Lately I've grown concerned over my darling 6-year-old Gorbachev's horrific behavior. Big Shot Husband will tell you that this has been going on for roughly 4-5 years, but I have held on to the, "he'll get better when he gets older" approach which, either by dint of me growing less patient or him growing more annoying, has not seemed to hold true. And though he is adorable and has a charming impish smile and winning laugh, he still drives us completely nuts.
Whenever I tell people how annoying he is and how he is constantly tormenting his siblings and crying and screaming and disobeying, they say, "Oh, that's just his job as the little brother." If this is indeed the case, he is the biggest overachiever in the history of family dynamics.
So yesterday, when my kids had a late opening due to some ice on the road (??!!) and I didn't get to take them until 10 o'clock (??!!!) on the first day back from a ten day break (??!!!!), things reached a boiling point. That's right, folks, I had to rethink my "this is my fourth child he's just going to have to raise himself" philosophy. I had to come up with a parenting tactic that would give us some chance of training this child into becoming a productive citizen. I used a scheme I read about in some parenting article which I scoffed at at the time. It's called "The Marble Jar." I'm sure you all know how it works--one marble in for good behavior, one marble out for bad behavior, lots of marbles=big treat.
Right then and there, I grabbed a clear plastic container and the big jar of those decorative glass stones I am in possession of in ridiculous quantities due to the GIANT Bar Mitzvah-sized party I threw for Gorby's upsherin (third b-day haircutting event) wherein I created elaborate Noah's Ark themed centerpieces (the glass stones were the water) and completely went nuts over a THREE YEAR OLD'S BIRTHDAY. But I digress.
Anyway, I explained the program to him and the other children, who were all too happy to become whistle-blowers (I mean, positive role models for proper behavior), and off we trotted to school (two hours late, grrr). Meanwhile, halfway to school I realized that the Gabor sisters had somehow forgotten to put Eva's backpack in the car and I had to turn around halfway to school (not close by) and go back for it.
And guess who hopped out of the car like his pants were on fire to retrieve it as soon as I pulled into the garage? You guessed it, duh duh duh duhhhhh Mr. Gorbachev Cake! And in the afternoon, he played with Perfect Eldest Son without hitting him, tackling him, screaming or crying to me when he didn't get his way! And he didn't scream at our housekeeper when she helped him in the bath (like he normally does). Yay marbles!! I do recognize that, as with all parenting gimmicks I have employed over the years, that the excitement of this ploy will probably dwindle pretty fast. This is not my first rodeo. However, it goes to show that Gorby is trainable! It's not a lost cause! And maybe, just maybe, I won't entirely lose my marbles. Yet.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Thursday, January 10, 2013
7-11
Today I would like to talk about 7-11. Fortunately, this convenience store does not play too large a role in my life. However, today our fun trip to 7-11 happened to be instructive on an unprecedented existential level.
Here's what happened: I picked up Zsa Zsa, Eva and Gorby from school, anticipating a possible stop at the park on this freakishly warm January day. However, by the time I picked them up, the sun was starting to fade and it was actually getting a little chilly. So I said, "Children, do you, like, want to go to the park or....?", instead of, "Children, hold on to your hats, we are going to the park, wheehee!" My enthusiasm was waning every second because I was not remembering that since it is January, after all, the sun would be setting, like, by the time we get home from school. Anyway, Zsa Zsa had the brilliant idea of going to 7-11 for Slurpees. The rationale was that since it's the "first warm day of winter"????!!, this would be a great activity.
Now, over the summer, of course we use 7-11 a lot more frequently. Because of our limited kosher options, those of us in kosher world are always desperately looking for someplace "fun" and "normal" to take our kids for treats so they feel like they are part of the real world. Sort of. So, for example, Zsa Zsa's backyard camp consisted of swimming at a private pool (nobody should see the girls swimming), learning to cook and plan menus, going on wholesome field trips and a DAILY trip to 7-11. I was a little horrified by this until I realized that my daily trip to Starbucks might be construed as somewhat analogous. Could I really throw stones here?
Then, on our trip to Mother and Daddy's house out west in August, I encountered the most spectacular 7-11 ever. It looked like a hospital cafeteria, and the Slurpee machine was seriously top-notch, the handle glided smoothly, the iciness of the Slurpee was perfection. In their affluent community, this is what 7-11 looks like. It was then that I came up with my notion that if one were stuck in a city with no kosher food, one could survive pretty nicely with provisions from the local 7-11. There are often kosher hard-boiled eggs, a variety of nuts, fresh fruit, any number of packaged items, cereal, milk, a multitude of beverages, of course, and, ta-da our good old Slurpee.
Flash back to today. Our 7-11 is located in the middle of Section 8 housing and looks it. Most patrons do not count English as a language they know. However, since Gorby never goes to the bathroom at school and, hence, needs to the moment I see him after school, we spent the first part of our 7-11 visit today in the bathroom. I told the Gabor Sisters to stand directly outside the bathroom (didn't want them wandering far afield in the sketchy store), and braced myself for what I would encounter inside. I was pleasantly surprised at the shiny cleanliness of the bathroom. It was super clean and smelled very fresh!! That is, until Gorby forgot how to aim into a toilet and, hence, forced me to clean the 7-11 bathroom. Sigh.
Then, of course, I asked him to wash his hands with soap. He washed his hands, without soap. "Gorby," I said, "Did you use soap?" Nod. "Gorby, I know you didn't because you can't reach the soap." He insisted he did, so I grabbed his hands, and washed his hands with soap for him. Then I dropped the hammer. That's right, folks, first I told him, "It's flu season and if you don't wash your hands with soap you could get flu AND DIE!" and then, when he still stuck with his original story, I said, "Well, if you are going to lie to me, then NO SLURPEE."
I rushed out of the bathroom to find the girls quietly waiting in the exact same spot I left them (they at least are well-trained), and we ventured to the Slurpee machine. I first helped Zsa Zsa get hers, then Eva. Then I said, "OK, let's go get in line." I threw a side-long glance at Gorby who shrugged and then. . .the torrent of tears came. And I thought to myself how upset I would have been as a 6-year-old if my mother didn't get me a Slurpee just because I lied about using soap. So I relented (OK, let's get real, I totally was going to get him a Slurpee anyway, I was just trying to make him think twice about lying to his mother again). I held him and told him how influenza is a very serious illness and I want to keep him alive and he needs to remember it is a serious aveira (sin) to lie and, "Want a Slurpee sweetie?"
So, folks, I have learned that a simple trip to 7-11 can involve the following:
1) A lesson on socio-economic differentiation in 7-11s across America
2) Angst about the availability of kosher food in emergency situations
3) Angst about providing our children enough "kosher treats in real stores" experiences
4) A recognition of my lack of parenting skills
5) Confirmation that Gorby is a lunatic
All in all, by the time I got home I was exhausted and the kids were all hyped up from the caffeine in their Slurpees. And I am busily reading parenting books. Ha ha, just kidding, I gave up a long time ago!
