FLORIDA

About a year and a half ago we took a family trip to Florida. It was our first major trip as a family of four and it was a little stressful. I'm not a great traveler. I never have been. I get anxious about being away from home, even though I enjoy new places. But Florida is not a new place. I've been there many times before. My mother grew up in Miami so we visited her parents there several times during my childhood, and Eric's mom lives there so we've visited her several times as well in the last few years. We always have a nice time. The beaches are nice. We go there to see people we love....and sometime, in the future, I hope to go to Harry Potter World.

On this last trip to Florida, Aaron was only 4 months old and spent most of the time strapped to my body in an ergo or a solly baby wrap. We spent a few days in Boca Raton, where Eric's mom lives, and then we all drove to Tampa so we could attend (one of) my best friend's wedding. A day or so before the wedding I was walking into a Walmart with another friend with Aaron asleep in the ergo strapped to my chest. A woman exiting the Walmart with her very pregnant daughter or granddaughter approached us. She stopped my friend and said simply "Can I ask you a question? When you wash the baby's clothes do you use a special detergent or fabric softener?" My friend, who doesn't have kids, turned to me. I stepped forward and answered the woman's question. The woman looked at me, then back at my friend and then back at me. She wrinkled her nose. She turned up her chin, and then she walked away. It was strange. It was rude and it was confusing. "That was weird." I said as we continued into the store. My friend was quiet for a moment, then she said, "I think maybe she thought that you were my nanny." My friend is white. I am not. "Huh," I said. "I think you must be right."

Florida 2017

My parents met at Antioch University in the mid 1960s. My mum was a white girl from Miami Florida, and my dad was a black boy from Washington DC. They knew each other for a couple of years before they started dating, but my mother says that the first time she laid eyes on my dad she knew that he would be hers someday. They dated around, though. My mum had to end a relationship with a man named Micheal because she knew it was getting too serious and she didn't want to marry him. My dad dated Elia Kazan's daughter for a short time (a family lore that I've always loved) but eventually they found each other and when grad school rolled around they applied to different schools and different programs but made sure that the schools and programs were close enough that they could still be together. I forget the timeline exactly, but it may have been my father's acceptance to the PHD program at Stanford that prompted a proposal before they moved across the country together. They married in a very small ceremony in upstate NY in 1970, only three years after the Supreme Court's decision in Loving Vs. Virginia made it legal to do so in all 50 states. In 1970 on 2% of marriages were bi-racial. My mum made her own wedding dress, and my dad wore a pink shirt and sideburns and a fu manchu mustache. They both smoked. From the few photos I've seen, it looked like a kickass wedding.

Reuben and Tamara AKA Mum and Dad have always photographed well

My sister and I, I recently learned, are a part of "The Loving Generation." I ashamed to admit that I didn't even know what that was, or that the Loving Generation was even a thing until a friend sent me the link to a documentary about it earlier this year. The Loving Generation is defined as people born to one parent who was classified as "white" and one parent who was classified as "colored" between the years of 1965-1985. Growing up in Monterey, CA, my sister was the only kid I knew who looked like me, and I can remember several instances of being called out for being "different." I remember kids asking me if I was adopted because I didn't look like my white mother. I remember a friend telling me that I couldn't dress up like Madonna for a "come as your favorite Pop Star" party because Madonna was white and blond and I was not. But mostly it was kids being kids, asking questions about things that seemed unfamiliar or confusing to them. I was never snubbed. I was never endangered. Around the fifth grade an older boy said something once, something racist and terrible and violent. Something that I'm not sure he fully understood. I don't think he really meant it. I think he was a kid trying something on to see if it fit. To see if throwing racists slurs around felt cool, but what do I know? I can't remember what happened then, exactly. Did I tell my mum? Or a teacher? Or did someone else hear him and report it? Did the other kids understand that what he said was wrong and horrible? He was forced to write a letter of apology. That's all I remember. I don't remember his name. I didn't keep the letter. I don't know what kind of person he grew up to be.

