Inland Empress

Lael Sophia Joins Our Little Family

Time of birth: 12:49 p.m., July 22, 2005
Weight: 7 pounds, 5 ounces
Length: 19 inches
How to pronounce her name: Lay-el

Little Lael came into the world Friday without a hitch. Mom and baby are doing well, though the Empress will be in the hospital for a few more days recovering from her second C-section.

You’re probably wondering a bit about the name Lael. It’s kind of hard to explain the quirks of family, but our son, Seth, was named after his grandfather, Sam – we pick the same first letter of a deceased relative. Seth’s middle name Daniel was in honor of journalist Daniel Pearl, who was slain while my wife was pregnant. Pearl’s wife was pregnant at the same time.

So Lael is named after my dad, whose name was Leslie. A lot of our friends were guessing Leah, but the name never really caught on for us. Lael’s middle name Sophia has no special significance; we just like it and as my wife says, it gives our girl another option if she doesn’t like her very Hebrew name.

One strange note. It seems that the birth of a child in our household seems to break our air conditioner. When Seth was born during a sweltering week in June, we had to replace the heating unit a few days before he was born and the cooling unit a few days after. Yesterday – a concrete-wilting day in July – something in our NEW air conditioner failed. So here we’re waiting for the repairman as I write, because we don’t want mom and baby coming to a 96-degree bedroom. I just wish he’d hurry up and arrive. (Actually, Seth’s grandma has volunteered to stay and wait for the guy. Thanks grandma!)

'The rabbit must die'

Ultimate Sacrifice 6: The killer rabbits are back. A fictional account. None of this actually happened, okay?

You remember them from way back in ’79, when one launched an amphibious assault on Jimmy Carter, who was forced to defend his presidential self with a submarine-launched ballistic paddle and a radioactive speech about our national mayonnaise. Or, er, malaise, which has fewer calories but was still supposed to be bad for you.

Anyway.

The same species of vicious, toe-biting rodent is loose in Southern California. Just ask lapdwife, who has sent her brave cop hubby to hunt them down and arrest them.

So these Taliban bunnies hop into our yard in clear attack formation, buck-teeth bared, long ears rotating to receive radio commands from their secret warren. Fortunately, rabbits aren’t very smart, and they scamper into position behind our dense thicket of weeds, where they will never, ever be seen again, not even by other rabbits.

But this one rabbit survives, see, and waits its chance until its prey toddles into view. That would be my son, bent on watering the lawn to death, because a garden hose is a fascinating thing. Water comes out of it, you know.

Minitaur screams “cat” about a dozen times before I notice, because I’m not very good at noticing, especially when I am trying to keep from drowning. There, splooshing against the tide is one mean mammal, the Al Qaeda of herbivores, ready to detonate itself against the spindly twin towers of my son’s legs.

I scream at Minitaur to point the hose at the rabbit.

“Water the rabbit,” I say.

“Wabbit drink water?” He asks.

“No, water kill rabbit.”

Minitaur gets a stricken look. “Wabbit die?”

“Yes, hurry. The rabbit must die.”

My son bursts into tears, which changes to howls of pain as the rabbit goes airborne into Minitaur’s knees. I selflessly lunge into the fray, wrestling the toothy attacker to the ground, my fingers clutched around its furry throat. I vanquish the beast and emerge bloodied and muddied, but still breathing.

Minitaur and I must go for rabies shots, but I develop an allergic reaction and succumb in the clinic parking lot. Either that or I trip and am immediately run over by an SUV, whose driver mistook me for a speed bump.

Or we forgot to turn the hose off while rushing to the emergency room and I come back to find the house floating down the street. In my panic to save our photo albums, I drown.

Or the fleas on the bunny turn out to carry bubonic plague and I die some really horrible, feverish death while everybody panics and flees town.

I regret that I have but one life to fictitiously give for my offspring.