Here's what happened: I picked up Zsa Zsa, Eva and Gorby from school, anticipating a possible stop at the park on this freakishly warm January day. However, by the time I picked them up, the sun was starting to fade and it was actually getting a little chilly. So I said, "Children, do you, like, want to go to the park or....?", instead of, "Children, hold on to your hats, we are going to the park, wheehee!" My enthusiasm was waning every second because I was not remembering that since it is January, after all, the sun would be setting, like, by the time we get home from school. Anyway, Zsa Zsa had the brilliant idea of going to 7-11 for Slurpees. The rationale was that since it's the "first warm day of winter"????!!, this would be a great activity.
Now, over the summer, of course we use 7-11 a lot more frequently. Because of our limited kosher options, those of us in kosher world are always desperately looking for someplace "fun" and "normal" to take our kids for treats so they feel like they are part of the real world. Sort of. So, for example, Zsa Zsa's backyard camp consisted of swimming at a private pool (nobody should see the girls swimming), learning to cook and plan menus, going on wholesome field trips and a DAILY trip to 7-11. I was a little horrified by this until I realized that my daily trip to Starbucks might be construed as somewhat analogous. Could I really throw stones here?
Then, on our trip to Mother and Daddy's house out west in August, I encountered the most spectacular 7-11 ever. It looked like a hospital cafeteria, and the Slurpee machine was seriously top-notch, the handle glided smoothly, the iciness of the Slurpee was perfection. In their affluent community, this is what 7-11 looks like. It was then that I came up with my notion that if one were stuck in a city with no kosher food, one could survive pretty nicely with provisions from the local 7-11. There are often kosher hard-boiled eggs, a variety of nuts, fresh fruit, any number of packaged items, cereal, milk, a multitude of beverages, of course, and, ta-da our good old Slurpee.
Flash back to today. Our 7-11 is located in the middle of Section 8 housing and looks it. Most patrons do not count English as a language they know. However, since Gorby never goes to the bathroom at school and, hence, needs to the moment I see him after school, we spent the first part of our 7-11 visit today in the bathroom. I told the Gabor Sisters to stand directly outside the bathroom (didn't want them wandering far afield in the sketchy store), and braced myself for what I would encounter inside. I was pleasantly surprised at the shiny cleanliness of the bathroom. It was super clean and smelled very fresh!! That is, until Gorby forgot how to aim into a toilet and, hence, forced me to clean the 7-11 bathroom. Sigh.
Then, of course, I asked him to wash his hands with soap. He washed his hands, without soap. "Gorby," I said, "Did you use soap?" Nod. "Gorby, I know you didn't because you can't reach the soap." He insisted he did, so I grabbed his hands, and washed his hands with soap for him. Then I dropped the hammer. That's right, folks, first I told him, "It's flu season and if you don't wash your hands with soap you could get flu AND DIE!" and then, when he still stuck with his original story, I said, "Well, if you are going to lie to me, then NO SLURPEE."
I rushed out of the bathroom to find the girls quietly waiting in the exact same spot I left them (they at least are well-trained), and we ventured to the Slurpee machine. I first helped Zsa Zsa get hers, then Eva. Then I said, "OK, let's go get in line." I threw a side-long glance at Gorby who shrugged and then. . .the torrent of tears came. And I thought to myself how upset I would have been as a 6-year-old if my mother didn't get me a Slurpee just because I lied about using soap. So I relented (OK, let's get real, I totally was going to get him a Slurpee anyway, I was just trying to make him think twice about lying to his mother again). I held him and told him how influenza is a very serious illness and I want to keep him alive and he needs to remember it is a serious aveira (sin) to lie and, "Want a Slurpee sweetie?"
So, folks, I have learned that a simple trip to 7-11 can involve the following:
1) A lesson on socio-economic differentiation in 7-11s across America
2) Angst about the availability of kosher food in emergency situations
3) Angst about providing our children enough "kosher treats in real stores" experiences
4) A recognition of my lack of parenting skills
5) Confirmation that Gorby is a lunatic
All in all, by the time I got home I was exhausted and the kids were all hyped up from the caffeine in their Slurpees. And I am busily reading parenting books. Ha ha, just kidding, I gave up a long time ago!
Thursday, December 13, 2012
It's just a couch
While patiently sitting in the waiting room for Eva's eight-year-old pediatrician visit last week, Eva angled to get her little hands on my precious iPhone. Now, there was a brief period of insanity when I first got my phone (the little darling is coming up on her one year birthday, bless her heart), I reveled in the opportunity it afforded me to completely ignore my children while they played Angry Birds. Soon enough, however, I wised up and realized that, as with any toy, fighting ensues over "turns," glazed-over expressions and selective deafness quickly rear their ugly heads and so, much to my children's collective chagrin, I no longer allow them to play on iPhone.
This day, at the doctor's office, I was lucky to have recently discovered a batch of super fun Chabad videos on YouTube to show Eva. And not only that, I got an email of the latest kiruv video from Aish, AS I WAS SITTING THERE IN THE WAITING ROOM. How lucky is that? So after we were ushered in to the room to wait for the doctor, I said, "Eva, you are so lucky today, do you know why? I am going to let you watch the Chabad video AND the Aish video. Cool, right?" The poor girl is so deprived of feeling that iPhone in her hand that she jumped at the chance to watch the videos. Genius, right?
And just then, as we were enjoying our excellent viewing, Dr F walked in.
"Excuse me," he said, "sorry to interrupt your game."
"Oh, no, Doctor," I said gravely, "I don't believe in video games, we were just catching up on our Chabad and Aish videos."
Bam! Am I the most responsible parent or what? (Yes M family, Gorby does spend hours playing Wii at your house and yes, E family, ditto for Pes, but I didn't have to tell Dr F that, now did I?)
Then Dr F asked Eva, "So Eva, how are you doing in school?"
"OK," she replied, "but I recently got an "S" on a reading paper." S is for Satisfactory, like a B in real life.
"What does "S" stand for?" asked the doctor.
"Superbad," said Eva. He looked at me, disapprovingly.
"Well, in our house, that is kind of what it stands for," I said, defensively.
He opened his eyes wide, told me Eva is short, and we went on our merry way.
Now, I am relaying this tale for a specific purpose: that is, Eva has clearly absorbed some of my neurotic perfectionistic tendencies. And that evening, the unthinkable happened.
I cheerfully told Eva to practice her violin, ("Practice your violin RIGHT NOW!") while I helped the other children get dressed for bed upstairs. A few minutes later, as I was fighting with Gorby to get out of the bath, I heard a loud sobbing coming from the girls' room. "What is that?" I asked.
