Do yourself a favor

This summer wasn’t my favorite weather-wise. It started out pretty wet, and these dog-days of summer have not really been so doggish. Yet, it has been a paradise compared to London. Cool and rainy all the time. How depressing! One thing I don’t miss about London is the lack of any kind of summer whatsoever. I recall our first taxi ride in London. The cabbie turned to us and said, “Welcome to London! Do you know what the difference is here between winter and summer in London? In the summer, the rain is warm.” We laughed then not knowing how right he was. We moved there in July of ’99, and they were experiencing an unusually warm summer. It was all downhill from there.

It wasn’t until we moved back that I could really enjoy a proper summer—shorts, flip-flops, blousy tank tops, the pool, the beach, etc. But you know what made all of those things even more fantastic? Laser hair removal! Here comes the blog-o-mercial. That’s right folks, legs, underarms, bikini-all zapped by the laser. Razors begone! Waxing days are over! I am hair-free, and it feels good.

Now you probably can’t appreciate how liberated I feel unless you are blessed with hirsute genes as I was. My father is of Eastern European descent and probably scores an 8 in the 1 to 10 hairy scale. My mother, on the other hand, is a blue-eyed, blonde who forbade me from shaving my legs when I was in middle school because she had no idea how tough it was to be a scrawny, glasses-wearing, awkward AND hairy pubescent. This is the same woman who told me I couldn’t use tampons until after I was married. Did I just make anyone uncomfortable talking about tampons? I won’t apologize, of course, but I will acknowledge the subject of tampons does make some people uncomfortable.

There are two things that I have done in my adult life to try to erase a few of the many scars of my youth. I have an obscene number of high-fashion, expensive glasses, for one. When I was 9, there were no such things as fashionable glasses for kids. Or maybe there were, but my mother would stand me in front of the sale rack and explain that my prescription was going to change over time, so we couldn’t spend a lot of money on a singular pair of glasses. So ugly. So unflattering. Traumatizing.

And, I forked over a pretty penny to laser my body and rid myself of the hair that bound me to bleaching, shaving and waxing forever. Free at last! Do you know how much time and water I save in the shower now that I don’t have to shave? I’m practically Green!

While my children are likely to suffer many cruelties of nature and society, I can at least protect them from the evils of bad eyewear and simian body hair. Glasses are stylish these days, so I’m not too concerned. But my boys are already showing early signs of back hair. It may not bother them in the least, but if it does, Mom is marching them right to the spa at the age of 16 and giving them a new lease on life. It’s the least I can do. And if you are like me – hairy AND lazy – you’ll look into laser hair removal for yourself, too. You’ll thank me for it.

Why bother?

I called my sister the other day to tell her there was another installment of P&C (that’s Peaches and Coconuts in cool, blog speak). She was kind enough to read it while I was on the phone. Silence. Not a single chuckle or a “uh-huh” or anything. When she was finished reading, she said, “I don’t get it.” “What don’t you get? You don’t get what I wrote or why I wrote it?” “I don’t get why you wrote it. Why do you blog?” I wasn’t really prepared to answer her right then and there. I was kind of expecting her to say, “That was cute. I’m really entertained by your blogs. What WILL you write about next?” I wasn’t anticipating, “What a waste of my time and yours. Why bother?”

Luckily, it was my sister who was asking. From anyone else, I think I might have been hurt. As a matter of fact, I know it would have been. When we first came back to the U.S., a number of friends asked me when I was going to bring Diverted back. That was the first blog I wrote whilst we were living abroad. I figured writing about our move back here would help me adjust better to life in the suburbs with a mini-van, so Rediverted was born. Upon meeting a new friend, I admitted that I had a blog. The next time we saw each other, I asked her if she had a chance to read it. She said, “Yes.” That was it. She gracefully changed the subject entirely. I stopped writing for months. As much as I purport to write for the joy of writing, I actually get off on praise. What I have learned the hard way is that unsolicited praise rocks and prompting for praise and receiving blank stares sucks. Well, thank you for stating the obvious! Look, I never said I was the sharpest tack.

When we moved to the UK, Diverted allowed me to keep in touch with a lot of people without obliging anyone to invest any time. Correspondence can be such a chore. I could share stories about our expatriation with our nearest and dearest with one click of the mouse. I was blogging before blogging was cool. Now, everyone and his pet have a blog. But blogging is now more than just a tool to keep friends in the loop. There are political blogs and God-loving blogs and blogs about parenthood and ballroom dancing blogs. People are not just writing for friends and family, they’re self-publishing for strangers, interest groups and the masses. And in some cases they’re making money from it. Is that my path? Would people who don’t know me really appreciate what I have to say and how I have to say it? Do I need to commit to blogging on a regular basis? Does every blog need to read like a Carrie Bradshaw column by asking lots of questions like this one?

