Everynight on the Disney Cruise, our family went to Studio Sea, the family nightclub aboard, at 10:15 to sing.

I remember a little girl named Samantha, about eight years old or so. Her hair was wavy long and blonde, her eyes big, wide set apart and blue. She sang every night like we did - and did the same song each time - ”Life is a Highway”. By the end of the cruise, she knew that song backwards and forewards, and so did we. When she sang the lyrics “all night LONGGGG!!!” they were loud, off key, and undeniably endearing. Her mom and little sister sang every night, too. But every time I hear “Life is a Highway” now (there is currently a gas company that uses it in their commercials) I think of this sweet little girl, I wonder where their father was (which I shouldn’t, it’s not my business, but every factor in a kids life leads to the theme song they choose for themselves), I think of her little sister and Mom, and how they all supported each other every time one of them took the stage. Who cares if people are tired of this same song every night, my little girl is happily unafraid SING IT HONEY! … that was the look on Samantha’s mother’s face. I liked that. I cheered loudly for each of them.

There was also a young boy, I would put him at 12 or so, and he had an affinity for classic rock. He sang “Livin’ on a Prayer” as well as “Dream On” while his barely-able-to-walk little brother cavorted behind him on stage. This 12 year old also sang a Scorpions song, I can’t remember which one (I do know it wasn’t “Still Lovin’ You”).

My favorite karaoke singer - aside from the ones I gave birth to - was a twenty-something college kid who got on stage, held the microphone close to his face, hands clasped Jim Morrison style, and said “This song is dedicated to my little sister.” He sang “Part of Your World” from The Little Mermaid, and he did it princess (maybe I should say Queen) style. He put a squeak on the last syllable of ”you want thingamabobs?” and curiously knew all of the words. (I imagine this kid, pre-college, his bedroom right next to that of his girly kid sister who had her own karaoke machine, trying to study for a calculus test while involuntarily learning said song, saying “MOM! Make her turn the princess music OFF!”). I really enjoyed his parody a Disney song, that brotherly act of self-deprecation for kid sister’s enjoyment, but never told that guy what perfect timing he had. If I were his little sister, I would have been beaming, bursting with laughter, and saying to myself I knew he liked my princess music!

My kids doing karaoke, though - this simultaneously shocked and sentimentalized me. I had never seen this side of them before. My daughters predictably chose Hannah Montana, Ariel (what is it with Ariel), and High School Musical songs. My son (hopefully none of his team-mates read this) first sang a very monotone “YMCA”, then switched to “With Arms Wide Open” and performed Creed with more dynamics. He asked the DJ for hip-hop songs, “Soulja Boy” and “Lollipop”, evidently (obviously) these are not Disney Cruise approved songs.

And I have confession. Okay. I have admitted to being a liberal arts girl, not an athlete ever, especially not in high school. I was in choir. I loved singing. I couldn’t draw a straight line, remember the periodic table of elements, but singing and writing I could do. So when I had to go up to the Studio Sea/Disney Cruise Line stage to karaoke with Zoe and Melia…
…because they couldn’t read the lyrics on the screen, I loved it. LOVED IT, felt the way my son must feel on the ball field. I secretly hid my anticipation during dinner each night on the cruise, hoping my girls would ask me to sing behind them, next to them, beside them. It’s not like I hadn’t sung with them before - in the car we all sing along to the Disney Princess CD - but on stage, with a microphone in hand, it was different…exhilirating. Especially in “Part of Your World”, the long “ready to staaAAAANNND,” or the range I was able to wake up while singing “Best of Both Worlds” during the ”every shoe, every co-uh-lur” done so well by Hannah Montana. (Yes, I sing along with Miley Cyrus too. SO WHAT.) 

The lights dimly lit in Studio Sea - much like a typical nightclub - I drank vanilla margaritas and scanned the karaoke book of songs. I found Stevie Nicks, Fleetwood Mac, Dixie Chicks, The Eagles, songs from soundtracks I was used to singing. I wanted so badly, almost exruciatingly badly, to get up by myself and sing. It is not that I was too shy, embarrassed, or felt that I didn’t have it in me, not at all. It was this - my kids, it was their moment. They came out of a little shell on this vacation, showing no fear or reluctance, willing to get up in front of a crowd and express themselves. I wouldn’t call it vicarious, it was me proud of them, and no song sung by me could put me in that emotion alone. Listening to them sing was better than feeling my own vocal chords do their thing. Watching my kids come alive surpassed any fondness I have of singing.

Maybe one day I will get up again somewhere (not anywhere near my zip code, however) and do a song by The Killers (jealousy takes saints into the sea), Patsy Cline (you walk by and I fall to pieces) or even Springsteen (“I’m on Fire” only “I’m on Fire”).

