However, the most dramatic change has been the publication of my novel–yes, I was one of those writers with the proverbial novel in his/her desk drawer. This has changed my life in profound ways, something I am still grappling to come to terms with. The second change, even more important, is that my new book I am writing is set in Los Angeles, a city I could never write about when I lived there. Funny, how that is.

All I can say is that my life has changed. I do find myself zipping around the city, sometimes half-crazed with too much to do. Yet, my general sense of self has shifted. There’s something when you understand that something within you has shifted in the best way, just enough to make one of those life-altering differences. And for that, I am eternally grateful to the Gods above.

It is on the corner of 12th and 1st Avenue that a nondescript building offers sanctuary to those from far away lands–home to a mosque. I had walked past this particular squat building many times before. I’d noticed the Arabic writing of the small sign, but never thought much about the significance of what this building must mean to so many others in this city, particularly those who toil away their days traversing the wide boulevards inside yellow cars.

I find myself walking down to the East Village with greater frequency, the closer our imminent move becomes. It is as if I want to savor in the griminess, hopefulness, and idosyncratic youthfulness of this part of the city that had served as home our first two years. True, my move is a mere 60 blocks north, yet the short distance offers a gulf that is breathtakingly daunting. So, it was that I had been walking along these dirty streets that I noticed a long line of yellow cabs double parked on 1st Avenue.

I couldn’t imagine why there were so many idle cabs. It wasn’t until I got to the corner of 12th and 1st that the mystery was solved.

It was obviously time for the noon prayers. Men were lined along the sidewalk, the inside obviously filled to capacity. They sat shoeless, some even washing their hands, neck, and face from a water bottle in their car. The incongruity of seeing such a public display of devotion was incredibly moving. These men were not the least bit self-conscious as they sat and bowed on this busy sidewalk.

I knew I was  gawking. But it was with awe, shock, but also a bit of envy that I stared at these men. How wonderful it must be to be so tightly wound around one’s faith that such a break in the middle of the day is as every day as getting coffee from the corner Dunkin Donut. I walked away, each step making me glance back at the group. As I walked up 1st Avenue, I noticed other men rushing down the street, obviously late for this prayer.

I know it would be impossible for me to see such a sight in our new neighborhood. The reality of this made me just a tad wistful, as if this move was about much more than mere bigger living space and better neighborhood.

Fall and Spring, the two most glorious seasons here, is when the city seems dressed in its most magnificent finery.

There is nothing quite like this picture

I found myself on the Southern edge of Central Park, having a few appointments in the area. Walking along the park’s edge, past the sidewalks lined with the horse-drawn carriages, made me reminisce back to our numerous visits to the city. These trips had been fraught with tension as my husband did his best to allay my fears that moving back East was not all illusion, as I had become to believe. During these unhappy trips, we stayed a few blocks from the Southern entrance to the park, so my son and I had easy access to the greenery. I still remember the fold-up stroller that I pushed as my son and I made our way through the throngs of people to the oasis in the middle of this city. Once, feeling especially happy, he and I even taken a carriage ride around the park.

On this day Mother Nature was doing her darnedest to tease us that spring was around the proverbial corner. The city seemed more alive as people and tourists basked in the glow of the sunny day. As I made my way toward 5th Avenue, my attention was caught by the loud music coming from the square across from the Apple Store. Perhaps it was the weather, but I was feeling unusually leisurely, so much so I found myself on the crowd’s edge.

New York City’s own Beat Boys were out, their boom box blasting, their white bucket on the ready. This group is of particular interest for our family since my son was one of the few to purchase their DVD, which got watched over and over again for a year. All of this resulted in our son dropping to the ground and spinning on his back like a throwback from some Run DMC video, all a source of delight for those who happened to see, and a source of chagrin for his parents.

I found myself clapping with the other gawkers, each of us smiling, and sometimes even clapping.

