And losing her at 15 -- HER, of all people, when everyone else was dead too or mean -- was a cruel fucking trick.

As I pry open the box, if only to show my daughters how I learned to love, here are ten things about my grandmother:

* I called her Mama. Though my mother insisted I call her Nanny. I mumbled "Nanny" in my mother's presence, but said Mama during all other times. I still think of "Mama" as our private secret, and I flush a little as I type the word.

* She was 36 when I was born, my mother 18. I am thankful I didn't join the Mother-At-18 Club.

* She had the roughest hands. I would lie on her lap as she stroked my forehead with severely calloused fingers. I would've rather died from having all my face skin scraped off than to have her stop.

* She introduced me to cinnamon-sugar toast, which to this day I love to death. She would make me shakers of the stuff in case I wouldn't be able to see her for periods of time. Her house always smelled like toast and coffee, the best food smell I can think of. Now, every weekend I make myself cinnamon-sugar toast almost subconsciously and the oddest thing -- I'm just kinda realizing -- is that I never make it for the girls. I just make it for me, ritualistically. I don't even explain what kind of comfort I feel while enjoying my weekend breakfast.

* She had coal black hair until the age of 23 when she grew a thick silver lock above her forehead. Though her entire head turned all white quickly after, she dyed it black. But she always kept the original silver streak in front.

* She didn't tell anyone she had cancer. It's presumed she had it about three years before she died. Maybe her husband knew, but she wouldn't let him tell anyone. She had refused aggressive treatment. I had said in my 10 Things About Me that she came to me in a dream only weeks before she died, when no one knew about the cancer. She was bloated to the size of a pregnant woman. I sat and watched her till a dirt lot in the dream. We always were comforted by our connection. But the image of her trying so hard to make something of the barren lot haunts me. It breaks my heart.

* Most every memory I have of her is non verbal. Her being affectionate. Her gardening. Me staring at her.

* When I was five, my mother left the U.S. to follow a boyfriend with me in tow. I did not see my grandmother for over two years. We didn't even talk on the phone. My mother's deep troubles were wedged between us.

* I didn't cry at her funeral. My mother fell completely apart which astounded me. My aunt was in hysterics and wouldn't view her body. And I thought at that young age, She's not even in there, in that body. Why is everyone so sad NOW? When my grandfather, an ex Marine sergeant who served at Iwo Jima stood over her casket, he did not move for five long minutes. This is a man plagued with meanness, and he stood there full of what I thought was remorse. Remorse that he had treated her so poorly, called her dumb and treated her like trash. I almost cried then. It seemed so tragic to be that regretful afterwards.

*After the funeral, my mother told me that she did not want to be a mother anymore, and I still don't know what to say about that.

* My mother had a reunion of sorts last year where my mother's best friend from high school and my aunt attended. I flew up for the occasion too, and when I walked into the dinner party my mother's old friend gasped. She said, "She looks exactly like your mom!" And my mother nodded looking at me. My aunt said yes too. I was 37 years old at this party, and I had never been told that before. I don't think I look exactly like her, but I know I have a similar presence. But it pained me that they all knew what I always thought had been my imagination.
* * *
I miss you, Mama.
Thank you for everything.

P.S. I had cinnamon toast for dinner tonight.

self portrait tuesday

I'm late posting this 'cause Blogger was busted yesterday, but here's my first entry to the Reflections Theme for Self Portrait Tuesday.

Two birds flew out of my womb.

Party On, Brokers

The Job had a holiday party Saturday night at a fancy hotel by the beach. They also put us up at the fancy hotel for the night which meant we could get our party on and not worry about driving after. Sweet!

My coworkers and bosses are nice people; nicer than any other semiconductor brokers I've encountered after working thirteen years in this dynamic and often shady industry. But I discovered last night that the people I work with, no matter how mellow and family-like they seem, can still party like broker rock stars. It all started out innocently enough (see picture to the left) with a nice dinner. My friend and company controller Teri even had the hotel hook up a few vegan dishes for me. Who knew the Hyatt could rock such a killer wild wheat berry salad with cranberries and diced veggies? YUM! So, yes, innocent; lovely sit-down dinner with candles and a christmas tree twinkling in the corner. Soft holiday music played in the background. Workers cleaned up nicely and conversed in tones much lower than our normal, weekday roar. Spouses were present and I think we were trying to pull off an air of civility when the spouses all know how we are. One sales guy’s wife confided, "Y'know, I call him the Thrasher at home too."

After dinner, to my surprise, we played a version of White Elephant, the gift game where a name is drawn and then the person opens a wrapped, unknown present or they steal a gift previously opened. A gift could be taken twice before it had a permanent home. We started to loosen up at this point, acting more like ourselves which was due in part to our friend, the Open Bar. The White Elephant gifts were stupid nice! Bad-ass digital cameras, mini stereos, little flat screen TV's. And every time a gift was stolen we would howl loudly and yell at the Taker and laugh at the guy that just got his shit took. We screamed when the top salesguy snaked a digital camera from the warehouse/janitor -- RUTHLESS! -- but we cheered when the same warehouse/janitor dude permanently scored the 60GB! iPod, the grand prize of the evening. Shit talking was free-flowing. Like, when one of the buyers ended up with a tool set, we shouted, "SoNSo's a Tool!" Incidentally, guess what I got?? A food processor with a killer blender attachment just like I had wanted for my vegan chef quest!! (And I KNOW Kim put two of those in the White Elephant so that I would get one. I KNOW YOU DID, KIM! And thanks so much.) I had JUST bought a good blender to replace my old one with the blades as dull as limp celery. The newly-bought blender is still in the box, but will go to good use too*.

