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Please Don't Die, Mama

2010-03-20T21:17:00Z

G’s teacher, Meredith, hasn’t been to school in two weeks. Meredith’s mother, with whom she is very close, just died and so she is understandably taking time off to grieve and regroup. The school (or more specifically, G’s other teacher) spoke to the kids about what was happening to Meredith and why she could not be at school for a while. I wouldn’t have known about any of this sad news if I hadn’t read the school’s e-mail update. G never said a word.

Then, two days ago, she did. As we were getting ready for school, G suddenly insisted that we stop and snuggle. I happily obliged my delicious girl, wrapping my arms around her little body as she clung to me with gleeful ferocity. She giggled, kissed my face and buried her fluffy hair into my neck. Then she pulled back, looked me squarely in the face and whispered softly “Mama, I don’t want you to die.” This comment was the first and only sign that the events at school were impacting her. And while my heart continued to go out to Meredith at this time, I wanted to scream “why on earth did your school have to inject this frightening possibility into your life?”

Up until this point, my child had never met loss. And while we live with a couple of geriatric felines that are likely to introduce her to the sad concept at some point in the future; it is thankfully still a few years off. My son Dominic lost his favorite cat, Petunia at around G’s age and the suffering he felt around that loss was something I could barely stand to watch. Like Meredith’s mother, Petunia’s passing suddenly awakened a new fear in Dominic’s life – one focused on me expiring at any moment and leaving him all alone. He shadowed me for weeks after the cat was gone, hovering close by to make sure I didn’t suddenly drop dead or disappear. Over time, and through lots of reassurance, he finally got that I wasn’t going anywhere and that he could trust I would be around. Still, it was sufficiently draining on the both of us to make me hope that we could avoid a repeat performance until G had at least turned five.

It was not to be. G's school had now expressly introduced her to the concept of death and like most kids, she responded by processing the information in only way she could - by applying it directly to her own world. G equated her beloved teacher’s pain with the pain she would feel if she lost her own mommy. And the thought was terrifying for my three year old.

I kept thinking “was it really necessary for the school to tell her about her teacher’s experience with death of a close family member, given how she would naturally react to it?” And although I wanted to cry in frustration at what I perceived to be the unnecessariness of this situation, I stopped myself. Instead, I reassured her that I wasn’t going anywhere and that she didn’t need to worry about me dying. I explained to her how her teacher’s mommy was really old and had been sick for a long time. I talked about how I work hard to be healthy and even though I was a lot older than her, I wasn’t close to dying. She could count on me being around until she became a grown up.

G seemed to relax as I spoke. Her eyes softened and she loosened her tiny grip. Yet still, I couldn’t help asking myself if I could reasonably expect G to put things in their proper context. Even with my simplistic explanation, was it fair for the grown ups in her life to expect her to see the differences between her teacher’s mother’s circumstances and her own and take comfort in that distinction? I again bridled at what I believed was the needlessness of the school involving my child in the particulars of this personal tragedy. I also felt a sense of sadness that my little girl was now having to grapple with these issues prematurely. I resolved to speak with the school.

I didn't have to. Just as these gloomy thoughts were flashing through my mind, G turned to me and said. “Well, I miss my teacher because she is crying a lot right now.” Pause. “But I know she isn’t always going to cry. She is going to be better one day, right mommy?”

Right.

And in that moment, I realized that G had absorbed all the comfort she needed and had discovered the one teachable moment in an otherwise heartrending event. I suddenly understood that G had taken the first step of internalizing the concept of resiliency and how no matter how painful things can be, those feelings do eventually subside. In her own quiet way she comprehended that her teacher was sad but that she would not always be in pain. And that she, her pupil, would have her teacher back again.

I learned something too. That I needed to give her school more credit for knowing my daughter better than me in this instance and having faith in her to cope. I credit them for knowing that even small children are able to deal with difficult things in life and that through that process become stronger, deeper people. I realized that sheltering her from life’s difficult moments, even at this small age, does her no service and denies her the ability to confront these issues squarely and move forward. An ostensibly small but powerful legacy that I attribute to her incredible teacher, Meredith and her beloved mother. Bless them both.

