My seven year old and I have walked the same route to school every day for the past year and half – through his entire Kindergarten year and now First Grade.  On the way, we pass a large, rather sterile-looking nursing home whose bedroom windows overlook our side of the street as we walk.  Most of the windows are dark, with curtains drawn tight and no lights on.  But there is one exception – a bright, open window that has caught our eye from the start.  On the second floor in the right-hand corner, an elderly Russian-looking woman sits alone, looking out on the city streets as she drinks her morning tea.  She is always smartly dressed, with her gray hair tucked away from her face in a tidy bun.  Ever since we started our walking ritual, my son has looked up at that window, smiled at the “stranger-lady” and given her a cheery wave.  He’s done it almost every day, even though the stranger never noticed him at first.  Eventually, she did, and would smile back.  As the months passed, she then started waving back and even raised her cup to toast the tiny animated boy on the street below.  This week, for the first time, she waved and then blew my son a kiss.  He pretended to catch it and then emphatically blew one back.  Now, whenever we pass, we stop for several minutes while my son waves, blows kisses and catches the ones she sends back.  It’s one of the sweetest things I have ever seen.

The effect of this small connection with a stranger is lost on my boy, who sees it as a playful game but not much else. He doesn’t get why it is meaningful or how he has brightened this lonely woman’s mornings.   My boy’s little act of kindness is making a difference in this woman’s life and it is also making a difference in mine.  I reflect on the last time I did an act of kindness for someone else and realize that I don't do it early as often as I should and that I need to do better. Which is why I was particularly drawn to the idea of “the Socks Project” – a plan by three high school students to recycle mismatched socks and transform them into a pair of socks for the needy.  Like a friendly wave to a stranger, this idea is inspiring in its simplicity and its instant impact - making a difference one warm foot at a time.  A small yet mighty act of kindness that costs nothing and yet will brightens lives and give support to those who need it most in our community  - not unlike a cheery wave to a stranger by a seven year old on his way to school.

What was the last small act of kindness you gave or received?

My husband cheerily suggested over breakfast that we take the kids to the Golden Gate Kennel Club’s All Breed Dog Show Best at the Cow Palace this weekend.  “It will be fun and besides it’s a good place to go to get out of the rain.” He says supportively. “No good can come of this,” I reply ominously, crushing a glimmer of helpfulness in my long-suffering husband.  “I now see a puppy in our future.”  Both kids cheer.

Yes, the family is off to the blue ribbon of dog shows tomorrow and as you may tell, I was not entirely gung-ho about it.  Don’t get me wrong, I love dogs.  In fact, one has been living with us for the past 11 years and he has slowly grown on us.  Now that we have finally paid off his medical care costs (for dealing with his separation anxiety, jealousy towards our children and his inappropriate consumption of what I would call “foreign matter”), he is quite fun to be around.  I even enjoy our walks together – even when he doesn’t.  Still, the thought of dealing with a brand NEW dog or (worse yet) days and days of the kids shamelessly begging for one doesn’t exactly fill me with joy.  Can we get a puppy, please?  I promise to walk it every day.  Please, please, please.  I’ll do anything.  I can already hear the endless pleading and wailing sobs.  Still, I am determined to put on a brave face and make the most of this doomed expedition. 

At the very least, I can assume my role as “amateur investigative blogger” and dig up some juicy material for my next blog.  Perhaps I will return with some astonishing insight into the inner workings of the dog show world or at least get answers to my burning questions like:  Why do dogs look so much like their owners?  Are the best of the best trained to answer to their full pedigree name of Foo Yan Chi Alfred Mayor III, or can you just call them Fred? Does the entire Cow Palace smell of dog pee, or, after 105 years of staging the event, have they built some dog bathrooms to go with their human counterparts?  Perhaps most importantly, at least in gambling circles: is it possible for a complete dog newbie (such as myself) to spot a “for sure” Best In Show champion from instinct alone?

My guess, especially for the last question, is a definite 'No' answer, but I'm up for giving it a try - why not?  Of course, my next blog may be as scintillating as watching paint dry on a wall but what the heck.  This blog has already gone to the dogs.  In the meantime, let me know if there's something you've always wondered about the culture or convention of the great american dog show and I will try to sniff it out for you.  Just call me moveovermommy unleashed!

