A few weeks ago, I became very agitated because my leaf guys did not come after my repeated attempts to contact them. Therefore, I had a lot of leaves on my front lawn. Day after day, I drove out of the garage, looked at the leaf-covered lawn, and crossed my fingers that my leaf guys would magically appear. And day after day, I came home disappointed that the million gajillion leaves were still there, mocking me.
So one morning, after dropping Gorby (age 5) at school, I parked in my garage, grabbed a rake and a snow shovel (yes, you read right), and started raking. And shoveling. You see, my brilliant children often like to "rake" leaves in the fall. With a snow shovel. Hence, I thought this was a good idea. However, after two hours of raking, I had: a large pile of leaves on my curb, a lot if leaves still on my lawn, flower beds and front walk, and an extremely sore back. Meanwhile, my leaf guys came and used their 7 billion horsepower leaf blowers to get rid of my leaves and take them all away. THAT DAY. And I had to take a lot of Motrin for a lot of days. I am 82 years old. Next time, I will remember: Don't try this at home.
Meanwhile, when the TruGreen guy came a couple weeks later, I ran out to greet him because I had noticed that there was a whole section of my lawn (like the entire middle) that now had little to no grass on it. I was incensed. How was it that TruGreen was constantly fertilizing, seeding, doing whatever it does, and I had this whole bald patch on my front lawn? And, as I was talking to my TruGreen friend, I came to the realization that THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU USE A SNOW SHOVEL TO PICK UP LEAVES FROM YOUR FRONT LAWN AND YOU RUN THAT SHARP METAL EDGE UP AND DOWN YOUR AWESOME LAWN FROM TRUGREEN FOR TWO ENTIRE HOURS. Leaf removal is best left to the professionals. Remember for next time, Honeycake, don't try this at home.
Later that week, I was walking down our street with Zsa Zsa (8), Eva (7) and Gorby and we saw a miraculous sight. A guy, on his roof, running back and forth. Putting up lights. And it dawned on me, this is why Jews don't decorate their houses for the holidays. Because what Jewish guy goes on his roof? EVER? We stood, awestruck, watching this guy just walk around his roof as if it was his back yard. Though he was a large man, he frolicked along that roof as if he were a small sprite, hanging a string of lights here, and another there, beautifying the place for the holidays. And he didn't fall off or anything. Don't try this at home.
And just today, because I didn't learn my lesson when I accidentally gave Perfect Eldest Son (Pes, 10) a reverse mohawk the second or third time I used clippers to cut his hair (like two years ago), today I actually made him bleed. And gave him bad haircut number 32 in the process. I was trying to shave his neck and instead cut his neck (similar, but not exactly the same).
He cried, "Mommy! I was just standing here doing nothing. I didn't even move. You cut me, you cut me!" Oops. I felt horrible, of course, and put a nice big band-aid on his neck after he got out of the shower. And it really didn't bleed that much. But seriously, oops. Meanwhile, Big Shot Husband was like, "Just let me do it next time. I always tell you to let me do it." But he was making quesadillas for everyone so I thought I'd do the haircuts. Next time, I will remember, don't try this at home.
As I was giving Gorby and Pes said haircuts, I thought of the irony of the situation. We bought this haircut kit to "save money." Meanwhile, cutting their hair a) stresses me out b) always turns out looking bad, and c) causes bodily harm. So while I pay my leaf guys and TruGreen a million dollars, I save 15 bucks on giving the boys haircuts while concurrently causing everyone major trauma. Wonderful.
Meanwhile, since I sometimes consider myself a professional parent, I felt that I was qualified to give my children a little talking to on Friday before we went to a nearby city to spend Shabbos with family friends. On the way home from school I pleaded to Zsa Zsa, Eva and Pes, "Please don't fight with each other at the Murmelsteins on Shabbos. I really don't want them to think we're a dysfunctional family." "But Mommy," said Pes, "Aren't we?" Note to self: Honeycake, the parenting thing, don't try this at home.
So now I need to take stock and re-evaluate, just in time for the secular New Year. I should never:
1) rake leaves
2) go on the roof
3) give my boys haircuts with electrical devices (or scissors, let's be honest)
4) ask my children to behave
So, I will just make the resolution to write more blogs. And leave the rest to the professionals.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Monday, December 5, 2011
A rabbi jump-started my car
Now, in my post entitled "Carpool" I warned all of you that I have a lot to say on this topic. Carpool is fraught with danger at every turn (no pun intended). I mean, just when you think you've got it under control, something happens to throw you off.
I recently volunteered to drive some of the 5th and 6th grade boys to their basketball game. I arrived a few minutes before dismissal, and sat around with the van lights on, listening to the radio, gabbing on the phone, saying hi to Pes's teacher, and, hence, paying no attention whatsoever to my surroundings.
Ladies, let's be honest here, does it ever occur to you that your BFF, your minivan, will just suddenly fail you at the absolutely worst moment? That's right, friends, it is altogether possible that when six boys are in your car jabbering excitedly away about their impending basketball game that you have JUST ENOUGH TIME NOT A SECOND MORE to get to, your car will not start.
Never before have I seen six boys flee a car more quickly to scramble for other rides. Even my usually considerate Pes didn't stop for a second to say, "Mommy, hope you get the car started, gotta go." Or anything else except, "AAARGHH NOOOO!! We have to get to the..." Outta there. Meanwhile, the basketball coach came over and said, "Um, yeah, Mrs. Cake, that's why I've been sitting here with my lights and radio off this whole time. Battery. Gotta go." This is code for, "Lady, I am disappointed in your obvious lack of judgment, however, please volunteer for another carpool soon."