I dated an actress once (and never again). Among the many irritating things about her was that every time we got in an argument about something, she would stop conversation mid-way and comment on what good material I was providing her for her craft. It got to the point where I felt like she was scripting our entire relationship as it was happening. It might not have been so bad if she had actually been talented. Ouch, Deborah! She should just be grateful I’m not naming names.

I don’t want this blog to consume my life. I don’t want to be taking mental notes during every conversation I have in order to collect enough material for this blog. But maybe this blog does have legs. Maybe something could come of it someday. If not, I’m having fun writing it. And every time I get unsolicited praise or a comment on the blog and every time someone tells me that the blog was worthy of passing along to friends, I am fuelled to keep on doing what I love….not that I’m fishing, of course. It’s all about the joy of writing.

Mia Sposa

Gabriella is Italian. Born in Sicily, raised in Queens. Her friends growing up consisted of her extended family who all lived within 15 minutes of each other, and the roster is right out of a Coppola movie: Calogero, Rosa, Michelina, Mariella, Cristofalo, Agostino, Rosalia, Magdalena (whom they called Ninetta?), Sicha (pron. Shee-cha – short for Francesca), Toto (short for Salvatore); Pino (short for Guiseppe), Ina, Angela, Nina, Anna, Graziella, and her cousins John and Stephen. Zia Lina (Aunt Lina) married out.

Her parents spoke nothing but Sicilian at home. For my Jewish friends, Sicilian is to Italian as Yiddish is to Hebrew. Upon meeting her, you would categorize her as American. You would never think that she was off-the-boat. To know her, is to love her, of course, but it is also to know how very Italian she actually is.

Like many a stereotypic Italian woman, she expresses herself through food. Anyone who has eaten one of Gabriella’s meals falls instantly under her spell. They taste the love in every bite, and they are smitten forever. She makes a mean sauce. You know she really loves you when dinner consists of 3 starters, at least 3 main courses and a plethora of sides. If you roll out of our house feeling as though you might explode, you have been love-bombed by Gabriella.

Tonight she made pasta cui sarde (pasta con le sarde) a Sicilian specialty. She has only made it a few times for special occasions. I don’t care what you think about sardines, this pasta e bona! That’s Sicilian for really good. I asked Gabriella if there was another expression that meant “really amazing fabulous”, but she just shook her head, pursed her lips, shook her index finger at me and made that sound that means NO in Italian. You kind of suck the back of your teeth with your tongue but in one, quick note. TSZ! I only got to taste a bit of the sauce before she stored it away for tomorrow’s house guest. She also made insalata fasole, patate e cipuda (salad with green beans, potatoes and onions) another Sicilian delight. And just for good measure, she whipped up an Italian-styled cabbage salad. Can’t wait for tomorrow!

And what’s the occasion? An old girlfriend of mine is coming over for lunch. I haven’t seen her since I skipped town in 1994. Through the miracles of the internet, we have recently reconnected. Gabriella has never met her, and I haven’t really spoken about her much. She was more of a fling than a girlfriend. A happy fling but a fling nonetheless. We had exchanged a few emails, and I invited her over to meet the family. It’s only proper.

The house is filled with the aromatic scents of Sicily while Gabriella is working 4 different pots on the stove. Then it hits me. This woman of mine who cooks her feelings might just be speaking to my ex through this meal. This feast of all feasts clearly translates as “You had your chance, be-atch, but Deborah is eating MY sauce now!”

Gabriella read this blog and laughed until she couldn’t breathe-sadly not because I’m so humorous but because it’s absolutely absurd. She doesn’t have a jealous bone in her body. She told me she made the pasta cui sarde because we got fresh fennel from the farm and had to use it. But it’s my blog and my fantasy and in it Gabriella is threatened by my ex and is fighting for me-armed with wooden spoons and spatulas. I hope she wins. I can’t cook.

