Idiocracy

I just had a thought - if Democracy is "government by the people", as it is derived from the greek demos, people, and kratia, meaning rule/government, why is it that Idiocracy is a synonym of Idiosyncrasy? Blame it on the English language. But I digress yet again.

I wanted to postulate that I have been living in an Idiocracy for the last three and a half years, as in "rule by an idiot", but apparently I can't. If I could, I would like to announce that I am finally free from that subjugated state in which common sense, truth, honesty, integrity, intelligence, and an appreciation for knowledge were banned. I now am free to think again, but most importantly to have a rational, intelligent, and productive conversation with the new "ruler", the person with whom I shall share the next few years.

Thank goodness for the inevitability of job change! And thank goodness again for removing the over-sized obstacle that blocked the path of enlightenment around here!

Trust your instincts or learn the hard way

I have been dreading the approach of the girls' birthdays for some time. Not so much because they are getting older, but because this year they were getting a joint party, and we know that means a lot of work. Thankfully, most of the mini-guests were siblings in one of the girls' classrooms, which contained the numbers on the obligatory set of parents that come when you celebrate small kids' birthdays. Being an obligatory parent myself, I also should say that the parents who came are friends, so that was a nice bonus.

Anyway, this is not so much about the feast itself (I'll do another one on that), but about the lessons learned. Somebody said that life isn't a destination so much as a journey, so let me tell you about the journey. And let me convince you to trust your instincts from time to time, unless you like to learn the hard way.

At the risk of having this turn into the 5th grade composition paper, let me start this way:

What I learned this weekend:
(a) If the weather report says it's going to rain only in the morning, it's wrong.
And if you think it will, somehow, work out, then you are wrong. As I planned the girls' party for a Saturday in September, the last thing in my mind was the possibility of rain. I mean, this is So. California last time I checked, and last time I checked it NEVER rains in September. Enter Global Warming, Climate Change, or whatever it's called these days, and I guess anything is possible. We were hit by a storm front coming in from Alaska, and by the looks of it, the storm just didn't move quickly enough, because the downpour came on Friday night and lasted through the early afternoon on Saturday. It didn't rain quite enough to flood us, and the thunderstorms never materialized, but it rained enough for us to judge it better to move the party indoors.

(b) You can fit a whole bunch of people and a swarm of screaming little girls in a small space and survive to tell the story.
Our discussion when considering plan B (indoor party in our small house v. outdoor party in the picnic area of our beautiful park, playground included) was quite the tug-o-war. Since plan B hadn't become a necessity until the last minute, we finally stopped arguing about an alternate venue and agreed that the house would be party central in the unlikely event of rain. Unlikely having become likely, we routed everyone to our 1667 sq. ft. home. Take out the master bedroom, the office, and wasted spaces, and it's not so much space anymore. Add in a troupe of screaming five year-old girls, a couple of toddlers, two unsuspecting little boys, and voilá: if you are not ready to have a drink, you will be by the end of the night. We adults ended up knowing each other better due to the close proximity, but everyone seemed to be happy and there was plenty of food. And since the house isn't palatial, then the parents didn't have to run around to keep an eye on their kids. My closet became the hideout at some point, and Katarina ended up with orange juice on her hair, after Larissa and her BFF Isabelle decided it'd be fun to pour it on her. My carpet ended up soaked in the same juice as well, so Jim had to clean the carpet he'd cleaned that morning. And we lived to tell the story, after having a few drinks.

(c) If you think that children should not play with bubbles unsupervised, you're most definitely right
I can't stress this one enough. Maybe it's common sense, but again, remember the small house? Well, once it stopped raining for sure, a few kids spilled out to the patio/yard area, where I rediscovered the bubbles intended for their use. My strategy at this point was to keep them entertained and out of trouble in the patio, while we adults had a bit of a reprieve and time to recharge our worn-out parenting batteries. It didn't take long for me to see the error of my ways. Larissa and her BFF Isabelle (see an emerging them here?) had decided to pour the bubbles on the sodas and one of the toy cars outside. The sodas became the cleanest sodas in the neighborhood, and ditto for the car. And for the driver. Yes... the car had a driver, which made my godson Noah the victim of female mischief, as he became the recipient of their soapy liquid.