At this point, I felt downright betrayed by my best friend the minivan. And even more importantly, it meant that I didn't get credit for doing basketball carpool. But dependable Rabbi Headmaster was there within seconds with his car and some jumper cables, ready to save the day. And then, as if by magic, a little Lubavitch rabbi came along with one of those gizmos that you just clamp on and voila, the car started! Now, you have to understand, that the small west coast town in which I was raised was populated by blonds named Peter and Jenny, with roots that could be traced straight back to the Vikings, if you get my drift. And here I was with not one but two rabbis, at the ready, handily jump-starting my car. Being overseen by the ten other rabbis in the parking lot. Life has some strange twists.
Anyway, my victory (i.e., getting the car to start again in order to take boys home after the game and, therefore, getting at least half credit for carpool) was short-lived when I received an email from a mom in my non-basketball carpool upon arriving home. It explained, in no uncertain terms, the strife caused by someone forgetting to pick up the non-basketball boys and take them home, hence requiring her to do it. And, therefore, someone had to do her carpool the next day. Since she never called anyone reminding them to pick the boys up and I wasn't actually the one who forgot, and I explained that even if I had been slated to take the boys, poor me my car died, guess what? Of course, silly, I offered to do hers the next day. And then grumbled about for like 20 hours straight.
However, even though I hate to admit it, I actually enjoy doing my Pes's carpool these days. He and the five other 10-year-old boys are entertaining. I learn much valuable information to take with me straight to parent-teacher conferences. And, because of the cooler weather, my Febreeze has been safely tucked away until spring.
This does not mitigate the fact that I firmly believe that carpool laws should be codified, as in "the Shulchan Aruch of Carpool" (l'havdil). I mean, creating a legal structure for carpool is really a job for the most learned statisticians, ethicists, and talmudic scholars. Instead, the people who have the job are moms who might be the slightest bit emotional when it comes to, well, everything. Not to mention the inevitable clashes resulting from vastly different personalities, i.e., hotheaded Mrs. Cake, mellow Katie Drohn, most-experienced Mrs. E, stickler Mrs. X...The alternative, of course, is worse. Who could possibly do that many drop-offs and pick-ups all alone? So we learn to work together to get our children to and from school/activities in a safe and timely manner. Now I'm going to go read this book someone suggested I pick up, you might have heard of it.
I recently volunteered to drive some of the 5th and 6th grade boys to their basketball game. I arrived a few minutes before dismissal, and sat around with the van lights on, listening to the radio, gabbing on the phone, saying hi to Pes's teacher, and, hence, paying no attention whatsoever to my surroundings.
Ladies, let's be honest here, does it ever occur to you that your BFF, your minivan, will just suddenly fail you at the absolutely worst moment? That's right, friends, it is altogether possible that when six boys are in your car jabbering excitedly away about their impending basketball game that you have JUST ENOUGH TIME NOT A SECOND MORE to get to, your car will not start.
Never before have I seen six boys flee a car more quickly to scramble for other rides. Even my usually considerate Pes didn't stop for a second to say, "Mommy, hope you get the car started, gotta go." Or anything else except, "AAARGHH NOOOO!! We have to get to the..." Outta there. Meanwhile, the basketball coach came over and said, "Um, yeah, Mrs. Cake, that's why I've been sitting here with my lights and radio off this whole time. Battery. Gotta go." This is code for, "Lady, I am disappointed in your obvious lack of judgment, however, please volunteer for another carpool soon."
At this point, I felt downright betrayed by my best friend the minivan. And even more importantly, it meant that I didn't get credit for doing basketball carpool. But dependable Rabbi Headmaster was there within seconds with his car and some jumper cables, ready to save the day. And then, as if by magic, a little Lubavitch rabbi came along with one of those gizmos that you just clamp on and voila, the car started! Now, you have to understand, that the small west coast town in which I was raised was populated by blonds named Peter and Jenny, with roots that could be traced straight back to the Vikings, if you get my drift. And here I was with not one but two rabbis, at the ready, handily jump-starting my car. Being overseen by the ten other rabbis in the parking lot. Life has some strange twists.
Anyway, my victory (i.e., getting the car to start again in order to take boys home after the game and, therefore, getting at least half credit for carpool) was short-lived when I received an email from a mom in my non-basketball carpool upon arriving home. It explained, in no uncertain terms, the strife caused by someone forgetting to pick up the non-basketball boys and take them home, hence requiring her to do it. And, therefore, someone had to do her carpool the next day. Since she never called anyone reminding them to pick the boys up and I wasn't actually the one who forgot, and I explained that even if I had been slated to take the boys, poor me my car died, guess what? Of course, silly, I offered to do hers the next day. And then grumbled about for like 20 hours straight.
However, even though I hate to admit it, I actually enjoy doing my Pes's carpool these days. He and the five other 10-year-old boys are entertaining. I learn much valuable information to take with me straight to parent-teacher conferences. And, because of the cooler weather, my Febreeze has been safely tucked away until spring.
