Learning Through the Camera Lens

O: I'm gonna take a picture. No! Not of you, of the pretty flowers.

I've had my camera for a little over two months now and, while I've learned a lot about aperture, shutter speed, and iso, the most interesting things I have learned have been about people. I've found that I am not very interested in taking pictures of landscapes or objects, but rather, I love taking candid photos of people.  

Everyone reacts differently to the camera. Some people sit up a little straighter and relax their face just so (I'm pretty sure this is where I fall).

Some people become so instantly self-conscious, taking their picture becomes nearly impossible.  

Some people just start making goofy faces.  

Some people, the lucky ones, have faces that fall into the most beautiful smile, without them even knowing it.

Some people have no problem just ignoring me and that camera altogether. They are my favorite.  

I'm learning a lot about people, but mostly, I'm learning that I need to be sneakier. 

Especially when I'm trying to take a picture of O.

It's So Hard to Remember

O: For my next birthday, I want tools, house-building tools.

K: Okay. Why?

O: Because I want to build my own house and move-out. Don't worry. It'll be close by. 

It is so hard to remember, when you are trying to finish a simple task made complicated by the squirming toddler on your lap, that someday they won't want to hug you in front of their friends.

It is so hard to remember, when they awaken every morning at 5:00am, that you will someday be dragging them out of bed.

It is so hard to remember, when every toy, book and art supply is strewn across the floor, the dishes are stacked inches from the ceiling, and no one has clean underwear, that someday this house will be empty, that even the junk drawer will be organized.

It is so hard to remember, when they cry at preschool drop-off, that someday soon, you will be the one crying as you leave them, be it the first day of elementary school or in their dorm room, or more likely, both.

It is so hard to remember, when you are frustrated and tired and impatient, that these moments are a gift, the things you will look back on with warmth, love, and longing, when things really get tough, when the stakes are so much higher.

And yet, it is impossible to forget, when you are rocking them to sleep, their heavy, sweaty bodies slack in your arms, their breath sweet and even, that they are only little for a second, that they are only ours for such a short time. Soon enough, we give them over, to kindergarden, to best friends, to sleep-overs, to summer camp, to college, to lovers, to the world. They are ours, in our hearts, forever, yet they are truly ours for only a moment.

Why is that so hard to remember?

Grand Plans

O: Mooooom, slow down. You walk too fast. Why do we always have somewhere to be?

Summer is nearly upon us and I was making grand plans.

I have a tendency to make grand plans, aspirational, over-reaching plans. I love schedules, lists and graphs, but I don't alway love following them. Sitting with a lined legal pad, a sharpened pencil, a cup of coffee and a world of possibilities is one of my favorite things. Everything feels possible from that place. I like possible.  

A friend shared her goals for the summer with me, and it got me thinking about how I set goals and measure my own success at reaching them. I will usually set a detailed (no joke: like by the hour) schedule and attempt to follow it and as soon as I miss one bench mark or time stamp, I will chuck the entire thing out the window, because my perfect plan has been sullied and is no longer viable.  We will then proceed to spend the entire day in our pajamas, watching Frozen on a loop and counting the minutes until bedtime.  

Photo Credit: O Felton

My friend's goals didn't need a time stamp or bench marks.  They were big-picture goals about what she wanted for herself and her children. They were attainable, reasonable, and exciting. My list-making mind instantly saw the smaller steps that they needed to be dissected into, but the goals themselves were beautiful in their simplicity and focus: one for her alone-a commitment to her own physical health, one for her family-embarking on a creative project on behalf of her daughter that she would share with her husband, and one for her kids-to spend as much time as possible exploring our beautiful city.  These clean, lovely goals instantly made me realize my own lack of focus, in spite of my color-coded graphs and charts.

So, following the rubric of my dear, and very wise friend, here are my summer goals:  (I am not sure I will be able to resist the compulsion to schedule, graph and color code, but if I am at least working from a big-picture place, perhaps that will help.)

1. A goal for me: I want to begin making relationships with theaters closer to home. There is a lot of theatre in Los Angeles and I need to start putting in the time and energy to make relationships there, so that I can do more than one show a year and not kill myself with the Long Beach commute. 