(d) Last but not least, I have learned that little girls are skilled at scheming. I have learned that I shouldn't trust them when they are quiet (well, I learned that one long ago). I have learned that watching my kids play with their friends in this early stage is one of the sweetest memories of all.

And off she goes...

Actually, and off she went. Larissa, my five year-old baby, started school on Monday. Now, that's a brutal reality check for parents, if there ever was one.

In a mixed emotional state of excitement, apprehension and sadness, I prepared her uniform for her first day at school at Serra Catholic. I got her dressed in her navy blue skorts, white polo shirt, forest green socks and black Mary Jane shoes. I brushed her blond hair, which is a mix of honey and wheat during the summer, and put on her blue/green plaid headband. She was the picture of adorability (is that a word?), and I just wanted to squeeze her tight and never let go.

We got to the school around 8:15 a.m., late by normal standards, but the administrators have acknowledged that parents need a bit more on the first day, especially those of us for whom it is the-very-first-day. We were welcomed by the principal, Mrs. Trudell, a bubbly, warm and very charismatic lady of Italian descent (no, she's not the matronly type; think blond, California tan, impossibly-high heals, and an unabashed love of everything pink), got to the lunch area where we were treated to coffee and donuts, and eventually made our way to Miss Hunter's classroom, the only Jr. Kindergarten class in the school. There we got to say hi to her and her assistant teacher, Mrs. "B" (her last name is virtually unpronounceable to the kids), take pictures of our precious little baby, see the classroom, say hi to other parents, and feel welcome and cuddled. Eventually, we left. I took care of a bit of paperwork, and then we said good-bye to Serra Catholic until later that day.

I have to admit that some tears found their way through my cheeks, but all in all, I think I was very brave. I did spend the day in kind of a blur, anxious to go back and pick her up from extended care at the end of the day, and feeling guilty because she is there - never mind that she's been in daycare from 8 a.m. - 5:30 p.m. every day since she was three and a half months old. Eventually we were reunited, and the world was right again.

Now, let's skip all the little details of going home and yadda yadda yadda. It's time to fast-forward to day two and the military precision of this small Catholic school...

We got up early and managed to leave the house by 7:18 a.m., three minutes behind schedule, but then I had until 7:40 a.m. to drop her off, and the school is five minutes away... BIG MISTAKE.

The line on one of the access arms was two blocks long, on the other arms I didn't bother to try and imagine. It took me more than fifteen minutes and several lights to make it past the intersection and onto the campus. I didn't drop her off until 7:45 a.m., and here is what I'd like to focus on - the military precision of the drop-off and pick-up system at this school will be left for another blog. Let's just say General Patton couldn't have mapped a more thorough strategy or trained his troops any better. If Lincoln had encountered Mrs. Trudell and her troops instead of Gen. Lee's and his, the Civil War might have had a different ending.

There I go... I digress again. So, back to the drop-off. Once I made it through the organized chaos of lanes and cars vying for the precious piece of land adjacent to the school that signifies you're on your way to actually drop off your kid, I was directed to the inner part of the campus. There, staff direct you to your lanes and direct traffic to stop or go, help pedestrians, and, to my relief and my dismay (yes, both), the assist children out of the car and to their classrooms.

I say to my relief because (a) my baby isn't dropped off curb-side, where any lunatic can snatch her from right under my nose, or in later years where she could potentially meet "the bad kids" and skip school; (b) she doesn't have to figure out how to get to her classroom at the very tender age of five; and (c) it's just reassuring to know that someone is looking after her and helping her with her disproportionately big backpack.

I say to my dismay because (a) I am not the one taking my baby to her building or classroom and kissing her good-bye once there; (b) somebody else, again, not me, is escorting her at the very tender age of five - and this somebody else isn't someone I have necessarily met already; and (c) she doesn't need me anymore. My heart broke. I could feel the weight and the pressure, and I could feel the start of panic rising in my chest as I struggled not to wail and sob while running like a lunatic across the lanes to hug my baby and let her know for the millionth time that I love her.