This does not mitigate the fact that I firmly believe that carpool laws should be codified, as in "the Shulchan Aruch of Carpool" (l'havdil). I mean, creating a legal structure for carpool is really a job for the most learned statisticians, ethicists, and talmudic scholars. Instead, the people who have the job are moms who might be the slightest bit emotional when it comes to, well, everything. Not to mention the inevitable clashes resulting from vastly different personalities, i.e., hotheaded Mrs. Cake, mellow Katie Drohn, most-experienced Mrs. E, stickler Mrs. X...The alternative, of course, is worse. Who could possibly do that many drop-offs and pick-ups all alone? So we learn to work together to get our children to and from school/activities in a safe and timely manner. Now I'm going to go read this book someone suggested I pick up, you might have heard of it.
How to Win Friends and Influence People
I believe this will help me to better function in carpool. And as an added bonus, maybe in real life too.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
The Gabashians
Mother and Daddy are here in town visiting from the small west coast town in which they dwell. Except for the several weeks a year they "vacation" here. At our house. Now, if you ask me, coming to my house isn't exactly a vacation, but they (Mother) want to hang with the eineklach (grandchildren) and, I have surmised, get an up close and personal view of our day-to-day life. Carpool and all. This is very nice for Mother, as she enjoys being (very, extremely) involved in all aspects of our lives and so keeps herself busy.
Daddy, however, likes to do his projects (OK, stuff we leave for him to do when he gets here because he is very skilled in many areas in which we are not), "work" on the computer, and eat. And watch TV. Now this particular habit has provided an excellent opportunity for us. See, since Mother drags him out our way for several weeks each year, he has finally had enough of our television situation, which is this: We own ONE TV, an old-school 32" one which we keep locked away, only turning it on for our children's weekly Friday afternoon viewing, sporting events, political debates, and my infrequent viewing of reality TV (ahem). Also, it is used for enjoying quality educational movies with Big Shot Husband for sharing and discussing when we're not having our two-person book club or learning Torah together.
Anyway, Daddy has become so agitated each time he visits, he finally just went and bought us a 42" plasma HD etc TV which, I have to say, I was a little reluctant about at first. You see, I am extremely resistant to change. I get thrown if my morning routine gets the slightest bit disturbed (go downstairs, grunt at children, grab phone, check email, grab coffee mug, make coffee, sit in family room, start reading paper). Or if someone wants to change a carpool with me, I get all jittery and nervous about how it will change my schedule for the week. It's just another one of my charming qualities.
However, after all was said and done, and Big Shot Husband put together the TV table for the new TV because normally super-handy Daddy broke his shoulder when he and Mother took a trip (no pun intended) out of state last weekend, and Big Shot Husband showed his true talent at assembling furniture so I will have to have him do more of it, it was time to test it out. The new TV. As we sat watching an educational show last night on PBS about turtles and other nature-oriented stuff in HD (those turtles sure look different in HD, you can see the flaws on their faces a lot more), I said to Big Shot Husband, "I am falling in love. With this TV." We sat glued to it, barely able to speak. "Thank you so much," said BiSH to Mother and Daddy. "I love this TV."
It did entail some work on my part, this new TV. It is no simple task to figure out how to not only find the HD channels corresponding to the regular old ones, but also to then change all the DVR settings appropriately. We looked through our series recordings and worked on changing them one by one. When we got to "Keeping up with the Kardashians," BiSH, Mother and Daddy scoffed and looked over at me. Daddy said, "I think you like the Kardashians because they are like the modern day Gabor sisters." Brilliant Daddy! I knew that's why I have to watch it. Research for my blog/child-rearing.
But I don't really need that TV. I have 7-year-old Eva Gabor Cake living my house. As I watched her in the bath today, I enjoyed the following commentary, "Mommy, I like the hat you're wearing today, but could you wear your black one tomorrow? If it's still raining and you aren't wearing your sheitel? And I love your cardigan with that puffy vest you wore today because it looks kind of like sleeves of a shirt, not a cardigan. And I'm not sure about that dress we picked out for my siddur party, I am not sure if I should wear it with black tights and a white shell, or white tights and a black shell. Actually, I think I want to wear a different dress, ok? I don't like puffy dresses. And I'll wear a silver headband."
Here I interjected, "What if we both wear the headband with the silver flower that we bought together? Wouldn't that be so fun?" I mean, I am not going to lie and be one of those "I don't know where she gets it, I mean I don't care that much about my clothes/makeup/accessories" moms, because, um, I do.
"Mommy," said Eva, "I don't really want to be matchy-patchy."
Momentarily hurt, I quickly snapped out of it and we went to her room to proceed in planning her siddur party outfit ("Oh, you should wear Zsa Zsa's old black patent shoes! Those are so cute and I think they fit you now!" I squealed. See what I mean?). I'm sure this outfit we put together will change 12 times between now and then. Of course I will hold her hand every step of the way because, I mean, that's what moms are for. Oh, and for instilling good values like not caring about what you're wearing and stuff like that. I can work more on that tomorrow. After I watch my new TV.
Daddy, however, likes to do his projects (OK, stuff we leave for him to do when he gets here because he is very skilled in many areas in which we are not), "work" on the computer, and eat. And watch TV. Now this particular habit has provided an excellent opportunity for us. See, since Mother drags him out our way for several weeks each year, he has finally had enough of our television situation, which is this: We own ONE TV, an old-school 32" one which we keep locked away, only turning it on for our children's weekly Friday afternoon viewing, sporting events, political debates, and my infrequent viewing of reality TV (ahem). Also, it is used for enjoying quality educational movies with Big Shot Husband for sharing and discussing when we're not having our two-person book club or learning Torah together.