2. A goal for my family: A move away from our beloved screens. Frozen and Curious George have become a huge presence in our house over the past few months, and I am not apologizing for it, but I am excited to see a lot less TV time. As for Jim and me, we have both made a commitment to be more present and less plugged in this summer. We've been looking here for that inspiration and support: The Hands Free Mama.

3. A goal for O and P: Spend as much time outside as possible, recognizing that our adventures don't have to be grand in order to be exhilarating.

It is a place to start.  I will still use my giant blackboard wall calendar in my kitchen. I will still draw out schedules on those legal pads. I'm not sure I know how to stop myself, but I will also try to forgive when I fall short, to pick-up and carry on where we left off, instead of chucking my well-meaning plans out the window. 

I can't wait for summer. I am replacing my grand plans with trips to the beach, playdates, and days with no schedules, where I will say yes as much as possible, slow down, and try to quiet my own mind when P wants to spend twenty minutes talking to a leaf or O wants to take pictures of some flowers. I can't wait. 

These Three

P: DAAAAADDDAAAAAA! MOOOOOMMMMMAAAA! OOOOOOOOOOOO!

This is my happy place, right here, with these three.  I try really hard to hold the feeling that this picture gives me in my heart all the time: when both of the girls are screaming, when the house is mess, when I am struggling.  

I try to remember how easy it all can be, when I remember the important things.  There really are only three important things, when you get right down to it. Okay, maybe four. I am trying to remember to put myself on that list too.  

Mother's Day: a photo essay

P: Mooma, Mamoo, Mama.

Once you become a mother, you become the keeper of memories. You are suddenly responsible for the collecting, compiling, and storing of all of the firsts: teeth, steps, words. You store them away jealously, guarding these details that mark the passing of time. You study them and file them, like there might be a pop quiz at any moment. 

One of the most important parts of being the archivist of your children’s childhood is the photographic documentation of their every waking moment, and frankly a fair number of their sleeping moments too. I started to notice, when scrolling through the countless digital images, that something, or rather someone, was missing. I had become such a diligent archivist, that I had managed to eliminate myself.  It was then that I started making an attempt to pass the camera to Jim.  

Compassion

I realized that I couldn’t be alone, so I started to make a real effort when I had my camera with me, to watch, when I was around the other mothers in my life, woman that I admire and respect, and if I could, to snap a picture for them.  While I started out just snapping pictures for them, I ended up finding so much joy, beauty, and strength.

Bliss

Joy

Genetics

Tenderness

Warmth

Beauty

Strength

Delight

Being the keeper of the memories is not an easy job. Some of those memories are heavy and hard to hold. We are all someone’s child, and even if it isn't a mother who holds your memories, tomorrow is a good day to say thank you.  

Love

And to those of you have taken on your own archival duties, remember to pass the camera off, to make yourself a part of the record, because your children deserve to see your joy, your beauty, and your strength.

Happy Mother’s Day. 

This Guy: a birthday

O: It's still my birthday, right? It's always my birthday, until it is daddy's?

I asked Jim what I should write about him for his birthday and he said, "This is Jim. He is great. Let's have cake." I tried, but I couldn't come up with anything better, so...

This is Jim. He is great. Let's have cake.

But, seriously.  This is Jim.

The most loving, generous, compassionate person I know

He is great.

A great partner, a great friend, a great father

Let's eat cake.

Let's have cake together to celebrate this birthday, our daughters' weddings, our 50th wedding anniversary.  Hell, let's have cake to celebrate tomorrow and the next day too.  

This is Jim. I'm a big fan. Happy Birthday.

Tech Week Magic

O: Momma, you promise you will come and kiss me softly when you get home and I am asleep? But very softly so you don't wake me up, ok?

K: I promise. 

I'm going to brag. I survived last week. Not only did I survive last week, but Jim, O, P and Sam survived last week. The house remained livable. Everyone ate. Most of us slept, occasionally. Success!

See! She is totally alive! 

Tech week is always hard.  It is the final push before the audience joins us and becomes part of the process.  It is where all of the technical elements come together and costumes and lights and sound and some semblance of acting collide.  It is hard.  It is usually a lot of late nights.  It is often painful.  It is always magic.  

