Into the Real

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“The witch? It was real, right?”

I’ve never been one for expensive holidays. Surfing, lolling at the beach. Walking in the hills. That’s stuff I enjoy. Skip Vegas. It’s not my party. So most of our outings here in Los Angeles, where we are on vacation from Argentina, have been priceless times at the beach, rolling down sandbanks and running in the waves as they roll up the sand, full of laughs and spills and splashes and shouts of “let’s do it again!”

Well, word got out that Daddy comes from the city (or near enough) that’s home to a child’s delight: Disneyland. Who could deny a starry-eyed kid the chance to meet Mickey Mouse and Tinker Bell. “And Goofy,” my four-year-old son says. Who wouldn’t want to go with children who for days have been discussing whether Mickey Mouse’s skin is like a mouse’s or cloth and whether Tinker Bell will be big enough to see or only a light in the sky, and what to do if you run into Captain Hook.

So off we went through the early afternoon traffic along the 405 freeway to the 10 to the 5 to Disney Drive and the parking lot and the tram and through the gates to Disneyland.

The three kids marveled at the sights and we did our best to navigate through the park. “Let’s try this,” I said. And my wife and the two eldest stood in line; I stayed behind with the one-year-old. I thought it was a train ride, easy going. No. It was a rollercoaster. My wife, who’s not a big fan of rollercoasters, told me later that halfway through my son turned to her and said, “Mummy, me scared.”

So off we went in search of mellower amusements. We took a boat ride, watched the fireworks and then went on It’s A Small World, a favorite of mine as a kid. The littlest got into it, gaping at the dancers and cooing at the music. My four-year-old turned to my wife and said, “Mummy, me happy.”

On our way out of the park we went through Fantasyland and came upon Sleeping Beauty Castle, where you can stroll through the castle’s hallways and rooms. No fast trains, something to top off a good evening. The noises of ghosts and prisoners soon began to give the kids the jitters. “I don’t like this,” my six-year-old daughter said. And we turned around the corner and she stopped. The witch! You could hear the witch scream and see her shadow around the corner down there, dangerously close. My daughter screamed and grabbed hold of a railing. She wasn’t going that way! No, she turned and ran back the way we came, leaving us all behind in her flight from the witch. We ran after her and back to the car and along the freeway and home, locked the door and got into bed. Exhausted and safe.

The kids got up early the next morning and the two eldest ran down the stairs for breakfast, chatting about the adventure as I followed and tried not to stumble, still not fully awake. I sat down with a coffee and the kids with their bowls of cereal, and my six-year-old turns to me and says, “It’s true, right? The witch was really real, wasn’t she?”

Take a Deep Breath

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“What do you mean, take a deep breath? I’m going to scream!”

If you’re parents like us, you’ll probably have watched “Nanny 911,” the TV show that trails nannies around as they rescue parents from the dooms of, well, parenthood. We often cringe at what transpires in households of wild children and harried parents, watching the fights, the tantrums, the impoliteness and the ineffectiveness of it all. At times we say, “Hey, that sounds familiar.” Or we listen to the advice and say, “Hey, we should try that.” Today, it seems, is one of those days.

We’re in my parents’ home in Los Angeles, in Brentwood, to be exact. Brentwood Glen, on holiday from Argentina. We’re downstairs, my wife and I with my mother. The eldest girl, six, is insisting on us pouring her a drink that she can’t reach in the refrigerator. Outside the littlest is crawling through a mud puddle in a fresh dress, her finest. Upstairs the four-year-old boy is on his own and we hear a knocking sound, like that of a judge rapping his gavel to call for order in the court. Bang, bang, bang! We send the eldest up to find out what on earth is going on – “Quickly!” – with the promise that she’ll get her drink when she reports back.

She’s back in a shot with her brother in tow. He’s covered head to toe in a white dust.

“He’s playing with a bottle and there’s white stuff everywhere,” the six-year-old says.

“The cornstarch!” I say.

I go to verify and, yes, our room is covered in a white film of cornstarch, on the beds, the desk, the suitcases. The clothes, the books and, well, everything. I run back downstairs to find the broom. Maybe the vacuum cleaner? The three kids are outside and I pause to ask my mother how she ever managed. She must have some words of wisdom after having brought up five children – including three boys, each a year apart.

“Take a deep breath, often, I think,” she says.

My wife isn’t buying it. “I’ve taken so many deep breaths I’m choking on oxygen.”

Or cornstarch!

Charlie and the Fruit Factory

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“Look at me grow… it’s the apples.”

Who needs chocolates and candies when you have dozens of sampling trays of grapes, peaches, plums and strawberries?

We’re at the farmers’ market in Brentwood, a Sunday tradition in front of my old school, Brentwood Elementary, on Gretna Green.

My Dad’s stocking up for the week, content with the fresher fruits and vegetables, the lower prices and the chance to speak Spanish with many of the sellers. He’s Argentine.

So too is my son. He and I are tagging along during our vacation in Los Angeles, where we’re visiting family. But my four-year-old is not interested in the linguistic opportunities at the farmers’ market. No way. He’s into the fruit. There before him stand more than a dozen tables, each with trays of samples. He’s licking his chops at the glorious heaps of fruit. And now he’s here and there and everywhere, sampling grapes, nectarines and strawberries. What a healthy appetite, I think, as I watch him race around. Gobble down. Smile. The sellers watch, too. What gusto this little boy has for their produce. Que lindo! The sellers refill baskets as they empty, cutting up more fruit. But he’s off in a shot to another table and another and then another. Ah, the plums and the seedless grapes, the greens and the reds.One, two, three, four, five, six. He stuffs the grapes into his mouth, in mere seconds. Off again he runs to another stand, leaving behind empty baskets and sellers working ever quicker to keep them full for others to taste.

My Dad’s now finishing his shopping and we’re ready to go.

But my son looks up at me and then at the sellers as they replenish baskets and he says, “One more.”

“Just one more,” I say.

And he’s off, filling his mouth. And then back again, hands stickier than ever.

“Right, let’s go.”

“Not yet.”

“Yes, we’ve got to.”

“One more.”

“No.”

“Please…”

“OK. But just one more.”

And he’s off. Rapido! Piling fruit into his mouth and then back again and I think, quick, come up with something to say that’ll get him to come away with us. And then, “Ah ha. Yes, that’s it,” I say to myself as he runs up to me.

“Right, time to go,” I say.

“Not yet,” he says.

“I’ll buy you a chocolate bar.”

He stops and thinks and turns back to look at the sellers as they chop up more delicious fruit, knives flying – rapido! – to refill the baskets he’s emptied, to prepare for another onslaught.

“No,” he says.

“Yes.”

“No.”

I give up. “OK, but just once more.”

And he’s off again to pounce on the trays.

Then he’s back and this time I’ve got a better plan. “Look,” I say. “Look at what Granddad’s bought.” He looks down at the bags and then inside and he sees mangos and strawberries and grapes and cherries. He looks up at me and then back at the sample trays and the sellers who are wiping their brows and watching him, poised above chopping boards to replenish baskets. He licks his lips and then he turns back to us and looks down at Granddad’s bags and then back again at the sellers and then at the bags and then he says, “Okay.”

I sigh with relief. At last!

As we turn to go, I look back at the sellers. They’re watching us walk away, tensed shoulders now relaxing. It seems they are muttering, “Que suerte!”