The whole concept of “sibling battles” is a new one for me.  After all, I was an only child and so there wasn’t anyone to scuffle with except my cranky cats.  Even after the husband and I took the plunge and had kiddo number two, there still wasn’t much in the way of sibling contests.  With a four year age difference, my son has always treated his little sister more like a deluxe pet, rather than a rival.   But that is all beginning to change now that the little sister ain’t so little any more.  Now that she is three, the battle lines are being drawn as she starts to flex her tiny muscles and tries to test her wits against her mighty older brother.  And if yesterday’s discussion in the back seat of the car on the way to swimming class is any indication, her father and I may be in for quite a ride: 

Dominic:  Mom, if you could choose to be any animal what would you be?

Me:  I think I would like to be a dolphin. 

Dominic:  [Thinking]. I would be a fox – a red fox – because they remind me of peppermint patty except they are red. (Side note:  Peppermint Patty is his black cat who looks nothing like a fox)

Genevieve (unsolicited):  I would be a bat - a big, black, spooky bat and I would eat you up, Dominic!

Dominic:  No Genevieve.  Bats can’t eat foxes up.  I would eat YOU up because foxes are bigger than bats and we have sharp teeth.  You would taste like a chicken to me.

Genevieve:  I would fly away high up in the sky and then you couldn’t eat me.  Nanni, Nanni, Phoo, Phoo.

Dominic:  Yes I could eat you.  Foxes can jump. I would jump up in the air and tear you apart.

Genevieve:  (Pause).  Then I will be an elephant and squish you instead.

[Giggles and shrieks by both kids]

At this point, I check my watch and wonder if it’s too early in the day to start drinking…

This is sheer blasphemy but I 'll put it out there anyway.  I am not a fan of George Clooney. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I agreed with any movie reviewer who liked his performance in a film.  Yes, I appreciate that Clooney is charismatic, philanthropic and easy on the eyes but as a film goer, watching George Clooney play George Clooney just doesn’t do it for me.  Not at all . And so, while every other hot-blooded woman (and man) rushed to see him in his latest movie “Up in the Air”, I was tempted to skip it altogether.  But I ultimately didn’t.  And I am glad.

Jason Reitman’s “Up in the Air” is a terrific little film that remarkably does what no other film has ever done – make George Clooney play someone other than himself.   Ryan Bingham (or as I liked to call him, “the Un-George”) is a corporate hatchet man who flies around the country firing employees whose bosses are too cowardly to do the deed themselves.  Ryan loves his mercenary job – mostly because of the unfettered lifestyle of nonstop travel, hotel and airplane upgrades.  He is the consummate “island,” having no real home, family or personal connections.  As he reminds us throughout the film, he can pack up his entire life in a “backpack” – a talent he relishes and thrives off of.  His solitary, transient lifestyle is threatened, however, when a new employee, Natalie Keener, devises a system of employee termination via video conferencing, which would eliminate the need for Bingham to travel anywhere.  The film tracks the mounting tension as Bingham brings Keener along on his travels to educate Keener on the nuances of industrial capital punishment and why his own job should be spared.  Along the way, Bingham gets involved with Alex Goran (Vera Farmiga), Bingham’s equivalent (except with a vagina, as she puts it).  Bingham’s relationship with both women – one professional and one personal – becomes the central catalyst for Bingham’s own self-awakening and growth.

The story of a disconnected corporate guy who realizes that no man should be an island is hardly novel.  Yet Reitman makes the story refreshingly new and relevant through fine performances and a smart script.  Clooney, as I said, really acts in this film and he is believable.  Farmiga is memorable as his romantic doppleganger and Keener is simply charming as Bingham’s young, idealistic sidekick.  Plus, Reitman’s brilliant idea to use actual laid-off employees to fill in the termination scenes gives the film a depth and resonance rarely seen in the world of corporate lay-offs.   Evidently these real life casualties of layoffs were asked to come back and be filmed responding the way they wished they had responded at the time the hatchet had actually come down.  The rawness and reality of those moments are haunting and powerful.

The central premise of the film – that connection and complication define what it means to be a grown-up - is an important theme in this movie and is excellently delivered through this quiet and thoughtful drama.  It made me rethink my earlier preconceptions of Clooney who, as an actor, seems to have grown up too. 