"Eva's crying," Zsa Zsa said, "in her bed."
At this point, I immediately knew that something had happened that involved breakage/spillage/general household destruction. I sauntered in to her room and found poor Eva under the covers sobbing hysterically, face red and puffy.
"So, Eva," I said, "Sweetie, what is it?"
"I can't tell you, I can't tell you. You are going to scream at me."
"Me? Scream?" I asked (HAHAHAHAHAHA!)
"It's OK, honey, it can't be that bad, just tell Mommy, I promise I won't yell, OK?"
"No I CAN'T I CAN'T I CAN'T TELLYOU!" sob sob sob
At this point, I was SURE that she had dropped her violin. This did not upset me too much because a) it's insured; and b) she has a 500 hour long recital on Sunday and I was not too distressed at the prospect of sitting that one out. So I kept on gently prodding with my calm demeanor waiting for her to confess to breaking her violin. I was SO SURE that was the cause of the hysteria that when she finally said, "I wrote on your new couch," I felt faint and almost fell on the floor.
You see, after my super-intense remodeling project involving my family room over the summer, I finally have a beautiful room with a beautiful wheat-covered microsuede couch, which I bought in a moment of insanity when I forgot I own four children. However, thus far, because of fear of death/dismemberment/disownment, the kids have been excellent at following the "No food in my new room" rule, but sometimes forget about the "No ink anywhere NEAR my new room" rule.
I ran downstairs and saw a HUGE LINE OF INK right across the center cushion of my couch. I ran for my special couch cushion cleaner and, ignoring the cancer/stroke/bleeding warnings on the bottle, got to work. You see, my Daddy has taught me to always have supplies at the ready for any emergency involving carpet/fabrics/furniture. And, phew, after some tense minutes, the ink came out.
And by the time I went back upstairs to check on Eva's mental state, she seemed to have forgotten about the whole thing. Which, to be honest, ticked me off a little bit. I mean, there was no groveling apology, no promises to never do it again. And yes, Mother, you would say, "It's just a couch. Everyone's happy and healthy (never mind the unknown organ damage I caused myself with the fabric cleaner), you are lucky you have a couch, etc etc." However, it really isn't "just a couch," it's my gorgeous wheat-colored microsuede couch in my brand new gorgeous family room, so if anyone gets any kind of ink anywhere near it ever again, I will send them directly to you and let them write on your couch. And, yes, next time, I will buy a darker couch.
This day, at the doctor's office, I was lucky to have recently discovered a batch of super fun Chabad videos on YouTube to show Eva. And not only that, I got an email of the latest kiruv video from Aish, AS I WAS SITTING THERE IN THE WAITING ROOM. How lucky is that? So after we were ushered in to the room to wait for the doctor, I said, "Eva, you are so lucky today, do you know why? I am going to let you watch the Chabad video AND the Aish video. Cool, right?" The poor girl is so deprived of feeling that iPhone in her hand that she jumped at the chance to watch the videos. Genius, right?
And just then, as we were enjoying our excellent viewing, Dr F walked in.
"Excuse me," he said, "sorry to interrupt your game."
"Oh, no, Doctor," I said gravely, "I don't believe in video games, we were just catching up on our Chabad and Aish videos."
Bam! Am I the most responsible parent or what? (Yes M family, Gorby does spend hours playing Wii at your house and yes, E family, ditto for Pes, but I didn't have to tell Dr F that, now did I?)
Then Dr F asked Eva, "So Eva, how are you doing in school?"
"OK," she replied, "but I recently got an "S" on a reading paper." S is for Satisfactory, like a B in real life.
"What does "S" stand for?" asked the doctor.
"Superbad," said Eva. He looked at me, disapprovingly.
"Well, in our house, that is kind of what it stands for," I said, defensively.
He opened his eyes wide, told me Eva is short, and we went on our merry way.
Now, I am relaying this tale for a specific purpose: that is, Eva has clearly absorbed some of my neurotic perfectionistic tendencies. And that evening, the unthinkable happened.
I cheerfully told Eva to practice her violin, ("Practice your violin RIGHT NOW!") while I helped the other children get dressed for bed upstairs. A few minutes later, as I was fighting with Gorby to get out of the bath, I heard a loud sobbing coming from the girls' room. "What is that?" I asked.
"Eva's crying," Zsa Zsa said, "in her bed."
At this point, I immediately knew that something had happened that involved breakage/spillage/general household destruction. I sauntered in to her room and found poor Eva under the covers sobbing hysterically, face red and puffy.
"So, Eva," I said, "Sweetie, what is it?"
"I can't tell you, I can't tell you. You are going to scream at me."
"Me? Scream?" I asked (HAHAHAHAHAHA!)
"It's OK, honey, it can't be that bad, just tell Mommy, I promise I won't yell, OK?"
"No I CAN'T I CAN'T I CAN'T TELLYOU!" sob sob sob
At this point, I was SURE that she had dropped her violin. This did not upset me too much because a) it's insured; and b) she has a 500 hour long recital on Sunday and I was not too distressed at the prospect of sitting that one out. So I kept on gently prodding with my calm demeanor waiting for her to confess to breaking her violin. I was SO SURE that was the cause of the hysteria that when she finally said, "I wrote on your new couch," I felt faint and almost fell on the floor.
You see, after my super-intense remodeling project involving my family room over the summer, I finally have a beautiful room with a beautiful wheat-covered microsuede couch, which I bought in a moment of insanity when I forgot I own four children. However, thus far, because of fear of death/dismemberment/disownment, the kids have been excellent at following the "No food in my new room" rule, but sometimes forget about the "No ink anywhere NEAR my new room" rule.
I ran downstairs and saw a HUGE LINE OF INK right across the center cushion of my couch. I ran for my special couch cushion cleaner and, ignoring the cancer/stroke/bleeding warnings on the bottle, got to work. You see, my Daddy has taught me to always have supplies at the ready for any emergency involving carpet/fabrics/furniture. And, phew, after some tense minutes, the ink came out.