At this time, my kids are my favorite performers. How could it be any other way? I already know that for Xmas I am getting them PS3 or XBox, something that has a karaoke game/program. I suspect that I will enjoy it more than they do, like my friends who, unbeknownst to their children, play ”Guitar Hero” while their poor kids are taking tests at school.

Instead, I saw my friend Krissy had sent me two e-mails. One was this picture of (punchy third child) Melia at Coronado last week. It not only shows her fusilli pasta hair, not only represents a certain time of year, but also shows something else maybe only I can see…the change in her. I remember last summer when at the beach, I had to hold her tight and close to me every minute of every hour we were near the water, she was so scared. I remember last summer when at the pool in my parent’s backyard, Melia wouldn’t get near the pool, she chased butterflies, rode her Big Wheel, or played with wooden puzzles.

Summer 2008 has made me reconsider her personality altogether. Melia is not a fearless fish like her older sister Zoe, she is not a sports-sports-sports kid like her older brother Alex. I have always thought she is the tentative one, the cautious child, not a ‘jump right in’ personality. I’ve never seen a personality move from one spectrum to the other in a child so quickly - now Melia won’t stay out of my parent’s pool. “I wanna go the deep,” she says, asking to be accompanied into the deep end. At the beach, she runs in the water until a wave crashes into her, her arms fly up, her eyes squint together, her little frame almost falls back until she digs her heels in (that comes from me), and she spits out sea water before smiling big and opening her eyes to share the fun with me, visually. I didn’t expect this change in her and I am enjoying the ride.

Krissy also sent me - I don’t how how she found it or how she knows me so well - a video clip of Stevie Nicks covering “Crash” by Dave Matthews.
http://perezhilton.com/tv/?videoid=3816c727c7668

I have Stevie covers of Tom Petty songs, which she does well. I watched this video clip, listened to it repeatedly, and loved immediately the way her distinct voice adds the Stevie touch to this already brilliant song. I believe Stevie is entitled to some covers because “Landslide” has been covered more than any song I can think of (Dixie Chicks, good. Smashing Pumpkins, BAD.) I know I am not alone when I say “Crash” is one of my favorite songs. Dave Matthews, just like Stevie Nicks, always delivers haunting, succinct lyrics. The two artists make songwriting seem easy, and I admire that.

Krissy’s e-mails made me reconsider my day altogether. My horoscope said “Don’t think so negatively, dear Sagittarius…” (who, me?) But I couldn’t help it. Last night at the Padres game (trade deadline approaching) I saw Greg Maddux do something he’s never done. Usually, when walking off the field after he is done pitching, Maddux steps deliberately over the lines on the field and looks straight into the dugout. He always gets standing applause from the fans (no matter how he has picthed, because he is Greg Maddux). Being one of the fans standing last night - and my Dad’s seats are first base side, field level - I watched Maddux take off his hat to the fans and wave in both directions. I felt a pit in my stomach. This gesture looked a lot like…thank you/farewell.

Me to my Dad: “He’s never done that before.”
My Dad to me: “He must know something.”
My son to me: “What? Mom, what happened?”

So the rest of the game, I tried to remember the terms of Maddux’s contract, wondered if he would go to the Cubs or the Dodgers (who’s got their claws in you, my friend), and I knew I wasn’t crazy, because listening to 1090 AM on the way home from the game, Maddux’s hat salute was all anyone could talk about.

Yet this morning in the paper, Maddux played it down. He hasn’t been traded. (Don’t think so negatively, Sagittarius) It’s just this - for someone like me, when a normally aloof person (you wear it so well) offers a bewildering acknowledgement, imagination is activated and intuition stirs. 

That not knowing of things, whatever they may be…a child’s personality, the fate of a manuscript, what’s going to happen today…whatever the outcome may be, whatever the truth is, I am the kind of girl who (tied up and twisted) digs, researches and waits until I know.

I need to know.

But I guess for right now, I don’t know. I don’t know what is going to happen one hour from now, two days from now, or two years from now. And truth be told (from me), I like being bewildered.

So I am excitedly, positively, awaiting for whatever wave crashes next, whatever song comes on the radio, and the next ball game, while enjoying what is now. It’s a skill that isn’t even all that hard to learn, with a little help from those I admire, listen to, watch and study.

The picture below reminds me of Hawai’i - hills, or small mountains depending upon how you see them - covered with tropical plants, low clouds covering the mountain peak like whipped cream on a sundae.