To say that I sobbed is an understatement. Considering I had my other baby in the car with me as well, I attempted to be somewhat restrained. I'm sure whoever was driving ahead of me had quite the show to keep her distracted while we may our lengthy way out of campus. I kept drying my tears, only to have some more find their way through. I managed to calm down for a few seconds between bouts, and finally decided I needed to talk to somebody. My husband was busy - he tried to make himself available, but I didn't want to interrupt, especially since I felt that I was behaving quite absurdly. My mother was nowhere to be found. My dad was on a meeting. With each failed call my sobbing gained strength.

I finally composed myself in order to drop off Katarina at the daycare, where she clung to me for dear life. Isn't that ironic? As she clung and refused to let go, I thought "but you have to become independent"! There was my last baby clinging to me, while I was mourning the fact that my older baby was growing up and becoming more independent, and all I could think was that my little one needed to let go. Life is just a series of contradictions.

Luckily, we do get used to things and are able to adapt. I got chocked up yesterday, but managed to keep my composure. And today it was a bit easier still. In the end, I am so glad to see her do this well. She's not cried for me or her dad, and she plays with her new friends, whose names she doesn't quite remember yet, or doesn't want to tell.

Blessed be our children and the roller coaster on which they take us. I never knew love like this until they came, and I'm resigned to bawl with every new stage.

How did time just pass me by?

I'm having a bit of a problem today. I'm on post-birthday-celebration letdown, after celebrating Larissa's fifth birthday on Sept. 11. I'll take a tangent here for just a second and say that it was a really fun day once she stopped whining.

We went to Disneyland and did a whole bunch of stuff, and she got to ride on Splash Mountain for the first time. Loved it too. In fact, she went three times and achieved her goal of getting soaking wet. I haven't enjoyed that ride that much ever before. Everyone called her "princess" that day - not sure if that's done on birthdays only, but this is the first time I notice, so perhaps. People wished her happy birthday left and right, and she couldn't figure out how they knew. She was wearing a birthday button (I'm getting one next time it's my birthday!) Instead of pointing out that obvious fact, I told her it was because in Disneyland there was a lot of magic, and that's how people know. She'll figure out I flat out lied to her in a few years, but for now magic is fun.

We stayed until parade time, and that's where the whole button thing became so great. She was greeted during the parade by Pinocchio's fairy godmother, by Cinderella, and by Ariel, from all the way up on top of her float. It was just great. I think I enjoyed it even more than her...

Anyway, back to the hard time. My baby is now five. When did that happen? It seems like yesterday I held her for the first time and heard the doctor say "it's a girl!" Now my baby is indeed a little girl, no more a baby, no more a toddler. She's clever, articulate, and a chatter box. She has a sense of what she wants, how she wants it, and the vocabulary to let me know and justify it. It becomes harder and harder to argue with her without resorting to the traditional "because I said so." She's a princess. And she's so vain, but then I suppose most five-year olds are.

Tomorrow she starts German Saturday school. And on Monday she goes to Junior Kindergarten at Serra Catholic. And that means I get to drop her off curbside, she gets to wear a uniform, and from now on she'll be wearing shoes at school. Gone are the days of bare feet, sand in her hair and water play. At least during the academic year. Summer camps are looming in our future, as are extracurricular activities and homework. Gone are the days when I had to change her diapers, cuddle her to sleep, and sing her a song while we rocked on the chair. Gone are the days when I could dress her as a doll without arguments. A whole new era starts on Monday, and as time continues to pass me by, I just hope for glimmers of memories that I'll be able to keep, since remembering every second of every day with her is not possible.

I'm starting to understand how the last child is the one to get away with murder (I hope I don't do that with Katarina). Katarina is fulfilling that need to cuddle my baby, since she's still my baby. But that is coming to an end too, albeit a bit slower than with Larissa. She's my toddler, but she's my baby. And I've given myself a mental deadline for her to truly transition into toddlerhood, at least in my book. Once she starts talking clearly, I'll have to accept that the baby stage is over. In the meantime, I'm enjoying her baby words, her sentences, and her unexpected flashes of clever speech. And I'm not particularly enjoying the diapers, but since she's still quite happy with a wet bottom and has very little interest in changing the status quo, I'm resigned to clean her butt for a bit longer and hold on to this stage for a few more months.