The Jersey Shore

Ah, the Jersey Shore! Gabriella had the day off, so we loaded up the MV (mini-van) and headed out to Bradley Beach. It was a gorgeous day, and we righted all the wrongs we committed on the last trip to the beach. We left early. We figured out exactly where we were going. We packed all the right snacks. Gabriella and I agreed that we would not try to prevent Levi from throwing sand. And we had all of Asher’s Thomas the Tank Engine videos. The beach is only an hour away, but we do have to take the highway to get there. It’s a funny thing, but MV’s DVD player only works on the highway. We know the day will come when Asher figures out that there is absolutely no connection to the DVD player and the speed of the car, but we hope habits will have been formed by that time.

Such a great day! Sand castles for Asher and sand chucking for Levi. Gabriella and I played the game, “Are those women together, or are they just from New Jersey?” For those of you playing at home, you can also play “Are those men together, or are they just from the South or any country in Europe?” The boys loved watching the boats and the parasailors and the jet planes advertising drinks at the Tikki Bar. They are still both afraid of the water, but we’ve come a long way. Last year, Asher refused to step foot on the beach, and Gabriella and Asher walked up and down the boardwalk until Levi and I were ready to go home. We’re making progress.

When we told our friends we were moving to New Jersey, many of them were appalled. Jersey gets a bad rap especially from New Yorkers. I get it. I lived in New York long enough to adopt the New York superiority complex. Luckily, I moved out before I was completely indoctrinated. We are always defending our choice to move to New Jersey. Gabriella’s commute is short. We can buy a house in an area where the schools are good. We are still close enough to take advantage of the city-and we do. And, we could say, we’re really close to some fantastic beaches!

According to Asher, the Jersey Shore is perfection. We did have a great time, and we did have a good experience with a parking attendant. Just as we were finishing our ice creams, I saw that we were about to get a parking ticket. I ran over to the meter-man and asked him to spare us. He was very understanding and gave me a pass and a sparkly smile. I should have taken his picture. Gorgeous, tall, ripped Black man riding a bicycle in a snug-fitting uniform. Right out of The Village People, I tell you.

But I do have to come clean about some of the flaws of the Jersey Shore. While we were at the snack stand getting ice cream, we watched 4 police officers escort a 60 something year old man off the beach to his car so he could put all his beach gear in the trunk and then cuff him and take him away. I can only imagine the offense. The Jersey accent is not soft on the ears in the first place. Now imagine loud, classless, uneducated conversation spoken with hardcore Jersey accents. When you’re surrounded, you realise you’re definitely not in Saint Tropez. The worst, by far, is the number of adults who smoke in front of their small children. My blood boils when I see it. I judge, and I hate. What could these parents possibly think is ok about smoking around kids? It should be no surprise that they also put out their cigarettes in the sand and left the butts for kids to dig up. Lovely. I honestly don’t mind if people smoke. Some of our best friends and family members smoke. I love them regardless. Everyone should do what they want to do as long as they aren’t hurting other people. Don’t smoke around kids.

The photo here is NOT of a parent who was smoking around his children. He’s just another smoker on the beach whose fumes accosted us throughout the day. Sadly, we were seated down-wind. By his 6th or 7th cigarette, I couldn’t help myself. So sexy, don’t you think?

The other photo is Levi doing what he loves-chucking sand. I had to sign off with this because I don't want the photo of 2 butts and a butt-head be the last vision you have of the Jersey Shore. We all loved the beach, and we can't wait to go back!

Peaches and Coconuts

I’m changing the name of my blog. In a few days http://rediverted.blogspot.com becomes http://www.peachesandcoconuts.com. Rediverted was born from the initial blog I wrote in the UK, DIVERTED. Alas, I was short-sighted and did not register the name then. Rediverted seemed fitting after our return to the U.S., but let’s face it. There is no such word as rediverted, and that bugs me. If you use the rediverted URL, you will be directed to the new URL once it’s up and running.

Behold! The prequel:

My partner, Gabriella, and I moved to London, England in 1999. We landed the day John F. Kennedy Jr. died in an airplane accident. We heard the news in the taxi ride from Heathrow airport to our temporary flat in Chelsea. As we squeezed into the lift on the way to our new home, the doorman said, “That Kennedy went missing, didn’t he? I don’t know what all the fuss is about. It’s not as if he’s a royal.” Gabriella, we’re not in Kansas anymore. Well, Chicago anyway. I’ve never been to Kansas.

Before we relocated, our thoughtful sponsor Viacom had us participate in a 2 day workshop entitled, “Cultural Awareness”. Our guide down the road of cultural awareness was an ex-pat who had followed her husband all over the world with BP (British Petroleum). Linda did her best to prepare us for life in Jolly Ol’, but mostly we had to experience it all first hand to really understand the differences between our two cultures.

