Boys Don’t Cry. Yes They Do.

I’ve been scattered and stretched and working hard lately, while HB has started a demanding new job. And yesterday the poor Unreliable Narrator reached a breaking point.

The UN has the quirk of liking frozen vegetables well-nigh frozen. (I think it started when he was tiny and I’d give him frozen peas as a summertime snack. Refreshing when it’s 98 degrees outside, ever so slightly odd when it’s not. Whatever–the house rule is that there no limits on veggies.) So when I gave him some green beans for dinner straight from the freezer and put his warmed pasta on it to defrost them a little, he whimpered and cried and rubbed his eyes. Both wanting to lose it and trying hard not to.

When You Were a Tiny Baby

You horked all over your grandfather. In public.

Heavy-Handed Lessons in Jedi Knighthood

Angelenos are far from anti-intellectual. Are you kidding me? We have all that time trapped in a car with each other to philosophize. To wit–

The Unreliable Narrator: Daddy, how did Star Wars get to be bad?

HB: You mean Darth Vader? Well, he started out good, and then turned bad.

The UN: What turned him bad?

The Mom Song

Rocker Mom to Soccer Mom: I feel you, girl.

Din Tai Fung #2, Triumphal Palace

HB and I lived in the San Francisco bay area for 9 years, and we very happily ate our way through as many varied cuisines as we could (on the cheap–I was a grad student, he was a part-time (!) public radio news reporter). Just today over Korean bulgogi we were talking about how Los Angeles’ Chinese food has lapped NoCal’s.

Get the Memo Sooner Rather Than Later

For R. & L., who are ready to pop any day now, and for M.’s sister in March.

HB and I were lugging our bulging baby bag and baby to the park one day when he was about 11 months old when we saw a dad climb out of his car with his undiapered, upright-walking, speech-enabled sons of 6 and 9. (Ages given in years.) This father had a bottle of water in his hands. His cell phone was in his back pocket. And that was all.

It blew our foggy, somebody-in-the-house is-teething, sleep-deprived little minds.

‘Tis the Season

it’s almost 2008, and i can feel the seasonal melancholy in the air, in spite of the true cheer we managed to generate by overeating and exchanging gifts. times like these i’m happy to hibernate. long naps are alluring.

Did We Just Talk About Death?

INT. KITCHEN – NIGHT

the Unreliable Narrator sits on my lap, eating spoonful after spoonful of plain yogurt. (his daddy fed him dinner at 6 pm and then expected the child to go to bed on an empty stomach. what were you thinking, daddy? geez. the child’s hands are cold–he can’t go to sleep hungry.)