But it was Puerto Vallarta, Mexico last week. I took the picture from Deck 10 on the ship (you can see the Mickey pool on Deck 9).

A little to the left, the port where the ship was docked led out to sea. At the edge of the port/marina there is a new high rise being built, and a huge (I mean huge) sandbar (sharks?).
 

We didn’t get off the ship in Puerto Vallarta (not because I was afraid of bull sharks in the sand bar) as we had in Cabo or Mazatlan because it was sticky, heavy hot, and Alex refused to leave the Oceaneer Lab. Also, the pools were so nice and empty with everyone on excursions that hubby and I were actually able to read a page or two of our books in between “Look at me!” interruptions from the girls who swam freely with only a few other children in the pools. 

From any part of the ship, it was impossible not to notice the Wal-Mart and Sam’s Club just off the gangway. I think the commercial aspect is what sealed the decision to stay on board. Last thing I wanted to do on my vacation was get anywhere near a superstore.

But the beauty of Puerto Vallarta was undeniable. Despite the American idiosyncrasies and signs of commercialization edging out natural beauty and character, and even though I did not get off the boat, Puerto Vallarta had a scent all it’s own, and maintained it’s accent amid it’s signs of rapid “progress” and obvious growth.

Departing Puerto Vallarta began the winding down phase of the Disney Cruise for us. As the ship turned around - heading back north - the acceptance that we were on our way back to normal hit us. The rush of activities and “What to do while you’re onboard” was overwhelming. ‘At sea’ days were cold and windy, so the pool wasn’t really an option. Hubby and I took turns going to the gym, then all five of us went to breakfast, and then there would be twelve character signings at once …”Whose line do we get in?” I detest standing in lines ”What if we don’t get there in time?” “I don’t have Belle’s autograph in my book!” “I need a picture with Stitch!” … so began the like-Disneyland part of our Disney Cruise. The waiting in line/quick gratification/what do we do with our kids now? part of our vacation.

Although there were no rides on the Disney Cruise, there was extreme family survivalism on board just like there is at the parks. Ever been in line at Disneyland and spot something in someone else’s diaper bag that you forgot, thereby making you feel inadequate? Ever inched yourself in line at Disneyland ahead of someone else because you are sure you were there first (and really don’t want to hear your kid whine “How much longer?” anymore)? Ever find yourself thinking at Disneyland - or any other vacation - “I have to make the most of this vacation, maximize every second of allotted time, do EVERYTHING on this itinerary or happiness and fulfillment will elude me/us!”?

It’s kind of insane. So we took the kids to the Oceaneer Lab, Oceaneer Club, and Flounder’s Reef nursery, and took naps. Hubby and I also hit the adult pool, the sauna, the spa, and sports bar on board. This knocked us into complacency, relaxation, into just the frame of mind we needed, and should be in all of the time: the place where decisions aren’t made out of hesitancy and knowledge that no outer stimulation (no matter how expensive or coveted) can bring what one needs to start out (each day or annual vacation) with.

If I can achieve this on vacation, hopefully I can do it in my typical life. It’s just hard, so hard, because I’m ever aware of the insane progress mode that has infiltrated paradise in Puerto Vallarta, as well as the peace of mind of people who need it most: parents.

I’m one of those parents, at times I throw myself into a race. Countermeasures I do have, though - I didn’t miss paradise for it’s tropical trees on vacation, and I do it less and less upon return. 

And that state of peaceful mind eludes me no more once I realize that’s exactly what it is. It’s not a place, I don’t have to go anywhere to get it. And if I’m on my game, that state of mind is everywhere I go. (Everywhere but standing in lines, I detest standing in lines).

Marina del Rey, Hawai’i, Puerto Vallarta, Disneyland…as away, so at home.

If you read my blog, you know Jaws is my favorite movie, sharks are a subconscious symbol to me, and how deep my family and I swim in the Pacific is contingent upon the updates of the International Shark Attack files.

What you may not know is that in America, the odds of being attacked are (the last statistic I read) 1 in 6 million. You may also not know that humans kill about 20 million sharks per year. This is wrong.

Sharks deserve respect, and if they - like the honeybees - disappear, we’re in trouble. Watch Shark Week, if you don’t already, and respect for these magnificent animals comes easily.

Here is the link for all you need to know about Shark Week 2008 on the Discovery Channel…
http://dsc.discovery.com/convergence/sharkweek/sharkweek.html

Also, a great book to read about saving sharks as well as the oceans (and good information on how to survive being stranded in open water or carried away by a rip current) is “Shark Trouble” by the late Peter Benchley. In the middle of the book, there is a fictional story about a seaside village that kills off every shark in it’s surrounding waters (not the 25 footer eating everybody). It’s for sale online, I haven’t checked in book stores because when I do venture into them, I’m usually stuck in the princess section or hiding from my children (who are being supervised by my husband) in the cookbooks.

