As a transplant to Los Angeles, I have a real love/hate relationship with this city of concrete and broken dreams. On the days when all the freeways are parking lots, the sun is frying every living thing in its reach, and the paparazzi are blocking the entrance to our neighborhood coffee shop in the hopes of a Kardashian sighting, I dream of escaping to the quieter, less celebrity-obsessed region of my youth.
I often lie awake at night asking myself the important questions about raising kids in LA:
- What if the Little Lady asks for Botox for her thirteenth birthday?
- Will the Muffin Man expect his first car to be a Tesla?
- When people ask my kids what they want to be when they grow up will they say "Agents"?1
Last Friday was one of those days.
This view, this beach, is just twelve miles from where we live. Sure, we'll never be able to afford to buy a house in LA, and my kids are probably going to hate me because I'm not rich and famous, but at least they'll have some great photos of themselves at the beach. And really, as long as there are good photos, who cares how much therapy you need?!
|photo courtesy of Eric Ladin|
We went relatively early in the morning, packed a picnic lunch, and headed home before Noah's nap time. There is a restaurant and a snack bar on the premises, but honestly it's just so much easier to bring food from home that I know for sure Noah will eat. Plus, ain't no way I was going to take a toddler to a restaurant without spousal backup. I may be crazy, but even I know my limits.
|Is there anything cuter than little feet in the sand?|
Maybe LA isn't too horrible a place to grow up in after all...though I still pray neither of my offspring want to become agents.