It was as the music changed and each member of the troupe got an opportunity to their ‘thang’ that I finally turned my attention to those around me. There were the usual European suspects, although the numbers of Scandinavians, Germans, Irish, and English are down, all a result of the global economic downturn. There were the salespeople from the numerous high end stores on 5th, so undeniably ahead of the masses in their fashion, every bit of their outfit screaming so next season. There were the occasional men in suits, their usual single-mindedness diverted by the warm sun, the crowd, and the music. But the family that so beautifully encapsulated the idiosyncrasy, humor, and subversiveness of this city is below:

Only in this city! Only in this city!

Future Sabre Fencer

Our son is now fencing. I am still in disbelief as I write this. The irony is that my introduction to fencing came via an ex, who was an All-American Sabre fencer at an Ivy League University. This arcane sport took over my world during our years together as I became a Fencing Spouse. After the break-up I ran as far away as I could from this sport that dominates in Ivy Towers, running as far as to the Pacific Ocean, if truth be told. So, given my history with this sport, why would I encourage my son to take it up, you might ask? A question which I don’t have an answer for except to say that parenthood forces you to reconsider so many long-held fast rules and dictum.

My reintroduction to the sport came through a friend, whose daughter is a fencer. When she first mentioned it, I immediately recoiled since I haven’t separated the sport from that infamous ex. But the more she talked it up, I realized that I had to at least explore the possibility that my son may want to do this. So, when I brought it up, surprise, surprise, the little boy immediately said, yes! Why would he not since it involves swords?

After his initial lessons with the two time Olympian, I relented and agreed that he could continue. What has been eye-opening is that this fencing club seems evenly split between African-American and Asian-American fencers. How or why it is we have found ourselves in this particular club still makes me shake my head in wonder. So, instead of a fencing spouse, I have now become a fencing parent. Funny how life has a way of bringing things full circle.

Budget Crisis!

This surreal site is what I encountered as I walked home from a quick trip to the heart of the East Village. The site of these police officers atop these beautiful mares made me whip out my handy blackberry to snap this photo. I thought there was no way I would ever see such a site again, hence, my need to capture it for posterity sake. Well, lo and behold, little did I realize that this may be a routine sighting since I saw two such police officers just a few days ago.

The changing landscape of the city can be witnessed each time I go out to take care of whatever errand is on hand for the day. You can’t help but notice the number of shuttered businesses, the number of for lease signs in previously occupied spaces, each failed American Dream puncturing another hole into the pysche of this city.

I spoke to a friend in Los Angeles, who said that people there were going about their lives as business as usual, which didn’t surprise me since the only way to live there is to perpetually be shielded inside the bubble of your design. Such obliviousness is impossible here since lives are meant to careen into one another expectedly and unexpectedly.

As we ready to make a move, one that will take us uptown, a part of me is the tiniest bit relieved in knowing that our new abode will be more establishment and less cutting edge. I realize that living on the edge is all well and good when the city is flush and drunk with possibility, but trickier when it is teetering on the precipice of a free fall where the end is not within in any of out sights.

Books, books, and more books

Every morning I find the floor around his bed littered with books he had gotten off his bookshelf and had browsed through before falling asleep. The stack above is what I found the other morning. His love of books is an emotional connection I hope never wanes in spite of the competing static of video games, after school team sports, and chasing after the opposite sex.

By the public school standards, he was slow in learning to read–not by my standards, I might stress. Despite the school’s push for him to be reading better at their arbitrarily set standard, I pushed back against all of this by trying to make sure the school’s pressure was not getting in the way of his love of books and reading. It has been a challenge, I might say, since public schools seem intent on sucking the joy out of such a joyful and life- enhancing experience. Those state mandated tests must be passed, so fostering passion and love instead of meeting targets is what becomes paramount.