And by the time I went back upstairs to check on Eva's mental state, she seemed to have forgotten about the whole thing. Which, to be honest, ticked me off a little bit. I mean, there was no groveling apology, no promises to never do it again. And yes, Mother, you would say, "It's just a couch. Everyone's happy and healthy (never mind the unknown organ damage I caused myself with the fabric cleaner), you are lucky you have a couch, etc etc." However, it really isn't "just a couch," it's my gorgeous wheat-colored microsuede couch in my brand new gorgeous family room, so if anyone gets any kind of ink anywhere near it ever again, I will send them directly to you and let them write on your couch. And, yes, next time, I will buy a darker couch.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Growing Pains
A few days ago, my girls, Zsa Zsa (age 9) and Eva (age 8) experienced something new and exciting. It is called: instead of watching Arthur or Wordgirl on PBS kids for a good time, they were allowed to watch a sitcom!! Now, this form of television was entirely novel to them. Here's how it happened:
Picture Motzei Shabbos in the Cake household. All is quiet, mostly because Gorby (age 6 and completely insane) now accompanies Pes (age 11) and Big Shot Husband to Father-Son Learning at our local yeshiva. All I can say about that is, YAY!!! I have been waiting for the glorious day when Gorby became old enough to go to FSL (as we call it) and join the other male Cakes so I could have peace and quiet with my girls.
Zsa Zsa, "Mommy, can we do something special since the boys are out with Abba?"
Me, "Yes, girls, let's try to recite 50 perakim of tehillim (psalms) for all the cholim (sick people) we know before the boys return!"
HAHAHAHA. I totally didn't say that. Instead, I said, "Sure, do you guys want to watch ONE show?"
Girls, "Yes, yes thank you Mommy!! What should we watch?"
And this is where things took a dark turn. You see, even I am sick of Arthur and Wordgirl, especially since I recently put a kibosh on Cartoon Network shows due to my extreme hatred of slapsticky cartoons. And though I watched plenty of television as a young lass, and Big Shot Husband will tell you that he watched way too much TV as a youth, we both feel that our children are better off reading, with the occasional TV viewing as a special treat. The end.
However, on this night, I said, "So what do you want to watch? I'm not really sure what is good for kids these days aside from what you already watch." And then at that moment, Zsa Zsa said, "Some of my friends like the show 'Good Luck Charlie'."
Of course at this point I went straight to commensensemedia.org to determine if there is anything inappropriate in the show and, though commensensemedia assured me it is a-ok, I still felt guilty as I plopped on the couch, found it On Demand, and pushed play. Duh duh duh dum.
And guess what? It was actually cute. And funny. And harmless. And the girls LOVED it! And, I noticed, it was very similar to that old television classic we all know and love called Growing Pains (1985-1992). This show, which was significant in my life from age 11 until I went to college, was about the Seaver family. The first thing I noticed about the house on Good Luck Charlie is that that layout is EXACTLY THE SAME as the Seaver house.
I felt a warm glow descend on me as I cuddled up to the Gabor sisters and watched them and the TV at the same time. The looks on their beautiful little faces were priceless. It's as if they have been in a TV desert for their whole lives and they suddenly came upon a chocolate fountain.
I thought back on my childhood-how I loved that Seaver family all those years. Maggie, the sweet patient working mother, Jason, the work-at-home psychiatrist (so Maggie could further her career--very 90's PC), Mike, the (hot) Kirk Cameron, nerdy ever-misunderstood Carol, and precocious little brother Ben. (Surprise baby Chrissie came along toward the end of the series).
I realized how I had been depriving my children the pleasure of a good sitcom. I mean, Pes is 11 now and the girls are not too far behind (again, Gorby is an outlier in many ways so I throw up my hands in any dealings with him). Why shouldn't they be watching a good clean American sitcom? Really, it's practically unpatriotic. Yes, Katie Drohn, I realize you watched Sesame Street until you were 12, but come on, you're Canadian.
Then I realized that maybe I am suffering from Growing Pains of my own. I know my babies aren't really babies so much anymore. They understand a lot more than I want to believe. The day a sophisticated teenage relative of Pes's said, "That guy is flamingly gay," I almost stroked out and insisted Pes had NO IDEA what that means. But what if he does? (PS, my Chabad rebbetzin friend, upon hearing my sordid tale, said, "Honeycake, of course he knows what gay is.") I mean, I hope the days when my kids don't know anything "inappropriate" aren't entirely over, but I may have to face facts soon.
I know when my kids were little and completely driving me crazy in every conceivable way, I would get really irked when someone with older kids would say, "You have it easy now. Just wait until your kids are older. Small kids, small problems; Big kids, big problems."
I found this to be entirely irritating and condescending, but, alas, maybe they were correct. How do you know how to tell your kids about stuff you don't really want them to know about? How do you find out what they already know? I mean, if I say, "Oh, hi, Pes, do you know what _____ means?" If he says no, then I've really made a mess of things, right?
However, the moment I knew that I have really crossed the threshold into the "no more babies" stage is when our family friends asked if we want to go on a trip with them. They have three kids under 5 and I said words I thought I'd never say, "Big Shot Husband, I don't know if they should come. I mean, their kids are so little and I'm sure they wouldn't have a good time. I mean, the hotel experience alone is enough to make anyone want to jump out a window."
And so I flashed back to all the times my family members with older kids would say, "Oh, you don't want to take a trip like THAT, your kids are too little," or, "We never traveled anywhere until our youngest was 6." And I would, again, get really ticked off. But maybe there is wisdom with experience. And I am now super wise apparently. Until I have teenagers. Then I am running away.
Picture Motzei Shabbos in the Cake household. All is quiet, mostly because Gorby (age 6 and completely insane) now accompanies Pes (age 11) and Big Shot Husband to Father-Son Learning at our local yeshiva. All I can say about that is, YAY!!! I have been waiting for the glorious day when Gorby became old enough to go to FSL (as we call it) and join the other male Cakes so I could have peace and quiet with my girls.
Zsa Zsa, "Mommy, can we do something special since the boys are out with Abba?"
Me, "Yes, girls, let's try to recite 50 perakim of tehillim (psalms) for all the cholim (sick people) we know before the boys return!"
HAHAHAHA. I totally didn't say that. Instead, I said, "Sure, do you guys want to watch ONE show?"
Girls, "Yes, yes thank you Mommy!! What should we watch?"
And this is where things took a dark turn. You see, even I am sick of Arthur and Wordgirl, especially since I recently put a kibosh on Cartoon Network shows due to my extreme hatred of slapsticky cartoons. And though I watched plenty of television as a young lass, and Big Shot Husband will tell you that he watched way too much TV as a youth, we both feel that our children are better off reading, with the occasional TV viewing as a special treat. The end.
However, on this night, I said, "So what do you want to watch? I'm not really sure what is good for kids these days aside from what you already watch." And then at that moment, Zsa Zsa said, "Some of my friends like the show 'Good Luck Charlie'."
Of course at this point I went straight to commensensemedia.org to determine if there is anything inappropriate in the show and, though commensensemedia assured me it is a-ok, I still felt guilty as I plopped on the couch, found it On Demand, and pushed play. Duh duh duh dum.
And guess what? It was actually cute. And funny. And harmless. And the girls LOVED it! And, I noticed, it was very similar to that old television classic we all know and love called Growing Pains (1985-1992). This show, which was significant in my life from age 11 until I went to college, was about the Seaver family. The first thing I noticed about the house on Good Luck Charlie is that that layout is EXACTLY THE SAME as the Seaver house.