(Awkward?) Family Photo circa 1981

When I was trying to make it as an actress in my late teens and early twenties, I still found it difficult to look different. TV and Commercial casting agents kept claiming that my look was just about to be "in" but I didn't get cast much.  At 17 I had a meeting with an agent in Hollywood who gave me a long lecture about how un-castable I was because I didn't look white and I didn't look black. It was my first major professional meeting. It had been set up by a friend of my dad's who's daughter was an actress represented by this agent.  We drove from Monterey to LA for the meeting. I was very excited.  My mum waited for me outside and after a long conversation that could be described as an argument with the agent about race and looks and the future of Hollywood (for a 17 year old, I really held my own in that meeting) I thanked the agent and left and met my mother outside. Once safely in the car I cried and told her everything. She held me and comforted me. She told me I was talented and special and all the nice things a mother should say. But she didn't tell me that the agent was wrong, because she didn't know. We weren't the industry professionals. Maybe she was right, as shitty as that felt. Then we went to see a movie at Mann's Chinese Theatre. I remember watching Carrie Fisher on the screen and wishing that I looked like her. My mum told me later that she didn't sleep at all that night after the meeting. Neither did I.

A year later I moved to New York to go to NYU. New York was certainly more diverse and for the first time in my life I did meet other people who looked like me. I met a lot of other people of color and it was exciting. I blended in amongst the throngs of people just trying to catch the N/R train downtown. When I was called out, it was usually complimentary, or just some dude telling me to "smile more," and everyone woman, no matter what color her skin has heard that one.

Remember when headshot were B/W and shot on film?

I eventually moved to LA, despite that agents advice, although I wasn't acting much at that point, but writing instead. LA is the land of the beautiful blonds but by that point there was a lot more diversity going on as well. Shondaland was blooming. Halle Berry and Denzel Washington had both won Academy Awards a few years before. CBS and NBC had diversity writing fellowships. I was developing a project and it was often flaunted that the writer (me) was a woman of color because that was a desirable thing.

While I was pregnant with Cylas I often wondered what he would look like. Eric is mostly Italian with some German and other stuff. He's a white guy with olive toned skin and the biggest, bluest eyes. He is often stopped by both men and women so that they can comment on his eyes. They are beautiful and he and his two brothers all have them. So did his father. The Mindel eyes. I wondered if Cylas would have blue eyes like his dad or brown eyes like me. I wondered if he would look black, or white, or somewhere in between. When he was born, he was a just a smoosh with dark hair. His eyes were that dark swirly blue that most babies' eyes are, but they didn't stay blue. They turned brown quickly. He has his mother's eye color. But as he got older, his hair has lightened. His skin has lightened too and, to be perfectly honest, he looks like a white kid. By the time he was 18 months, he was practically blond.

Cylas and I after voting in the 2016 election

In late February of 2012, almost two years before Cylas was born, Trayvon Martin was shot and killed walking to his father's house in Sanford Florida. He was 17 years old. He was targeted by his shooter because he was a black boy in a hooded sweatshirt and that made him suspicious. He was unarmed. He was walking home from a convenience store. When my dad was in college, he embarked on a road trip with a few friends. A black male and two white females. At some point along their cross country drive they were waved through a police check point only to arrive at a second checkpoint minutes later to find police shotguns pointed at their vehicle. They were ordered out of their car. They were handcuffed and detained. They had done nothing wrong, but the police found it suspicious that these two young black men would be in a car with two white women. There are dozens of stories about black people (mostly men) being violently targeted by police and citizens alike, because they were deemed suspicious or problematic because they were black.

Baba and Aaron

As the mother of two young sons I think about this a lot. It makes me feel sad that I sometimes have the thought that Cylas might have gotten a "free pass." I want him to know and understand what it is to be a black person in America. I want him to be proud of his heritage, and I want him to understand the history of his people, but since he doesn't look black he will most likely evade the negative aspects that can go along with being a black person in America. Aaron, who looks a lot more like me,  may have some very different experiences in the wider world. He may have to be more careful, and it pains me to still have to say that.  Every mother worries about their kids, but some mothers have to worry about different things.

A few weeks ago a white man shot and killed a black man in parking lot in Clearwater Florida. In the days following the shooting, no charges had been filed against the shooter because the shooting was being called justified under Florida's Stand Your Ground law. When my mother heard that news, she said, "I don't think you should go to Florida." I kind of thought she was joking as we had a trip planned for the following week. "Why?" I asked. "Because, someone might shoot you because you're a black woman" she said. We went to Florida anyways and had a lovely time, but I thought often about my mother and her worry over my safety. 