My children haven’t been playing by the rules.  Not at all.  The rules are clear and unwavering–  children must sleep in their own beds at night unless a fire or some large natural disaster compels them to do otherwise.  It’s a rule that their father and I vowed to uphold shortly after Dominic (our oldest) was born.  We have clung desperately to it ever since – through thick and thin.  No family bed in our house, no sir, not on your life.  It’s a rule that I believe has kept our marriage happy and our minds relatively sane.  And amazingly, the kids seem to know this too.  It’s almost as if they intuit that this is one rule they cannot mess with.  Either that or the high pitched quiver of hysteria in our voices in the midst of night time wakings is a dead giveaway.  In any case, it’s a rule my kids have upheld … until this week.

Thanks to a series of thunderstorms slamming the Bay Area, both children have been stealthily slithering into our bed all week in the middle of the night for cuddles and reassurance.  The visits are brief, carefully designed to disrupt the critical REM sleep of the parents before settling back into their own beds.  They fall back to sleep happily comforted while the long suffering parents stare wide awake in the dark until morning. The first few nights, we indulged it – hell, we almost encouraged it.  After all, thunder and lightning is scary, especially when your bedroom is in attic (as is the case of our kids) and you are basically sleeping in the eye of storm.  It’s loud up there with the rain pounding on the roof and the wind whistling through the cracks in the window panes.  That, plus having their warm snuggly bodies spooned next to you in their fleecy pjs – it is addictively cozy.  We also kind of liked the novelty of it.   There was something miraculous about cramming all living creatures in the household (including our two cats and the dog) on to one small queen-sized bed and having them stay in one place harmoniously for at least one hour.  That novelty soon wore off.

Last night (for the fourth night in a row) my seven year old son crawled into our bed around 3 am after a large clap of thunder.  He not only brought his three year old sister and her blanky, but also a host of inanimate friends. He brought “Domo” (his brown, one eyed Japanese stuffed toy) as well as his R2-D2 key ring.  He also carted down his Fur-covered Dave Eggers book on "Where the Wild Things Are," and his “Super D” super hero cape.  Have you ever snuggled up to a book and a Star Wars-themed key ring? Or rolled onto them at 3:45 am?   Believe me, it isn’t much fun. 

My husband lasted 30 minutes before finally lurching out of bed and shuffling over to the couch.  The pets, also disgusted, followed suit one by one.  That left me, the two kids (who always sleep in right angles like spiky starfish) and Dominic’s four treasured objects.  I lasted until 4 am and then, after a particularly vicious jab in the back by a child's elbow, headed for the kids room myself.  At least I would have a bed to myself, I thought, and could salvage a few more moments of shut eye.  Wrong.  As I crept into my son’s bed, I heard a deafening crash as a number of tiny objects scattered by my feet.  Upon close inspection, I could make out the shapes of Dominic’s robot droid, marbles and his entire plastic pirate collection in the darkness.  What was all this?  Evidently, my son had strategically placed all his prized possessions at the bottom of his bed to protect them from dastardly thieves or at least his sister’s sticky fingers.  They might have been booby traps of sorts, or even a warning signal against possible intruders.  Who knows?  Whatever the case, the racket these objects made hitting the ground rivaled the storm in drama and intensity, waking every living creature in the house.  Seconds later, my kids were back in their own beds, complaining that our bedroom was too noisy and empty.  My husband lurched off the couch and even the pets resumed their usual positions.  All was right with the world again.

This morning at breakfast, my groggy son asked me to please not sneak into his bed anymore. He said that his bed was really a kid’s bed and that it was best if only he slept in it from now on.  He said that he keeps his most precious toys there and didn’t feel comfortable about having me disturb them.  He reminded me of our house rule and said that he thinks we should all try to follow it.  His baby sister, who happens to be going through a “I want to be just like my brudder” stage,  nodded moronically in agreement while continuing to drink her juice from a sippy cup.  I told Dominic that he was really smart and then we made our pact.  “We are going to stick to our own beds from now on – and just visit each other when we really needed to” we all chanted.  And that was that.  I can happily say I will never forsake that rule again and neither will my children, I suspect.  The pets and husband on the other hand… … Sweet dreams!