After the gift portion of the program, we huddled around Open Bar, our friend, and talked about office things like, oh, Pubic Hair, To Groom or Not to Groom which turned so lively that we had a full crowd involved favoring Grooming 8-1. Feeling spirited, we were all spontaneously bummed that there was no DJ or cover band to help channel our escalating sense of partiness. A group of us decided to venture out to other company parties going on in the hotel at the same time to see if they were crashable. Four of us went to a little party with a good DJ and danced to SuperFreak. Bor, my funny-ass next cube neighbor who always brings up the raddest 70's references at work like Shields & Yarnell, and who was drunk off of Jim Beam and Vermouth (whoa), left us half way through the song and snagged a festive center piece on his way out. He ran out looking like the Heisman trophy. We then floated into the Grand Ballroom that was the size of a football field. A band was on break, but that didn't stop Bor from running across the miles of dining area, across the huge dance floor and hopping on stage to see if the mic was live. It wasn't or we may have been arrested right then and there.

We went back to our own party room to discover that pods of our company had also gone out to discover more action, including Husband who was now partying hard with our broker crowd. I went back to the Grand Ballroom to discover Boss B and SJ involved in most uproarious Dance Off. The band was playing a decent version of the holiday favorite, AC/DC's Back in Black and Boss B started to do a Blues Brothers fancy foot dance until he flopped down right onto the floor. I mean, the man kinda bounced off his side. I was dumbfounded until SJ -- these are men in their 40's -- slid across the floor on his belly, arms outstretched over his head. He then preceded to do, quite possibly, the funniest holiday-party solo dance in the history of man. He sashayed around the gigantic dance floor, interweaving between the real guests of the party. He pirouetted and posed to give the Rock On sign. The Open Bar had unleashed the free spirit of a typically conservative sales guy. He started pointing like a motivational speaker to other dancers in the crowd. "You. You. You." At this point half of his shirt was untucked and the real party goers had cleared room for him. He turned up the juice now that he had the ENTIRE ballroom enraptured and he RAN the perimeter of the dance floor with his hand outstretched to high five anyone that would bite, like he had just hit a home run. I seriously nearly peed my pants.

Finally, all of us ended up at the Little Party with the Good DJ. The DJ announced, "It looks like this company just got a bunch of new employees." We formed a Soul Train circle that even Husband entered and did his thang. We hopped around and laughed a ton. I did the Robot . . .We danced with other people from the party including a woman that apparently fell in love with me . . .maybe I'm exaggerating, but she kissed me and shouted in my face, "YOU'RE A BAD ASS AND I LOVE YOU."

Here's a picture of SJ continuing his shenanigans by trying to dance with some lady he didn’t know. She doesn't look too thrilled about it, but that look on SJ face kept me bustin' up for hours. Fyi, he was seen the next morning strolling through the hotel lobby in a bathrobe. This is a guy that sends out motivational emails every work day about Hope and You Are a Winner which in general grates on my last nerve, but after Saturday night, I have a new love for this guy.

We left the party when I realized Husband had contracted a slur. We are not drinkers and we have only seen each other tipsy a handful of times. I've only been flat-out wrecked one time in our 10years together which was the night of my 34th birthday. We had gone to a flamenco/tapas bar in Long Beach with some friends.
On that birthday I did which of the following:
a) Climbed on stage to flamenco with the resident man-orexic flamenco stud.
b) Double fisted cosmos for a good portion of the night.
c) Verbally accosted people on the street as Husband rushed me to our car.
d) Vomited violently on the front lawn of the most quietest of suburban streets. It was like vomiting into a megaphone inside a stone church.
e) All O' the Above. (Correct!)

So, when I realized Husband was blitzed, it was time to go. The drunker he got, the more pictures he took. Just snapped them left and right without looking into the viewer. "I enjoy candid shots," he slurred. About 450 pictures are of the tops of people’s heads and the ceiling, but some came out pretty funny like this one of Boss B bum rushing the camera.

Or of this one, which is how I spent most of the night, doubled over, laughing.


We stumbled upstairs and Husband hugged the toilet for a bit and I feel asleep chuckling.

When we awoke, this was the view from our balcony:

Spectacular!
Thanks to The Job for a great night!

*So, the new blender . . . I had decided that instead of buying a ton of presents for family and friends, we would Adopt A Family for the holidays and blow all our Christmas money on them. Coincidentally, after I bought my new blender, I received the Wish List from our adopted family. The mom asked for . . . a blender. By the by, the kids asked for a school back pack, deodorant and hair gel. That’s it. Funk that. I’m hooking their shit up as best I can.