I am hoping this year’s Shark Week has zero footage of sharks having their fins cut off and their bodies thrown back in the ocean to die. Having seen this too often on other shark programs, I seem to always find myself yelling “Where are the animal cops?” Like seeing a dead red-tailed hawk on the side of a highway, or a stray dog with no collar, the things I feel I can save stay in my head. Even as a kid, I wrote “Save the Condors” wherever I could. True story.

There is still hope for lots of things. If I can watch with awe that which scares me the most, anyone can face their fears. Fear is the wrong emotion to feel for sharks - education and preparation regarding sharks can remedy nightmarish scenarios people can dream up about them (I should know this) and should cause people to abandon their ignorant and callous shark killing. And trust me, my roasted acorn squash soup or tortilla soup is far better than shark fin soup. Whatever ailment shark fins are believed to rectify, I am sure someone is selling a pill for it instead.

Extinction is the worst pill to swallow. A little shaking, tendorizing, and down it goes. Forever.

After departing Cabo San Lucas (nice, but I’ve already been to Arizona) on Tuesday, July 15th, we woke up in Mazatlan the next day, which was my husband’s 40th birthday. Cabo reminds me of a desert on a fictional intersection of two seas, someplace I would read about in a Stephen King book. The scavenger birds fly over ragged cliffs and barren landscapes and no green plants grow. Bright new resorts stand next to each other on the beach, but behind that, I feel like I’m looking at San Bernardino, or someting more to the east of it. I have friends who name their pets after this Mexican resort-town, neighbors who bring me fish from it’s waters, but Cabo didn’t pull me in. The Sea of Cortez and the Pacific make Cabo San Lucas mirage-like, but even so, I was anxious to leave this place I just couldn’t fall completely in love with.

My frame of mind desperately needed Mazatlan. Once in the golf-cart taxis that shuttle tourists around, our family headed into the Golden Zone for shopping and sightseeing. I really didn’t know what to expect, but what I saw was better than what I could have imagined. The amazing, open bay of Mazatlan is surrounded by land that extends like arms to hold it, and on this land there are trees, birds, life. Little green islands jut off from the bay, you can see them clearly from the bustling road above the white beach. The busy road has discotheques, shops and street food carts where young and older women chop melons.

I knew I could get lost in this city easily. I knew, on my own, I could spend a week or more exploring Mazatlan, it’s culture, it’s food and people, and write one of those long regional articles for well-known food or travel magazines.

But this was a family vacation, so once dropped off in the Golden Zone, we went searching for a necklace for my son (he wanted a combination of shells, beads, and maybe a shark’s tooth), jewelry for Zoe and I (silver, shells, beads, stones), Mexican vanilla, and whatever else struck our fancy. I let my husband lead the way - it was his birthday after all - and we began the day looking at watches, one of his favorite things.

Mazatlan, like every paradise, does have a down side. The humidity pulls water out of the body in the form of itchy sweat. Ick. After about forty-five minutes of shopping, our kids started sluggishly hanging on us, whining, the “I can’t take another step!” defense, with “Can’t we go back to the ship?” pleas, but hubby and I were determined our privileged American kids were going to get a crash course in culture, international retail, gratitude, and most importantly, food.

Margarita’s is an eatery in the Golden Zone, planted strategically right in the middle of a narrow, deep, double sided shopping buffet. All of the shops really have the same things, but for reasons you can’t explain, you’re drawn to one more than the other. We had spent enough time shopping, I found tanzanite too expensive, so we decided it was time to eat. We told the kids we’d sit and have a Coke before heading back to the ship, and they reluctantly agreed. We knew they wouldn’t turn down the sweet Mexican Coca-Cola.

The kids didn’t know we’d spotted a sign offering Margarita’s “special”: three tacos (carne or pollo), with beans, rice, salsa, chips and pico de gallo, plus a Margarita or Pacifico beer (which is bottled a couple of miles away right there in Mazatlan) for only $5.50 American dollars.

SOLD.

The animated servers brought sodas in what appeared to be hand-blown, requiring-two-hands glasses to us - on top of their heads. Look closely:

The highchair they brought for Melia wasn’t as much of a high chair as it was a woven wicker seat on stilts, a painted green, her favorite color (she’s two and really particular about green, we don’t know why). This highchair was unqiue, the right size for her tushie, and I wanted to bring it home. It had so much more character than someting you’d find at The Outback, something you’d find back home.