That being said, we did take away a gem from that workshop that followed us to Blighty and to dinner parties ever since. Linda explained to us that Americans are like peaches, and the British are like coconuts. An American will be standing in line at a grocery store and strike up a conversation with the stranger behind him. By the time the groceries are bagged, the stranger has been invited to the family barbecue later that day. Soft, we are-easy to penetrate. I can relate to that description. However, at the core of every American sits a hard, impenetrable pit. We share our true selves only with a select few if at all. Do not be fooled by our supremely friendly veneers.

The British, however, are literally tough nuts to crack. You may know a person for years before discovering what her spouse does for a living. Americans may see the Brits as cold and guarded, but once you get through that tough, outer shell, there’s no going back. You may get to know more about that Brit than you know about your own sister. Are these descriptions accurate? Much as I love to make sweeping generalisations about people, I have certainly discovered plenty of exceptions. Still, it makes for great dinner conversation. Even better, it provides a solid foundation for a blog filled with more fun generalisations.

We broads were abroad for seven years during which time we travelled as often as we could, got married, had our first child, fell pregnant with our second child and became loyal subjects of the Queen. To be fair, my son and I became dual citizens, but Gabriella holds only the Italian passport. We even started adding that “u” in words like “colour” and “flavour.” When in Rome…

In 2006, Viacom offered to move us back to the U.S. We tried to hold out until Bush was impeached, but it was not to be. Our cultural awareness mentor had warned us of The Change. Before you relocate, you are a round peg that fits nicely in your round hole. You move abroad, and you try to fit in a square hole. By the time you return to your native land, you’re a hexagon, and you don’t fit in either hole. I dismissed her words at the time. I’ve found a way to fit into a lot of holes in my day. Now that we’re back, I realise she was spot on. It’s taking me a long time to feel at home here, but maybe it always will. Maybe I’m a hexagon trying to fit in a round hole. Maybe I’m more coconut than peach. Or maybe it’s impossible for me to feel at home driving a mini-van in the suburbs of New Jersey. Maybe I didn’t have to move to the UK to feel out of place as a stay-at-home mum in suburbia. Even more disturbing is imagining that someday, this will feel like home. We’ll see.

Mazel Tov, Olympians!

The Olympics is kicking my ass. We have a DVR, but I still can’t resist staying up until all hours watching. Where were you when Michael Phelps won his 7th gold? We were cheering him on from our sofa. But we weren’t just cheering for Michael. This gold was a team win. And who for the 2nd time locked the gold for team U.S.A? The Jew. Lezak! I can’t help it. My parents did this to me, and their parents did this to them, and their parents, well you get the idea. All minority groups pass on THE LIST to their children. We are all able to name all the Jews in Hollywood, all the Jews in politics and all the Jews in sports. The Gays do it. The Latin Americans do it. I know the Italians and the Greeks do it. The Estonians probably do it, too. We all want to know that we can be anything we want to be and that there are those who have already paved the way. We are proud of our people. Who isn’t proud of their own?

I don’t know a single Jew whose parents didn’t say to them, “Of course Jews are good athletes! Just look at Mark Spitz!” Every time Michael Phelps is compared to Mark Spitz, you know that Jews all over the U.S. are recalling THE LISTS, adding names and passing them on to their children.

Just in case your list is out of date, here is a list of all the Jews in the 2008 Olympics:

United States
Fencing, Women
Sada Jacobson, saber

Kayaking
Rami Zur, 500-meter individual

Swimming, Men
Jason Lezak, 100-meter freestyle, relays
Garrett Weber-Gale, 100 freestyle, relays
Ben Wildman-Tobriner, 50 freestyle, relays

Swimming, Women
Dara Torres, 50-meter freestyle
Track and Field, Women
Deena Kastor, marathon

Israel
Artistic Gymnastics, Men
Alex Shatilov, all-around

Canoeing, Men
Michael Koganov, K-1 500 and 1000 meters

Fencing, Men
Tomer Or, foil

Fencing, Women
Dalilah Hatuel, foil
Noam Mills, epee

Judo, Men
Ariel Ze’evi, 100 kg
Gal Yekutiel, 60 kg

Judo, Women
Alice Schlezinger, 63 kg

Rhythmic Gymnastics, Individual
Ira Risenzon
Neta Rivkin

Rhythmic Gymnastics, Team
Kayta Pizatzki
Racheli Vidgorcheck
Maria Savnakov
Alona Dvorinchenko
Veronica Witberg