Florida isn't the problem. There are amazing, open minded, wonderful, caring people living all over Florida. And there are small minded, racist, cruel, violent people living all over the United States. There are many here where I live too, even though I've never had any run-ins. That recent shooting in Clearwater did result in manslaughter charges being filed against the shooter. As I write this, he sits in jail. He didn't get away with murder, at least, not officially. Not yet. He will stand trial.

I started writing this post a couple of weeks ago, before our most recent trip to Florida. The trip went well. We had fun. The boys swam almost every day. Nana took them to Walmart and bought them a Christmas morning level of toys. They loved every second of the visit. Nothing negative to report. I have stumbled through my thoughts while attempting to write this post. I don't want to imply that I didn't find much success in acting only because I'm a person of color. Maybe I never auditioned well.  Maybe I just wasn't what the casting people were looking for. Maybe I'm not as talented as I think I am! I'm not sure why that woman in Tampa seemed so offended that I answered the question she directed to my friend. I don't know for a fact that she thought the only reason that my white friend would be shopping with me is because I must have worked for her. I also don't want to imply that I only worry about my children because they are mixed race. Most of the time I don't even think about it. They are both kind, adorable, smart people. I worry more about making sure that they grow up being respectful to women than I do about them being the subject of racism. I like my writings and posts to be well organized editorials on some subject of my life, and this one is a scattered journal entry about the current state of race relations in my head, as a mother, as a woman, and as a person of color. I thought about not even posting this since I don't have a thought conclusion. My thoughts are muddy, and on going and shifting.

me and my mini me

When I pick out books for my boys, when I chose dolls, and toys, I make sure that diversity is represented. I choose books like I Am So Brave, and The Snowy Day. When I got Cylas a baby doll before Aaron was born, I searched for a baby with darker skin and brown eyes because I assumed that Aaron would have those features and I was right. I want them to see themselves represented in the media they consume, and in their playthings. I don't want them to feel alone in the world the way that I often did. It's much easier to find these things now. Lots of people are thinking like me. I guess, I just always thought that by the time I had kids it wouldn't still feel like a task to find these toys, books and characters. I thought it would just be the way the world looked. I didn't think there would be protests like the one in Charlottesville last year. I didn't think that someone like Trump would be president. I didn't think that black teenagers in hoodies would still be shot walking home. Every mother worries, but some mothers still have to worry about different things.

The Baby-Sitters Club

Happy Birthday to me!

This year for my birthday Eric planned a very cool evening out for the two of us. This involved a beautiful sunset horseback ride through Topanga Canyon and dinner at The Inn of the Seventh Ray afterwards. Honestly, we rarely go out without the kids, so this felt super special. I called…THE BABYSITTER. Until recently, we didn’t even have a babysitter to call. We’d used one here and there that we would steal from a friend, but for anything major, I would attempt to coordinate a visit from my parents so that they would watch the kids for us. This isn’t because I don’t trust people with our children, it’s mostly because we’re cheap, and babysitters are expensive. And that is not to imply that babysitters aren’t worth it, but I often have to ask myself if going to see whatever blockbuster is out in the movie theatre is worth paying someone $15/hr to watch my kids (that’s an extra $45 we just paid to see the latest Star Wars) is worth it, and I’ve often answered NOPE.

But recently, we met a lovely young lady named Lena who has all the qualities I look for in someone I would leave my children with. She’s energetic, she’s kind, she’s attentive, she's a great texter and responds quickly to my queries.  Cylas loves her and Aaron doesn’t cry when she comes in the door, so…she’s THE ONE.

So off we went to ride magnificent beasts through the mountains surrounding Topanga. I wore a knitted poncho, jeans and boots and felt totally rustic and amazing. My horse’s name was Jesse and although he was not particularly agreeable to my wishes and ate many more snacks then I tried to allow him, we had a good time. We walked and trotted up and down the mountains. I opted (probably stupidly) not to wear a helmet because I am a (probably stupidly) confident equestrian (I mean, I attended horseback riding camp for not one but two summer sessions as a pre-teen) and I wanted to feel the wind in my hair when we galloped. And we galloped (or at least trotted) a lot. It was beautiful, fun and exciting…until an off leash dog ran out on the trail, my horse spooked and reared up and I fell off the horse and badly injured my arm.

