Langer Loksh

You Can Stop Looking for Nemo

because we found him. We didn't really even know he was missing.

Over Columbus Day weekend we visited G.G.'s cabin in Maine, which we share with Jeff's sprawling extended family. I was surprised to see this little guy sitting on a shelf there. It's my Nemo antenna ball! I used to use it to distinguish my gray van from the 387 other gray vans in the grocery store parking lot. And it was a little wink wink to anyone out there who loves someone with microtia, the little ear, because Nemo has one regular fin and one small, "lucky" fin. Somewhere along the way, I'd lost it, but I didn't really care; since Nemo's a Disney character, it was a little too corporate. 

But then there he was in Woodstock, Maine! He must have been knocked off by tree branches and found by some eagle-eyed cousin in amongst the Nemo-colored needles and leaves on the forest floor. 

I put him right back on the Toyota Elephant where he belongs. 

 

Might Need a New Tagline

This weekend at a family party I met a cousin of my father-in-law who works for Disney Pictures. He was involved with Finding Nemo (among a zillion other movies). I introduced him to Charlie and pointed out Charlie's lucky ear. I explained that when kids ask me about Charlie's ear, I say, somewhat conspiratorially, "Have you seen Finding Nemo?", and remind them of Nemo's lucky fin. It's a great help to all the families of kids with microtia.

I told this cousin that lots of kids from all over the country go to Los Angeles for reconstructive surgery with Dr. Reinisch (link at left), and then their parents take them to Disneyland. "I'd like to start a club called Nemo's Pals," I told the cousin. "Maybe you can help me get Disney to give the kids free passes to the parks."

"That's a great idea!" said the cousin. He asked me some questions about Charlie's hearing--and about how many kids have microtia, which, mortifyingly enough, I couldn't answer. He gave me his email address and asked me for mine.

I would feel like such a rock star if I could pull this off for the kids. And I have more ideas for Nemo's Pals too--but I'm going to take it one step at a time.

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner (at Cinderella's Castle)

It's Maddy, the new DP, and she's black. Excellent. (Thanks, HGZ.)

Houston, We Have a Problem

Thanks to cool chicks like Sally Ride, Summer will grow up knowing that the sky is not the limit. Summer can be an astronaut or anything else she puts her mind to. That's why I find this T-shirt at the NASA gift shop demeaning. What if a girl likes space? What if she wants to fly into space and operate the robotic arm and fix the roof of the International Space Station? Doesn't she wear the same orange flight suit that the guys wear? Isn't she a scientist, not a princess? Disney Princesses are one thing, but let's keep the final frontier free of gender stereotypes, k?

Choices Dust

We're back. And it's a good gosh darned thing, because I was starting to hear Jiminy Cricket's voice in my head while I brushed my teeth. It was a really nice trip so I feel kind of like a jerk for complaining, but: every time I go to Florida, it's like, 62 degrees, which is so much warmer than Massachusetts but not warm enough to go swimming. Every time. It sucks. At least we were 30 miles south of that tornado that killed a bunch of people. And at least there were no deranged astronauts stalking us at the Orlando airport.

Tonight I read Polar Bear, Polar Bear, What Do You Hear? to Charlie and realized that we saw eight of the ten animals in the book during our trip. We saw lions, flamingos, peacocks, hippos, elephants, a walrus,  a boa constrictor, and zebras, among other charismatic megafauna not illustrated by Eric Carle. We did not see the titular polar bear or a leopard. Here was my favorite moment of our vacation: Summer feeding lorikeets at Busch Gardens.

Disney personnel treated Summer like a princess wherever she went in her crown or her gown--"A princess! How lucky we are!"--as though the place weren't crawling with two-to-six-year-old girls in froufy dresses. Summer was very matter of fact about the whole thing. She didn't gasp or clap her hands in delight like the little girls on the commercials do. She was kind of psyched to collect all the autographs. We got some cool ones, like Hook and Smee and Cinderella's Fairy Godmother and Mary Poppins. We saw Cinderella's ugly stepsisters, which I think would have been a huge get, but we didn't get in line in time.

Cinderella's Royal Table, by the way, was absolutely delicious. I had pork loin with cheese grits.

I noticed that no one seemed to notice Charlie's stuff. No one, that is, except a guy at Jeff's conference, who told us that his one-year-old daughter has hemifacial microsomia too. I took his card.