 It’s a wet blustery Tuesday here in San Francisco.  According to the weather report, we are in the midst of a series of winter storms which will be drenching the city through the weekend.  When the rain started yesterday, both kids were off school celebrating  Martin Luther King’s Birthday.  I had made a gazillion plans to entertain them – a morning playgroup, a cafe lunch and an excursion to party playhouse. Once I received the winter storm advisory over the radio, we wiped the calendar clean - using the rain as an excuse to languish around in sweats, drink tea and host a small visit with a girlfriend and her adorable baby.  After a spell of twitchy restlessness, both kids slid comfortably into the slow pace of the day, watching videos, reading and working on puzzles.  It was a cozy, quiet, unstructured day.  Complete indulgence.  In San Francisco, we don’t see many rainy days like this and when we do they don't last long.  And so I do my best to set aside the checklist and treasure them.  Here are my ten reasons for loving rainy days:

1.         Woolly Scarves 

2.         Reading “In The Night Kitchen”

3.         Furry loving pets

4.         Unapologetically messy hair

5.         Lady Bug Galoshes

6.         Inside-out umbrellas

7.         Brisk soggy dog walks

8.         Tomato soup and grilled cheeses

9.         Scooby Doo cartoons

10.       Long hot baths

What are yours?

My seven year old came home today and asked if we could go online to make a donation for the people of Haiti.  He said that there had been an earthquake there and that a lot of people needed food and water.  He said that his teachers told his class that they could help by making a $10 donation to the Red Cross.  Looking into those big, brown, worried eyes, my heart just melted - in part, because of the innocence and simplicity of his request and the earnestness in his desire to help.  In part, because looking into my son’s eyes connected me instantly to the thought that in another part of the world, thousands if not hundreds of thousands of mothers like me were looking into their children’s eyes, searching for words to comfort and reassure them in the midst of their collapsed world. 

We logged on to my little laptop downstairs and scrolled to the web page for the Red Cross.  Before making our donation, Dominic asked to see pictures of the devastation in Haiti.  I hesitated, questioning whether I should allow him to see the horrifying aftermath of the earthquake.  Is he old enough to see such images of destruction and collapse?   Is he able to grasp the enormity of the circumstances he would be looking at?  How would the images of the full brutality of this earthquake impact him?  As his parent, what responsibility did I have in protecting him from the rawness of those images?  Ultimately, I decided that he should be able to see some pictures – to get a concrete sense of where his donation would be going.  Although those images would be upsetting, I felt it was important for him to understand the reality of what is happening to untold people. And so we slowly scrolled through a half-dozen still life pictures of destroyed buildings, broken roads and rubble.  We paused over the pictures of Haitian people – some collapsed in grief over the body of a loved one, some staring dull-eyed and uncomprehending off into the distance. Dominic noted that one of the people in the pictures appeared to be a kid about his age, digging through the rubble.  We talked about how scared he must have been to have gone through the earthquake and yet how brave and strong he was for having survived.  Dominic was thoughtful and calm as he studied each picture in turn.  He seemed to get it.

We got to the “donate now” button and I asked Dominic how much we should donate.  Without hesitating he said we should donate as much as we can and so we did.   Not long after, Dominic was on to another topic – stun guns to be exact and how he wanted to invent one that stopped bad guys in their tracks.  We then read a chapter of Pippi Longstocking and then it was off to bed.  Dominic has been asleep for an hour now and I sit here reflecting on my decision to let my son see those pictures of the Haiti earthquake.  This is not a news story that will be fading quickly and so no doubt he will get continued exposure (through conversations at home and at school) to the situation in Haiti.   I wonder whether our experience together today, looking at those pictures, will become part of his long term memory.  Either way, I believe his consciousness has been raised and his compassion deepened.  In the midst of so much tragedy, that is a small but important ray of hope.

In his New York Times Op-Ed Column, reviewer David Brooks slams the movie Avatar as being offensively stereotypical in its interpretation of what he calls the “White Messiah Fable.”  Specifically he derides James Cameron’s plot as resting on the following condescending stereotypes:

It rests on the stereotype that white people are rationalist and technocratic while colonial victims are spiritual and athletic. It rests on the assumption that nonwhites need the White Messiah to lead their crusades. It rests on the assumption that illiteracy is the path to grace. It also creates a sort of two-edged cultural imperialism. Natives can either have their history shaped by cruel imperialists or benevolent ones, but either way, they are going to be supporting actors in our journey to self-admiration.