Mendocino Madness

2010-03-12T04:03:00Z

Taking your children on holiday can be a treacherous thing to do. In only a few short days they can morph from family members into untamed, wild animals. As routine, balanced diet and consistency goes out the window, everything you ever taught them seems to follow, including manners, eating habits and general all round intelligence. Combine this with no structure, no routine and a host of novel experiences and it truly becomes a recipe for disaster.

This was the case for my 3 year old during our quick jaunt to Mendocino last week. She left San Francisco a perky, happy toddler and after a three day trip up the coast rapidly transformed into a screeching, uncontrollable terror. What in blazes happened up there in Mendocino? I’m still asking the very same question – but after retracing the steps it’s easy to see where it all went wrong.

A creature of routine and daily naps, my toddler suddenly found her world being tipped upside down as we plucked her from school early and shoe horned her into the car for a four hour road trip. Bribing her with food “treats” along the way to keep her quiet during the long stretch in the car, my otherwise happy-go-lucky child gradually transformed into a tiny tyrant, veering on the side of manic. As the minutes ticked on, G became more and more strident about her list of backseat demands: from “Lady Gaga’s Poker Face again!” (after playing it for the 10^th time), and “Dominic, go away from here!” (as if her big brother could exit the car on the freeway) to “I need water, NOW,” every passing mile brought my daughter’s volatility closer to screeching overdrive. To say my child became unrecognizable was an understatement. By the time we finally reached our destination (an adorable cottage overlooking the coast), we were all ready to go home.

And mind you, my daughter was just getting warmed up. Once we arrived, she graced us with a whole host of new party tricks included running full pelt towards the jagged cliffs whenever we called her, hiding at critical moments (like getting into the car or taking a walk) and getting herself stuck in decidedly unpleasant places (such as in thorny bushes full of ticks or in the compost heap). She also created several awkward moments for us with our Bed and Breakfast hosts as she happily shoved heaps of grass into the miniature donkeys’ mouths (in direct contravention of the large sign that read donkeys will bloat if you feed them) and screaming loudly at and then chasing the elderly farm cat who suffered from seizures. She also refused to eat a single vegetable on the trip, go anywhere near a bath or shower ever or sleep anywhere except jammed between T and I in our bed (so much for romance). She frowned from the moment she woke up until the moment she finally conked out from exhaustion. Not exactly a great mix for a true "getaway."

The ‘highlight’ of this out-of-control behavior came during an elegant dinner at the famed Mendocino hotel. My daughter reached deep into her inner demon and pulled out quite possibly the worst behavior that any restaurant has ever seen. She furiously scattered crumbs far and wide (from the bread tray that she launched herself at), spilled her juice spectacularly across the polished dining table and slithered off her seat onto the floor like a small poisonous serpent half a dozen times. She pirouetted dramatically around the restaurant, occasionally stopping to climb onto empty seats at other tables and then sing Michael Jackson's "Bad" song like a nutter possessed. It was all mortifying.

There we were, trying to enjoy a relaxing evening sipping martinis (and Shirley Temples in my son’s case) by a cozy fire in one of our favorite spots on bluff. And there was my oldest unmarried daughter – spinning around like satan seed. The only saving grace was G’s uncanny sense of knowing how to lay it on thickly sweet whenever a stranger happened to pass by. For an audience (other than her family), she managed to play off her dementedness as the whimsy of a charming, blue eyed toddler. “What a spunky little girl you have there,” one older gentleman complimented. “She is quite a force of nature,” another mentioned admiringly “What I wouldn’t do for all that energy, she's adorable,” said another. I gave them all a pained smile, thanked them weakly for being so kind and then tried to sink into the floor.

