LEARNING STROKES

For those of you that have been following, you might recall that 2 summers ago, I made the worst parenting decision of my life. I signed up Jonah for a swim boot camp… A week -long intensive taught by a “I swear-by-him… he’s a miracle worker… it’s so worth the money” guy in Los Angeles. Known for his controversial, sort of,“get in the pool and swim, kid” methodology, I wasn’t 100% convinced that this was the right thing for Jonah. HOWEVER, everyone I knew flocked to him and I was guaranteed that by the end of the week, Jonah would be swimming.

And he did.

For the rest of the summer he swam. Not confidently, but enough to where I did think, (despite the fact that he cried for 1 hour straight/ 5 days in a row), that it was worth it and that least he was “water safe.”

Cut to last summer.

The very first moment that it was hot enough to swim and I so much as uttered the word “pool,” Jonah flipped out. He wanted nothing to do with water or swimming; Even though I promised him he did not need to take lessons, and I’d never force him to do something that he wasn’t comfortable or ready for (again. Gulp), Jonah cried, “Please mommy, don’t send me to (insert guy’s name that will make him need therapy)!!!”

So as you can well imagine, last summer was spent with me, P, and any/ all willing adults holding Jonah in the pool… reminding him (every 7 seconds) that we wouldn’t let him go, and that he was okay and that although he DID/DOES know how to swim, we will hold on to him as long as he needed….

Then… Welcome, Summer 2013.  At the first mention of school out, summer, and swim time, you probably can guess what he asked nervously. I assured him (again), I would never ever send him there for lessons, but that this summer, I think in some way, it would be great to try… to learn… to somehow swim… Maybe… Please?? With like, lots of new cool Lego sets and games on my iPad, and milkshakes on Thursdays, would you consider a little, kinda, sorta like a swim class at the golf club… Because, also, remember, all of your friends are swimming. Freely.

I hardly wanted to shame him…. But with the awareness that camp was starting and they would swim everyday, I felt like it was time to light a little fire again. Gently. And with a flame that won’t cause post-traumatic stress.

Guess what? I didn’t even need to get the match. (Wow, I’m cheesy). At camp, there’s a big pool and a little pool. In order to go into the big pool (with a deep end), the children must take a swim test. Though he was scared, he took the test (and proved he wasn’t ready for the big pool). Relieved, he went into the smaller pool. For two days, I think he doggy paddled and waded his way through it. BUT something else happened, the kids that COULD swim- his buddies- also opted for the pee infested, sunscreen-drenched, Pacific Ocean, dirty looking, small pool too. AND one day, (day 5, I think,) Jonah decided he could swim.

Of course, because he’s a boy (and I’m discovering certain inherent male traits really DO start young), he didn’t tell me about this victory that first week. (That first week, I really only heard about the fact that he touched a Piranha shark, NO a leopard shark! at the aquarium and that I need to stop sending cucumbers because HE. DOESN’T. LIKE. CUCUMBERS).

But I digress…

Cut to this past weekend. Swim time with the family. P and I suit up ready for the clutch/don’t worry fest. Before we could even get in the water though, Jonah was all the way in and said, “Watch what I can do.”

And he swam. ACROSS THE POOL. Head in the water. Feet kicking. SWAM.

He even threw in some arm strokes.

Our mouths dropped….

We screamed. We cheered. I even cried.

He just decided to do it, he said.

“I just… I taught myself.”

For the next two hours, I watched my fish of a boy ENJOYsomething that he hated and feared for almost half his life…. With each and every jump, kick, and plunge, I finally forgave myself for something that I thought could not be undone.

He just taught himself.

“Sweetheart,” I said, “I still have you signed up for lessons at the club. You obviously know how to swim, but I still think---“

“I know, Mommy. I’m very good OF swimming. But I need to get better with my arms. Like the, um, stokes. I mean, strokes. I’m not good OF that yet. She can just show me that.”

Yes, she can.

THE TONY SOPRANO OF MOMS

A few weeks ago a friend told me about this LIST that gets emailed out every day from this "Famous" mom here in the valley; We'll call her LIST GOD. Almost every new mom I know, knows her or knows of her. She is like the Tony Sopranos of Moms... She is really tapped in to everyone, everything, and everywhere. Her list goes out via email to over 3000 moms and she posts everything on her list from pre-school information to designer jean sample sales to car seat recalls to nanny leads. The list is fantastic and is very LA: probably read by other yentas like myself, wanting both access and information to anything that could give their child an advantage in life and/or anything discount or insider tip that could be advantageous to them.