Brooks also notes that the only reason Avatar is such a global hit is because world-wide audiences can get their jollies in seeing American troops get slaughtered.  He writes that the only other reason for the film’s record-shattering success is because its useful commercial hooks which allow large greedy corporations like McDonald's get behind the film with tie-in campaigns.  In short, this particular movie reviewer suggests that the film is little more than one big bloated mass-marketing vehicle and a gluttonous tribute to James’ Cameron’s blockbuster-sized ego.

I have to disagree.  First, I don’t care that Mr. Brooks can’t stomach the movie’s well-worn plot and that it offends him that James Cameron has a monster ego.  I can’t say that I am terribly bothered by the portrayal of the innocent Na’vi tribes and don’t agree with Mr. Brooks’ characterization of it as being condescending or racist.  It is clear that  Mr. Brooks really didn’t have fun at this movie and for that I feel a tad sorry for him. 

As an avid movie-goer, what I like and care about is that James Cameron delivered a film that is by any measure extraordinary big-screen entertainment.  Avatar is thrillingly exciting, stunningly beautiful and delivers an experience that is unparalleled by any other movie maker EVER.  It is an epic adventure story that more than lives up to the hype.  This film literally transforms movie-watching for all time – bringing its audiences into the movie experience as it unfolds and leaving them awe-struck and elated.  I, like millions of others, haven’t felt this way about any film since first seeing Star Wars as a small child.  At that tender time in my life, I remember feeling as though I had just watched something special - something no one had ever seen before.  I got that same startling feeling from Avatar. For that, James Cameron deserves all the accolades and ego-massaging he can handle.

Furthermore, Mr. Brook’s comment about Avatar’s “unoriginal” plot is hardly late-breaking news.  Cameron is unapologetic in borrowing from the stories of Pocahontas and Ferngully.  The film is indeed a blatant parable of the North American settlers and their oppression and exploitation of the Native Americans who lived there first.  And yet, does it matter?  Even though the story isn’t novel, Cameron more than compensates for a familiar plot through the skilled manner in which he tells it.  The film subtly introduces his audience to an incredible new world, taking its time to establish plot and character.  There is no rushing headlong into the action (as we would expect with a movie of this genre).  Instead, the audience is allowed to dwell carefully on each new amazing aspect of this startling place and its inhabitants, incrementally discovering each of its new wonders in slow degrees – just like the protagonist, Jake Sully.  Like adjusting our eyes in the darkness until we can finally see the light, the slow revelation of the depth and beauty of this fantastical world mirrors Jake Sully’s own growing awareness of the beauty of this strange land and its people.  We fall in love with the place and its creatures, just as Jake Sully does. 

Mr. Brooks was sadly also too hung up on his racist interpretation of the film to pause for a moment and appreciate the beautiful performances by many of the new actors in the film.  That is a shame for him and his readers.  Zoë Saldana is mesmerizing as the proud and beautiful warrior princess.  Sam Worthington is also captivating both in his human form as a disabled veteran and in his Na’vi form.  And Stephen Lang, who plays the sadistic military commander, has got to be one of the best film villains of the year.  And yet – it's all an added bonus.  Most of us didn’t go to Avatar for fine character acting or a thought-provoking plot.  We went for the special effects and boy did we get them!  I haven’t a clue how Cameron did it, but the 3D in this film was truly extraordinary – submerging us entirely into the film in a way that has never been done before.    

About half way through the film, I turned to my husband and remarked on how much I wished my seven year old son could have experienced this movie with us.  He is. of course. far too little right now to see it, but I know that he will do back flips when he is finally old enough to be taken.  I have no doubt this film will be around for the long haul and that we will have that opportunity to share that experience together.  In the meantime, I have a piece of motherly, movie-going advice for Mr. Brooks at the New York Times.  Lighten up, perhaps ease up on the popcorn and enjoy the show! 