I felt a warm glow descend on me as I cuddled up to the Gabor sisters and watched them and the TV at the same time. The looks on their beautiful little faces were priceless. It's as if they have been in a TV desert for their whole lives and they suddenly came upon a chocolate fountain.
I thought back on my childhood-how I loved that Seaver family all those years. Maggie, the sweet patient working mother, Jason, the work-at-home psychiatrist (so Maggie could further her career--very 90's PC), Mike, the (hot) Kirk Cameron, nerdy ever-misunderstood Carol, and precocious little brother Ben. (Surprise baby Chrissie came along toward the end of the series).
I realized how I had been depriving my children the pleasure of a good sitcom. I mean, Pes is 11 now and the girls are not too far behind (again, Gorby is an outlier in many ways so I throw up my hands in any dealings with him). Why shouldn't they be watching a good clean American sitcom? Really, it's practically unpatriotic. Yes, Katie Drohn, I realize you watched Sesame Street until you were 12, but come on, you're Canadian.
Then I realized that maybe I am suffering from Growing Pains of my own. I know my babies aren't really babies so much anymore. They understand a lot more than I want to believe. The day a sophisticated teenage relative of Pes's said, "That guy is flamingly gay," I almost stroked out and insisted Pes had NO IDEA what that means. But what if he does? (PS, my Chabad rebbetzin friend, upon hearing my sordid tale, said, "Honeycake, of course he knows what gay is.") I mean, I hope the days when my kids don't know anything "inappropriate" aren't entirely over, but I may have to face facts soon.
I know when my kids were little and completely driving me crazy in every conceivable way, I would get really irked when someone with older kids would say, "You have it easy now. Just wait until your kids are older. Small kids, small problems; Big kids, big problems."
I found this to be entirely irritating and condescending, but, alas, maybe they were correct. How do you know how to tell your kids about stuff you don't really want them to know about? How do you find out what they already know? I mean, if I say, "Oh, hi, Pes, do you know what _____ means?" If he says no, then I've really made a mess of things, right?
However, the moment I knew that I have really crossed the threshold into the "no more babies" stage is when our family friends asked if we want to go on a trip with them. They have three kids under 5 and I said words I thought I'd never say, "Big Shot Husband, I don't know if they should come. I mean, their kids are so little and I'm sure they wouldn't have a good time. I mean, the hotel experience alone is enough to make anyone want to jump out a window."
And so I flashed back to all the times my family members with older kids would say, "Oh, you don't want to take a trip like THAT, your kids are too little," or, "We never traveled anywhere until our youngest was 6." And I would, again, get really ticked off. But maybe there is wisdom with experience. And I am now super wise apparently. Until I have teenagers. Then I am running away.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
I had a run-in with the law
Today I had the privilege of experiencing something I haven't experienced in many years. It is called: being pulled over by a cop! I felt like such a bad-a**. Sorry for the bad language, Mother. Anyway, Big Shot Husband always says, "It's the 5-0," when we see police cars, because he's super cool. However, he never seems to have the privilege of being pulled over by an actual police officer like I did today. Bam!
Here's what happened: I had dropped Gorby off at his local backyard camp and was driving the other three to the kids' school for the girls' camp. I was on that long road we take, past the hospital but before the twenty-hour light, when I made a really stupid error. Yes, that's right, I changed from the middle lane to the left lane and crossed a double yellow line. That was not the stupid part. The stupid part was that I did it RIGHT IN FRONT OF A COP. I guess the fact that I do this maneuver on a regular basis during the school year when I drive this route over and over and over again inured me to the fact that it is illegal.
I had to actually make a u-turn in front of all those people, drive to the side street where Officer Friendly was parked and show him my actual license and registration. I was lucky that I had my license, because I recently spent three hours at the DMV renewing it, lost it while running the next week, then went to the express DMV near my house and got a new one (10 minutes), even though my plan was to wait for the good citizen who found it to drop it in the mail to me. I am still waiting.
Anyway, I took a page from Big Shot Husband and used the two-pronged strategy called: 1) Do not speak unless spoken to and 2) use as few words as possible when responding.
Officer Friendly: "Ma'am, this is a $90 ticket and a point on your license. Also, it is dangerous to cross that double yellow line because if someone is trying to turn, they would be looking the other direction and not realize that you had pulled around and you could have a major accident." He demonstrated by turning his head in one direction and not looking the other way also, which I'm pretty sure you are always supposed to do while driving and turning.
So I said, "Officer, shouldn't a driver always look in both directions while making a turn? If the driver did so, he would see me regardless of my going around that other car to get in the left lane, right? I'm sure we could Google the actual law right now." Bwahaha! You thought I said that? No way, Jose.
Really, I nodded and said, "Yes, Officer, you are right. It is really dangerous."
"Well," he said, "I am just going to give you a written warning this time. But it really is a $90 fine and one point on your license."
"Thank you, Officer," I said. Or something like that.
So I got my warning and sheepishly joined the left lane (legally this time) and went my merry way. I nattered on to the children about how that was only the second time in my whole life I have been pulled over and I've NEVER had a ticket. Eva kindly reminded me that about once a month or so I get an envelope from the county containing a beautiful photograph of my minivan speeding off somewhere and a brusque request to remit some small fine (this is for Big Shot Husband's eyes) which is actually not so small (for the rest of you who know the truth).
I have to say, though, that I did feel quite the outlaw after my police encounter and it was a little exciting. I tend to be sort of an insane rule-follower (yes, Mother, I know I was rebellious as a teenager, but I am talking about present day. Thirty-seven years old).
I mean, it did hurt my pride that I got dinged doing my most-practiced and skilled activity (no, not Starbucks, I am very serious about keeping my wits about me there), i.e., carpool. But on the other hand, I have logged at least 65,000 carpool miles and this is the first time I got pulled over. Yay, me!! I should be congratulating myself.
Anyway, I am thinking of putting my written warning on the wall somewhere to remind myself that I can be a little wild and crazy too. In fact, I might just break from my comfort zone and make a spicy cholent this week or even make bone-in chicken! Well, a lady can dream. . .
Here's what happened: I had dropped Gorby off at his local backyard camp and was driving the other three to the kids' school for the girls' camp. I was on that long road we take, past the hospital but before the twenty-hour light, when I made a really stupid error. Yes, that's right, I changed from the middle lane to the left lane and crossed a double yellow line. That was not the stupid part. The stupid part was that I did it RIGHT IN FRONT OF A COP. I guess the fact that I do this maneuver on a regular basis during the school year when I drive this route over and over and over again inured me to the fact that it is illegal.