So a couple weeks ago, the List God had a posting that said she "knew" of a nanny looking for part time work. I myself was looking for a part time nanny so that I could start writing again. I emailed the List God directly per the posting and she quickly responded. She told me that the nanny for hire was actually HER nanny but doesn't want to "just send her anywhere."- She told me that the Nanny has been with her for 3 years, since the time her twin boys were one month old and her kids adore her, but doesn't need her every day now. We sent a couple emails back and forth and the next thing I knew, I had an interview set up to meet the List God's Nanny. The List God told me I should call HER with questions about the nanny before I met her. Clearly, I was the one being tested out. I called all my friends with nanny experience and asked them what I should ask the List God about her nanny. I wanted to get the job. I mean, I wanted her to get the job....

When the List God's Nanny showed up, I could tell immediately that she was a pro. We chatted about our needs and her experience. As she surveyed our house, I prayed she didn't notice the tremendous dust ball that had formed underneath the baby's swing that from a certain angle looked like a dead rat. I was also thankful that the baby smiled and flirted with her instead of spitting up on her pretty jogging suit that she declared the List God had given her for the holidays. I immediately flashed forward to the holidays and racked my brain for what to get her. Clearly, I can NEVER REGIFT with the List God's Nanny. There is far too much at stake. It'd be like showing up to Tony Soprano's house on Christmas with a cannoli from Costco. I'd get axed like Big Pussy. But when my/her interview was over, she said, "So I can start next Monday," and I breathed a sigh of relief. Phew, we passed.

The following Monday, the Nanny showed up at 8:30 on the dot. I threw on my cute pink robe instead of the one with tomato sauce (I think) on it. I remembered that I had an appointment that day in Beverly Hills. (And by "appointment" , I mean therapy). I didn't have enough breast milk pumped to safely leave the baby with the nanny at home so I told her that she and the baby would come with me and could go for a walk while I was at my "Doctor's Appointment." While we drove into the city, I had to think fast about what kind of doctor I would tell her I was seeing in case she asks me and inevitably report back to the list god. OY, can you imagine the posting on the List about this one?! "News Flash: J-Ko sees a therapist. Nannies and Preschools with waiting lists beware!"

Of course she never asked. But just in case, I am prepared to tell her I am seeing a Dermatologist for a mole that developed during my pregnancy. Well... On second thought, maybe I better stay away from "moles." "Mole" sounds gross. I think I'll go with "dry skin."

Should this ever get back to the List God, the worst thing that could happen would be for her to send me a discount for fantastic body lotion. And THAT is information that I can live with.

STARS... THEY'RE JUST LIKE US (I HOPE)

I usually laugh at the absurdity of the US Weekly heading “Stars… They’re Just Like Us” where they have candid pictures of celebrities doing “common people” things…. Drew Barrymore sneezes…. Jake Gyllenhal picks up dry cleaning…. Courteney Cox goes to Starbucks. As if I’m supposed to feel better that they run errands too. But sometimes, I actually think that just maybe, I am like Hollywood’s elite in more way than one…

“Stars… They’re Just Like Us.”

Last night, I was sneaky, calculating, and stealth. I was greedy, invasive and possibly inappropriate. I was like paparazzi without a camera. A reporter without a credible lead. A detective without evidence. And I … was at…. Therapy.

The truth is, it’d probably be less embarrassing to say that my behavior all took place within my weekly session (in which I divulge personal and harrowing accounts of my life… like the weird look I got from the woman in line that made me think of how I got lost at the supermarket when I was 3…how my husband’s hair on the sink drives me nuts… how my mom needed to borrow my cuisinart. You know, really, really deep deep stuff that only a licensed professional can help analyze and resolve).

I see a wonderful, kind, sweet therapist in Beverly Hills. Been seeing M for about 3 years. Every so often, while I’m waiting to be seen, I can hear muffled voices coming from her office. It’s usually a male’s voice (and hers- soft, patient, reassuring). I acknowledge that she’s probably in session and it’d be rude of me to really really try to strain my neck closer to the wall to listen to what they talk about. (Because let’s be honest, chances are his problems are bigger than mine.) So I don’t strain- all the time. But recently, and don’t ask me why it took three years to realize this, I noticed that when their session ends, they say their goodbyes and then I hear doors close and NO ONE walks back out into the waiting room. I was baffled. I had to ask…

I walked into M’s office and inquired about this peculiar door/non-door thing. I was honest(ish). I told her I’ve heard voices (the non diagnosable kind) and doors slam and no one comes through the waiting room. She sort of laughed and said that many of her clients uses “the other door.” The other door? Like a secret door!? How exciting, I thought. M tells me: She and her associates coordinate patient schedules so that no two patients will be in and out of the office at the same time, AND when the session is over, they leave through an “exit” door down the hall- that way they don’t have to encounter anyone in the waiting room. M then added, “Plus, it’s Beverly Hills. We sometimes have ‘high profile’ patients …. Some of them don’t want to be seen. They worry people will recognize them… Some of them won’t even use the exit door. They exit thru my office which leads into the hall.”