Anyone who tells you that pink is a “softer, less violent red” hasn’t been around my two year old daughter when she has donned her pink princess outfit.  There is nothing soft, fluffy or flowerlike about that color when it is draped around my daughter’s tiny body.  Pink literally drives her insane and it really isn’t pretty.  Granted, my daughter is a force to be reckoned with under the best of circumstances.  She is by any standard extremely extraverted, highly verbal and stridently opinionated.  (Yes, your typical, unremarkable toddler).  She also has her passions (again like most toddlers) which are strongly held and fiercely protected.  They revolve primarily around “dress up” and Michael Jackson.  Both of them are fairly manageable, up to a point and as long as a certain color isn’t involved.

I have already blogged (and spoken) ad nauseum about Michael Jackson’s presence in my daughter G’s life.  For those who need illumination, the spangled gloved one is G’s imaginary friend who first made an appearance shortly after his memorial in September 2009.  Although MJ was a major presence in our household for most of Fall 09, he has made himself more scarce since the New Year. Besides a short cameo appearance on New Year’s Day while we were making pancakes, he hasn’t been moon-walking through our halls at all.  Truth be told, he is a more than manageable preoccupation of my daughter and is getting more so every day.

Dress-up is my daughter’s other passion and that too is fairly containable. Even during its most intense phases (usually after a thorough marketing blitz for a newly released Disney princess film), I am able to manage her dress-up passion in such a way that life can continue relatively uninterrupted.  Yes, we still must sit through full-blown fashion shows on a regular basis (usually right before we need to walk out the door to keep some incredibly pressing appointment) but she keeps them blessedly short and focused.  She has perfected the art of whipping through her costume changes with great speed and panache and so it is all relatively painless.  She is also remarkably good-natured when we yell that it is time for the final curtain call.  She understands my limit-setting and usually goes along with the agenda.

All bets are off when one of the costumes happen to be “pink” (the color that is, NOT the singer).  I don’t know what it is about that color but pink brings out something primal in my child which has a shock and awe-like quality to it.  Suddenly, my otherwise pliable, approval-seeking offspring turns into a wild animal, literally fighting to the death to keep from being separated from all things pink. “I will not take it off!”  She shrieks while running away at full pelt in her pink ballerina tutu.  “Go away mummy right NOW!”  She commands, “I will not take it off!”  She clearly views pink as an inextricable part of her blossoming identity that me, the horrible mother, is trying to thwart or stifle.  And so as much as I can, I try to respect her personhood, give her space and simply march on with the day with my pink clad child in tow.  But that is not always possible – especially during the winter season with freezing temperatures and icy rain spells.  Pink or no pink, there are times when the costume simply has to come off. 

And so begins the invariable death roll where mother and tiny pink princess engage in hand to hand mortal combat, struggling over the removal of the pink garment and the substitution with something warmer or more appropriate.  Oftentimes, I will try to swap the pink dress up outfit for pink street clothes but my two year old rarely falls for it.  She screams, shrieks, and flails around the room as though stripping her of the pink princess attire was akin to murder.  I have literally had to take breaks and refuel during these fierce fights – mostly to stop my child from dry heaving and choking on her hiccups.  In short, there is nothing pretty about pink. And hell hath no fury like a rose-colored toddler.

My oldest unmarried daughter turns three on Friday and I have started to wonder about when the pink obsession will finally loosen its vice-like grip.  I keep hoping that we are on the cusp of her attaching to something else – something less crimson, less charged with feeling and more life-friendly.  I keep encouraging her to get excited about things that don’t require sunglasses to look at and a ritual of tearing off all her clothes.  I try to show her that she can find contentment in other past times that induce stillness, peace and household harmony – such as books and blocks and tea sets. 

And so, toward that end, I vowed that for the big 03 celebration there would be no more fairy wings, pink tiaras or hello kitty purses.  She can explore the other end of the color wheel for once – like blues and greens – the cool, pacifying colors of the sea and the sky.  When I ran this revelation by my seven year old, he shook his head and said “Bad idea, Mom.”  “She will be a mermaid instead of a princess.  Do you really want that instead?”  And of course, he is right.  Few things are as hellish as a Mermaid costume – especially for a toddler.  The sequins from the tail get all over the carpet and are impossible to clean up.  Mermaid costumes are infinitely harder to get in and out of and the tail makes mobility nearly impossible.  Yes, I needed to rethink my crusade against all things pink in our lives. After all, there are plenty things worst than a petulant pink princess in the house.  Especially a pretty one.