We flew JetBlue, which Summer likes because they have "choices" for snacks. When Summer was two and a half, we went somewhere on JetBlue, and I said, "Listen up, here are the choices for snacks," and then the flight attendant announced the blue potato chips and the chocolate chip cookies and whatever else they had. Then when they came around with the basket Summer insisted that she wanted "choices" for a snack. Fortunately they had some of that munchie mix that contains Cheetos, pretzels, and Doritos. From that day forward we have referred to that type of snack as "choices." Today we all had choices on our flight home, and Charlie, covered with yucky Cheetos powder, touched Summer's white teddy bear Gloria. Summer said "Ew, he's touching Gloria and his hands are covered with choices dust." Choices dust. I now have a new favorite Summerism.

I leave you with this attractive photo of me eating a traditional Disney World smoked turkey leg.  

New Deals at Disney

Summer has been saving up coins in her coin bank for over a year for this trip, and she wanted an Ariel dress-up dress. We went to the world's largest Disney Store to buy it. There were two, a sparkly mermaid style and a layered wedding gown. They both cost $60. I approached a store employee who was talking to another customer. "Excuse me," I interrupted, "is this all of the dress-up? Or are there less expensive ones somewhere else in the store?" The man didn't know--uncharacteristic of Disney's famous customer service. The customer woman pulled me aside. "What are you looking for?" she asked. I told her that Disney princess dress-ups are closer to $20 at Target. "I know," she said, "but they're not like this." She was right--the wedding gown was a fabulous thing with gold edged tulle petals. "Listen," she said, "I have an employee discount because of my husband. If you can give me cash, I can get you 40 percent off."

Summer and I streaked through the store looking for an ATM, withdrew $100, and ran back to the princess room. She handed me a big plastic bag and I slipped her $40. That woman could get in big trouble for that. "I sell stuff on eBay all the time," she admitted.

New at the store this year is the Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique, where little girls get elaborate princess hairdos. We did not indulge.

Back at our hotel we found out that as convention attendees, we can get deeply discounted theme park tickets as long as we don't enter the park until after 2:00 or 4:00. We paid $30 to go to Epcot after 4:00; we stayed through the fireworks at 9:00, with Charlie applauding on his auntie Alissa's shoulders.

We have not entirely escaped our diseases though. Summer has bit of an upset tummy and had two soft poops at Epcot. She fears the automatic flush toilets. Normally I hold my hand in front of the sensor for her, but with that Ariel wedding gown, I had to hold up all the skirts. Thus was born the newest attraction at Disney World: Big Poop Mountain. I sat on the toilet and blocked the sensor with my back and Summer rode ahead of me with her skirts piled up to her chin. "Am I going to die?" she asked me. "No!" I answered. "Then why do they call it diarrhea?" she asked. I laughed. "An excellent question."

So far, we're having a great time.

Oh, People

Little did we know what deep, murky waters we were wading into with this toaster situation. Now that our toes are wet, let's step back on the sand for a moment. I'm not sure why I'm going with a water metaphor here, since water and toasters don't mix--have you seen the call center movie? My Russian telescope engineer neighbor Vlad kindly shared it with me, though he refused my offer of pad thai, because he grew up in a place with only potatoes and his tongue cannot handle ethnic foods of any sort--but I digress.

The toaster oven we have was a gift to Jeff from Tara, one of his two insane ex-girlfriends, not counting the insane girlfriend he ended up marrying or the perfectly sane one who gives us hand-me-downs for Charlie. Tara, she was pre-1993, which means the toaster has provided us with 14 years worth of toast, bagels, waffles, reheated leftovers, and all manner of melted cheese goodness. It is beige with rust spots on top. I kind of wanted to replace it for that reason. Everything else we've bought new is stainless steel colored. But I knew that would be wasteful since the toaster worked just fine.

Recently, however, the toaster oven has gotten a little arthritic. It takes more cycles than usual, and very careful monitoring, to execute the toasting process. So I asked Santa to bring me a shiny new one.

"Santa" looked, but found only expensive convection ovens or pop-up styles toasters. Hence the new camera. I took Charlie out shopping this week* and came home with the aforementioned dial jobby. This morning I tried it out and the sad fact is, I just can't handle the ticking.

Tweeeeeeet! Back in the water, kids!