The corn tortillas, which I thought were flour, were the size of my palm. They were warm, browned, and I could almost see through them. They were thicker than they looked, and more delicious than expected. Sweet, and closer to being masa than I have ever tasted.

I got the pollo tacos, hubby got the carne. They tacos were not large, complicated or overstuffed - I now believe portion distortion is singularly an American epidemic - and hand held, simple and satisfying. I couldn’t detect any obscure spices I would like to have discovered, although I tried. Slices of meat, marinated in something special I’m sure, topped with fresh salsa, pico de gallo and guacamole delighted me and I kept on eating local, thinking to myself, this is the best meal I’ve had on this trip so far. Better than the lobster, Wellington, filet mignon and escargot I’d since eaten aboard Disney Magic. 

The rice - which I had to shovel in Melia’s mouth with warp speed - was speckled with cilantro and the suggestion of powdered garlic. Yet the highlight of the meal (aside from the fresh, pure, salty, heavy on lime Margarita) was the pinto beans. I am not sure if they are called “refried” in Mazatlan, but they were pinto beans, mashed, stirred for what I would guess to be hours, creamy, and sweet. “Please, I must know how you make these beans!” I asked our pleasant servers. “Oh, I only work the front, ma’am! I don’t know that!” … what could I do? I let it go. Some things are meant to remain a mystery.

But I will get that flavor in my kitchen, I will. It may take some time, some test runs, but with the right coriander seed, maybe a little cream, garlic powder, lime and perhaps even tomato sauce, I’ll get what I want, and I want that meal again. I want to be back in Mazatlan. I want to discover and be delighted and feel the Mazatlan waters with wild, lush green plants every where I look. I want to hear colorful golf cart taxi drivers tell me stories about dorado fishermen that know the deeps better than their families awaiting them back on land. I want to hit every “Carne y Mariscos” place I see, I want to take pictures of street food cart women in action, or thought. I want to find indigenous species and carefully interact with them, no harm or exploitation, just mutual interest establishing something silent and memorable.

As we left Mazatlan (the kids just aren’t used to humidity, but I hope they remember all they saw), I waved good-bye to strangers and took as many pictures as I could. I had to wipe the lens free of condensation every few clicks, making me feel even farther from home, but comfortably so.  I told myself that I would be back, and right then sent that intention, visual, and emotion to someone else. My appetite for Mazatlan was only whetted, and my eyes, mouth - every sense in me is going back for more.

Until then, as I feel the right time approaching and search the net for reasonable fares and vacation packages, I have my passport in my nightstand drawer, pinto beans in my pantry. I have crema Mexicana and various possibilities - ancho, adobo, chipotle - waiting to re-create those beans. I have ajo, too, and fresh cilantro.

Especially in Mazatlan and places like it, I surrender to an insatiable spirit for discovery and the desire to keep well-traveled sand in my flip-flops. And just like no one can read my mind or tap into my imagination, Customs can’t regulate everything I bring back and posted warnings usually can’t keep me away.

The night before, at dinner on our cruise, Alex had declared he did not want to go on the planned shore excurion into Cabo the next day, the “Beach Break” we had scheduled in advance. So I didn’t prepare the beach bag. I didn’t take out from the stateroom safe any travelers checks, I didn’t check the charge on the cameras, I didn’t leave a wake up call or set out any swimsuits/cover ups.

I should have known better, since my son is spontaneous and high-hope-having just like me.

The time change notwithstanding, we were on time to just make it onto the excursion ferry. When I looked at my watch and it said 7:50, we thought we had plenty of time to get to the meeting place by 8:15. I called Guest Services to double check the meeting place and I was told, “Madame, it is 8:50, let me see if you still have time to make the tender into the marina.”

Oh ****. I so don’t want to deal with my son’s disappointment, he handles it about as well as I do. Getting ready to tell my family we missed the proverbial boat, I hear a voice on the other end of the phone saying “Madame? Yes, they are waiting for you. You have to leave NOW.”

I grabbed swim diapers, made sure I had the sunblock, the room keys, and all heads were accounted for. We knew we were skipping breakfast but did as we were instructed to do and left right then.

The only reason I had booked the “Cabo Beach Break” was because banana boats, jet skis, and boogie boards were available to rent. That is rent - pay for in addition to - the cost of the excursion handled by tour operators, not the Disney Cruise Line. My kids craved said activities more than the sun, sand, or sea itself.

Sitting on the ferry/tender into Cabo, I realized I had no money to buy food, pay for banana boat rides, get a Corona with lime, and had even forgotten the cameras to get pix of the kids on la playa.