That being said, don't be put off. Taking a trip with your toddler can still be worth the effort and there was a happy ending even in our case. After the ordeal at dinner, T and I shifted gears dramatically and frog marched both children out the front door the next day on a four hour hike through the redwoods. Frantically moving her little legs at a full jog to keep up with her lanky older brother, G’s stir-crazy hysterics started to ease off and she began to finally mellow out. She started eating properly (both to replenish her tired muscles during our picnic on the hike and then later at dinner time) and began to show signs of becoming human. She managed to stick it out in her own bed the last night and even woke up with a smile (albeit crooked).

Now back in San Francisco, G is back to her old self and is in fact better than before. She remembers her manners, is calm and obedient and can’t wait for another weekend away where she can show all of us what a “good girl” she can be in the country.  Incidentally, the same also seems to be true of our Boston Terrier, Augie who came along on our pet-friendly road trip. He left San Franciso a classically neurotic city dog and came back an enlightened pooch. All that romping through the woods, fresh sea air and walks on the beach did him a world of good. He is now far more confident, trots a little higher on his city walks and is much more even keeled. Now, if my older son Dominic had gone in the same direction as my daughter and the mut, I would credit the Mendocino coast with true child/dog whispering powers. Unfortunately the perfect poise my son showed while away (putting up with his demented sister without quietly offing her) has worn off some, and has been replaced with the intense, complicated seven year old boy of before.

Still, 2 out of 3 isn’t bad.

Paranormal Activity

2010-03-07T22:16:00Z

A few date nights ago T and I did something so stupid that the perverse side of me now feels compelled to share it with the world. It was a Saturday night and we had just returned home from a romantic evening at a neighborhood restaurant, Pescia. We hadn’t been out by ourselves for ages and we were both revelling in our alone time, catching up and savoring our togetherness. We talked, held hands, ate some great Italian food and strolled around our wonderful neighborhood enjoying one of the year’s best full moons. After coming home and settling up with our sitter, we had a choice to make as to the rest of our evening. We could either hang out in the hot tub and watch the stars or we could watch a movie. We were in decidedly happy moods and went for the movie. That was a mistake.

Now as some of you may already know, it is a rare moment indeed that I ever regret seeing a movie. However, horror films are an exception and I should have learned by now from past mistakes. When I saw Jaws at the tender age of 8, I pretty much swore off all forms of water (including swimming pools and murky bathtubs) for the rest of childhood. When I saw the Blair Witch project, I announced to the world that camping and I would never mix. And when I saw Single White Female I vowed that I would never get another roommate, no matter how broke I was through law school. In short, horror films and I just aren't a good fit at all . So what possessed me to suddenly throw away 40 years of hard won experience and sit through the scariest film of the decade is still beyond me (pardon the pun). It must have been the full moon.

The good news is that we only managed to get through 8 minutes of the film. (So there will be no spoilers here). Those 8 minutes consisted of watching a young couple living in a non-descript house discussing their suspicions of being haunted by some paranormal demon. They had set up a self-timing camera in their bedroom to catch whatever other worldy activity was going on during their sleeping hours with the intention of playing it back to themselves in the morning. We got as far as the first night where the bedroom door inexplicably moves about a foot on its own. I knew instantly then that the movie was only going to get creepier and that I had to turn it off immediately or suffer multiple miserable predawn awakenings by a terrifying demon of my own imagination. And so I did, although the damage to my psyche was already done. Travis, who was exhausted by a long week of work and stress, managed to drift off to sleep within minutes. I, on the other hand, kept my reading light on and jumped up every two minutes to check behind curtains, peek around doors and look under the bed. After several hours of whipping myself up into a frenzy of terror, I finally succumbed to exhaustion and drifted off to sleep, only to jump out of my skin two minutes later at the sight of a pale, barefoot demon with wild hair hovering over my bed whispering, I want milkies, mommy.