Wade on over to the toaster section of Sears.com. There you will find a new Black and Decker that has a push button, like the old one from stalker Tara. Too bad it's black and not stainless. You will also find pop-up toasters that cost several hundred dollars--is that not absurd? The pop-up toaster is pratically stone-age technology. What on earth are you getting for $300? Apparently not the Sandwich  Cage with built-in drip cage--that's sold separately.

But soft! Behold: for $40, the Cinderella toaster. Unlike the Black and Decker, it features "classic stainless steel housing." And: it plays a waltz when the toast pops up! Forget the bikini chick. A morning waltz--this is the way to go. I'm just not sure how we're going to melt cheese in it. What do you think, impassioned toaster oven public?

*As I pushed Charlie 1-2-3-wheee! in a cart up and down the aisles of Target, he said "More!" with his voice and not his sign, and I was happy and also sad. We do want him to talk, but that sign was so darned cute.

Resolved

Yesterday when we wanted to take Charlie out into the snow, I could not find either of the two pairs of size 2T snowpants that are stashed somewhere in the attic. So Charlie didn't get to play in the snow. It's true. Being disorganized hurts those you love the most. And calling me "disorganized" would be giving me way too much credit. My resolution: purge the attic.

Tonight Summer whined that she could not wait four whole weeks to go to Disney World. I  felt myself getting all het up. Righteous indignation on the tip of my tongue, I was again struck with pure genius of the mother/Pickles McDill variety. Rather than verbally eviscerate an innocent preschooler, I said very sweetly, "You know Summer, lots of kids don't ever get to go to Disney World. My parents never took me there. So it's a little hard for me to hear you complaining that you have to wait just a few weeks. I have an idea! Let's make a Disney World advent calendar."

We went downstairs and selected from among our many, many dozens of sheets of Disney-related stickers. I took a poster of the DPs we had lying around and cut little doors into it. Summer stuck the stickers on paper and I taped the paper behind the doors, and wah lah:

Certainly no littlebird am I, but I am quite pleased with myself, if not for the result but the inspiration that produced it and for sticking to my most important resolution--to quit being such a mean old grumpy-ass mommy.

(Note: Summer is also displaying her new array of DP shampoos and detangler given to her this morning by Andy and Michelle, with whom we eat cheese fondue for breakfast every year on New Year's Day. Yum.)

The Princess is the Pea

Writing in Sunday's New York Times magazine, Peggy Orenstein comes to the same conclusion I did. We're not--we hope--warping our daughters for life by letting princesses dominate their dramatic play. Pink and princess are--we hope--a phase that little girls pass through, one that marketers have suddenly seized upon to wring for cash like all good American corporations should. Boys want to be NFL quarterbacks when they're little and then they grow up and realize that there are only 30 of those jobs available and they become firefighters, soldiers, accountants, construction managers, writers, computer programmers, and teachers instead. Maybe they coach their kids' soccer teams. Orenstein seems to have done a better job of convincing herself of all this than I have, though. She writes that her three-year-old daughter still wants to be a "fireman" when she grows up; Peggy the feminist sleeps at night, undisturbed by this cultural pea. My four-year-old wants to be a ballerina.

The December Dilemma, Part II: The Real December Dilemma

So here's the thing, the Christmas/Chanukah "dilemma"? Really not a problem. Not for me, anyway--I grew up with both. No issues there. I celebrate Chanukah as a small religious observance--light candles, sing blessings--and Christmas as a pigs-in-blankets and Lipton-onion-soup-dip-with-Ruffles-fueled orgy of materialism. Santa, yes; Jesus, no. I know this is not what the good Christian people of the world have in mind, including my friend Maureen, who takes great pains to call Santa Claus "Saint Nicholas" in an attempt to keep the Christ in Christmas for her children. I am a little bit sorry. If it helps, we totally went to Christmas mass every year before the priest scandal. Or maybe it was before we had kids and lost the ability to sit silent and immobile on a hard wooden bench for a whole hour. Can't remember.

No, no, the REAL December dilemma is the presents. For the past three weeks I have thought of nothing but presents. First I decided I would not give the kids Chanukah presents. Chanukah would be a low-key, sweet little family moment. I set about shopping for Christmas presents online. I made lists in my reporter's notebooks: Summer on one side, Charlie on the other. Summer's list was longer, but Charlie's presents were more exciting. Was this fair? Around this time, Jeff stopped talking to me.