Anyway, Daddy has become so agitated each time he visits, he finally just went and bought us a 42" plasma HD etc TV which, I have to say, I was a little reluctant about at first. You see, I am extremely resistant to change. I get thrown if my morning routine gets the slightest bit disturbed (go downstairs, grunt at children, grab phone, check email, grab coffee mug, make coffee, sit in family room, start reading paper). Or if someone wants to change a carpool with me, I get all jittery and nervous about how it will change my schedule for the week. It's just another one of my charming qualities.
However, after all was said and done, and Big Shot Husband put together the TV table for the new TV because normally super-handy Daddy broke his shoulder when he and Mother took a trip (no pun intended) out of state last weekend, and Big Shot Husband showed his true talent at assembling furniture so I will have to have him do more of it, it was time to test it out. The new TV. As we sat watching an educational show last night on PBS about turtles and other nature-oriented stuff in HD (those turtles sure look different in HD, you can see the flaws on their faces a lot more), I said to Big Shot Husband, "I am falling in love. With this TV." We sat glued to it, barely able to speak. "Thank you so much," said BiSH to Mother and Daddy. "I love this TV."
It did entail some work on my part, this new TV. It is no simple task to figure out how to not only find the HD channels corresponding to the regular old ones, but also to then change all the DVR settings appropriately. We looked through our series recordings and worked on changing them one by one. When we got to "Keeping up with the Kardashians," BiSH, Mother and Daddy scoffed and looked over at me. Daddy said, "I think you like the Kardashians because they are like the modern day Gabor sisters." Brilliant Daddy! I knew that's why I have to watch it. Research for my blog/child-rearing.
But I don't really need that TV. I have 7-year-old Eva Gabor Cake living my house. As I watched her in the bath today, I enjoyed the following commentary, "Mommy, I like the hat you're wearing today, but could you wear your black one tomorrow? If it's still raining and you aren't wearing your sheitel? And I love your cardigan with that puffy vest you wore today because it looks kind of like sleeves of a shirt, not a cardigan. And I'm not sure about that dress we picked out for my siddur party, I am not sure if I should wear it with black tights and a white shell, or white tights and a black shell. Actually, I think I want to wear a different dress, ok? I don't like puffy dresses. And I'll wear a silver headband."
Here I interjected, "What if we both wear the headband with the silver flower that we bought together? Wouldn't that be so fun?" I mean, I am not going to lie and be one of those "I don't know where she gets it, I mean I don't care that much about my clothes/makeup/accessories" moms, because, um, I do.
"Mommy," said Eva, "I don't really want to be matchy-patchy."
Momentarily hurt, I quickly snapped out of it and we went to her room to proceed in planning her siddur party outfit ("Oh, you should wear Zsa Zsa's old black patent shoes! Those are so cute and I think they fit you now!" I squealed. See what I mean?). I'm sure this outfit we put together will change 12 times between now and then. Of course I will hold her hand every step of the way because, I mean, that's what moms are for. Oh, and for instilling good values like not caring about what you're wearing and stuff like that. I can work more on that tomorrow. After I watch my new TV.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Kids say the darndest things
I have to say that I felt very strange writing a post yesterday with absolutely NO mention of my kids. This post should make up for it. I have recently had interactions with each child which pretty much sum up their personalities to a tee. Let's get started.
Tonight I watched Pes (Perfect eldest son) at Tae Kwon Do. The head teacher routinely asks the kids who wants to go with each teacher for their drills. Now the teachers are mostly teenagers or young adults with higher belts who hold targets and help with the drills. So tonight, Head Teacher asks, "Who wants to go with Teacher A?" Silence from 25 children. Fifty hands at 50 sides. Teacher A looks a little sad, he is just a nerdy teenager after all. I feel bad for him. Pes looks around the quiet room, looks at Teacher A and his hand shoots up. I am proud.
I picked up the The Gabor Sisters from school yesterday and took them to the mall to pick out a present for Eva's 7th birthday which is today (!). As we were walking around the mall, it dawned on me that Zsa Zsa and Eva are so lucky that I pick them up from school every day and am not tied down to some job that precludes me from taking them shopping and other important activities. So of course I said, "Girls, aren't you happy that I pick you up from school every day? Not all Mommys can do that, you know. And I can take you to do fun stuff like shopping after school on a Monday afternoon. You are so lucky. Don't you appreciate me?"
"Mommy," Zsa Zsa retorted, "Isn't that what Mother's Day is for?"
Now, as an aside, I'd like to say that being a stay-at-home mom is really not as glamorous as I expected it to be. For example, when you ask your children if they appreciate the fact that you are the one picking them up from school every day, they will not say yes automatically because YOU HAVE BEEN PICKING THEM UP FOREVER AND THEY DON'T KNOW ANY DIFFERENTLY. This applies to everything else too. Watching them at Tae Kwon Do, taking them to their check-ups, going to every school performance from two year nursery up, driving for field trips, the parental duties that continue ad infinitum.
Now Eva is a special case. We tell people that she must be treated like the Queen of England. And give the following instructions:
don’t speak until you're spoken to; address her as Your Majesty; say “ma’am” as in jam, not “mar’am” as in smarm
This is not because she's royalty, but because she is, let's say, discerning and, let's also say, moody. This evening my mother-in-law called for Queen Eva's birthday and this was the conversation, "Honeycake," said Mother-in-law, "I wanted to speak to Eva for her birthday," pause, "but only if she's in the mood." She has met Eva before and understands the etiquette.