Chinese New Year San Francisco Style

2010-03-02T05:37:00Z

Chinese New Year suddenly became a big event in our household this year for the first time. Mainly, it’s because Grandma Linda showed up from London and showered the kids with unexpected gifts. She also took one of my children (the oldest and easiest) with her to her hotel in Chinatown where (from what I can tell) she let him stuff himself with fried tofu until he felt sick. She also bought him a bunch of useless (but undoubtedly kid-enviable) trinkets that were either randomly destroyed or eaten by pets within minutes of coming home. My youngest child (the three year old) stayed home with me the whole time, did not get sick or spoiled but definitely felt ignored. Still, it was a change of pace for all of us and was hence memorable.

Chinese New Year also featured large this year because it coincided with Dominic’s first First Grade field trip. Right after gorging himself on tofu with Grandma Linda, Dominic returned to the scene of the crime – this time with his entire class to check out the Chinese New Year Parade preparations, take a tour of the police and fire station and, of course, see the fortune cookie factory. I tagged along under the guise of helpful parent volunteer – chauffeuring giddy children back and forth in my recalled Prius and then trying to keep track of them as they raced around the crowded streets. It was fun and exhausting and reminded me of all the reasons why I couldn’t ever possibly have more than two children. It also brought back a ton of memories about growing up in Hong Kong – memories jogged by Chinatown’s familiar sights, sounds, smells, bargains and food.

Dominic loved the experience too – although his reaction was more straight forward and less sentimental. For him, Chinatown was exotic and different and taught him some important life lessons. Here are his reflections on what he saw and experienced:

Re Chinatown’s Police Station:

1.                  “It’s good to bring hand sanitizer to the police station because people who get arrested seem to pee on the floor an awful lot.” (My son is right. According to the wonderful police sergeant who showed us around the Chinatown Police station, most of the arrestees “soil” the public areas of the station). Dominic was puzzled as to why bad guys aren’t potty trained. I explained that wicked wine sometimes has that effect on people. He seemed to accept that.

2.                  “Jail is not a good place for Asthma sufferers as it’s a smelly, dark place without a lot of ventilation.”   This is also true. Several people died as a result of overcrowding in the jail cells (our helpful station sergeant informed us) and so now people are chained to the waiting room benches until they are driven downtown.

3.                  “Shooting people with your police gun can be hard on your brain.” This was actually posed as a question by Dominic while the police sergeant was showing the kids the tools he uses for his job. Fortunately, the police officer confirmed that it is very hard emotionally to shoot someone and that in his 25 years of duty; he has never had to use his gun.

Re Chinatown’s Fire Station:

4. “Being a fire man is way cooler than being a police man.” [On this field trip, the firemen let each of the first graders blast the fire hose onto the street. Not even the police car’s siren could compete with that].

5.         “Sliding down on the fireman’s pole looks like a lot of fun.” (As an aside, all the mothers in the group  agreed – especially when the handsome young rookie gave us all a demonstration).

6.                  “Firemen no longer make people jump into a trampoline to escape from burning buildings because the landings don’t go too well. “ The trampoline with a big red spot in the middle is now simply used as decoration.

7.                  “Even though being a fireman would be cool, I don’t want to work in the Chinatown station. They do not have a Dalmatian.” (As pet lovers, this is a deal killer for both of us.)

Re Shopping in Chinatown

8. “Chinese girls are really cute.” (And if you are seven and give them a fortune cookie they will smile at you).

9. There are lots of cool things to buy in Chinatown – including firecrackers, pig’s feet, hello kitty purses and knife stars.

10. “You can buy a lot of stuff in Chinatown for 10 dollars.”

Re the Fortune Cookie Factory

11. Flat fortune cookies taste just as good as the finished moon-shaped product

12. If you want to take a picture of Chinatown’s Fortune Cookie factory, you have to pay 50 cents.

She's Three

2010-02-26T20:09:00Z

Genevieve turned three last month and in the madness of party planning, balloon blowing and present wrapping I completely neglected to write about this momentous moment in my blog. I regret missing that milestone and so here is a belated birthday note to my beautiful little girl.