See! They are too!!!

There was a lot of magic this week: the talented tech crew and designers who had one only week and made everything in this complicated show work, the professional staff at the playhouse who are bravely pushing boundaries and getting butts in the seats, the phenomenal team of actors with whom I am privileged to share the stage, the fantastic babysitters who lovingly watched my girls while I worked, my incredible preschool community who would sign O out after school when I was running late, the neighbor who popped over to sit with P while she slept so I didn't have to wake her in the middle of her nap, the unbelievably supportive theatre family who filled the house during our previews and opening, the grandparents who pulled an all-nighter so Jim could be there for our first show, and Jim, who has always been there, and always will be there, encouraging me to push past my own beliefs of what I'm capable of, and who (maybe more impressive) did bedtime duty, alone, for the past two months.

Post opening: See! I made it too! 

The show is up.  We had a sold-out opening, a very positive review, and a lot of champagne to celebrate.  It really could not have been better.

And tonight, I get to be home for bedtime snuggles, and that might be the most magical part of the whole thing.  

Glad to be back. Still not sure how today ends.

Radio Silence

O: So, I'm going to see my fun, fun baby-sitters this week?

K: You sure are.

O: Oh good! When I get to see them I almost don't miss you at all.

Radio Flyer. Radio Silence. I know, it is a stretch.

I'm opening a show on Saturday. That means this week will be full of lights, big hair, corsets, and late nights.  I will emerge Sunday, exhausted and exhilarated.  However, this massive outlay of creative capital means that some things will be neglected.

First on that list is this blog.  I'll see you all on the other side.

And thank goodness for fun, fun baby-sitters.

My Birth Day

O: What's a birthday? 

K: It's how we celebrate how many trips you've made around the sun.

O: How many trips have I made?

K: You have made four.  Four whole trips.

O was born at 4:26pm on 4/26/10. Whether that was fudged by a nurse with OCD or actual fact, I'll never know. I was a little distracted.

I woke up that morning planning to go to work, sure I had at least 6 more weeks of waddling around with a baby in my belly. I sat up in bed, sneezed, and my water broke. I called Jim, told him I was going to head to the hospital, but that he could probably stay at work. He came home. As we drove to the hospital, I was convinced that I wasn't going to have a baby that day.  It was too early.  We had just interviewed, but not yet hired, our doula. We didn't even have a car seat.  Her baby shower was the following weekend.

By the time we hit the hospital, my contractions had started and reality had taken hold. My dreams of a drug-free birth hit the floor as the pain hit my body. The anesthesiologist looked like an angel, halo and wings, when she came in to give me my epidural. I was in transition, but was too scared, and too overwhelmed to realize it. The rush of relief from the epidural was one of the highest highs I've ever felt.  Never had I more clearly understood how pleasure can just be the absence of pain.

No one said anything about those six weeks. Suddenly, when it was time to push, a team of gown-clad doctors and nurses rushed into the room. I realized pretty quickly that they weren't there for me.  The NICU team was there, just in case.  

5lbs 9oz

O was born quickly and without incident. She was small, but strong and cried lustily. That team from the NICU quickly and quietly left the room, happy to have witnessed a birth that they were not needed for. I still remember holding her, her body stretching from my elbow to my wrist. That first night was hard, with two botched blood draws and panic about her white blood cell count. But somehow, even only a few hours in, my newly-minted mother's intuition kept reassuring me that she was fine.  

And she was. She came home with us the next day, and other than some gnarly jaundice, she was perfect. They gave us an electric light-up blanket to wrap her in. She reminded me of a glow worm. At some point, I remembered to call in to work.

Look at that chub. Somebody made up for lost time. 

Today, she is four. Each year, her birthday seems to become more hers and less ours. Today was about surprises, special lunches, and a big girl bed. Tonight, though, now that she is asleep, is about memories. Tonight is about my birth day, one of the most terrifyingly beautiful days of my whole life.  

Congratulations on your 4th trip around the sun, O.

My Disney Dilemma

O: Mom, when can we go to the snow and build a snowman and be Elsa.  Today? Can we go today?