Jesse doesn't do photos

So I spent the next 3 weeks or so in a lot of pain with my arm in a sling, unable to lift, change diapers, get children dressed, bathed and fed, and unable to put my own hair in a ponytail. Eric was ridiculously helpful. Boy did he step up and take care of all of us. But he did have to go to work, and he works nights, so we would not have made it through if it weren’t for Lena. Lena came every day from 4 pm to 8 pm and helped me bathe, feed and get the kids to bed. She probably even helped me put my hair in a ponytail. She cleaned my kitchen, she organized the toy storage area, and I even caught her mopping the kitchen floor. She folded laundry, entertained my children with games, cookie making, and trips to the playground.  While she did these things, I rested. I actually ran some errands, I even (shhh, don’t tell anyone) went and saw Black Panther in the Theatre by myself.  In a word, she was WONDERFUL and as my arm improved and I could do more and more, I was sad that I didn’t have the excuse to say I needed her anymore. But why do I feel like I needed an excuse to admit that I needed her? Even completely able-bodied parents need and deserve help.  It takes a village and I am always telling other people that, but why (other than financial constraints) have I been limiting my desire and need to have a little help?  

When I graduated college (NOT THAT LONG AGO, DAMMIT! I’m very young!) I worked as a Nanny. I was an actress and writer so that seemed like a great job because it was somewhat flexible and left me free to audition, write and take classes etc, in a way that I thought a more serious 9-5 job would not. I was also a little scared and lazy and babysitting was fun and didn’t seem like a sad scary stress factory like the several assistant jobs I also applied for. I worked for a family in the East Village just blocks away from my apartment. When I started the job, the baby, Piper, had recently turned one and I figured it would be a great summer gig before I started working professionally as an actor. I worked for them for the next 6 years until I left NY for Los Angeles. The baby’s name was Piper (it still is, she’s just not a baby anymore) and a few years after I started working for them they had another baby, Sam, and I took care of that baby too. They were a great family to work for. They were interesting, laid back, kind and funny. They loved their kids and had a cool NY life.  The dad worked in construction and design (I think?) and the mom had been an editor/film-maker but was taking a break to be a mom and be happy. I babysat to give her more time to be happy. She went to yoga, and ran errands. I remember later she started a master’s program but in those first few years, I babysat mostly to give her some time away. They went on date nights and sometimes a friend might even leave their kid with me too so they could all go out together. It was, honestly, a great job for me. I LOVED that kid (still do) and LOVED that second kid when he came along (still do) and my friends often accused me of being a little obsessed with them. Most of my stories involved some interaction with Piper. Piper was my confidant and my main hang. She was delightful, spirited and an old soul. Piper even gave relationship advice. I remember once telling her (she was probably 3.5 at the time) about a boy who wouldn’t hold my hand to navigate a crowd at a concert he’d invited me to. I was confused about whether or not he liked me. I mean, why had he invited me if he didn’t want hang out in any intimate way? She said simply “he does not love you now, but he will love you soon. And the next time you see him you should kiss him.” Great advice! (All though she wasn’t right. He never loved me. At least, not that I know of.) She was funny, and lively and she liked me and the family liked me and I felt good about myself when I was with her. I felt like I was doing something important. I was helping her parents live a good life and I was a good influence on their little people. Piper and Sam have both grown up to be wonderful young people and talented artists. Piper has a major instagram following for her photography and Sam is a skilled fine artist. That has everything to do with their talented, attentive and involved parents, great teachers and friends, and their awesome NY lifestyle but I also like to give myself a little credit as an early influencer. 

This is an actual/un-ironic polaroid! 

Piper and I pre-digital #nofilter

Lena doesn’t come every night any more. Far from it. But I have tried to give myself permission to call her when I need a night away. Cylas gets excited when he knows that Lena is coming over, and Aaron (who is not the most affectionate kid with people that aren’t…well…me) sits in her lap and goes to sleep without incident when she puts him to bed. So when the budget can swing it, I call Lena. In fact, she’s coming over tomorrow night so Eric and I can go out on a date night. Having a babysitter still feels like a luxury sometimes, but it isn’t a luxury. It’s a necessity for happiness. I think that I really know that now.