I had to actually make a u-turn in front of all those people, drive to the side street where Officer Friendly was parked and show him my actual license and registration. I was lucky that I had my license, because I recently spent three hours at the DMV renewing it, lost it while running the next week, then went to the express DMV near my house and got a new one (10 minutes), even though my plan was to wait for the good citizen who found it to drop it in the mail to me. I am still waiting.
Anyway, I took a page from Big Shot Husband and used the two-pronged strategy called: 1) Do not speak unless spoken to and 2) use as few words as possible when responding.
Officer Friendly: "Ma'am, this is a $90 ticket and a point on your license. Also, it is dangerous to cross that double yellow line because if someone is trying to turn, they would be looking the other direction and not realize that you had pulled around and you could have a major accident." He demonstrated by turning his head in one direction and not looking the other way also, which I'm pretty sure you are always supposed to do while driving and turning.
So I said, "Officer, shouldn't a driver always look in both directions while making a turn? If the driver did so, he would see me regardless of my going around that other car to get in the left lane, right? I'm sure we could Google the actual law right now." Bwahaha! You thought I said that? No way, Jose.
Really, I nodded and said, "Yes, Officer, you are right. It is really dangerous."
"Well," he said, "I am just going to give you a written warning this time. But it really is a $90 fine and one point on your license."
"Thank you, Officer," I said. Or something like that.
So I got my warning and sheepishly joined the left lane (legally this time) and went my merry way. I nattered on to the children about how that was only the second time in my whole life I have been pulled over and I've NEVER had a ticket. Eva kindly reminded me that about once a month or so I get an envelope from the county containing a beautiful photograph of my minivan speeding off somewhere and a brusque request to remit some small fine (this is for Big Shot Husband's eyes) which is actually not so small (for the rest of you who know the truth).
I have to say, though, that I did feel quite the outlaw after my police encounter and it was a little exciting. I tend to be sort of an insane rule-follower (yes, Mother, I know I was rebellious as a teenager, but I am talking about present day. Thirty-seven years old).
I mean, it did hurt my pride that I got dinged doing my most-practiced and skilled activity (no, not Starbucks, I am very serious about keeping my wits about me there), i.e., carpool. But on the other hand, I have logged at least 65,000 carpool miles and this is the first time I got pulled over. Yay, me!! I should be congratulating myself.
Anyway, I am thinking of putting my written warning on the wall somewhere to remind myself that I can be a little wild and crazy too. In fact, I might just break from my comfort zone and make a spicy cholent this week or even make bone-in chicken! Well, a lady can dream. . .
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Side Bangs
Picture this: A serene Friday afternoon, the first day of summer break in the Cake Household. Mommy is cooking for Shabbos, Housekeeper F is folding laundry, Pes is out roaming the neighborhood like a teenage wastrel, Gorby is in his room sleeping, and the Gabor sisters are looking for trouble.
Now let me back up a minute. For weeks, Zsa Zsa and Eva have been begging for "side bangs." "What are side bangs?" you ask. Well, I have been asking the same thing. For weeks. Unfortunately, as you will soon see, I did not do my hishtadlus to find out what side bangs actually are/entail and, thus, tragedy struck.
You see, on this serene Friday afternoon, Zsa Zsa and Eva begged for the 1000th time for side bangs.
"Mommy," Zsa Zsa popped into the kitchen, "Can we get side bangs?"
"Um, now is not the time to go to the hair cut place, and you will TOTALLY REGRET getting side bangs anyway."
My understanding of side bangs at that point was some shorter hair around your face that constantly falls into your eyes and annoys you all day long, i.e., my Shabbos sheitel. I'm still not sure if this was the look they were going for, because, again, I still don't know what side bangs are and, frankly, don't care.
However, the Gabors were just DYING for side bangs and I remembered how, as a young girl in the '80s, I was DYING for a perm. I would beg, Mother would say no, and around we went until I ended up looking like a crazy poodle and regretting every permed moment as I said, "Wow, it looks so great, I love it!" with tears welling up in my eyes every time I looked in the mirror, not able to cry out loud since then Mother would know she was actually right and I actually totally regretted it.
So I thought to myself, "Those girls can just learn that same lesson I learned and go get those crazy side bangs. And as an added bonus, maybe I will actually find out what they are."
So I looked at Zsa Zsa and said, "Fine, go ahead, but you will TOTALLY REGRET IT!" Now, they had talked Housekeeper F into doing this lunacy for them because they had somehow come to understand that she had completed beauty school.
Two minutes after I gave my non-permission permission, Zsa Zsa walked into the kitchen. I almost passed out. She had a chunk of hair missing from the side of her face. Picture someone taking the hair from the center of the forehead until the ear and just chopping it straight across right above the ear. If you can't picture it, just know that it was SO HORRIBLE I ALMOST DIED!!!!
Now, as a testament to the deep love I have for my housekeeper, who keeps me alive and sane on a daily basis, I smiled at her and then turned to Zsa Zsa and screamed, "GET IN THE CAR RIGHT NOW WE ARE GOING TO THE HAIR CUT PLACE!!!!!" Eva and Gorby wanted in on the action and I screamed at them to hurry put their shoes on get in the car RIGHT NOW. Misplaced anger.
We zoomed along to our favorite family haircut place, a barber/beauty shop attached to a house on one of our main semi-highways, manned by two extremely hardworking Vietnamese immigrants, Lila and Vinny. Vinny is a perpetually smiling, sweet and gentle black belt in tae kwon do, and Lila has an acerbic tongue and says, "Honey," after every sentence. We sheepishly walked in and I said, "Um, she tried to get side bangs," as I pointed to Zsa Zsa. My daughter smiled guiltily, braces glinting in the afternoon sun.
Lila looked at us as if we were complete morons. "Those aren't side bangs, honey," she scolded in her thick Vietnamese accent. "Who did this?"
Busted. I was trying to make it seem like Zsa Zsa had done it herself, but the wily Lila caught on pretty quick.
"Mmmm-my housekeeper," I stammered. "What?!! Honey!! Leave your housekeeper to keep your house. Those aren't side bangs, uh-uh, honey." And she began to try to fix the damage.
This was not easy. It's amazing how one quick slip of the scissors can undo years of hair growing outedness. You totally know what I mean if you're a girl. So she snipped away and finally ended up with, um, a MULLET!!!!
I said, "No, um no, that's no happening. Lila, this is a mullet."
Zsa Zsa said, "Mommy, it's fine, I don't want her to cut off all my long hair."
I said, "Nobody in my house is ever going to have a mullet. It is not allowed in the Cake family. Lila will have to cut it so it's layered all around. Sorry."
Zsa Zsa sighed and sat back down in the chair. And I am totally not making this up: Lila turned around and mouthed to me, "Mullet is Red Neck?" I smiled. She nodded conspiratorially.