What?! An exit EXIT door?? Who the hell are her clients?! I started racking my brain for all the celebrities that clearly have issues. Britney Spears: Oy. She’s a clinical dream and nightmare rolled in to one. Brooke Shields: She was like a spokesperson for depression. And for sure she councils Katie Holmes: M specializes in anxiety. Silent Birth. Need I say more?

As we started in to our session, and began to talk about the problem du jour, my wild imagination started to fade and like any good narcissist, I began to focus on myself. M is that good. Our session ended and I exited M’s office. I was faced with the hallway. One door leading to the waiting room the other to the private exit door, which M, by the way had encouraged me to use from now on if I’d like.

I walked down the hall wondering if M was watching me go. I wondered if it would it say something horrible about my mental state if I went back out through the waiting room? I mean, I had been doing it for years and never had an uncomfortable encounter. Wait. There was literally ONE time, and one time only that I did walk out after a session and saw this girl, probably my age, crying hysterically. I don’t know if she was there to see M, but like the fucked up little starlets, her problems are probably way worse than mine and I felt great because of it. But I digress…

So two doors at therapy: which one do you choose? (It’s like a metaphor.) And I being the V.I.P that I am, chose the private exit. I turned the corner and there I was. The private exit. I don’t know what I was expecting to see… Maybe headshots with autographs like at the dry cleaners. “To the best therapist on south Beverly Drive… With Love, Lonnie Anderson.” But alas, no headshots and no velvet ropes. Just a hallway with big metal file cabinets, probably holding one of my files: “Crazy.”

I exited the very unglamorous secret exit and walked out in to the “common people” hallway. How sad, I thought, for the people that only have one choice, one hallway in their lives. I’m so blessed. As I waited for the elevator, I felt like someone was watching me. I turned and noticed that the cleaning crew, was watching me leave. Hmm. Of course. They’re checking me out because I could be famous. If I’m the famous 8:30pm client, then I can only imagine who her 7:30 client is…

Wait. WHO IS HER 7:30 client? She said something about “he” using her private entrance because “the other private entrance isn’t even private enough.” Alec Baldwin? Hey, anger management is becoming trendy. Could be a possibility. Brad Pitt-When he’s not in Namibia or taking care of Maddox? Isiah Washington? He got kicked off the best medical drama like EVER. Okay, I thought. The possibilities are endless and there is only one way to find out who the mystery therapy celeb is: WAIT FOR HIM.

I decided that for my next session, I’d get there early and “casually” wait in the hallway, the common hallway, that is, because there’s only one way to get to the elevator. But the following week, I got there late and my plot was foiled. Over the weeks that followed, I admit, with each session I got lazy in my investigation and chose to read Psychology Today over stalking M’s last patient. Ha. How appropriate.

But last night, as I flipped through People magazine in the calm and peaceful waiting room, I heard “the voices.” He left her office. If he goes out the secret secret secret door in her office then I’m fucked and can’t see him. But if he goes out my secret exit than there’s a chance. THINK FAST. I grabbed my cell phone, instinctively dialed my husband and swung the waiting room door open to the common hallway. I stood in the doorway “on the phone” as if I didn’t want to disturb “the others” in the (empty) waiting room and as if I’d “lose the call” if I went too far from the cell range. Damn I was good. This was improv acting at it’s finest. I hear a door open and close. HE’S ABOUT TO OPEN THE SECOND DOOR TO THE COMMON HALLWAY. Door opens. THERE IS HE IS. THE FAMOUS GUY THAT GETS HIS HEAD SHRUNK BY MY VERY OWN SHRINK. He smiles at me and continues down the hall to the elevator. I quickly finish “my phone call” and go back into the waiting room. WHO THE HELL WAS IT? Not handsome. Looks familiar. Dressed conservatively- kind of dorky even. Tall. Dark hair. Normal looking – in a dorky grown up way. Looks familiar… Familiar. Suddenly DUSTIN DIAMOND comes to mind. Is it possible?? THAT was Dustin Diamond? SCREECH?! FROM SAVED BY THE BELL?! OH MY GOD. I THINK IT IS. I THINK IT WAS SCREECH FROM SAVED BY THE FUCKING BELL. Can you imagine what that life must be like for him? He’s a “has been!” I felt so bad for the guy. His problems are way worse than mine. And suddenly, it dawned on me, even Dustin Diamond needs his privacy. No more stalking for me. No more wondering for me. Therapy should just be therapy. And everyone should have that right. It’s not about glitz , glamour, or gossip. SHAME ON ME.

Did I mention that Sandra Oh thanked an “M” during her acceptance speech at the Golden Globes? Thanked her for being her “rock.” “M” is my rock too. Oh, stars, they’re just like us…. I hope.