VINE CHAT

Last week at the California-themed hotel we stayed at while away at Disneyland, I heard Sloop John B by The Beach Boys about five hundred times. By the time we left, I'd made up my own lyrics. Here is my late-summer, overwhelmed by playdates, haven't gotten anything done Mommy version of the song. 

Summer is almost through

I've shopped for an entertained you

Now it's time for me to get something done

Working from home

Gotta be done alone

You always scream when I get on the phone.  

So bring on the first day of school

See how the first day goes

Walk them to the class, stroller speeding along

I want time alone

Why won't they leave me alone? (yeah, yeah)

I need to re-charge, I want time alone

First I'll clean 'til I'm beat

Then I'll have what I want to eat

After I exercise 

Baby goes down for a nap 

Check my e-mail

I'm freed from my jail

I'm back to normal

I've had time alone

So bring on the first day of school

See how my kids like me more

After I've had some sanity time alone

I bitched and moaned

Then I got some things done

I missed my kiddos, c'mon, let's go home.

Last week I was back at the Paradise Pier Hotel at the Disneyland Resort. This time, Zoe was quite old enough to go on the waterslide, which is a good thing, because I usually do not have the resolve or energy to battle her. Zoe was the first one on the waterslide of the group of kids with me this trip. No surprise there.

The surprise is, last time I was at the Paradise Pier waterslide I thought I was done having kids, I thought I had packed the last set of floaties.

Not so. Another little girl came along in 2005 - and she, Melia is a couple months older now than the age Zoe was when she took the waterslide law into her own hands and rode it all the way down, despite being told no by the lifeguards of the Paradise Pier Hotel. If Zoe is Esther Williams, Melia is Audrey Hepburn.

That was then, this is now.  Melia likes to walk gingerly around the edge of the pool in her Ariel swim diaper, eating chips, chasing dragonflies, and saying "Hi Guys!".  She doesn't swim.  At all. The other four people in our family frolic, splash, and live in the water...but Melia prefers the sand, the poolside, or being dry.  Who knows?

So when we got to the waterslide and Melia wouldn't even wade in the baby pool in front of the waterslide, I grabbed a Diet Coke and prepared myself to walk behind her at .0006 miles per hour as she inspected the new pool she found herself at and waved to strangers. She began climbing the steps to the waterslide - she loves steps and climbs them whenever she sees them.  Tons of monotonous, repetitive fun. When we got to the top of the steps, where waterlogged siblings Alex and Zoe waited their turn, Melia waved, said "Hi guys!", but then paused, looked up at me, pointed to the waterslide launch pad, and said, "Me, go!"

I was stunned, proud, excited, and scared to death. I had practically chanted Zoe on as she slid down younger than Melia, why the hesitancy now, with Melia clearly ready and choosing to slide on her own?

She's the baby, that's why.  My last one. Ever. She could slide, I would hide. I try to never discourage fearlessness, which is why Zoe took her first 3 meter high dive at age 3.  True story.

"Can I go on the slide with her?" I asked the younger than most lifeguard.

"'Fraid not. We've had kids younger than her go on the slide alone before."

Yes, I know. I was there!

So the baby of the family, the delicate, pensive, Melia sits on the top of the slide, hands by her side, smile on her face, and completely unaware what she's getting herself into. But she goes, and I let her.

First turn she takes, I can't see her. I wait a few seconds then spot her, but she is no longer sitting. I spy a curly little black head in a pink one piece bathing suit, sprawled out like she's doing a jumping jack.  She is in shock, she looks traumatized, but she is awkwardly smiling. And she's almost at the bottom. Wait - I'm not at the bottom to get her!

That's okay - there is her big brother to get her, waiting at the bottom proudly.  Before she's even reached the last foot of the slide, actually, Alex has scooped her up and is holding her in the air.  "Yeah Melia!  Yeah Melia!  You did it!" he chants to her.

I'm at the bottom of the slide in a flash.  Melia is wet, but not drenched. Her lower lip is quivering, but she's not crying. She's holding on tightly to Alex, but reaching for me.

Still a baby.  Love that feeling.  Took a big kid step toward freedom.  Wants the comfort of an embrace now. I gotcha baby, I gotcha.

"Want to go on the slide again?" I ask her.