Mr. Minitaur's wild ride

Minitaur begs to play outside but heads straight for the the garage, where my midget Toyota Echo for some reason revs the wee traces of testosterone in his undersized body. It must be the least impressive automobile ever, except for, quite possibly, the weasly Ford Focus. It looks only slightly more deadly than a shopping cart, with about the same horse power.

But it's Disney Land to my two-year-old, who knows exactly which key to stick in the ignition but so far hasn't figured out how to turn it or release the hand brake. Or so I thought. Fortunately, I always roll down the window just in case he locks me out, which he does.

He screams "buttee! buttee!" which actually means button, and not what you're thinking. He fishes out the garage door opener from whichever secret spot I hid it, being an observant and cunning little imp. This time, it's in a pocket on the door beneath the owner's manual, which he tosses out the window to me as if to say, "you deal with this crap."

The key is in the ignition. The garage door is open. I go around to the passenger side to make goofy faces at him through the open window, wondering how long it will take this time before he tires of the hazard lights blinking and opening and shutting the door to hear the warning beeeeeep. Then I hear a familiar sound -- the Echo's engine sputtering to life. The monsterling gives me his most devilish grin, and squeals. I am not nearly as pleased as he, however.

"Give Mommy the key, sweetie," I say, still unaware of the extent of the danger. He bends over and throws his weight against the hand brake. It gives. But the car is still in park. I lean in the passenger window and reach for the keys, but he's ahead of me, jiggling the shifter knob thingee until it lurches out of park and into neutral.

I am half in the window and half out as the car eases from the garage and begins its descent down our sloping driveway. This might be a good place to mention the rows of spindly Italian cypress that line either side of our driveway like martinets, making for a tight squeeze when we try to park both cars. While I can still feel my legs, they hit each cypress with a thunk, thunk, thunk as we move backwards, ever faster.

Minitaur squeals with delight. I strain for the keys, my body taking full blows from the trees, my fingers reaching, reaching. With a single last burst of energy, I instead lunge for the hand brake and the Echo jolts to a stop at the lip of our driveway.

Minitaur tries to pull my hand away as I once again fumble for the keys, pulling them from the ignition as the life drains from my fingers. My neighbors will find me still in this position, rigor mortis having set in so I must be buried with the keys clutched to my bosom.

My son grows up to be a Nascar racer, which would've been the death of me anyway, so I'm just as glad not to see it.

The do-re-mi of doom

We are late to Minitaur's music class, but I let him meander the halls of the community center, patting his sticky hands on the walls and chirping to himself. Why hurry? I know what awaits. Sure enough, as we get nearer the classroom, I notice windows rattling. Stabbing pain shoots through my head. I open the door to see seven or eight other mothers gritting their teeth. Yes, instructor Toan Deff is once again singing at a pitch only dogs can hear.

It is particularly noxious this week. Toan introduces several new songs to her repertoire, and, true to form, forgets the words that are posted on the wall behind her. She stops. Squints. Starts over. One of the Mommies goes into convulsions and must be carried from the room. The children clap and stomp and wriggle in happy oblivion.

Toan gets an idea. Let's all be airplanes! Can YOOOOO be an airplane? She spreads her arms and lurches around the room, screeching "zoomio, zooooooomiiioooo." It is the best impression of a wounded ostrich I've ever seen. But my limbs begin to twitch even as Minitaur joins the line of awed worshippers bobbling along after her.

By the time she gets to "She'll be coming around the mountain," Mommies are flopping around like orcas after exposure to submarine sonar. Blood trickles from my ears. It's time for her good-bye song, in which she squeaks farewell in whatever languages she can remember, which is astonishingly few. She attempts to squeeze "sayonara" into two syllables while hitting a "note" several octaves above high C.

I lose consciousness. All is blackness.

My widowed husband presses charges and Toan Deff is sentenced to life in a Cistercian convent, where she must maintain a vow of silence.