So Lila fixed it up. And Zsa Zsa ended up with a very cute layered hair cut that will take a year or two to grow out. And I realized that while Housekeeper F may have gone to beauty school, she may only have been licensed to practice on Afro-Caribbean individuals.
Now we have spent the weekend convincing ourselves how cute Zsa Zsa's hair is. And since she is a gorgeous girl (naturally, as a Gabor), she really does look amazing. But I wonder, as she looks in the mirror, if the tears aren't welling up a little. And I see myself looking in the mirror at exactly Zsa Zsa's age and thinking, "Mother--how could you have let me PERM MY HAIR???"
Now let me back up a minute. For weeks, Zsa Zsa and Eva have been begging for "side bangs." "What are side bangs?" you ask. Well, I have been asking the same thing. For weeks. Unfortunately, as you will soon see, I did not do my hishtadlus to find out what side bangs actually are/entail and, thus, tragedy struck.
You see, on this serene Friday afternoon, Zsa Zsa and Eva begged for the 1000th time for side bangs.
"Mommy," Zsa Zsa popped into the kitchen, "Can we get side bangs?"
"Um, now is not the time to go to the hair cut place, and you will TOTALLY REGRET getting side bangs anyway."
My understanding of side bangs at that point was some shorter hair around your face that constantly falls into your eyes and annoys you all day long, i.e., my Shabbos sheitel. I'm still not sure if this was the look they were going for, because, again, I still don't know what side bangs are and, frankly, don't care.
However, the Gabors were just DYING for side bangs and I remembered how, as a young girl in the '80s, I was DYING for a perm. I would beg, Mother would say no, and around we went until I ended up looking like a crazy poodle and regretting every permed moment as I said, "Wow, it looks so great, I love it!" with tears welling up in my eyes every time I looked in the mirror, not able to cry out loud since then Mother would know she was actually right and I actually totally regretted it.
So I thought to myself, "Those girls can just learn that same lesson I learned and go get those crazy side bangs. And as an added bonus, maybe I will actually find out what they are."
So I looked at Zsa Zsa and said, "Fine, go ahead, but you will TOTALLY REGRET IT!" Now, they had talked Housekeeper F into doing this lunacy for them because they had somehow come to understand that she had completed beauty school.
Two minutes after I gave my non-permission permission, Zsa Zsa walked into the kitchen. I almost passed out. She had a chunk of hair missing from the side of her face. Picture someone taking the hair from the center of the forehead until the ear and just chopping it straight across right above the ear. If you can't picture it, just know that it was SO HORRIBLE I ALMOST DIED!!!!
Now, as a testament to the deep love I have for my housekeeper, who keeps me alive and sane on a daily basis, I smiled at her and then turned to Zsa Zsa and screamed, "GET IN THE CAR RIGHT NOW WE ARE GOING TO THE HAIR CUT PLACE!!!!!" Eva and Gorby wanted in on the action and I screamed at them to hurry put their shoes on get in the car RIGHT NOW. Misplaced anger.
We zoomed along to our favorite family haircut place, a barber/beauty shop attached to a house on one of our main semi-highways, manned by two extremely hardworking Vietnamese immigrants, Lila and Vinny. Vinny is a perpetually smiling, sweet and gentle black belt in tae kwon do, and Lila has an acerbic tongue and says, "Honey," after every sentence. We sheepishly walked in and I said, "Um, she tried to get side bangs," as I pointed to Zsa Zsa. My daughter smiled guiltily, braces glinting in the afternoon sun.
Lila looked at us as if we were complete morons. "Those aren't side bangs, honey," she scolded in her thick Vietnamese accent. "Who did this?"
Busted. I was trying to make it seem like Zsa Zsa had done it herself, but the wily Lila caught on pretty quick.
"Mmmm-my housekeeper," I stammered. "What?!! Honey!! Leave your housekeeper to keep your house. Those aren't side bangs, uh-uh, honey." And she began to try to fix the damage.
This was not easy. It's amazing how one quick slip of the scissors can undo years of hair growing outedness. You totally know what I mean if you're a girl. So she snipped away and finally ended up with, um, a MULLET!!!!
I said, "No, um no, that's no happening. Lila, this is a mullet."
Zsa Zsa said, "Mommy, it's fine, I don't want her to cut off all my long hair."
I said, "Nobody in my house is ever going to have a mullet. It is not allowed in the Cake family. Lila will have to cut it so it's layered all around. Sorry."
Zsa Zsa sighed and sat back down in the chair. And I am totally not making this up: Lila turned around and mouthed to me, "Mullet is Red Neck?" I smiled. She nodded conspiratorially.
So Lila fixed it up. And Zsa Zsa ended up with a very cute layered hair cut that will take a year or two to grow out. And I realized that while Housekeeper F may have gone to beauty school, she may only have been licensed to practice on Afro-Caribbean individuals.
Now we have spent the weekend convincing ourselves how cute Zsa Zsa's hair is. And since she is a gorgeous girl (naturally, as a Gabor), she really does look amazing. But I wonder, as she looks in the mirror, if the tears aren't welling up a little. And I see myself looking in the mirror at exactly Zsa Zsa's age and thinking, "Mother--how could you have let me PERM MY HAIR???"
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Science Experiment
This morning, Eva and I were lucky enough to unwittingly be part of a neat science experiment. Here's what happened:
Eva overslept due to our late night at my nephew's graduation. I decided to take her to school after dropping Gorby. Well, this was extremely fortuitous, as we would soon discover. On the way into the car, we smelled something that was strongly fishy as the three of us lingered in the mudroom. First, I powdered Eva's shoes with Odor Eater powder as I do most days. Though she is a gorgeous little girl, she has super smelly feet. Anyway, that didn't seem to be the problem, which I discovered after she shoved a shoe into my nose when I asked, "Are your shoes the smelly culprit?"
The three of us could still smell the icky odor as we got into the car so searched the car fervently. Gorby declared from the depths of the minivan, "Here! I found it!" and handed me a cereal bar wrapper. Um, OK. "Gorby--that's not it! Come on now." We decided to press on after the three of us concurred that it was probably something in the garbage or recycling in the garage.
We dropped Gorby at school and finally arrived Eva's school. Since she was over an hour late, the parking lot was quiet and I pulled up right in front of the door. We exited the vehicle and, suddenly, the lights went on in Eva's brain.
"OH!" she exclaimed, "IT'S THE BIRD'S EGG!" I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. You see, the other day (please don't tell me it was Friday, but I fear it was), Eva ran over to me as we were hanging out in the front yard (i.e., kids were playing ball and I was playing Scramble on my iPhone). "Mommy, look, it's a blue birdy egg!" I looked up, wrinkled my nose and we both noted that it looked like something was inside the egg. Then one of the following two things occurred:
1) I jumped up, dragged out the microscope and we both excitedly inspected the interior of the bird's egg under intense magnification.
or;
2) I kept wrinkling my nose, said, "Hm," continued my Scramble game, and said, "Wash your hands REALLYWELLWITHSOAP!!!!"