This should be a picture of Lena. but I don't have one. I better get on that. 

I think, before I worked as a nanny, and certainly before I had children of my own, I thought nannies were a bit bourgeois. I understood that when both parents worked, someone had to watch the kids, but I thought that when one parent stayed at home, they should just be with their kids ALL THE TIME.  But now I understand that life is hard. Parenting is hard. Everyone, and I mean, everyone deserves a break.  That doesn’t make you selfish, or spoiled or a bad mom. And if you don’t have family close by, or very very generous friends, then you have to pay someone to watch your children. And if you are lucky, then you will find someone to pay that loves your kids as I much as I loved the kids that I babysat.  And I feel very lucky that our babysitter seems to love our kids a whole lot.  And I feel extra lucky that she washes my dishes for me too.

Best Laid Plans

This is the happiest we looked at the Happiest Place on Earth

Cylas just turned 4 years old. 4 years old! Can you believe it? My baby is 4! So in honor of this epic birthday my sister, Natalie, (who also has a 4 year old son, Kaeden,) and I decided to plan an epic birthday adventure for the boys. Destination: Disneyland! Full scale invasion. This meant two days in the parks and staying overnight at the Disneyland hotel for two nights so we could get an early start in the morning and enjoy the resorts amenities. We looped our parents in as well to act as helpers and babysitters for Aaron (now 17 months.) It was going to be epic! It was going to be expensive but worth it! We were building core memories here, people. We were going to have the time of our lives!

And then it all went to shit! The night before we left, I got sick. That full body ache, shivering, feverish, sore throat kind of sick. But I shrugged it off. I'm a grown up and a mum and mums don't take sick days. I can take my medicine, down some Advil and make it through anything if I have to, so we all piled into my sister's mini van and drove to Anaheim. Cylas had been sick the week before but he seemed his usual self and Kaeden had also been sick recently, but we pushed right on through. These boys would love Disneyland so much that a runny nose wouldn't stop them. Our first morning, I woke up with the sorest throat I could imagine. Tearfully, I went to my sister, parents and husband and asked for help. Natalie, Eric, Grandpa and the boys headed into the park while my mum, baby Aaron and I waited for a concierge doctor (fancy!) to come to our hotel room. He came, he declared a strep throat diagnosis and he injected my (in the buttocks) with penicillin, steroids, and gave me pain killers and a ten day course of antibiotics. With a renewed sense of hope and some relief (due to the pain killers) my mum and I headed into the park to catch up with the 4 year-olds. Aaron quickly fell asleep in the stroller and we found the boys in Tomorrowland looking tired, wilted and unenthusiastic. They had ridden three rides. Enjoyed them, but weren't feeling great and needed to head back to the hotel for naps.

To make a long story short, I was sick, the boys were sick, it was hot and in our two days at Disneyland, I'd say we probably spent a total of five hours together in the park. They spent a lot more time together in the hotel room watching cartoons on the ipad or napping. The other adults were different variations of frustrated, bummed and stir crazy. The kids just wanted to eat peanut butter sandwiches and watch TV. At one point someone declared, "We are never doing anything like this again! Not until they're much older...like 10!" It was disappointing to say the least.

At least the hotel room was nice

I have always had a hard time with regret. It may be my biggest fear. REGRET. I'm haunted by regrets in a way that I know is not healthy. I wish I were actually the laid back person that everyone assumes that I am, and I am about a lot of things, but regret is my greatest obsession. "Why did I do this?" "Why didn't I do that, say that, change that?" is a constant swirl in the back of my mind. It is especially toxic when I obsess over the regret I have when it comes to my children's lives. Because pretty much EVERYTHING they do, wear, own, eat, see is something I chose for them. So if things go wrong, it is my fault. If they are miserable about a decision that I made for them, it's my fault. It is ALL MY FAULT.

Grammy and Grandpa deserved a treat.

But that isn't what happened here. I didn't do anything wrong, right? It was just bad luck. People get sick. It's cold and flu season and we all got sick. They didn't even get sick because we took them Disneyland. They were already sick, because they live in the world. And actually, when I asked each boy what his favorite part of the Disneyland trip was, they both had really positive answers. Cylas simply said "All of it!" and Kaeden said "All the rides!" (I think they did about four each.)  But I still felt devastated, because it didn't play out like I was imagining. And I felt regret about the whole trip.

