Mother Knows Best, Especially Around Hot Tubs

For spring break, my kids and I met my mom in Santa Monica. What fun it was, to play on the sandy playground, to waste quarters in the video arcade, to stroll the Promenade. She lives in Virginia, so time spent with her is wiled away, musing over how quickly my sons grow. My mom has always been outspoken, both about my victories and shortcomings as a mother. It’s pretty common for her to start with, “You keep your kids so clean,” and finish with, “they have no immunity to illness, so they’re always sick.” Continue… »

Didi

Ethan named his blanket once he was old enough to give anything a name. He has been a thumb-and-blanket addict since I weaned him at six months, so he’s a great sleeper as a result. Who can complain when a six-year-old still naps and sleeps eleven hours at night?

Our pediatrician agreed. “Kids usually give up these things on their own at about age six.” She gave Eth a reassuring pat on the back and turned to me, “So don’t rush it.”
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Flying with the Big Boys

It’s Christmas vacation, and Kirk and I are on the plane to Costa Rica with Ethan, age six, and Alex, three.

“Free at last!” I say. We’ve arrived. No more travel with diapers. Gone are the days when we schlepped a stroller, Bjorn, car seats, and diaper bag. My husband and I have finally made it to travel with Big Boys. It seems like the only things we bring for a long airplane flight now are DVD players.

This morning, as we waited in the security line, I spotted a poor mommy who woke her sleeping baby, wrestled him out of his shoes, hoisted him from his stroller, and shoved his transportation through the machine. I smiled at her reassuringly. It wasn’t long ago that I was in her position, trying to dump formula while simultaneously shouldering a diaper bag and a screaming baby.

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The Woman I Used to Be

Sometimes, when I’m up in the middle of the night, giving one of my sons Children’s Motrin, or when I’m wiping their butts, or assembling the thousandth PB&J, I think of the woman I used to be. 

It’s a stretch for me, so immersed in motherhood, to acknowledge the Mindy before kids. 

Before I started bringing up the latest generation of my family, I had a different family.  It was a group of creative people, of grips and DP’s, directors, actors, and producers.  As an independent filmmaker, I lived in Los Angeles, among many types of would-be stars.  The majority were single-minded, egocentric opportunists, all trying to bust into the entertainment industry.  It was an existence that ran counter to anything remotely nurturing or motherly. 

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From the Mouth of Babes Come All Kinds of Words

Last week, while clearing away the dinner dishes, my boys, Ethan, five, and Alex, three, began their debate.

Ethan, in an authoritative voice, fired the first shot with, “Storm troopers have cooler weapons than Jedis, you know.”

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Rack Attack: Let Me Just Get Something Off My Chest

It’s funny how the relationship between my tits and me has changed.  

Back when I was a single, ninety-eight pound wisp of a thing, I’d think, “Gee, they’re not huge, but the dudes seem to dig ‘em OK.”
 
This perception didn’t really change when I got married.  However, during my first pregnancy, after the Boobie Fairy had paid her requisite visit, my husband, Kirk, suddenly became obsessed with my breasts.  

And why shouldn’t he?  

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