Anyway, Eva decided to place the shell into a baggie and take it to her beloved first grade teacher Ms. G.
And there we were, many days later (shudder!), in front of a venerated Torah institution with a baggie thrown on the ground. The contents of said bag were: 1) bird's egg, 2) gooey liquid and 3) maggots. Yes, you read that right. The two of us looked at each other and then started laughing. This laughter was the kind where you are in disbelief and don't quite know what to do, not the one where you are reading, for example, a blog and laughing hysterically. But since I was the mother (darn it), I had to figure out something quick. Good grief.
"Wow, Eva," I said, "Those are maggots in there."
"What are maggots?" she asked.
"Well. maggots are little bugs that like to eat dead stuff." Here is where I realized that the contents of that little blue egg must have been an embryo or dead bird. Luckily, just yesterday, I was listening to the "This American Life" podcast about gory crime scenes and it talked about maggots so I instantly identified those little guys.
So what did I do? You ask. I wondered the same thing. After trying not to die, I sprung into action. "Eva!" I shouted, "I have Clorox wipes in the car, let's use them!" I started scrubbing out her backpack (luckily it was just the outer zipper pocket, and there wasn't actual spooze in there, just odor. I scrubbed it out with about 27 wipes and took out 5 plastic bags from my car to throw maggot-bag into and tie up with a plan to toss it into the outdoor Starbucks garbage can, and wishing I was there right then.
I asked Eva to grab my keys and iPhone (she hadn't touched maggot-bag) so I could do a surgical scrub after I signed her in. I left my stuff in the office and started scrubbing like crazy in the hallway washing sink. I used so much foaming soap that it was all over the sink, the soap dispenser and the paper towel dispenser. I also ran into Zsa Zsa's teacher who is about 10 months pregnant (and adorable still) and when I told her the story she looked extremely queasy. Oops.
I grabbed my stuff and drove quickly to Starbucks so I could dispose of the bag. On the way, I used my five different flavors of hand sanitizer. However, there is not enough hand sanitizer or soap in the world to scrub the memory of what was brewing in the baggie right in my very own Eva's backpack, right in my very own mudroom. I'm happy I took her in late because think how many days those maggots (AAARRGH) could've lived in there (Big Shot Husband usually drops them at school extremely quickly on his way to work, with no time to sniff, locate and fumigate). So I will leave you here while I go wash my hands again. With lye.
Eva overslept due to our late night at my nephew's graduation. I decided to take her to school after dropping Gorby. Well, this was extremely fortuitous, as we would soon discover. On the way into the car, we smelled something that was strongly fishy as the three of us lingered in the mudroom. First, I powdered Eva's shoes with Odor Eater powder as I do most days. Though she is a gorgeous little girl, she has super smelly feet. Anyway, that didn't seem to be the problem, which I discovered after she shoved a shoe into my nose when I asked, "Are your shoes the smelly culprit?"
The three of us could still smell the icky odor as we got into the car so searched the car fervently. Gorby declared from the depths of the minivan, "Here! I found it!" and handed me a cereal bar wrapper. Um, OK. "Gorby--that's not it! Come on now." We decided to press on after the three of us concurred that it was probably something in the garbage or recycling in the garage.
We dropped Gorby at school and finally arrived Eva's school. Since she was over an hour late, the parking lot was quiet and I pulled up right in front of the door. We exited the vehicle and, suddenly, the lights went on in Eva's brain.
"OH!" she exclaimed, "IT'S THE BIRD'S EGG!" I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. You see, the other day (please don't tell me it was Friday, but I fear it was), Eva ran over to me as we were hanging out in the front yard (i.e., kids were playing ball and I was playing Scramble on my iPhone). "Mommy, look, it's a blue birdy egg!" I looked up, wrinkled my nose and we both noted that it looked like something was inside the egg. Then one of the following two things occurred:
1) I jumped up, dragged out the microscope and we both excitedly inspected the interior of the bird's egg under intense magnification.
or;
2) I kept wrinkling my nose, said, "Hm," continued my Scramble game, and said, "Wash your hands REALLYWELLWITHSOAP!!!!"
Anyway, Eva decided to place the shell into a baggie and take it to her beloved first grade teacher Ms. G.
And there we were, many days later (shudder!), in front of a venerated Torah institution with a baggie thrown on the ground. The contents of said bag were: 1) bird's egg, 2) gooey liquid and 3) maggots. Yes, you read that right. The two of us looked at each other and then started laughing. This laughter was the kind where you are in disbelief and don't quite know what to do, not the one where you are reading, for example, a blog and laughing hysterically. But since I was the mother (darn it), I had to figure out something quick. Good grief.
"Wow, Eva," I said, "Those are maggots in there."
"What are maggots?" she asked.
"Well. maggots are little bugs that like to eat dead stuff." Here is where I realized that the contents of that little blue egg must have been an embryo or dead bird. Luckily, just yesterday, I was listening to the "This American Life" podcast about gory crime scenes and it talked about maggots so I instantly identified those little guys.
So what did I do? You ask. I wondered the same thing. After trying not to die, I sprung into action. "Eva!" I shouted, "I have Clorox wipes in the car, let's use them!" I started scrubbing out her backpack (luckily it was just the outer zipper pocket, and there wasn't actual spooze in there, just odor. I scrubbed it out with about 27 wipes and took out 5 plastic bags from my car to throw maggot-bag into and tie up with a plan to toss it into the outdoor Starbucks garbage can, and wishing I was there right then.
I asked Eva to grab my keys and iPhone (she hadn't touched maggot-bag) so I could do a surgical scrub after I signed her in. I left my stuff in the office and started scrubbing like crazy in the hallway washing sink. I used so much foaming soap that it was all over the sink, the soap dispenser and the paper towel dispenser. I also ran into Zsa Zsa's teacher who is about 10 months pregnant (and adorable still) and when I told her the story she looked extremely queasy. Oops.
I grabbed my stuff and drove quickly to Starbucks so I could dispose of the bag. On the way, I used my five different flavors of hand sanitizer. However, there is not enough hand sanitizer or soap in the world to scrub the memory of what was brewing in the baggie right in my very own Eva's backpack, right in my very own mudroom. I'm happy I took her in late because think how many days those maggots (AAARRGH) could've lived in there (Big Shot Husband usually drops them at school extremely quickly on his way to work, with no time to sniff, locate and fumigate). So I will leave you here while I go wash my hands again. With lye.
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