"She seems Ooooo-kayyy," I stuttered as I saw a black cloud appear over Eva's little face, "You can try." I gave Eva the phone, "Here, it's Grandma, she wants to say Happy Birthday." Eva pursed her beautiful little rosebud mouth and took the phone reluctantly. Here was the conversation (well, this is what I imagined Mother-in-law was saying):
"Eva, Happy Birthday! Such a big girl now, 7 already. How was your day? What did you get for your birthday?"
Eva: "MM. Hmm." Sniffle, whine.
I grabbed the phone, "Sorry, Mother-in-law, she's losing it a little. Thanks for calling." Mother-in-law said, "I understand. It's Eva."
Now my Gorby, while still worthy of his Captain Annoying title, seems to have reached a less-annoying plateau right around his recent fifth birthday. And this has freed up my patience a bit to enjoy his humorous side. Gorby is really a natural-born comedian. He could be a busker. I plan to drop him off downtown with a hat and let him sing and tell jokes all day. However, as my baby, he is very attached to me and likes to call me endlessly on my cell phone while I am out doing afternoon carpool for the other kids.
I will be in the van and the bluetooth starts ringing, "Hi Mommy. Where are you?" "In the car," I say. This is my normal answer. "Call me when you get to the school," says Gorby. "OK," I say. Five minutes later. "Mommy?" "Yeees?" I am getting annoyed. "Don't forget to call me when you get to school." "OK, I'll talk to you later, Gorby, don't keep calling, I need to drive now. It's dangerous to talk on the phone and drive." The bluetooth rings again. Sigh. I let voicemail pick up. A couple minutes later I'll check the voicemail, "Mommy, it's Gorby. I am calling you. Call me back. 867-5309." That's my cell phone number.
Here I must insert that no matter how treacherous my drive is, I will answer if I see it's one of my friends calling. Especially my friend Katie Drohn. This is a pseudonym. I talk to her at least once a day, usually more. And while I tell my kids, "Don't pass me your garbage, don't be so noisy, don't irritate me now, I'm not putting a different CD in, it's dangerous, I'm driving," it's usually because I don't want them to pass me garbage, be so noisy, irritate me and I don't want to put in another CD. Not because it's dangerous.
So the other day I was driving and this whole phone sequence with Gorby played out. I told him again how dangerous it is to talk and drive even with the bluetooth. I let the call go to voice mail twice. He called again, I answered. "Hello," he says, "It's Katie Drohn."
Tonight I watched Pes (Perfect eldest son) at Tae Kwon Do. The head teacher routinely asks the kids who wants to go with each teacher for their drills. Now the teachers are mostly teenagers or young adults with higher belts who hold targets and help with the drills. So tonight, Head Teacher asks, "Who wants to go with Teacher A?" Silence from 25 children. Fifty hands at 50 sides. Teacher A looks a little sad, he is just a nerdy teenager after all. I feel bad for him. Pes looks around the quiet room, looks at Teacher A and his hand shoots up. I am proud.
I picked up the The Gabor Sisters from school yesterday and took them to the mall to pick out a present for Eva's 7th birthday which is today (!). As we were walking around the mall, it dawned on me that Zsa Zsa and Eva are so lucky that I pick them up from school every day and am not tied down to some job that precludes me from taking them shopping and other important activities. So of course I said, "Girls, aren't you happy that I pick you up from school every day? Not all Mommys can do that, you know. And I can take you to do fun stuff like shopping after school on a Monday afternoon. You are so lucky. Don't you appreciate me?"
"Mommy," Zsa Zsa retorted, "Isn't that what Mother's Day is for?"
Now, as an aside, I'd like to say that being a stay-at-home mom is really not as glamorous as I expected it to be. For example, when you ask your children if they appreciate the fact that you are the one picking them up from school every day, they will not say yes automatically because YOU HAVE BEEN PICKING THEM UP FOREVER AND THEY DON'T KNOW ANY DIFFERENTLY. This applies to everything else too. Watching them at Tae Kwon Do, taking them to their check-ups, going to every school performance from two year nursery up, driving for field trips, the parental duties that continue ad infinitum.
Now Eva is a special case. We tell people that she must be treated like the Queen of England. And give the following instructions:
don’t speak until you're spoken to; address her as Your Majesty; say “ma’am” as in jam, not “mar’am” as in smarm
This is not because she's royalty, but because she is, let's say, discerning and, let's also say, moody. This evening my mother-in-law called for Queen Eva's birthday and this was the conversation, "Honeycake," said Mother-in-law, "I wanted to speak to Eva for her birthday," pause, "but only if she's in the mood." She has met Eva before and understands the etiquette.
"She seems Ooooo-kayyy," I stuttered as I saw a black cloud appear over Eva's little face, "You can try." I gave Eva the phone, "Here, it's Grandma, she wants to say Happy Birthday." Eva pursed her beautiful little rosebud mouth and took the phone reluctantly. Here was the conversation (well, this is what I imagined Mother-in-law was saying):
"Eva, Happy Birthday! Such a big girl now, 7 already. How was your day? What did you get for your birthday?"
Eva: "MM. Hmm." Sniffle, whine.
I grabbed the phone, "Sorry, Mother-in-law, she's losing it a little. Thanks for calling." Mother-in-law said, "I understand. It's Eva."