What affirms my belief that he will be a life long reader is that he is surrounded by books (and more so once all of my books come out of their long exile and storage) and two parents who read constantly. Unfortunately for all those smug parents, you know the types who like to boast about their little genius reading the New York Times, whose kids may be reading now may not end up as life-long readers. I find the bragging about Little Johnny or Little Jessica’s extraordinary reading talents really masks these parents unease that their child may not be readers at the end of the day, none of which is a surprise since you quickly realize that the parents themselves don’t read a lick beyond the quickest appraisal of their local newspaper or perhaps the Wall Street Journal. With that said, there are those mothers, who started reading books again after a long, very long absence of reading, since they are now a member of some suburban book club or such. I’ve walked into too many homes where books are rarely seen, although there were a few houses in LA where books were merely decoration for a library or study–you know the type where there was obviously a flurry to purchase a small collection of canonical works in bound leather, none most likely read or even opened. For these same families that see books as accessory, well, Little Johnny or Little Jessica will also view them as artifacts to merely decorate a shelf.

So, as my son makes his way through “Lord of the Rings” with his father and The Magic Tree House series with me, I can be somewhat reassured that he will read well into his adulthood, thus carrying on the family tradition of becoming a full-fledged a bibliophile.

Yearning for Spring

In Los Angeles the reminder of spring came when Trader Joe’s would put out  little bunches of daffodils. Since the weather was consistently warm, I sought out such tangible markers for seasonal changes. So, yes, despite the 70 something temperatures I knew it was fall when pumpkins would arrive at all the grocery stores.

The Trader Joe’s here has been selling tulips and daffodils, teasing us with the possibility of spring, despite the cold, brisk air outside. Although spring is technically some days away, I brought home these beautiful, cheery flowers to brighten up what had been a long, long, long winter.

This simple arrangement infused me with the possibility of those days when the sun warms your cheeks and the city comes alive as young girls show their pale wintry legs. After this gloomy winter, both metaphorically and pyschologically, we are all in need of such light heartedness.

All of these findings are unsettling since there are more and more fathers having families in their late forties, if not fifties, and well, for those starting second or third families, in their sixties and seventies. Let me not get crazy about the Tony Randalls, Larry Kings, and Rupert Murdochs of the world, all with very young children, some too young to be the offspring of their first batch of kids.

Will all of these alarming studies stem the tide of this new cultural more: the gray-haired daddy pushing the Bugaboo stroller? I don’t know since these studies are performed, written about, and then are a mere blip on the news radar, hardly noticed by many. Aside from the now obvious detriments for the kids of aged fathers, well, there is the more pressing issue of how fair it is for these men to have children so late in life. Yes, they may have the financial wherewithal to support these offspring in high style, but what about all of those other norms of fatherhood where throwing a baseball around with your little boy shouldn’t require physical therapy  for a pulled muscle?

The only silver lining, if there is such a thing, is that both the reproductive systems of men and women can and will affect the children, unlike the assumed belief that only a woman’s system having this affect. So, there you have it: none of us can delay childbirth till a more convenient time. If only we didn’t live in a world where we are constantly being fooled to believe we can outrun and outsmart Mother Nature. No matter how much poison women inject into their faces or how long they freeze their eggs, there are real human costs to all of these decisions…even if we’re not the ones being directly affected.

Whee! It's a snow day!

My son had his first official snow day, which we celebrated with a few runs down a small hill in our apartment complex.  Despite the cold, this California boy couldn’t get enough of the trudging up the hill and the split-second ride. As he said to me, I’m not ready to go inside–this from the little boy who loves flip-flops more than anything else in the world. As I shivered alongside the other parents, my mind flashed back to those magical days when an impending snow storm meant getting up extra early to listen to the radio, praying that my school would be named as closed for the day. After an hour of shivering, I cajoled my son to go back inside for some hot chocolate and another rousing game of Monopoly.

East Meets West Birthday

My son’s sixth birthday got celebrated at his Korean-grandparent’s house.

It only seemed fair since his fifth birtday was celebrated with his Nanna and Big Daddy where fried chicken was served along with his Nanna’s homemade cake shaped like a car.

These two cakes are the perfect meld of East and West that is the norm for our son. Unlike the fried chicken at his Nanna’s, this party was celebrated with lots of Kalbi, rice, and wine. For him, it was sheer heaven to play with his cousins.