Dear Geep,

You are three now. How lucky I am to have you in my life. Here are a whole bunch of things that I love about you:

1. the way you stroke my back when we hug

2. how happily you share with your big brother

3. your sweet soft voice

4. your unending excitement while watching Pink’s music video at the Grammy awards daily

5. your passion for dress up

6. your tummy

7. the energetic way you read out loud to yourself

8. the way you twirl in ballet class

9. when you say I love you mommy

10. the way you run with arms flapping to keep up with your brother

11. your silly sentences

12. your golden curls

13. your love for chocolate chip cupcakes

14. the way you skip thirteen when you count to twenty

15. your love of parties

16. the way you snuggle really hard

17. your ability to forget what you were crying about

18. your sunny demeanor

19. your love of all things pink

20. your hearty belly laugh

Every day with you is a gift. Even the days when you pout or tell me that the food I am serving is “not on the menu” or change costumes six times or run away from me at full pelt. Those are the days that I learn the most from you. To have fun. To stay in the moment. To laugh alot.

Shutter Island - Scorsese Silliness

2010-02-24T00:47:00Z

For a gal who could only bare eight minutes of “Paranormal Activity” before turning the film off and then hiding under the covers all night, checking behind curtains and whispering “what was that noise?” incessantly to my slumbering husband, I felt pretty brave going to see “Shutter Island.” After all, I had seen the previews and knew that I was in for an evening of great film noir, replete with a gothic mental asylum, shadowy suspicious characters and dark atmospheric music. I was pretty sure if I managed to stick it out to the end, (a big “if” in my case), I was going to be (a) scared witless, (b) unable to sleep and (c) haunted by this film for days. And still I went – and was wrong on all counts. Scorsese or no Scorsese, this movie is just plain silly!

Sure, the central premise of the movie is interesting enough. United States Marshal Teddy Daniels (Leonardo DiCaprio) is sent to the infamous Shutter Island’s hospital for the criminally insane to investigate the inexplicable disappearance of a female inmate. While there, he uncovers a sinister web of cover-ups relating to the treatment of patients and their mental illnesses which lead him on a desperate hunt for the truth and the preservation of his own sanity. Interwoven into that story are glimpses of Daniel’s own inner demons – trauma from witnessing the horrors of concentration camps as a military soldier during the holocaust and the personal tragedy of having lost his wife to a fire. To be sure, there were plenty of weighty themes to chew on. And yet, while the story held my attention, I was far from being on the edge of my seat. Perhaps it was because I had managed to figure out the so-called “plot-twist” within the first five minutes of the film (she brags) and then promptly announced it to my long-suffering husband. And of course, once the proverbial cat was out of the bag, the rest of the film was ruined. Neither of us could buy into the story-line. The whole film just felt flat and predictable - an unfortunate quality in a movie when you still have two hours and twenty minutes to sit through!

But take heart. I promise that I won’t spoil the film for you in case you decide to go. And remember, the film does have redeeming qualities (especially if you don’t ruin it for yourself by trying to be too clever). The cast is top flight – with Leonardo DiCaprio putting in yet another convincing performance that is definitely worth the price of admission. The other big names in the film (and there are a surprising number) including Michelle Williams, Ben Kingsley, Mark Ruffalo all do a valiant job to carrying this film along too. The film is good enough for a low key date night – especially if you combine it with a “shutter island long ice tea” (which we did at the Sundance Kabuki Theater). And for those of you who are essentially fraidy cats like me, this is one movie you can add to your bravery bragging list and still get a good night’s sleep!

A Love Letter To My City

2010-02-12T05:11:00Z

Dear San Francisco,

I have longed to write to you but have never managed to quite get up the courage. It never seemed to be quite the right time – either for me or for you. But now, given that Valentine’s Day is just around the corner, I decided to just take the plunge. After all, it is time I finally confessed to you my feelings – my passion for you that has never died – even after having lived with you for 20 years.