Sailing, Men
Gidi Klinger and Udi Gal, 470
Shahar Tzuberi, windsurfing

Sailing, Women
Vered Buskila and Nika Kornitzky, 470
Nufar Eledman, laser radial
Ma’ayan Davidovich, windsurfing

Shooting
Doron Egozi, 50-meter rifle 3, 10-meter air rifle
Gil Simkovich, 50-meter rifle 3, 50-meter rifle prone
Guy Starik, 50-meter rifle prone

Swimming, Men
Itay Chama, 200-meter breaststroke
Gal Nevo, 200 and 400 individual medely
Guy Barnea, 100 breaststroke
Tom Be’eri, 100 and 200 breaststroke
Alon Mandel, 100 and 200 butterfly
Nimrod Shapira Bar-Or, 200 freestyle

Swimming, Women
Anya Gostamelsky, 50 and 100 freestyle, 100 backstroke, 100 butterfly
Synchronized Swimming
Anastasia Gloushkov and Ina Yoffe, duet

Taekwondo
Bat-El Getterer, 57 kg

Tennis, Men
Andy Ram and Yoni Erlich, doubles

Tennis, Women
Shahar Peer, singles
Tzipora Obziler, doubles with Peer

Track and Field, Men
Alex Averbukh, pole vault
Niki Palli, long jump
Haile Satayin, marathon
Itai Magidi, 3000-meter steeplechase

Argentina
Hockey, Women
Gisele Kanevsky

Judo, Women
Daniela Krakower

Swimming, Men
Damian Blaum

Weightlifting, Women
Nora Koppel

Table Tennis
Pablo Tabachnik

Australia
Table Tennis
David Zalcberg

Canada
Baseball
Adam Stern

Wrestling
David Zilberman, 96 kg
Ari Taub, 120 kg plus

Chile
Tennis, Men
Nicolas Massu

Great Britain
Rowing
Josh West

New Zealand
Rowing
Nathan Cohen

Thank you Jason Lezak, Dara Torres, Garrett Weber-Gale and Sada Jacobson for making us proud!

JEW-S-A! JEW-S-A!

When it’s late at night, my mind starts to wander during commercials. Are we the only country that holds our hands over our hearts during the national anthem? How does Michael Phelps keep his swim trunks from falling down that last dangerous centimetre? Does Michael Phelps’s mother remind anyone of Nathan Lane in The Birdcage?? Lay off! She's a wonderful mother. Finally, how do all the female gymnasts prevent camel toe?


http://www.cameltoe.org

Verbal sparring

I thought I had lost my edge having children, moving to the suburbs, talking to parents all day long. The other day our friend stopped by with her brother and her brother’s boyfriend. The boys live in L.A. and the boyfriend works in theatre. Go figure. I opened the small chat with a banal comment about the Olympics. “How very lesbian,” hissed the boyfriend. Now, I’m not shy about my orientation, so I certainly don’t take offence to being called a lesbian. But coming from a gay homosexual, delivered in a tone that said “only truck-driving, flannel-wearing, gym teacher dykes watch the Olympics”, I was offended. Not that there is anything wrong with being a truck-driving, flannel wearing gym teacher, but I don’t appreciated being thrown into a category that completely denies my polished, feminine attributes.

You know how Bill Bixby appears so mild-mannered until someone smacks him one too many times and then he morphs into the Incredible Hulk, bashing his assailant until he is weeping in a corner and begging for mercy? Well, the gay version is when a gay homosexual insults another gay homosexual with just the right combination of insult and truth forcing the other gay homosexual to peel off the gloves and accept a verbal sparring challenge to the death. Victory in verbal sparring comes only when someone is unable to match wits with the speed and panache as the challenger. The challenger is silenced and must accept the victor’s superiority. Humility is a cruel punishment.

Once upon a time, verbal sparring was primarily a male, gay homosexual event. In these modern times of equality, even the lady lesbians are using the sharp edge of their tongues. This lady is no exception. I had been out of practice, however. I’m living in wholesome-ville. Insulting anyone-even in jest is simply not done. That’s right, folks, I’m polite and proper and squeaky clean. ..and it’s killing me slowly. Well maybe I exaggerate a wee bit. The truth is that when you spar all the time, you do start to feel a bit dirty. You assume both players can take it and that everyone knows it’s just a sport, but you’re flirting with the line. If you cross it, you’re not clever, you’re just plain mean. I may be sarcastic, but I don’t like to be mean. And Bill Bixby doesn’t really like to become the Incredible Hulk. But sometimes, people give him no choice.