I whispered this to my husband, feeling like I was in a bad dream. He just glared at me. A “You’re not malicious, just tragically forgetful,” look. A “who is going to break it to the kids?” thought settling into his mind. To say I felt like a creature at the very bottom of the Pacific meets the Sea of Cortez is very mild.

I approached the tour operator carefully, quietly, to see if there was anything that could be done. I can’t come up with anything, guy…let’s test your resolution skills.

“The only thing I can think of is that maybe you know some of the people who came on this excursion from your ship, and they can help you.”

I nodded my head and told him thank you. You see, I’d love to believe in the kindness of strangers, but I never have relied on it. Kindness of strangers is a random perk of humanity at best - brought out in only the most forced situations in life - and not being able to rent a boogie board is not one of them. No one who overheard my son’s vocal disappointment, no one who saw me ask for mercy from the tour operator, no one who saw us attempting to cope with vacation let down as a family offered to lend us a quick $20 for beach rentals.

So yeah, that is where the tone of my voice is rooted right now, I think I am still a little pissed, a little resentful,  because although I know I was not entitled to being lended money while we were privileged enough to be sitting on a Mexican Riviera beach, I undoubtedly would have opened up my beach bag and wallet to anyone who needed it, especially if it was to keep a child happy at modest expense.

However, if I hadn’t forgotten the money, if someone had been generous enough to offer us a tiny loan until we could square back on the ship, we wouldn’t have had the opportunity to cope, to make the best of, the situation we found ourselves in. Alex moped for a bit, kicking around the sand. Melia gobbled up the fresh chips, guacamole, and sweet Coca-Colas that were included in the excurion fare. Zoe found a friend and giggled as she got pelted by turquoise waves and animated waters. Pete looked at me - still saying nothing - and wryly smiled, a “Wow, no one is falling to pieces!” type grin.

So we played in the waves. We made sand castles. I found sea glass. We saw fish. The sand in Cabo is a thick, soft, deep myriad of oranges, yellows, rusts and beiges. Mexican sea glass is the same as American (broken, buffed Bud, Corona and Heineken bottles). The Cabo rocks - which look like dried drip-style sand castles - hold your stare for hours.

And the birds soar above it all, on the invisible heat.

As people bounced by in banana boats, Alex stood and watched, pensively. He didn’t complain (too much), he didn’t ask me to move Heaven and Earth to accommodate his wishes. That helped, and I felt better. But I did make a promise to him that we could find a place in Mazatlan or Puerto Vallarta that ran the same beachside gig.

Soon after that, it was time to get back to the ship. I couldn’t wait, no one could. All we’d had to eat was chips and guacamole. And on our way to the excursion and back, I made sure everyone in our family took notice of the culture around us. Everyone we saw seemed calmly satisfied with life, almost a reserved type of joy on their faces. It wasn’t because they have ready access to banana boats, it’s because they know.

They know. At least for that day in Cabo, I knew too. I don’t always.

“What is the worst thing that happened today?” I posed the question to our table-mates at dinner, “That we didn’t get to ride on a banana boat? That’s it?” So what! We were on a cruise. We are all sitting together, being served food, two days away from a full moon on serene seas, and we have a sweet life awaiting us back in southern California.

As far as coping skills go, writing is my best one.  Cooking is the most delicious byproduct of my attempts at coping. And although no one offered to help us out in Cabo, I’m not so mad anymore. I have an emotional plan B it seems (it’s a miracle), and a ready generous nature (thanks, Mom and Dad), which is just as rewarding as anything (I can learn as well as observe). Doesn’t matter if kindess isn’t always reciprocated, doesn’t matter if no one besides your silent husband takes note of an ability to handle adversity. Denied a boogie board is hardly adversity.

All of these things, I know. And with all of them, I feel accordingly. That’s enough…especially if it has an oceanic view.

She is two months shy of three years old, high time to be transitioning out of princess Pull Ups. I remember my plan last summer - let her go bare butt naked at Grandma’s pool like the Coppertone girl and she would eventually use the plastic potty we kept next to the lounge chairs.

No such luck. It took the help of Mickey Mouse to get this thing done.

On the Disney Cruise Line, there is only one teeny tiny little spot reserved for kids in swim diapers. The Mickey Pool, Deck 9 Aft, has Mickey at the bottom, and two mini pools at the top, the famed Mickey “ears” intended for young ones. The right ear is an actual wading pool, very shallow (very yellow), and fun. The left ear squirts water and sprays the kids still in swim diapers, meant to distract them from the fact that the approximately 3×3 left Mickey ear is the limit to their water enjoyment on board. Kids in swim diapers are kept from the water slide, the right Mickey ear, the Goofy pool, obviously the adult pool, and the four jacuzzis on board.