Now my Gorby, while still worthy of his Captain Annoying title, seems to have reached a less-annoying plateau right around his recent fifth birthday. And this has freed up my patience a bit to enjoy his humorous side. Gorby is really a natural-born comedian. He could be a busker. I plan to drop him off downtown with a hat and let him sing and tell jokes all day. However, as my baby, he is very attached to me and likes to call me endlessly on my cell phone while I am out doing afternoon carpool for the other kids.
I will be in the van and the bluetooth starts ringing, "Hi Mommy. Where are you?" "In the car," I say. This is my normal answer. "Call me when you get to the school," says Gorby. "OK," I say. Five minutes later. "Mommy?" "Yeees?" I am getting annoyed. "Don't forget to call me when you get to school." "OK, I'll talk to you later, Gorby, don't keep calling, I need to drive now. It's dangerous to talk on the phone and drive." The bluetooth rings again. Sigh. I let voicemail pick up. A couple minutes later I'll check the voicemail, "Mommy, it's Gorby. I am calling you. Call me back. 867-5309." That's my cell phone number.
Here I must insert that no matter how treacherous my drive is, I will answer if I see it's one of my friends calling. Especially my friend Katie Drohn. This is a pseudonym. I talk to her at least once a day, usually more. And while I tell my kids, "Don't pass me your garbage, don't be so noisy, don't irritate me now, I'm not putting a different CD in, it's dangerous, I'm driving," it's usually because I don't want them to pass me garbage, be so noisy, irritate me and I don't want to put in another CD. Not because it's dangerous.
So the other day I was driving and this whole phone sequence with Gorby played out. I told him again how dangerous it is to talk and drive even with the bluetooth. I let the call go to voice mail twice. He called again, I answered. "Hello," he says, "It's Katie Drohn."
Monday, November 14, 2011
I want my MTV
I like quality television just as much as the next gal. This is why, as I was perusing the digital guide the other day, I decided to take a quick peek at a show I have occasionally happened upon before. This show is on the network MTV and it is called "True Life." Now, I just want to say a couple of things about MTV. First, I remember the excitement surrounding MTV's launch in 1981. At Shabbos lunch this week, my very gefrumpt friend said, "Do you remember the first video that aired on MTV? Video Killed the Radio Star!!!" We both made exclamatory noises.
I also remember how exciting it was when I was in high school and "The Real World" first aired. This was the first actual reality TV show, which now, as a genre, has hijacked television broadcasting and is filled with a lot of shtuss (silliness), though I will admit that I enjoy some of it tremendously. I mean, I wouldn't watch Kardashians or Real Housewives or anything ;) but...
So the other day, as I was innocently searching for a documentary on the important scientific discoveries of the last century, I stumbled upon "True Life: I Am Addicted to Exercise." How could I not watch that instead? One of the participants was a 20-something ex-alcoholic named Megan who obsessively worked out after getting sober. The therapists, ex-drunk friends, and MTV producers all managed to get together and figure out that in exercising several hours a day and not frequenting bars, Megan was substituting one addiction for another. Brilliant. Wow. I mean, WAY more interesting than scientific discoveries or some other mumbo jumbo. This is REAL LIFE.
Anyway, when Megan realized that she needed to, like, get a job so she wouldn't keep obsessing over working out, guess where she applied for a job? Yep, you guessed it, a gym!!!! This is where I turned off the TV and quietly slunk away. You see, dear readers, I have long said that it is my dream to work at...Starbucks. I mean, I may as well, right? I am waiting for True Life: I Am Addicted to Starbucks. If you see that MTV is looking for participants, let me know.
Meanwhile, the most useful "True Life" episode I have watched is "True Life: I Live in Saudi Arabia." This True Life episode profiled young people who are unwilling to conform to the strict standards of living in Saudi Arabia. Strict standards is a massive understatement. OK, now I am not talking about the strictures we religious fanatics around here adhere to like keeping kosher, dressing modestly, covering our hair, keeping the Sabbath etc, which may seem very stringent to some.
I am talking about, um, freedom of any kind. Like there is none. And I'm pretty sure that reality TV is not allowed. The coolest was this group of metal heads who kept trying to find a venue in Saudi Arabia to play their music. WAS NOT HAPPENING. And I loved the part where the 20 year old woman had to dress up like a boy so she could ride a bike in public. It needs to be mandatory viewing for all Americans, this True Life episode, to remind us that we too often take freedom for granted.
Theoretically, as in, if I were to touch him with a ten foot pole, I would like to share the important freedom lesson with a fellow Starbuckian named Pervy Irv. I see him around town (in all the Starbucks I frequent) pretty often and he looks, well, pervy. I have tried to sit as far as possible from him what with his wild eyes, long icky hair and scary face. One day, I was innocently "working" at Starbucks when I saw some big huge guy looking at Pervy Irv's screen.
"Dude!" he exclaimed, "There are CHILDREN here." Then he marched off to the manager, who promptly took her green-aproned self and confronted Irv with, "Sir, you may not view those kinds of images in our store. If I see this again, you will not be able to use our wifi." The best was that Irv just stayed where he was! Oh no, big threat, can't use their wifi. In Saudi Arabia, all content is blocked. Like everything. And if you do something wrong and get caught, it's curtains for you.
But here, in America, Pervy Irv could just peep at whatever he wanted, until he was busted by Miss Green Apron. So he just moved on to the Starbucks one zip code over (yes, I saw him there the next day). But on this day, I kept my head down and tried to avoid eye contact with any of the other Starbucks customers. But I was grinning, because I was just so proud to be an American.
