CityMama™

How the Grinch tried to ruin Christmas and how he didn't know he would be blogged

Wallie with her beloved smoked salmon plate.

On Christmas Eve eve the girls and I hit up the local mall with my mom and brother to do some last minute shopping and along the way, we decided to stop and have lunch.  My brother wanted to continue shopping and said he'd meet us for dessert so my mom and I headed into the restaurant with Bunny and Wallie and promised to save him a spot.

Naturally, the narrow restaurant was crowded with shoppers and the many outside tables—normally packed—were empty due to inclement weather. When I asked for a table for five, the grandmotherly hostess (aka Strega Nona, who I think was also the owner) tutted and asked where the fifth member of our party was. I could tell this wasn't going to go well.

"He's shopping," I explained. "But he'll meet us later for dessert."

I was prepared for one of those "we can't seat you until your party is all here" spiels, but instead she huffed and said something even more frustrating, "You are going to order food...right?"

It was the "dot-dot-dot, right" that killed me.

I blinked.

Twice.

Why would she ask that question? Sometimes I think (and this is something that is probably common with mixed race folk though we don't readily admit it), "Is it because I'm not white? Is that why you think I won't order something?" I don't want to go there, but I've been learned to be disappointed by presumptuous people. And she looked presumptuous. It wouldn't be the first time someone assumed something incorrect about me based on my appearance.

I wanted to scream, "I'm half-Italian! Aren't you Italian, too?" But instead I said."Yes, we're here for lunch." We were standing in the crowded entry and people were pushing past us bumping their shopping bags into ours and all I could think was, "I'm getting out of here." But at that moment she sighed and said, "Hold on, let me prepare a table."  And so we waited.

My Obama Mama

My lucky mom with the next President and First Lady of the United States. Read about her experience meeting the Obamas here.

'Ohana means family (and sometimes you learn that the hard way)

One of the things I love best about Hawai'i is the sense that no matter where you are or who you are, there is a larger community looking out for your well-being.  In Hawaiian it's called the spirit of 'ohana, and as we all learned from Lilo & Stitch, 'ohana means "family."

'Ohana means that when you are at the pool, park, or the beach, your eye is on your kids and the kids near your kids, even if they aren't yours.

'Ohana means that when you are kid in Hawai'i, you don't act up: not at a picnic, not on the bus, not at a mall, because your "Aunties" are always watching. I can't tell you how many times, I was scolded (or even spanked on one occassion) by someone not my mother. And my mom's reaction? "Good. Next time, don't do that."

Today my mom (Tata) and I were at the pool watching Bunny and Wallie's final swimming lesson. I was lounging finishing New Moon. (Yes, I am 13 and I read Twilight and New Moon this vacay, but that's another *eye-roll* story...) Anyway, I was lying on a chaise immersed in my book and my mom was at the side of the pool snapping pictures and taking movies when all of a sudden I heard the one word—that when spoken in a certain tone by my mother—can stop me in my tracks.

"Hey!"

The hairs stood up on the back of my neck. I almost peed in my bathing suit. That one word told me all I needed to know: someone was in BIG trouble.

I looked up to see my mom's cropped chartreuse linen pants splattered with pool water.

Gasp!

I had to check myself for a second to make sure it wasn't me or my kids that did it. No? Phew.

Shopping with Tata: The Grocery Store

"Get the Zip-Locs," directed Tata.

"But the house brand is cheaper," I attempted to explain. "They are two for $4.00. You can get two of these for the price of one box of Zip-Locs."

"Just give me the Zip-Locs." She didn't want to hear it.

Going grocery shopping with my mother is an experience. Everything is a convenience item. Everything is a name brand. Is it a generational thing?

Happy Birthday, Tata!

Happy 39th Birthday, Mom! I can't believe you had me when you were only 1-year-old! Amazing!

The girls picked this present for you for your new home away from home!  We will give it to you when we see you next month!

Have a very happy day! We love you!

Project Life Change: Update: Tata Visits

I've been spending this week with my mom who is in town visiting for Wallie's third birthday. When I decided to quit my job, I wasn't thinking about this week, but I woke up on Monday morning and realized that I didn't have to do anything except enjoy the time with my mom. Words cannot even describe how good that feels. Stress levels are way waaaay down. My new address? Cloud nine. Even though I spent a month in Hawaii recently, I didn't enjoy my time as much as I am loving these past 4 days with her.

