Sunday Guest Blog: Expectations (Part Deux)

O: I’m going to bring my beautiful art to the store and give it to people.

O grabbed a stack of her school paintings and made this announcement one Sunday afternoon as we headed to the grocery store to stock up for the week.

Two things immediately ran through my head:

1. S#!t, my preschooler is going to assault, poor, unsuspecting shoppers and foist her artwork on them.

2. Double S#it, it is going to break my heart to see her face rejection when someone doesn’t want her art.

Let’s face it, children are nothing if not prolific painters, and each painting is a masterpiece to our little Frida Kahlo. Parents who have forgotten to take out the trash after a late night art purge know the deep sadness and hurt of their little artist when he or she finds artwork that has been tossed away.

As we drove to the store, I just kept hoping she would forget about it and leave her art in the car because: 

1. I wanted to get in and out of the store as fast as possible, and stopping to hand out artwork was not going to make things go any faster,

2. I didn't want to make any other Sunday afternoon shopper's life more difficult by having to deal with an art peddler, and

3. I am not an overly social creature, unlike O, and the thought of potentially talking to everyone we met in the store produced more social anxiety than I wanted to admit.

And it was this third item that made me reexamine my position. I was letting my anxiety dictate how I want O to interact with the world. So, I reevaluated the options and realized that, if I set the right expectations, this could be a learning experience for both of us.

Before we went into the store, I explained to O that she could ask people if they wanted her artwork, and if they said, yes, she could hand them a painting; if they said, no, she needed to accept that they didn't want it and that it was OK to just move on.

In the end, I was surprised that of the four people she approached, three actually took the artwork and seemed genuinely engaged in conversation with this four-year-old art vendor. One declined politely and O just moved on to the next person.

That day, I hope O learned how to approach people with her precious talents in a way that will allow her to share graciously with those who are interested and easily walk away from those who are not.

I learned that examining my parental motivations is even more crucial than I thought. By setting expectations for both of us, it ended up being a delightful trip to the grocery store.

Opting Out: Christmas Edition

People generally look at me like I'm crazy, and I probably am, but O and P get one gift for Christmas.  If it is a large, shareable item, like last year's doll house, they get one shared gift. Otherwise, they get one each. Santa fills their stocking with art supplies and other practical items. We ask family to give experiences, like lessons or museum memberships, and that is it. Seriously. 

I have a long list of reasons, but I think the main one is pretty obvious. We are opting out of the Christmas chaos, of the conspicuous consumption, of the excess, of the piles of stuff.  It makes the whole holiday feel lighter, and easier. At least, it does for me. 

I do worry how they will feel as they start to compare their holiday with their peers. I guess I hope that our Christmases will be so filled with love and fun that they won't even notice that they aren't filled with presents. As they get older, we might transition to the rule of four: something you want, something you need, something to wear, something to read, but for now, the one present seems to be working out just fine.

I'm very aware of how some of our parenting choices are going to set O and P apart from their peer group. This is just one small example of that. I wish I could tell you that I am 100% confident that I am doing the right thing. I can't. As with all of these choices, I'm just making my best guess, doing what feels right for our family, and trying to make conscious choices rather than just following blindly. I'll get back to you in thirty years, but for now, at least I don't have to figure out where to store all those new toys.

Sunday Guest Blog: Expectations

O:  But, that's not the car we were going to buy!

Last Sunday, Kate and I took possession of a brand new, shiny, red car. O and P had been excited all week to see it, and I especially could not wait to see O's face light up when she saw this wondrous new wagon. And when she did see it? Disappointment. It was not the car she expected to see. She remembered the car we looked at a month ago, which is not the car we ended up buying. 

It struck me in that moment, how easily we can be disappointed, or how easily we can disappoint, based upon the pictures we create in our minds. With the best of intentions, and with no foresight into the minds of others, be they toddlers or nonagenarians, it can happen. O expected a different car, and I expected a more jubilant reaction.

Neither of us did anything wrong, other than not matching the picture we each had in our own mind. We all experience this daily, whether your morning Starbucks isn't quite as good as what you got yesterday, or whether the eagerly anticipated movie adaptation cannot live up to what you saw in your mind as you read the book. We are human, and as much as we are all the same in the most fundamental ways, none of us sees the world exactly the same as the person next to us.

In this case, O's disappointment vanished the moment she jumped into the car and joined her sister in exploring every inch of our new people mover, or "The Beast," as we have begun to lovingly call it.

So, I learned a lot from O today. While the world does not always live up to the pictures in our minds, if you are willing to keep moving forward and explore, you might be pleasantly surprised by the reality you find.

The Tale of the Small House

I often have this dream, where we live exactly where we live, but suddenly, after years of living here, I find a door or an archway or an opening into a new space. Sometimes it is an extra room and sometimes it is a garden. At first, it is a relief. I start to imagine what this new space will mean for us. Inevitably, I find the extra room is attached to a busy bank lobby separated only by curtains, or the garden is overrun with terrible, wild beasts. Even in my dreams, more space isn't really the answer. 

Love grows in a small house.