I also remember how exciting it was when I was in high school and "The Real World" first aired. This was the first actual reality TV show, which now, as a genre, has hijacked television broadcasting and is filled with a lot of shtuss (silliness), though I will admit that I enjoy some of it tremendously. I mean, I wouldn't watch Kardashians or Real Housewives or anything ;) but...
So the other day, as I was innocently searching for a documentary on the important scientific discoveries of the last century, I stumbled upon "True Life: I Am Addicted to Exercise." How could I not watch that instead? One of the participants was a 20-something ex-alcoholic named Megan who obsessively worked out after getting sober. The therapists, ex-drunk friends, and MTV producers all managed to get together and figure out that in exercising several hours a day and not frequenting bars, Megan was substituting one addiction for another. Brilliant. Wow. I mean, WAY more interesting than scientific discoveries or some other mumbo jumbo. This is REAL LIFE.
Anyway, when Megan realized that she needed to, like, get a job so she wouldn't keep obsessing over working out, guess where she applied for a job? Yep, you guessed it, a gym!!!! This is where I turned off the TV and quietly slunk away. You see, dear readers, I have long said that it is my dream to work at...Starbucks. I mean, I may as well, right? I am waiting for True Life: I Am Addicted to Starbucks. If you see that MTV is looking for participants, let me know.
Meanwhile, the most useful "True Life" episode I have watched is "True Life: I Live in Saudi Arabia." This True Life episode profiled young people who are unwilling to conform to the strict standards of living in Saudi Arabia. Strict standards is a massive understatement. OK, now I am not talking about the strictures we religious fanatics around here adhere to like keeping kosher, dressing modestly, covering our hair, keeping the Sabbath etc, which may seem very stringent to some.
I am talking about, um, freedom of any kind. Like there is none. And I'm pretty sure that reality TV is not allowed. The coolest was this group of metal heads who kept trying to find a venue in Saudi Arabia to play their music. WAS NOT HAPPENING. And I loved the part where the 20 year old woman had to dress up like a boy so she could ride a bike in public. It needs to be mandatory viewing for all Americans, this True Life episode, to remind us that we too often take freedom for granted.
Theoretically, as in, if I were to touch him with a ten foot pole, I would like to share the important freedom lesson with a fellow Starbuckian named Pervy Irv. I see him around town (in all the Starbucks I frequent) pretty often and he looks, well, pervy. I have tried to sit as far as possible from him what with his wild eyes, long icky hair and scary face. One day, I was innocently "working" at Starbucks when I saw some big huge guy looking at Pervy Irv's screen.
"Dude!" he exclaimed, "There are CHILDREN here." Then he marched off to the manager, who promptly took her green-aproned self and confronted Irv with, "Sir, you may not view those kinds of images in our store. If I see this again, you will not be able to use our wifi." The best was that Irv just stayed where he was! Oh no, big threat, can't use their wifi. In Saudi Arabia, all content is blocked. Like everything. And if you do something wrong and get caught, it's curtains for you.
But here, in America, Pervy Irv could just peep at whatever he wanted, until he was busted by Miss Green Apron. So he just moved on to the Starbucks one zip code over (yes, I saw him there the next day). But on this day, I kept my head down and tried to avoid eye contact with any of the other Starbucks customers. But I was grinning, because I was just so proud to be an American.
Friday, November 4, 2011
The big turkey up the street
I live in a heavily Orthodox Jewish neighborhood. However, our part of the neighborhood is a quiet subdivision with a mixture of families, including non-Jews. Most of these neighbors, I have to admit, I don't know at all. I believe that maybe they are afraid of us. I don't blame them. You see, our Saturdays include parading around in our finery and entertaining hoardes of people, including lots of children who run wild in our yard. For the most part, we coexist peacefully, wave hello and continue on our merry way. It's especially quiet on our block as we have double cul-de-sacs and back to the woods (see post "Babes in the Woods").
We have a new neighbor up the hill. I met her recently when she was walking her two ENORMOUS dogs past my house as I was unloading the groceries.
""Hi," she said, "I just moved in up the street."
I looked around to see if she was talking to me. It's not the norm for a random stranger to talk to me like that. People tend to keep to themselves around here if they don't already recognize one another.
"Um, hi," I said. "Those are some big dogs you have there." I forgot to welcome her to the neighborhood.
"Yes," she said, "I like to walk them in the woods."
"Oh, my friends always tell me not to go back there because it's dangerous but I love to run there," I said. "Maybe I could borrow one of your dogs one day."
Why I said this, I have no idea. I do not like dogs, am terrified of them, and would not know what to do with one if I had it in the woods. It is likely more dangerous for me to run with a dog than without.
I waved good-bye and went back to unloading the groceries.
Fast-forward several weeks. I drive down the street one day and see, on the front lawn of her house, a GINORMOUS INFLATABLE PUMPKIN FOR HALLOWEEN. My children, of course, had many queries about this like, "Why is there a ginormous pumpkin for Halloween in their front yard? Maybe they don't know there are a lot of Jewish people around here."
You see, most of the kids around here are Orthodox and, thus, do not trick-or-treat. My kids happen to be endlessly curious about the holiday and can't quite get a grasp on it. There was a whole discussion of it on the field trip I chaperoned for Pes's 5th grade class on Monday. Everyone shared their stories of what they do apropos to trick-or-treaters. Candy or no candy? Answer the door or leave a basket and note on the front porch? Lights on or off?