And this works, unless you are the parent of one of the on-the-verge-of, but-not-quite-out-of-training pants-yet kids…the kids too big to be banished into the swim diaper pool/left Mickey ear, but small enought to still wear a safety Little Swimmers tucked indiscriminately into their stylish toddler swim suits.

Melia, my punchy third child, was told by a cruise employee on day four of our cruise that she’d have to lose the swim diaper if she wanted to wander in and out of every pool available to kids on Deck 9.

“I’m a big girl, I’m potty trained already!” she said to me, like a hard sell.
“Potty trained means you go on the potty every time, not just some of the time, and you have to get out of the pool when you need to go,” I replied, feeling like a hypocrite for saying this near other children who curiously lose the need to pee while they are swimming.
“Okay, Mom. Belle uses the potty?” she asked, the “eee” stressed in potty, her little wheels turning.
“Yes, Belle certainly does.” I’m bending over talking to my child with my hands on my knees, head nodding…what a maternal pose I can’t believe I’m assuming.
“Cinderella wears panties…too?” she points to a place I wish she wouldn’t.
“All the time!” I stated as I stood up, back straight, holding out my right hand to Melia, my left hand pointing in the direction of the bathroom. “Let’s go take off that diaper so you can be a potty trained Princess, ‘kay?” I definitely do not care if anyone is listening. I definitely do not care if anyone is listening.
“O-KAY!” she jumps up, she splashes, she’s ready. God, please let her be ready. I can’t face the daggers of parents whose children would be removed from the shut-down-for-cleaning pool should my daughter have a Caddyshack “doo-dee!” incident because I mistakenly decided to potty train her on a cruise.

But she didn’t. Maybe because I asked her every five minutes if she had to go to the bathroom, maybe because she started removing her swim suit and told me she had to go, I call it luck, I call it interesting timing, I call it Disney Magic - incidentally, also the name of the ship we were on.

Since then, no accidents. Since then, the Princess of the Pool has been Pull Ups graduated. Since then, in the pool last Wednesday, July 16th (her father’s 40th birthday), when one last bit of babyhood vanished before my eyes. Just like that, baby girl leaves some of her youngish traits behind. I’m pleased not to be buying Pull Ups anymore (though wipies will stay on my shopping list, they’re so darn useful, really). I’m happy to help her up onto the potty seat. But it goes to show - you take two older kids and “the baby” on vacation, you bring three “big” kids home. The turning moments, the catalystic circumstances - they launch you into things you thought you were ready for.

After we got the bathroom visit out of the way and she returned to the right Mickey ear/bigger kids pool, I stood up stight, avoided the instinct to place my hands at my waist, and instead placed my straightened hand over my eyes as I looked up at the sun.

I gotta remember this, I gotta remember this.

That bird knows what I am thinking as I fall asleep.
The Stevie Nicks song called ‘Nightbird’.
The eye, on the billboard, in The Great Gatsby.

Then I realize an unlikely connection between the book and the song.

In The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald uses the word ‘careless’ quite a bit. Stevie Nicks uses the same word in ‘Nightbird’. Careless.

I have been careless, and I want to be careless still. I want to make a monumental change in my life, carelessly, so I don’t have to think too much about it. I trip myself up in hesitation, in fear.

The nightbird, I think, is holding me accountable for my past actions and calling me to actualy do what I ponder late at night…late at night when she sings so carelessly it’s harder to ignore than my thoughts, louder than my dreams.

Careless. A word I arrived at accidentally today. I recall a song and rememer a symbol, and ‘careless’ is the common denominator. Never have I been so stuck, and I wish that damn bird could talk to me instead of mock me, but in the likely case that it is a mockingbird, it’s just following it’s nature.

To Fitzgerald, careless is wrong. To Stevie, careless is inviting. I think I am somewhere in between.

I imagine the bird will be singing again tonight, and every night after that. Why would it stop now? I’ve waited for it to go away. It hasn’t. It’s time for me, perhaps, to stop fightng it and start listening to it, really…listening to it.

What is she singing, anyway…it’s better to be careless than resentful? It’s better to follow your nature, even if it interrupts the dreams of others?

“I’m not going to make All Stars next year, either.”
“Don’t wanna hear that. You’re time will come. They didn’t give up, even when they were five runs down. Neither should you give up. Don’t. ‘Kay?”
Head down, repetitively throwing a retrieved foul ball into his new infielder’s glove. Can barely see his big, brown eyes under his new hat.
“Okay, Mom.”

When life is as real as it gets, that is when it feels most unreal.

