When I first thought of this blog, I envisioned myself comparing specific people/places/things that were part of my life in Brooklyn with specific people/places/things that are part of my life in Venice.  Talk about how things compared up.  What was missing, what I missed, what presented me with a pleasant surprise, or with a disappointing surprise.

I realize that you will likely never get many of these sorts of posts.  At least on their surface.  They will be a little too simple, and I’ve realized I want this all to be a bit more layered.  Because while my life is chaotic enough, it sometimes is not complex enough. And spending an hour writing about how the taco shop on Lincoln Blvd. compares with the taco shop down the street on Prospect Pl. (Gueros wins! Here’s to the surprise NYC win for Mexican food) doesn’t do my soul all that much good.

If I kept it at straight up comparisons, I’ll tell you this: The Los Angeles Zoo is not the Bronx Zoo. It is less green, less lush.  Less pretty.  Smaller. Under more construction.  Cheaper parking (free!).  Less strollers. Less chaotic.  With some more frustrating animal exhibits — the 4 foot tall hedges in front of the flamingo display are a bit frustrating for the 46 inch tiny people that are part of my entourage.   It might sound like the Bronx Zoo is a clear winner, but the “less chaotic” and “less strollers” make up for the deficits and at least require it to be a draw.

The Los Angeles Zoo is also not the Prospect Park Zoo.  Much more expensive, much larger, longer to get through.  Has some key animals that the Prospect Park Zoo doesn’t have (giraffes! a baby hippo! beautiful tigers).  But no feeding of farm animals, no sea lion meal shows.  Much further than the 1 mile walk from our house in Brooklyn.  Many more food options, including these wonderful slurpee like drinks that come in long yard size glasses that Derek truly believed where pina coladas, vs. the usually malfunctioning vending machines in Brooklyn.  And did I mention it cost this family of 5 less than $20 a visit to go to the Prospect Park Zoo?  Despite its (small, tiny, minuscule) size, I take the Prospect Park Zoo.

It’s hard for me to make a blog out of that, even that I want to read.  It wouldn’t even be that interesting if those yard long drinks were pina coladas!  So the way I compare up Brooklyn and Venice likely won’t be in that format many times.

With that said, we went to the zoo today.  We drove the half hour, EAST.  And I was assured my decision to live west of the 405 was a good one.  My kids were hot.  My husband was hot.  There wasn’t much shade.  It lacked the muggy feel of humidity that somehow made you so miserable it became bearable again.  Everyone was tired.  Our short swim yesterday afternoon with our friends who also relocated from Brooklyn to coastal LA turned into a night cap drinking margaritas and wine (“medication for the day”, and I agreed I needed some!) on their back patio until almost 11pm – the kids hanging tough (sans the alcoholic drinks) the entire time, dancing to Nikki Minaj and eating Pinkberry for dinner.  Despite this, there weren’t a ton of complaints.  Before the trip to the Zoo, I said to the tiny people in my entourage: “It’s okay to be tired. It’s okay to be uncomfortable or upset. But it’s not okay to complain about these things today. It’s not okay to cry about these things today.  If you are about to cry, you tell me you need a break and you sit down until you figure out how not to cry.” I said to the big person in my entourage: “You are only invited to come if you smile, have a positive attitude, and do not bitch one time about anything that happens.”  I listen to myself give these instructions and think: My kids barely understand what I’m saying, and my husband has to be rolling his eyes at me, but I’m desperate.  Better to try and be direct then not try at all. But this could be a disaster.

On the way in, the kids saw face painting being offered.  Kai asked if he could do it, and the girls said they didn’t want to.  This didn’t surprise me – they’ve run in inexplicable fear each time they’ve seen face painting before.  So I used Kai’s request to do what every parent worth their salt would do, and held it as an extra incentive (bribe!) for Kai to cooperate w/ my no complaining directive.  So on the way out, he got his face painted.  But the amazing thing was that the girls wanted their faces painted too.  The fear that was there on the way in was gone, and they were up for a stranger sitting them in a chair, being right within a foot of their little faces, making them sit still, and putting what must feel like thick gunky goo on their faces.  I’m sure they didn’t think this through — much like the time Gemma was at the water park with me in Colorado and was petrified of the beach entry pool but asked to go down the 4-story water slide (and went! without looking back! or crying!).  And I realize that sometimes in life, it’s best not to think things through.  It’s better not to think things through.  And that one of my jobs as a parent is to both help them think things through (“what did you think was going to happen when you squirted all the toothpaste onto the toilet seat?” “what did you think will happen, based on experience, if you try to ride your skateboard over your sister’s legs?”) and help them not think things through.  And know when I’m supposed to focus on which lesson.  (Which reminds me about how incredibly under-qualified and incompetent I am for this job).