Well boyfriend, here, gave me no choice. I saw red, and it was game on! In the spirit of the Olympics, I rose to the occasion. I knew I had to bring my A game. Though I had not been competing for a long time, it was like riding a bicycle, and it all came back to me. I can’t remember what I said. It’s all a blur. But I do remember that boyfriend admitted that he had met his match. Imagine if I had been practicing! It wasn’t gold in the 400m butterfly, but it still felt good. When verbal sparring does become an Olympic event, we might have to cancel Pride. We’ll all be in training. And I’ll be bringing home gold.

Age of Communication

How great is skype? We just got off the webcam with friends. I feel like I’m slowly moving into the 21st century, and now everyone can see me do it with a webcam and skype! The conversation wasn’t without its hiccups. We must have disconnected and reconnected about 8 times until we could all see and hear each other clearly. By the time we were rolling, it was time to sign off and tuck in for bed.

I’m sure the not-too-distant future will bring picture perfect quality and voices that don’t warble or feedback or echo. It’s early days. Like when we sat at our computers for ½ hour while our dial-up connection down-loaded a single page document. We’ve come a long way, no? I can’t help but be excited about it. The downside to living here and there or having friends who move here and there is that we miss our people. And even though we do have people here whom we love dearly, we still have people there...and there…and there. Now we can tune in and get a slice of them whenever we take the time to schedule a call and build up the patience to ignore the bugs.

So what to do when we’re not on the cam? We both got sucked into Facebook. My intentions were innocent. I was invited to join by someone I rarely see. I figured, at least we’ll be able to keep in touch this way. So I joined. But it’s not like the phone or email. It’s not another avenue to communicate with friends. It’s kind of like reality tv. You can see what I’ve been doing; photographs documenting my life, interest groups I’ve joined and friends I have. Come into my world, but I don’t need to know you’re there. Email is for dialogue, Facebook is for exhibitionism! I think there’s a place in my life for both. Hardly surprising.

Asher v. Levi

Now that I have 2 children, I realize that it’s not my fault. I have come to realize that children are wired a certain way, and when they come out of the womb, there is very little you can do about it. Asher and Levi could not be more different yet they have the same genetic input and they’ve been raised by the same parents.

For anyone who doesn’t know Asher, he is shy and sweet and eager to please. He has a tendency to whine, and he can be extremely needy, but he’s a nice boy. As a toddler, he never hit anyone, never threw anything at people and never had a tantrum.

Levi. Levi loves dirt and still water that has collected at the bottom of the slide overnight. He’ll plunge his face in the puddle of water and leaves and dead bugs and drink what he can. He’ll splash the rest all over himself until he’s completely soaked. He also enjoys kicking small dogs. I couldn’t believe it when he first kicked our friends’ dog. I sat there in shock as he looked at me and cracked the cutest little smile I’ve ever seen. You little... Favorite activity at the playground: picking up wood chips and chucking them at people or playground equipment.

He’s ever so happy grabbing huge chunks of dirt in both hands and rubbing it all over his body and shampooing his hair with it until his golden hair is black. After he’s completely covered in dirt, and the soil is packed under his fingernails and settled into the creases of his palms, he’ll rub his face. Then he’ll wipe his filthy arm across his open mouth-I think because he’s teething-and gag on the dirt he ends up eating. Occasionally he’ll walk over to me and slowly drag his soiled tongue across my arm from wrist to elbow transferring the earth from his mouth to my arm. After 5 minutes at the playground, Levi looks like a child you’d sponsor for a few pennies a day.

Levi is definitely not shy, and he has no problem screaming for whatever it is he wants until he gets it. Yesterday, we were on the sofa together, and he decided to hurl his body on top of me demonstrating no fear and full commitment. He broke my glasses in half! 30 years I’ve never broken a pair of glasses, and yesterday, little Levi snaps them apart in an instant.

Yet I have to admit, I’m having the best time with him. I couldn’t peel Asher off of my body as a toddler, but Levi is curious and adventurous and, well, more fun than Asher ever was as a baby. There, I said it. So sue me! I used to say Levi was my favorite-oh keep your gasps to yourself! But Asher has started to come out of his shell just enough to make for great conversations and quality entertainment. So I take it back. I really do love them equally and in very different ways.

Birth order, sun sign, who knows? I can’t accept praise for Asher without having to accept responsibility for Levi. So, my answer to all compliments and all raised eyebrows is simply, to hold my hands up and say I had nothing to do with it. It’s quite liberating.