On December 15 I became totally paralyzed because the dolly car seat I ordered through Amazon for our niece arrived and it was the wrong dolly car seat (I do not recommend ordering anything from Amazon that is fulfilled by Galt Toy + Galt Baby. Let me rephrase that. DON'T ORDER ANYTHING FROM AMAZON THAT IS FULFULLED BY GALT TOY + GALT BABY.) Since Galt Toy + Galt Baby was not returning my emails or phone calls, and Christmas was just 10 days away, I would have to order the dolly car seat from somewhere else (I have learned the hard way that the place you want for toys is eToys.com) and fight with Galt Toy + Galt Baby about the return later. Because I have no credit card, this meant that my debit card, which is currently staying in the rehab room next door to Lindsay Lohan because it is "exhausted," would  have to submit itself for another 50 bucks and I would have exactly NEGATIVE FIVE GAZILLION DOLLARS in my bank account. Paralyzed. I did it anyway. I needed the dolly car seat. The RIGHT dolly car seat.

Sorry for all the shouting. As you can see I'm having some trouble with the Christmas presents. Can you tell I am way overthinking this? Take Charlie's gifts, for example. Back when I was worried that Summer had more than Charlie, I ordered up Dusty the Talking Vacuum. I then spent approximately four days fretting that if I give Charlie Dusty, I will crush his imagination permanently, because he has so much fun with the Swiffer Carpet Flick, and our cute wooden toy broom from Dan and Whit's [At this point I feel I must let you know that there is something wrong with TypePad tonight and it won't let me highlight more than word at a time, which makes linking difficult], and why would I wreck that with a plastic talking toy? I remembered a few years ago when Summer had this pink plastic calculator that looked like a flip phone and she used to pretend to talk into it, and then we lost it and got a talking Ariel flip phone, and then she just stuck to the Ariel script:

Phone: Hi, I'm Ariel, what's your name?

Summer: Summer.

Phone: You're my first human friend! What do you like to do in the summer? (That's a coincidence--it's just what the phone says)

Summer: Go to beach, go to fair.

Over and over again. So I made myself sick about Dusty and his "15 fun phrases," and then went over the list six more times--I made the same list six times in a row on six different pages of the notebook. All the while I was feeling weird about the whole thing. There's this voice in my head, maybe it's George Clooney, telling me to forget the Christmas presents and Save Darfur. Y'know?

Then packages began arriving from other places. Jeff's childhood-best-friend's mom. My ex-boyfriend's wife. My step-father's sister in Sweden. Presents for the children. SO THOUGHTFUL! SO APPRECIATED! But not really helping with the Darfur thing, or the thing about the kids growing up thinking the month of December means presents every day. In the store, Summer points out something she likes, and I say, "Honey, I can't buy you anything right now, I just can't, because you're getting hundreds of presents for Chanukah and Christmas, we can't just buy stuff for no reason." Then at Summer's friend Sylvia's gingerbread house party she tells the other little girls, "I'm getting hundreds of Chanukah and Christmas presents!"

For some reason this reminded me of when my dad told me that I could really have a successful marriage with anybody, and what he meant was I should marry someone Jewish even if he wasn't the best kisser in the world, but what I took it to mean was I could marry that Catholic guy Jeff because, hey, we can work it out.

So I decided that these surprise presents would be the Chanukah presents, because it was either that or they just open them when they get them anyway, or save them for Christmas, which means everything will just blur into a haze of metallic snowman wrapping paper, coconut macarroon fudgies, and bourbon. Which actually doesn't sound so bad.

On Saturday, since the weather gods have decided this year's Christmas theme is Tropical New England, I slid on my flip-flops and popped the kids into the wagon and pulled them down the street to the realtor's office to donate a gift to Toys for Tots. Our realtor friend Peggy gave the kids candy canes and pins that said "I Donated to Toys for Tots," and Charlie played with a fire engine and Summer colored while Peggy and I chatted about our families and our holiday plans. Heaps of toys spilled all over the office floor, and Peggy said they'd already had six truckloads taken away for the charity. "People are amazingly generous," she said. "But you're so good to bring your kids--most of the time it's just adults."

There. There it is. One teeny, tiny bit of something. One ten dollar toy, one hour in which my kids--well, my big kid, was thinking about someone besides herself. Every journey starts with one small step.

Merry Christmas, Happy Chanukah, and Happy New Year everybody. I hope Santa brings you that stainless steel toaster you've been dreaming of. No wait, that's me. Anyway, cheers!