I have a unique relationship with the Disney princesses.  Not only did I come of age during the rebirth of the of Disney princess movie musical, I played that Little Mermaid audio tape so often in my walkman the tape actually wore through, but I also, well, this is tricky, I also worked at a major Southern California theme-park portraying beloved characters who may or may not have been royalty.  They made me sign stuff.  I'm still scared.  

Proof.  In case you needed it. 

And now, I have daughters.  I have two smart, independent, strong daughters and want nothing more than for them to know that they will never need to wait around for a prince to come, or for true love's kiss, or to be part of his world. I want them to know that there is more to them than a ball gown or a tiara, that their worth in the world is not measured by how adorably they pout or how lovable some man finds them to be.  I want them to have goals they chase, not wishes they wait for. 

It is hard.  I have some warm, nostalgic memories, even of the stuff I now see as negative, the stuff I hope my kids don't feel they need to take on.  It is too easy a response, to say, "Well, I grew up with it, and I'm fine."  I'm not even sure that is true.  I spent a good chunk of my late teens and early 20's unlearning a lot of what that Little Mermaid cassette taught me.  

But, I do remember so fondly seeing Beauty and Beast in the theatre.  It was one of the only movies my little sister and I ever agreed on.  We were both entranced, by the music, by the story, by the romance, and we rarely agree, to this day, on anything.  I do remember working in the park and seeing so clearly the love and awe on countless little faces as they lifted up their autograph books, reached out for hugs, or lifted up their sun dresses to show me that I was, in fact, on their underwear, to the intense embarrassment of their parents.  

And now, as a parent, I see all of the stuff, the heavily-marketed merchandise, that fills the toy chests and rooms of little girls I know and love.  I see the agressively-branded costumes, the big-eyed dolls, the cheap plastic knick-knacks. I see the way these types of toys limit play, especially for little girls, defining so early the roles that they are permitted to hold.  The tiny lucite high-heels are a particular sore spot, so completely non-functional, destined to result in a twisted ankle, reminiscent of the clear plastic shoes I imagine a stripper would wear. They seem to be the first thing both of my girls are drawn to, as if to punish me for my participation in the Big Mouse Machine, where, by the way, all of the princesses wore sensible character shoes which may not have been suitable for running, but were, at least, suitable for dancing. 

I want to believe that I was involved at a simpler time, when there wasn't so much stuff, when the culture of the princess was not quiet so damaging, but that isn't true.  In fact, if anything, the more recent female Disney role-models are stronger and more independent than the princesses of my youth.  Plus, at least, the conversations are being had.  At least, the questions are being asked.  

I am conflicted.  I want them to be in the world.  I want them to be able to engage with their peers about popular culture.  I want them to be able to take joy in the positive things about Disney, no matter how short or long I might believe that list of positives to be.  

I don't have an answer, just a dilemma.  O has seen Cinderella.  She has seen Tangled.  We had an aborted attempt at watching Brother Bear, whose warm, familial title is misleading.  (Spoiler Alert: EVERYONE DIES.) I held off until mid-April, but they have both seen Frozen, and now, at the end of April, O can sing and recite every line and Jim is pretty certain he heard P singing a twenty-months-old rendition of Let It Go.  

The infamous Elsa braid.

I have not taken them, or allowed them to be taken to Disneyland yet.  My memories of the park are of a loud, crowded place, full of people who spent a lot of money to have a good time, their anxiety hovering a little too close to the surface, causing them, at times,  to lose touch with their own humanity.  I am overwhelmed at the mere mention of a visit to Disneyland. I can only imagine what it might look like to someone who stands barely three feet off the ground, someone who is struck dumb by the magic of magnets, someone who still goes to bed at 7:30pm, someone who gets overwhelmed at a family party where she only knows half of the people.  It still seems too big and too bright for their tiny eyes.  

I know countless families who love all things Disney, who embrace the costumes, the park, and the films with a wild abandon.  I see the joy that it brings to them and to their children and I have nothing but respect for them and their choice, but I still cringe anytime O asserts that she is a princess.  P would probably just encourage me, in song, to let it go. After all, how do you hold back a cultural avalanche. I suppose, we will continue to take it one movie, one tiny lucite high-heel, one magical Disney moment at a time.