"No," she utters in her baby voice, very assertively though.

That's okay.  She's not Zoe, but she's got her strong example to follow.  She's not Alex, but she's got another boy besides her Papa to rescue her from choppy water. She's not going back on the slide, but she tried it with confidence, by her own choice. She's Melia, and whoever she becomes, she'll always be the baby.

"I'm not the baby, Mom, I'm eight years old," or, "You said I was a big girl, Mama, why do you call me 'baby'?" No matter how old they get, they'll always be my babies.

When the waterslide becomes the first day of kindergarten, or the first date, or graduation, or broken heart - God, help me be as calm and assured as I was letting her (them) go down that slide. It's their rite of passage, but I'll make it better for them if I can see the big picture - and when I know there's someone who cares for them at the bottom waiting for them besides me.

It's their rite of passage.  They won't be denied.

That's my girl(s).  That's my boy.

I can't help loving (read: admiring and exploiting the quirks of) that man of mine...he had me at "Yassou". 

My husband is Greek, I mean really Greek - first generation American, Greek speaking, olive skinned, Pythagorean-theorem referencing, komboloi carrying, Greek.

So when the movie 300 came out, all I heard was "We have to go see that. Get a babysitter and go see it. Seriously." Never happened. Three kids, sports, playdates, crazy-busy lives...we just don't get to the movies much.

However, on our anniversary this year we escaped. We stayed overnight at the Hyatt Regency, and they have movies you can order before they're even released on DVD. How fabulous! I didn't know this - when we go on vacation and check into the room, the first thing I do is hop in the bath, open the mini-bottle of shower gel for bubbles, and read the room service menu. Priorities.

I was in said bath trying to find out how late I could order roasted chicken and garlic mash when my husband, Pete, yells from the other room "300! SAM! I'm going to order 300! Okay? Okay? I'm ordering it now. Honey! You're gonna watch it with me, right?" Well, it's not like he's offering a gigantic wooden horse or anything...sure, I can watch a movie while I eat room service.

My husband watching 300 recalled all the stories of King Leonidas, the Spartans, Arcadians and the Athenians told to him by his father when he was a child. My youngest brother-in-law is named Leonidas. "I've seen the statue of King Leonidas in Greece, you know.  The guy they chose to play him looks just like Leonidas." Boy, that's refreshing. Those integrity-obsessed people in Hollywood must have invented a secret time machine to maneuever the worm holes of time and sent sketch artists to capture Leo's profile. No detail too small for film-making.

And since 300 was released on DVD at the end of July, my home has become Leonidas-possessed. When I say something that displeases my husband ("Babe, can you take out the trash?"), he responds to me assertively (warrior like) and articulately (wordier than "The Republic"), trying so hard to remember some Homer from college, but failing, and settling for the dramatic quote from King Leonidas..."This is SPARTA!". No, it's SUBURBIA, honey. And grab those plastic bottles for the recycling on your way out to the trash bin.

My husband won't let me catch ten minutes of CSI when our kids are in the room, or even allow the kids to watch Jack McCoy rant on Law & Order because they're "too young for such sensitive material." However, he's let them repeatedly view the (inaccurate here and there) cinematic history lesson that is 300 as I carry on with my queenly household duties. Is my husband giving preferential treatment to movies about Greeks? Truly, it's alright with me. I watched Clash of the Titans at their age-Medusa scared me a little, but I discovered a love of history and storytelling woven with truth. Besides, I so am grateful to have a break from the Disney Channel.

I'm okay with this 300 obsession. My husband really takes this movie seriously, and apparently, he's not the only one. My Greek husband and our three little Greeks watch 300 like the people are ... real.  Well, they are real. What's more, everyone in my house (except Welsh/Enlglish/Russian/French me, of course) is descended from them - but everyone drawing a free breath owes Leo a debt of gratitude (and I'd like to personally thank Gerard Butler for his breath-taking depiction and commanding performance...heavens).

This is not exactly Sparta. We get things like room service and date nights of freedom, and I get my Greek King all to myself. But history shows that even suburbia needs a King Leonidas now and then.

In which case, thanks to DVDs and repeat play, we'd know what to say..."SUBURBIANS, PREPARE FOR GLORY!"