So Kai gets his face painted like a tiger.  And Gemma goes next, and she chooses a rainbow butterfly but only on her cheek.  And the face painter puts the butterfly on her cheek and up slightly by her eye, and my gut tells me this is going to be an issue. Because Gemma’s clear instruction was the cheek.  But I have to decide in that moment, do I intervene or do I let this play out.  And I let it play out.  And then her little face isn’t big enough for all colors of the rainbow to fit in a butterfly on her cheek, and it’s just red, orange and yellow.  And it’s missing the green, blue, purple spectrum.  And I wonder again, do I intervene? Because this is going to be a problem, my experience tells me. But I don’t.  And Gemma sits there patiently, and tries to look in the direction the painter tells her to look.  And tries to be still. And I’m so proud of her.  And this stranger is so close to her and she’s handling it just fine. And the 3-toned butterfly is beautiful, and you barely see that it goes up by her eye-line.  And for a minute, I believe that when the painter hands her the mirror to see the artwork on her face, she just might remember my morning speech.  “You can be upset, but you can’t cry over anything today.  If you are upset, you tell me ‘I’m upset and need a minute to sit down’ but you don’t cry today.” And it’s going to be miraculous!

And then Gemma looks in the mirror and sees this butterfly is not entirely in the right position and doesn’t have all colors of the rainbow and damn if she’s not for equality. And she screams, smudges it right away, and jumps off the chair and cries and runs in a circle.

This could unravel quickly and you could have another story that echos our debacle on the way to the airport.  Or it could be like the first half hour of our swim yesterday, at the fancy Playa Vista community pool, where rules abound and there are no Pirate’s Booty allowed on deck and no naked booty of a 4 year old, and Gemma got upset because — she waited a long time to swim? she wanted pirates booty? the pool was further away from the hot tub at our complex? she really just needed time to adjust to the new space she’d never been to? (all of the above but mostly the last one?!) – and so she took off the bottom of her bikini, and sat there until the security guard walked by me 3 times, each time me assuring him, “i’m getting her dressed, really, no need for concern.” At which time I wonder, if she got naked at the Douglas & Degraw public pool in Brookly, what would have happened? I’d either be totally ignored or arrested, and there’s an even 50/50 chance of either.)  Or it could be like the stories I have yet to tell about Kai slapping me in the face four times at our home-away-from-home Underhill playground or Sasha laying and screaming like a banshee in the middle of a sidewalk because a sparkle fell off her pink sparkly shoes. The joys aren’t attributed only to Gemma, don’t get me wrong.

But it doesn’t.  She cries, she sits there, she asks to be left alone.  I leave her alone. I assure the painter that I’m not upset, and remind her this is the first time the girls have been brave enough to get a face painting and its all new.  And I realize how subjective and versatile and necessary the concept of brave is. The trait of brave is.  And it feels slightly silly to use it when I’m talking about getting a face painting at the Los Angeles Zoo, but for this little 4 year old it’s not really silly at all.  And she sits there, and stops crying. And when I go talk to her 3 minutes later, she says “Mommy, I’m tired and want to go to the car to rest.”  And Derek offers to take her (which helps him successfully escape without bitching about anything, and thus being on my good side for the day! Brilliant!).  And when Sasha was done getting a fish painted onto half her face, we met Gemma and Derek at the car, and it was peaceful. And Gemma told Sasha, “You have fish lips,” and laughed, and she didn’t seem to mind that her face had red yellow and orange smudges on it. Then each, one by one, Kai, then Sasha, then Gemma fell asleep since we had longer than a 1-mile drive home, and because they’d stayed up dancing to Nikki Minaj until 11pm the night before.

And I had time to think about how boring comparing east coast/west coast zoos will be, but maybe there was something inside the zoos that might be more interesting.  And I realize that if I give the day and my entourage just a little wiggle room – am just slightly forgiving – considering how badly the scene post face-painting could have gone, my instructions were followed near flawlessly!  So it wasn’t miraculous, but it was damn near close.  Close enough for me not to need a margarita tonight. (Want, yes; need, no).

So here’s to using New York-bred directives (and directness) to bring about tiny miracles – so long as you recalibrate expectations and practice a little forgiveness – at the LA Zoo.