When I first arrived in this city fresh off the boat from Hong Kong at the tender age of 21, I remember the wonder I felt at seeing your beauty. From day one, you inspired me – offering me a full, rich lifestyle surrounded by scenic beauty, diversity, culture, friends and boat loads of adventure and fun. You encouraged me to explore and take risks – being so close to the beach, the mountains, the lakes and the rivers. And you challenged my beliefs and assumptions by exposing me to a broad array of diverse people, lifestyles and cultures that had all gravitated to you because of your tolerance and inclusiveness. For a young, single professional woman, your restaurants, nightlife, art-scene and people made you utterly irresistible. I couldn’t get enough of you. And that holds true, even today.

Granted, there have been periods when I have had my doubts. And admittedly I have strayed at times. Like the time I decided to break things off and crossed the bridge to the suburbs to buy my first home. I had tried and tried to break into the real estate market in San Francisco and was crushed by how overwhelming that process was. I remember feeling guilty and sad when I moved away to Berkeley so that I could afford my first decent sized condo in a nice neighborhood without roommates – something you couldn’t offer me at the time. I would have thought that my decision to leave you would have disconcerted you – but it didn’t, not even a bit. You knew what I ultimately came to realize, that I would be back one day. And you were right.

Meeting my husband, moving back into the city and buying our first place together reminded me of all the reasons why I had fallen so madly in love with you. As a young couple deeply in love, we took full advantage of everything you had to offer - the world-class food, entertainment, shopping, and performing arts. We would stroll up and down your hills during our weekend “urban hikes,” feed the sea gulls sourdough bread on fisherman’s wharf after brunch and cruise around the ever popular gallery hop every first Thursday evening downtown. We explored new neighborhoods, tried new bars, and cherished every aspect of our foggy city.

We loved living with you, although you continued to test us. Like the times we would go across the bridge to visit our friends in the suburbs and discover that for the price we paid for our 124 year old Victorian (no parking), we could have bought an entire compound – equipped with a pool and a guest house. Or like the time when I devoted 8 months of my life to getting my son into Kindergarten, enduring round after humiliating round of essay writing, interviews and screenings for my kid. I remember thinking at the time (after our eighth “coffee date” with existing parents and our tenth “open house”) how many hoops did we have to jump through to get our five year old into a basic local school? It was harder than getting myself into law school and was infinitely more expensive. And yet, in the end, my son did squeeze into the school of his choice and my feelings of bitterness and betrayal towards you subsided. And now, as I approach yet another Valentine’s Day in San Francisco, I feel nothing but love and gratitude to you, the city that has captured my heart and soul. And although I suspect this year’s Valentine’s Day will be somewhat low key, (with a three and seven year old and a host of baby sitters that all have boyfriends), the array of things that I could be doing reminds me of why I remain forever true to the City by the Bay. Such as:

(1) The annual “Woo at the Zoo,” an event at the San Francisco where a comedian leads folks in an exploration of the sexual behavior of animals.

(2) Maverick’s Surf Competition at Half Moon Bay where my husband and I loved to sit on the bluff and watch the biggest waves ever.

(3) The beautiful Hand bell Concert featuring Love Songs Past and Present at our beloved Castro Theater.

(4) The San Francisco's California Academy of Sciences new "Sex and Science" event that offers tours highlighting animal whoopee as performed by penguins, sea horses and various fish.

(5) This year’s Miss China Town USA Pageant where contestants from all over the country will compete for a chance at the Miss Asia title in Hong Kong.

(6) The annual Pillow Fight at the Ferry BuildingJustin Herman Plaza with feather-stuffed pillows to run Brave heart-like at one another to lovingly bop each other until the whistle blows.

(7) The best vampire tour in California

(8) My favorite of all (when I was single and momentarily fed up) – the Valentine’s Day Post Mortem – a series of short plays about people being dumped.

I know I am not alone in loving San Francisco and recognize that I have to settle for an open relationship. Still, I have made my peace with that. For San Francisco, I am one of many. But for me, this city will always be the one.