Sick Kids=Poor Mickey Mouse

The other day, I took Cylas for a haircut. I love his long mopish hair, but he was starting to look a little feral and so I took him in for a trim. I explained to the stylist on duty at the kid's haircut place that I wanted it out of his eyes, and a bit shorter around the ears, but that I loved it long. She gave him a mullet. It's not horrible, but it's not great. He doesn't know. He likes it. He likes that it is different, and "not tickling his ears" but I came home feeling sick to my stomach. I've been thinking about it for days. Why didn't I describe what I wanted better? Why did I take him for a haircut in the first place? Why did I take him there again when I don't love the way she cuts his hair?

Before Christmas I planned a nighttime adventure to Descanso Garden's Forest of Light, because I had heard it was truly magical and I thought that Cylas, especially, would love it. Last year we went to the Zoo's nighttime lights and he ran around with his two little friends and had an amazing time. I'd heard that Descanso Garden's lights were even better, so I got tickets for the whole family and even one for Nana who would be visiting on that night. I had pictured Cylas running around happily through the forest of lights with his dad while I pushed a contented Aaron in the stroller as he gazed around dreamily at the lights. It was going to be magical and my children and husband would hug me later and say "Thanks for this experience. You are loved and appreciated!"  But then Eric had to work, and Cylas fell asleep on the 50 minute car ride there (which is always a recipe for disaster because he's often in a bad mood when he wakes up from car naps.) It was also much colder than I had anticipated and we were all freezing.  Instead of the idyllic Holiday evening that I had pictured, Aaron and Cylas cried for most of the 45 minutes or so that we walked around the dark and we all froze. Other visitors were dressed in snow jackets and hats and scarves. My kids don't even own jackets (we live in the Valley), and their hooded sweatshirts weren't cutting it. Even my MIL ducked into the gift shop to buy a sweatshirt and hat. Cylas barely got out of the stroller and Aaron cried like he was in pain (maybe he was? I thought maybe he was having stomach cramps, but who knows) and I felt like an utter failure as a planner, and as a mum. It took me days to recover from the disappointment and regret. Why didn't I bring more blankets? Why didn't I make sure Cylas stayed awake? Why didn't I double check the temperature? Why didn't I make sure that Aaron didn't have a stomach ache? Why why why?

But maybe my problem isn't regret, it's expectations. I have high, specific expectations for my children and my life with them, and when reality doesn't live up to them, I fall down the rabbit hole of regret. But I don't think my kids are aware of my expectations, and I do my best to hide my disappointment from them. And to be clear, it isn't them I am in disappointed in, it's usually me. My choices. My plans blowing up in my face.

If only it was always this easy

Lake Casitas Water Adventure

And this isn't to imply that all my plans are disasters. We've had a lot of "successes" as well and I should really learn to just dwell on them. I've thrown a couple of awesome birthday parties, complete with games and themed foods. I planned a surprise birthday trip to Ojai with a water park adventure (everyone in LA needs to check this place out next summer. It was awesome) that went off with out a hitch. And the other day, we did a family hike to a waterfall and there was very little crying (I didn't say no crying...but very little.) After each of these wins, I felt great. I felt confident. I felt like one of those people I'm always envious of on Instagram. I just need to bottle that feeling so I can take little nips of it when I'm feeling regretful. And I also need to remind myself that my children don't really care. After each of these "failed" plans, they still loved me. They woke up happy and smiling. They don't even remember the experiences as negative at all. Cylas has already asked to go back to the "Night Lights" again next year. And, you know what? I'm going to buy tickets and try again! Disneyland will have to wait, though. That shit is expensive!

Paradise Falls. Almost everyone is smiling. Success!

I once worked with an actor who had the words "No Regrets" and "Relax" tattooed on his forearms. He also had his initials tattooed ornately on his tricep but, you know, to each his own. I remember asking him about it and he simply said, "They are there as a reminder." He didn't have kids at the time. Since we worked together we've both had 2 children. I wonder if he values that tattoo even more now. How much does he value the reminder these days? I'm betting a lot. Maybe I need to get a tattoo as well!