We live in a small house. We live in a small house in a large city with big housing problem. I can't tell you our square-footage, because I don't know it, but it is small. It's not Tiny House small, but you get the idea. 

The forest

We have two small bedrooms and one impossibly small bathroom, and yet, somehow, all five beating hearts manage to squeeze their way into it, en masse, at least once a day. Ah, the joys of family togetherness. 

O cookin' on the the O'Keefe 

There are advantages. I love my antique O'Keefe & Merritt stove more that I hate not having a dishwasher. While I hate our impossible closet situation, I love that my kitchen door opens up to some outside space with trees and room to play. They call it "the forest" and while our more rural friends would be right to laugh at them, it warms my heart, when on a cloudy afternoon, they insist on flashlights before entering its leafy depths. I love the vintage details and the craftsmanship of old construction and the way the hardwood floors creak in only predictable places. I love having a parking spot right outside my kitchen door and having a garage in which I can hide Christmas decorations, old paperbacks and my shame. I love it here: the neighborhood, my neighbors, Jim's 2.5 mile commute. Living here means he is home before 6:00pm almost every night. I especially love that. 

Living within earshot of my children has shaped the way I parent. We never had a baby monitor. There was no need. We are on top of each other almost all the time. We chuckle when O says she is afraid to be alone at night, with only one wall to separate us at all times. 

It takes organization. It takes discipline. It takes patience and compassion, and maybe I'm just rationalizing, but I really believe that love grows in a small house, or at least, ours has. 

Rainy Days

O: The sky is wet! The sky is wet! I need an umbrella and my boots and a flashlight. Hug me, P! The sky is wet!

Something magical happens when LA kids see rain. O & P have spent the entire afternoon splashing in puddles and dancing in the rain. I can't get them to come inside. I don't really want them to. 

We have very little of what anyone could call weather here, so a couple of wet days instantly become an everyday special occasion. I like everyday special occasions. I'm really good at them.

Now, I'm going to go make some extra-special, super-chocolatey, rainy-day hot cocoa. Maybe then they'll come inside. 

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A Reminder to Release the Camera

I was shooting pictures of the girls, when he came up beside me and took the camera off my neck. He nonchalantly began pretending to take pictures of the surf and the sunset, and I started to play with the girls. He snapped this picture of me and P without me even noticing. It might be one of my favorite things, ever. 

Thanks, Jim

If you are like me, you like to hold the camera, command the radio, and drive the car. If you are like me, you like to be in control. This photo is my new reminder of what can happen when you release control, take a deep breath, and find your way back to being in the moment. The moment is a nice place to be. 

Here are a few other special moments I caught of some of the most wonderful women I know, and the people who made them moms: Mother's Day: a Photo Essay

Sunday Guest Blog: A Car and a Question

O: Tell Mommy that I love her more than the whole entire world.

This is usually O's request of me as I tuck her in and leave her room each night. Last night, it struck me that I feel the same way about her mom. We test drove and bought at car together this weekend. After we switched drivers midway through the test-drive, our salesperson asked us how long we had been married. 

K: Eight years.

SP: It's just, you seem really happy. Like this is working. Most of the couples that come in seem like that can't stand each other. I've been married six months so I was just wondering. 

Sales tactic or no, Kate and I were glad that it was apparent from the outside that "this is working."

While this may seem like a no-brainer, after eight years of marriage and two kids, you can find yourself settling into a routine that, while comfortable and amazing all by itself, allows you to forget all the little things and little moments that lead to that big question about spending a lifetime together. After all, we met while acting together in a show, which usually leads to the briefest of brief romances. So what went right?

Sometimes I have to remind myself that I'm not dreaming.

As I fell asleep last night, I decided to relive the little moments that added up to my knowing that Kate was "the one." So, I offer the following:

1. The composed, but never sent, email to our director to thank her for casting the most beautiful woman in the world as my romantic lead. (Yeah, that wouldn't have been creepy or inappropriate at all.)
2. The intense rage that I felt one night after rehearsal when we were leaving the theatre and a car  almost ran Kate off the road and I saw MY life flash before my eyes and couldn't imagine it without her. (I did not begin a full pursuit as this would only have lead to jail time and perhaps real disaster, but I'm still mad at that jerk driver.)
3. On our first official date, I tried to pay for dinner and Kate refused, arguing that we were both starving actors and that neither of us could really afford to pay for our own meal, let alone the whole meal. (We split the tab.)
4. That time time I found myself daydreaming about being really old and I could picture Kate's wrinkled and always beautiful face next to my shriveled mug as we sat on a porch together telling young ne'er-do-wells to "get off our lawn."

All these little moments lead to a the question.  When she said, "yes," I made the decision to love Kate for the rest of my life. That was the best decision I ever made. (And fortunately for me, I think she feels the same way.)

About P

P: I eed fancies. My bum bum is anake. 

(translation: Mother, please locate me some appropriate undergarments. Currently, I have found that I am inappropriately attired for my day.)