Forever yours,

Moveovermommy

Super Bowl Sunday

2010-02-11T00:44:00Z

I have never felt more “un-American” than on Super Bowl Sunday. It’s the one day of the year where I feel completely out of sync with all my red-blooded American friends and relatives and wonder what happened to me to make it so hard to get into the football watching spirit. After all, I have been living in this great country for over 20 years – so it isn’t as though this sport watching tradition is new to me. As Super Bowl Sunday approaches, literally every one around me starts talking about the big game – at the gym, in the supermarket, at Starbucks and even on the playground. The Super Bowl seems to offer something for everyone. For the avid sports fan - there is, of course, the football game – the players, the analysis, the score keeping and the predictions. But even for the light weights or non-sports fans – there are the endless parties to go to, the people watching, and the unveiling of multi-million dollar commercials. Sadly, I can’t seem to find a place in any of it, no matter what the angle.

For a while, I used to beat myself up about my fractious relationship with the Super Bowl. Surely I could find my niche in this great American tradition? And so for years I would dutifully go to the Super Bowl parties (many, many parties) and try to ease drop on people’s conversations and pick up the lingo. I realized quickly that those who were conversing during the game were not typically following it. I also figured out that those who followed the game weren’t interested in tutoring me. And those that did were just plain creepy. Throw into the mix the fact that I don’t drink beer, eat bacon or nachos and it’s all pretty hopeless. And so, about six years ago, (shortly after Dominic was born) I threw in the towel and made peace with my disconnection with this iconic part of American culture. I scheduled manicures and hiking trips on the big day and felt at peace. Until this year.

The Friday before the 44th Super Bowl, Dominic came home from school and innocently mentioned that we should watch the football game this weekend. He earnestly explained that it was the “biggest football game ever” and that we should tune in to see what happens. I felt a knot suddenly form in my stomach as I thought about how best to break the news to kiddo that Super Bowl just wasn’t our thing. “Sorry Champ, Daddy has to work on Sunday,” I told him, deluded in the hope that this comment would dispense with the issue without further discussion. “Okay. Well you, me and G can still watch it” was his cheery response. He had stumped me.

I stewed about the looming game all Saturday, wondering how to turn my decades of alienation around the Super Bowl into fun, family entertainment. I had no idea where the game was being held, who the players were or anything about the rules (Travis had long given up trying to teach me). As though reading my mind, Dominic piped up that he already knew who was playing in the super bowl (the gold team “the Saints” and the blue team “the Colts”) and that it would be fun to see what was going on. He suggested we make popcorn and “kid’s beer” (apple cider) and that switch back and forth between the game and Puppy Bowl on Animal Planet (to keep his sister happy). He had literally thought of everything.

And so on Sunday, we made batches and batches of popcorn, threw mounds of comfy pillows on the floor and set ourselves up for an afternoon of “game watching” on the big screen T.V. upstairs. We watched the football intermittedly, pausing to get more cider or play a quick game of Dominoes. Together, my son and I figured out what constituted a “field goal,” a “touch down,” “yard lines,” and “the end zone.” We discussed why players rush to tackle the guy holding the football and how coaches are able to communicate to their players through radios in their helmets. (We ended up talking about the radio in the helmet feature for quite a while – quite a captivating topic for a seven year old boy). As the game wore on, Dominic became fascinated with the concept of “unnecessary roughness” and then spent the rest of the game trying to call out examples of it by himself. (“Yes, slamming your helmet into another man’s crotch qualifies). He had a terrific time and so did I.

At half time we placated the baby sister and watched “the kitten half time” on Animal Planet’s puppy bowl. G almost peed her pants with excitement when she suddenly realized what she was watching and so we ended up having to rapidly switch back to “the Who” to stop her from hyperventilating. (A three year old can only take looking at fluffy kittens geech around a football playpen with confetti and a disco ball for so long before becoming demented). Dominic decided that the puppy bowl was “must-see” TV and insisted we DVR it to watch as some future date. It was then back to the game after half time.