The next three years will be crazy, having to split the drop off and pick up of the girls in two different locations, 20 miles apart. But for as long as this lasts, my baby will stay at the daycare, where babies go, and where we moms can hang on to a bit of this time that goes away so quickly.

There are days when I "can't wait" for so many things: Larissa to start Spanish class in school, Larissa and Katarina to have their first daughter-father dance, Katarina to be out of diapers and us out of diaper expenses. The truth is that I can wait. That I want to wait. That I want to soak my brain in these days when my kids challenge every fiber of my being and test my patience to the very limit, these days when they're still dependent on me and make some things difficult. I can wait. Because I want to experience it, enjoy it, cherish it, and ultimately remember it.

Day six. Last chance for a good time.

We had planned to visit the Old Lahaina Lua'u grounds for Ho'omana'o on Wednesday, but we got moved to Friday, so this was to be the beginning of our good-bye to the island. We arrived for a program full of education on Hawaiian culture, history and traditions. And I lost my heart to this land and these people, after days of it teetering on the edge of the cliff.

Ho'omana'o starts with the chant the traditionally-clad staff shares with you to ask for permission to enter the grounds, much as they traditionally would ask for permission to enter someone else's house. We were greeted with Kukui leis and told about some of the uses of the nut for lighting in the days of their ancestors. We then enjoyed breakfast, which was good because I was starving, and a Hula show.

They divided the group into three sub-groups and took us through three sections of the "village" to teach us about some of their history and warfare (which turns out was introduced by a Polynesian chief after learning of the peaceful nature of the Hawaiian people). We also learned that the term Hawaiian is a "political" term used to refer to their people - they don't consider themselves a race or an ethnic class, but a "people," which is hard to understand and harder to explain. We then went on to learn about the history and evolution of Hula and a few of the instruments used with it. Here we got a chance to try one of the instruments and two of the basic steps of modern hula, and combining the two, which surprisingly enough turned out to be as hard as rubbing your tummy and patting your head. Finally, we learned about the old customs in Hawaiian villages, gender roles (I particularly like that pregnant women got to pretty much play in the water for nine months, unlike our modern days when we continue to work our asses off), how they made clothes and marked them for recognition, and how they make Poi, which is definitely an acquired taste. At the end, we heard about fishing, casting nets, and enjoyed one last Hula show.

This was the day we learned a bit more about the Hawaiian people trying to reclaim some of their islands and stop the progress that at this point seems inevitable, and which is developing whatever areas can be developed while losing some of the beauty and much of the natural resources, and which makes it difficult for the people of Hawai'i to preserve their way of living. Moloka'i seems to be next on the list of "hot" properties, and the island with the most to lose, as people there still practice more of a communal living where the fruits of the land are shared, and where trends and fashion are a distant concern of a different world. For more information, visit these links on the Sovereign Movement in Hawai'i. See also http://www.hawaii-nation.org and http://www.hawaii-nation.org, if you are curious about this issue or have any inclinations on it.

We returned to the resort and our modern world (which by the way I embrace, especially since I'm sharing all this on an Internet blog, from my laptop, while using wireless connection), changed into our modern bathing suits, and went to lay by the modern pool of one of the latest developments on Kaanapali beach, like the good tourists we can be. Don't get me wrong, as I don't want to sound hypocritical. I just think we tend to overdo it. There is no balance. Some decisions should not be made solely on the merit of the bottom line, but should take into consideration other factors. I would like to go back to the island in a few years and see that it's still the same. And while tourism drives the development in question, how much supply do we really, really need? Enough of that... this blog is about the vacation and not about ideologies.

We run the girls ragged this last day. We went back to the room, so they could rest and I could pack. I packed, and they didn't rest. And that night we went out to dinner, which we enjoyed in relative peace after shaking the guilty feeling at being out with our children completely asleep at the table, past their bedtime, and out of their beds. I pretty much broke all my rules that night, and since I was breaking them, I decided to let go of the guilt and enjoy the wine, the lobster, and the warm, quiet island air that surrounded us in the dimly-lit restaurant.

We said good-bye to Maui the next morning, with the promise to return in a few years, since we can't seem to stay away.