You guys, P is amazing.  She is currently obsessed with fretty (pretty) dresses and wearing rina (ballerina) shoes, but I have luckily been able to stretch the definition of both of those words to their most extreme limits. She insists on buckling her own carseat (advance apologies for my 15 minute tardiness to all in-person meetings), and falls asleep at night clutching my old copy of Number the Stars. She dances everywhere she goes, gives the best huddies (hugs) I've ever had the privilege to receive (sorry Jim), and she is, quite possibly, the funniest person I have ever known.

Her current, post-bath move is to escape, in the nude, into the living room where she will slowly wiggle her tiny tushy at you while looking over her shoulder and with a sly smile saying, "bum, bum," in a slightly sing-song voice. (There is a distinct possibility that this one falls under the you-have-to-be-there category).  She tells jokes where, regardless of the set-up, the punchline in "tinky feet." What did I tell you? Comic genius.

Today, she fell asleep in my arms, her sweaty, heavy body pressed as close to me as she could manage, her head right under my chin, her ear on my heart, and her hand curled tightly around a fistful of my hair. Seriously, amazing. 

Real Talk in Unexpected Places

O: Mommy, why are those people yelling?

K: Well, they are yelling because they are sad. And mad, but I think mostly sad.

We make an annual two-and-a-half-mile pilgrimage to Beverly Hills to go to Geary's, this super fancy store that has been there forever. They have a huge tree in the middle of their showroom and it has become Felton family tradition to go pick an (exorbitantly priced) ornament off the tree. We like it because it feels special and rarified, and because I am constantly looking for ways to create traditions that are uniquely ours. I also really enjoy writing tiny dates in Sharpie marker on special things. 

This year, after we picked and paid for the extra-special, hand-blown, gingerbread man ornament, we decided to walk up to see the big Christmas tree. Even in it's falseness, the Beverly Hills Christmas tree always seems to strike the right note for me: the faux cobblestone and the fake snow, not as grand as the Grove, but not cheap like 3rd St Promenade.  I am, after all, a LA girl at heart.

As we approached the tree, we heard shouting. Well, really, we heard chanting. The day after the Ferguson decision a group of people had come to Beverly Hills to protest the Grand Jury's ruling. My heart sank. Here we were, with a two-year-old and four-year-old, spending too much money, running around in fancy dresses, trying to make a memory, and there they were, with their pain and their rage, trying to make a difference. We, us. They, them. I felt small and petty and I prayed O wouldn't notice, that I could put this one off for another day. This city has forced so many conversations on me that I wasn't ready to have: homelessness, sexualized billboards, and now social justice. 

O: Mommy, why are those people yelling?

I tried my best to be clear, to answer her questions and be honest. I told her that they were angry and sad about a decision some people had made, and that sometimes, when people feel angry and sad about something and they don't feel like they have any power, they join together, to protest, in public, to let everyone know that they feel angry and sad. I told her that, sometimes, this helps the people who are angry and sad by giving them community and a chance to be heard, and that when enough people join together, it can make a difference, that maybe the people who feel powerless can change something. I told her a man was shot, with a gun, and he died. I told her that. 

How do you explain something to a ferociously-bright four-year-old that you, yourself, don't fully understand? How do you talk about race, and prejudice, and privilege, when your audience still can't tie her own shoes?  How do you explain to her why you are standing at the top of the staircase, watching, instead of charging down those stairs and joining the cause, when your reasons are fear-filled, selfish, and shaky, at best? How do you define a word like injustice, to someone who is afraid of the monster under her bed?

She wanted to go and look, so Jim took her closer to the perimeter of where a small group of protesters had gathered: a mother with a newborn on her shoulder, two pre-adolescent boys, a group of college-aged kids, and a handful of people the age of O's grandpa. She watched for a while, clutching Jim's hand. I tried to read her expression while she watched, but she looked overwhelmed and far away. I felt uneasy, as though there was something in our spectatorship that was wrong or dirty. We waited, until she tired of watching and began the walk back to our car. I grabbed her by the shoulders, forcing eye contact and trying to stuff down my own tears, and told her if she had any questions, her dad and I would do our very best to answer them. 

As we made our way back through Beverly Hills and the girls skipped ahead, I was struck by the attention and fawning they received. Everyone who passed them smiled at them, a fair number commented on how cute they were, some even stopped to engage them in polite conversation. As they moved through the world, I saw that world part before them, easing their way.

I don't know how to tell them that the world doesn't part for everyone that way, that by an accident of birth, they will experience certain advantages. I don't know how to tell them how unfair that is. 

I worry a lot, about my kids, about their safety when they are out in the world, but I don't ever worry that they will be shot, because someone perceived them as being dangerous, because of the color of their skin. I can't pretend to imagine that I could understand that fear, that anger, that sadness, that a mother would have, even for a second, but I am trying. 

We did the best we could in the moment, but I don't feel great about any of it. 

Thankful

All year, every day, I am thankful. I'm unclear on how I got so lucky to have the people that I have around me, that everyone is healthy, that we get to chase dreams and practice how to love each other better.

It's been a strange month, full of struggle, love, resilience, and beauty. 

Even when it's hard, I am thankful. 

Because without the struggle, we might miss the beauty.