Say there’s a five run deficit in the last inning of a Little League 9-10 All Star Game, your team has been down by two runs or more for the whole game. Say the game is down to the last out, 2 strikes on the batter, a man on second and a man on third base. Say it comes down to a well-hit single, the player scoring from third, the player on second base waived in. With the play at the plate, the comeback becomes the victory/District Championship/tournament advancement. Say that reaaaallly happened (I saw it). I’ve always used the term “life is stranger than fiction”, but last night I witnessed this event in which life was better than fiction - more unpredictable and thrilling than anything anyone could drum up in their imagination.

And after said event, after you catch your breath, you realize how lucky you were just to have seen something like that.

I thought I had a lot emotionally invested in a Padres pennant race with Maddux on the mound (I’m talking about the Padres ‘07 season, obviously) but no, watching our community’s Little League 9-10 All Star team fight, with faith, and produce a movie right in front of all of us…sometimes there is magick in the air and it transforms everything around it. I almost expected the ravens around the field to become white horses, home plate to pop up into a pumpkin coach, the dirt flying up from the last play (“SAFE! SAFE!”) serving as pixie dust. (The only boys I know of, though, who have use for pixie dust are The Lost Boys and Peter Pan…appropriate enough).

Today I keep smiling, remembering the play at home plate. I am giggling with excitement still for my friends and their kids - my son’s friends - and their remarkable spirit that won in most dramatic way possible. I am so happy for them (Mission Trails Little League!), and if I sound trite, I simply don’t care.

I know what I am seeing when I am seeing it. Just witnessing such things - even if you are not a participant or parent of one - is enough sometimes.

Tanning oils of my youth, thai food of present day, and vacations I have yet to take, that’s why. Put coconut in front of me, I don’t feel the urge to crack it open because I believe it to be perfect in it’s intact-ness. But give me grated coconut and within minutes you’ll have light, sweet macaroons melting in your mouth. Give me coconut milk, and I will return the favor with mussels in coconut milk broth with lime, cilantro (coriander), and lemongrass, a dish I just discovered last night when hubby and I went out to celebrate our anniversary.

We went to a sophisticated urbanite eatery in a part of town called Kensington. We started of with bruschetta three ways: shrimp ceviche, grilled portabello and red pepper, and smoked salmon with shaved cucumber and red pepper flakes. Then hubby got duck spring rolls and I had the mussels in coconut broth. I was feeling unusually selfless because I shared this dish with hubby (I always look up online ahead of time the menus of places where we plan to eat, and I spotted the mussels and coconut milk immediately). I could have relished in this dish all…night…long. I know mussels are easy to do, but they were accomplished in their simplicity and the miraculous flavors of the kaffir lime, lemongrass, coconut and cilantro. I knew at once I would be duplicating this dish at home first chance I had.

For dinner, hubby ordered the pork loin instead of the duck breast - goes to show you never go against your instincts - and I had free range chicken stuffed (barely) with sausage, served with bread pudding, heirloom tomatoes, frisee, and additionally a side of haricots verts.

The real reason we went to this place was because of the dessert - chocolate pots de creme - denser and smarter than chocolate mousse but with a consistency not unlike pudding. I will attempt to make this at home, too, it won’t require a torch like brulee nor does it seem temperamental like a chocolate souffle.

I look forward to dinners out more than any other occasion. I am seduced by coconut milk as easily as chocolate…I always seem to be loving two things at once.

But coconut can take you from starter to dessert, from beginning to end, and never be inappropriate. I never doubt coconut to pull it off, it’s the right thing for the job. Coconut is all you need to say, and I relax into glorious expectations.

I do not know the chef’s recipe for the mussels I ate last night, but here is how I plan to make them as soon as possible, and for every dinner party I host for the next ten years.

MUSSELS IN COCONUT MILK, LEMONGRASS AND CORIANDER
1 pound mussels, de-bearded, rinsed well
2 stalks lemongrass, sliced in thirds
1-2 cans coconut milk (it’s remarkably inexpensive)
juice of 1 lime, and lime slices
1 tsp. canola oil
ground coriander, about 1 tsp.
cilantro, cut however you like, or not
coarse grain salt to taste

Place coconut milk, coriander, lime juice, oil, lemongrass and salt in a pot.
Gently bring up to an agressive simmer.
Add mussels, spoon some coconut milk mixture over them, cover pot, watch carefully.
As soon as mussels open, remove from heat.
Add cilantro, serve.

Since I can’t just leave the pan juices left behind after all the mussels have been devoured, I will have on hand sticky rice cooked in….what else…coconut milk and a little broth of some variety.

What a delicious destination I have awaiting me….