So far we've spent the week shopping and taking the girls out to lunch. Yesterday my mom, sister, and I spent an hour at the Neiman-Marcus make up counter and came home loaded down with freebies in addition to our lotions and potions and lipsticks:

Just like La Tammy Faye, I love make up.

The girls have been having scones for breakfast, gelato after lunch, and dessert after dinner because you don't eff with Tata (aka Auntie Mame). The kids on trying (trying!) to be on their best behavior so they don't disappoint their grandma.

We've torn up this valley from one end to the other. I chauffeur while Tata hops out to check out boutiques here and there. She's visited both girls' schools. We've gone to parks. My house is spotless (she even cleaned my dryer lint trap), the fridge is stocked, beds are made in the morning, and the laundry is folded. Something yummy is on the stove at all times. Yes, I have the best mom in the whole world, and she spoils us rotten just when we need it most.

And you know Tata is here when this sentence comes out of your three-year-old's mouth:

Tata, first I want you to put on my fake nails, then I want to eat my cherry pie.

Tata, thanks for being the best memory-maker ever!

Why, yes, that is a black kitty cat on a pink french manicured fake nail.

Sweet tradition

One of the sweetest traditions here in Hawaii is the culture of bestowing gifts and lavishing attention on children.

When we see my mom's friends, invariably they show up with little tote bags full of treats for Bunny and Wallie: Sanrio trinkets, barrettes, dress-up dresses and shoes, coupons to Jamba Juice (thanks Auntie Erin!), coloring books and toothbrushes...I'm going to need an extra suitcase just to bring home all their loot.

I love this tradition. I'm overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness every time an auntie shows up with a bag with Hello Kitty plastered on the side.  It makes me wonder why my generation doesn't do these things, especially those of us who live outside of Hawaii. Even if one of my mom's friends doesn't know me or my kids that well, they always say, "Your mom told me you were coming...here's a little something for the kids..."

I started feeling like a horrible person thinking about all the times I could have gone ever-so-slightly out of my way to get a little present for a friend or about all the times I saw something and thought of a friend but didn't buy it. My excuses are always that I have my kids with me or I don't have time to stop because I have to pick someone up from school or I'm running late because I had to change a diaper and buckle shoes. And I know a note or call will do (also so sososo bad at that), but everyone loves unexpected presents, right?

Then it occurred to me that these women have grown children and don't have to pull their kids off of the bed displays or out of rounders or remove lip gloss testers from their hot little fists like I did today at Macy's. These aunties may be busy, but they don't have two-year-olds. That's when I felt better about myself and realized that there's plenty of time left to spoil my friends' children's children. In the meantime, friends, know that I think of you whenever I see the vintage dishtowels or historical fiction mysteries or bouquets of tulips or the chocolate-dipped macaroons that I know you love.

Photo of my mom's friends (aka "the aunties") the moment when they first see Bunny and Wallie on our first day in Hawaii. (Notice they are not looking at me.)  It's all about the kids. Now that's love.

Guess the celebrity and win a book!

My mom (privacy protected) emails me today telling me she's going to lunch with the famous person above (among others). Then, three hours later, this photo hits my in box. 

Who did my mom have lunch with? 

First person to guess correctly wins one of the books I've recently been sent for review.  (Too many to list here, we can discuss via email.)

Death and sushi

Over dinner last night, Bunny looked up from her shrimp tempura and wondered, "Mamma, when I'm a mamma what will you be?"

"I'll be the grandma," I replied.

"When you're the grandma will your fingers be very wrinkly and then will you DIE?" she shouted across the table. At which point, the people eating next to us practically spit out their sushi, and laughed into their napkins.

What do you say to a 4.5-year-old?  I tried to remain calm, (plus I had an audience over at table number 6), and I certainly didn't want to worry her, so I said what any mother would say...

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY?

Anyone else's Mother's Day suck ass like mine did?

You know what? Here's the thing. I try to have really low expectations around this (and other) Hallmark holidays.  We don't go overboard. No gifts needed.  What I'd like for Mother's Day is simple:

1. I'd like to sleep in.
2. See number one.

That's it.  That's all.  Throw in a little park adventure and we're good.

Having beautiful flowers delivered is a nice surprise. (Thanks, Bunny and Wallie by way of Tata!)

I knew it was all going to go horribly wrong last night when J. got up from the couch and went to throw up. (By the way, we only have to be in The House That Is Trying To Kill Us for 17 more days.)