By the second half of the game, my own interest in the game started to take hold. Dominic (along with the expert commentators) had educated me on the New Orleans Saints and although the significance of the game on that struggling city was something that my boy didn’t grasp, it certainly wasn’t lost on me. The New Orleans Saints were the underdogs of the game and had typically been one of the worst teams in the league until this year. And yet here they were, standing on the edge of greatness and carrying with them the hopes and dreams of an entire beleaguered city. The Super Bowl was so much more than simply a game to this team and the people of New Orleans that they represented. Their presence at this event had become a symbol of the struggle and courage of a city that deserved a taste of victory. By the time the game was over (and the Saints had won), my two little companions and I were cheering, hollering, dancing and waving about the attic in sheer joy and excitement. We threw popcorn in the air, threw up our hands and half-terrified our dog with our jumping and pounding and rolling about. And as I watched that New Orleans Saints quarterback tearfully beam into his little son’s face, I realized that I had found my niche in the tradition of Super Bowl watching. And it was right next to my kids.

Small and Mighty Acts of Kindness

2010-02-04T19:26:00Z

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?

Going to the Dogs Part II

2010-02-02T04:36:00Z

As threatened, I have returned with my stealth investigative report of the Golden Gate Kennel Association’s 105^th All Breed Dog Show this past weekend. Although I remain a dog un-enthusiast, I must say that the expedition was a good time. I probably could have learned just as much by re-renting the all-time classic mocumentary “Best in Show.” But, there is something to be said for standing in line with packs of die-hard dog fanciers, paying my 32 bucks for tickets and then getting within sniffing distance of these celebrity canines. Yup, if you really love dogs or, (as in my case), have restless kids on a rainy Saturday, a trip to one of these events is quite the adventure. The dogs and their owners are a colorful bunch and I did learn several helpful factoids that I will be weaving into my next conversational gambit shortly, such as:

1. 1. It is possible to squeeze more than 100 breeds of dogs into one place without causing any major doggie rumbles. [for exceptions please see number 9]

2. 2. Those vendors around the rings really do sell every conceivable dog product, including: reflective dog coats, purple pooper scoopers, “chew” shoes, fine dog cakes and my favorite – feathered hand fans.

3. 3. Doggies get reiki treatments while they wait for their show time.

4. 4. Owners will insist on meticulously spritzing water on their dogs and tease their hair – even when the dogs are hairless.

5. 5. The people at these shows do bear a striking resemblance to their dogs.

6. 6. Most of the best bouffant hairstyles are worn by dogs, not humans.

7. 7. There may be some doggie divas in the bunch but they all still take their dumps in the same undignified way – squatting over sawdust in the far back corner of the Quonset hut and their handlers still have to scoop it up.

8. 8. Watching the Best in Show competition is a fail-safe way to prompt the long-suffering husband or partner to start recalling every dirty joke he ever learned and his insistence on sharing them ALL with you throughout the competition.

9. 9. Pit bulls (or Staffordshire Bull Terriers as the breeders like to say) will try to eat the yorkies or poodles (or in fact most of the other 99 breeds at the show) if they are housed too closely next to them.

10. Your children will whine for a dog for a long, long time after seeing one of these shows.

Seriously, we all had a great time and although the kids did leave howling for a puppy to go along with their “already stinky” old dog (sorry Augie), they remain fairly flexible as to time-frame. Ironically, they are now both fixated on acquiring a labradoodle puppy – a hybrid doggie that isn’t even acknowledged by the Golden Gate Kennel Club as an “authentic breed” in doggiedom. (You gotta give the kids extra points for the perversity of that one, right?) In any event, I figure I can string them along for a few more years and squeeze in a couple more of the dog shows before giving into the “new puppy” demand. Then again….puppies are awfully cute.

Going to the Dogs

2010-01-29T22:49:00Z

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 “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!

A Bat Versus A Fox

2010-01-28T22:29:00Z

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…

Elevating George Clooney

2010-01-24T01:28:00Z

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.

Things that Go Thump in the Night

2010-01-21T19:40:00Z

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!

Rainy Day Tuesday

2010-01-19T21:24:00Z

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?

Haiti Through the Eyes of My Seven Year Old

2010-01-14T05:37:00Z

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.

A Response to the New York Times' Review of Avatar

2010-01-08T22:02:00Z

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!