You won't find this one on WebMD

Ultimate Sacrifice 3: Wracked by fever, his pint-sized frame contorted in pain, Minitaur wails and clutches his head all night. The pediatrician finally returns our call at 3 a.m. and refers us to the hospital.

In a miracle of modern-day medicine, we are seen right away. The doctor diagnoses Creepazoid Brain Fever brought on by overexposure to Teletubbies. Minitaur is rushed into pediatric intensive care, where they de-program him with expensive-sounding drugs and unpronounceable electronic equipment. His whimpers of "Dipsy, Laa-laa, Pooooooooo" tear at our heartstrings.

It's too late. The damage is irreversible. Minitaur's frontal lobe has been reduced to a spiral bowl of pink custard. I collapse, weeping, into one of the ward's uncomfortable, spindly chairs that jut out so that all the carts bang against my ankles. I deserve the nurses' hostile glares, however, and the scrapes are penance for allowing this terrible affliction. The inane videos! The website with its mind-destroying games! The silly songs I made up! It will haunt me forever.

A partial brain transplant is our only hope, and I am found to be the only compatible donor. I am wheeled into surgery clutching Plosh's hand and giving him last-minute instructions for my funeral, which is to take place outdoors by candlelight. I want my ashes scattered on the beach. Any beach. Just pick one, dammit.

My last thoughts as they lower the anesthesia mask is that I hope Minitaur will not get the section of my cerebrum that secretly still grooves to the Go-Gos. Hasn't he had enough brain damage for one lifetime?

Hell’s Scooters

Ultimate Sacrifice 2: Minitaur and I head back to the car after a successful foray to Trader Joe’s for banana chips and cheese crackers. The shopping cart lists to one side and I have trouble pushing.

A deafening drone like giant bees descends on us. It's a posse of evil motor-scooter fanatics in faux Nazi helmets and black t-shirts. They halt about 20 yards from the store entrance, revving their puny engines and glaring, the pupils of their eyes like tiny, gleaming pinpricks of hate.

Other shoppers scream and scurry to safety, and a store manager runs out waving a gun. This only makes the posse angrier. I cannot seem to navigate the cart, which swerves wildly in my panic. The motor scooter gang lets loose at some unseen signal and bears down on me hard, a la “Mad Max.” Somewhere deep within me comes the superhuman strength to shove the cart to safety. Minitaur reaches his arms out and screams “Mama! Mama” as I meet my doom under the swarm of muffin-sized wheels.

My funeral is a very sweet affair, and Plosh remembers to include my favorite flowers, freesia, in the floral arrangements. My East Coast relatives finally make the trek out to California to sit shiva, which also gives them an excuse, at long last, to say nice things about me.

American Idiot

Ultimate Sacrifice Scenario 1: My son is now 16 and, after a fortune spent on voice lessons, dermatologists and braces, becomes a toothy, apple-cheeked contestant on American Idol XVIII. It's Eighties Oldies night and Minitaur makes his Momma weep with his stirring cover of "Like a Virgin."

The crowd is on its feet. A face-lifted, tummy-tucked Ryan Seacrest turns to a balding Randy Jackson, whose babbling about dogs and strange hand signals I interpret as a positive sign. It's been years since Paula Abdul retired, replaced by a zaftig Britney Spears looking puffy and spent. She loved Minitaur. Of course she did. A drooling, palsied Simon winces, though its hard to distinguish that from his regular expression. Atrocious, he says. The worst performance in Idol history. I'm embarrassed for you.

Minitaur is stoic but something inside his Momma snaps. I leap over three rows and dive-bomb Simon from behind. I get him in a full nelson, screaming Die, You Addled, Tone-Deaf Nazi Career-Crusher! Guards hustle from all sides, the cameras zoom, the crowd cheers. Simon reaches for the walker he keeps parked by the judges table and manages to lift it and bring it down on my head.

The last thing I see is Simon's eyes bulging from his purple face and I leave this world believing I have made it a happier place.