Now, to me, Halloween is pretty straightforward. And having grown up as a Halloweenophile, I feel a little sorry for my kids that they won't have it. I mean, I don't know what is so baffling about it. I'm like, "Zsa Zsa, try to explain Shemini Atzeres to those kids up the street." Not as easy as Halloween.
Anyway, I was psyched on Tuesday when that pumpkin was deflated and put away. The sad little ghost affixed to the mailbox was still there but overall, the front yard was clear. And though I think there are children who live there, I have seen neither hide nor hair of them. This is contrary to my house, which currently has 27 baseball bats in the front yard and,thus, always screams, "Children live here!" even if just with the stuff they leave in the yard. However, as I drove down the hill yesterday, I was flabbergasted to find that A GINORMOUS INFLATABLE TURKEY has replaced that pumpkin. In my opinion, this is way worse than the baseball bats.
I told my friend, Mrs. C, that I believe the housing values will plummet from such ridiculousness and I am embarrassed to have people over now with such an eyesore up the street. She said, "Invite people over in the summer when there are no holidays." She's Canadian, so I guess she doesn't know about the Fourth of July.
We have a new neighbor up the hill. I met her recently when she was walking her two ENORMOUS dogs past my house as I was unloading the groceries.
""Hi," she said, "I just moved in up the street."
I looked around to see if she was talking to me. It's not the norm for a random stranger to talk to me like that. People tend to keep to themselves around here if they don't already recognize one another.
"Um, hi," I said. "Those are some big dogs you have there." I forgot to welcome her to the neighborhood.
"Yes," she said, "I like to walk them in the woods."
"Oh, my friends always tell me not to go back there because it's dangerous but I love to run there," I said. "Maybe I could borrow one of your dogs one day."
Why I said this, I have no idea. I do not like dogs, am terrified of them, and would not know what to do with one if I had it in the woods. It is likely more dangerous for me to run with a dog than without.
I waved good-bye and went back to unloading the groceries.
Fast-forward several weeks. I drive down the street one day and see, on the front lawn of her house, a GINORMOUS INFLATABLE PUMPKIN FOR HALLOWEEN. My children, of course, had many queries about this like, "Why is there a ginormous pumpkin for Halloween in their front yard? Maybe they don't know there are a lot of Jewish people around here."
You see, most of the kids around here are Orthodox and, thus, do not trick-or-treat. My kids happen to be endlessly curious about the holiday and can't quite get a grasp on it. There was a whole discussion of it on the field trip I chaperoned for Pes's 5th grade class on Monday. Everyone shared their stories of what they do apropos to trick-or-treaters. Candy or no candy? Answer the door or leave a basket and note on the front porch? Lights on or off?
Now, to me, Halloween is pretty straightforward. And having grown up as a Halloweenophile, I feel a little sorry for my kids that they won't have it. I mean, I don't know what is so baffling about it. I'm like, "Zsa Zsa, try to explain Shemini Atzeres to those kids up the street." Not as easy as Halloween.
Anyway, I was psyched on Tuesday when that pumpkin was deflated and put away. The sad little ghost affixed to the mailbox was still there but overall, the front yard was clear. And though I think there are children who live there, I have seen neither hide nor hair of them. This is contrary to my house, which currently has 27 baseball bats in the front yard and,thus, always screams, "Children live here!" even if just with the stuff they leave in the yard. However, as I drove down the hill yesterday, I was flabbergasted to find that A GINORMOUS INFLATABLE TURKEY has replaced that pumpkin. In my opinion, this is way worse than the baseball bats.
I told my friend, Mrs. C, that I believe the housing values will plummet from such ridiculousness and I am embarrassed to have people over now with such an eyesore up the street. She said, "Invite people over in the summer when there are no holidays." She's Canadian, so I guess she doesn't know about the Fourth of July.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
I got schooled by a dental hygienist
The issue of me not being the most mellow mother in the world came up again just this week. Imagine! I took all four lovely children to the dentist to get their little pearls polished and eagerly sat on the chair in the corner holding myself back from watching each tooth as it was examined. Except for when I jumped up and peered in when invited by the friendly hygienist.
"See this tartar here?" she asked when cleaning Eva's teeth. "She really needs to brush better behind her bottom front teeth," she tsk-ed.
"Well," I said, "I actually brush their teeth most of the time."
A look of astonishment washed over Hygienist Henrietta's face. "You brush ALL of their teeth? Even Pes (Perfect Eldest Son, yes he's 10 years old)?"
"Well," I stammered, "I do let Pes and Zsa Zsa (age 8) brush their own. Sometimes."
"Boy!" she bellowed, "Are you controlling or what?" I looked around, hoping nobody was listening to this nonsense. "Wait until they're teenagers. They are going to seriously rebel!"
Now, I find it very hard to believe that I am the ONLY Jewish mother she has ever encountered who still helps their children brush their teeth. I mean, a bad dental report reflects mostly on whom? Yes, that's right, on ME! She already criticized the way I was brushing Eva's bottom teeth (a job on which I apparently also fell down in Gorby's sweet 5-year-old mouth). What does she think would happen if I (G-d forbid) let them brush their own teeth ALL THE TIME? She is crazy.
Then I got to thinking. Maybe it would be wise to trust them to, say, brush their own teeth more often. Maybe, as they get older, they will be unhappy that I don't trust them to care for their own teeth properly. I, for example, am annoyed when Mother and I have the following conversation every three months:
"So," starts Mother, "I know Dr. So-and-So has been practicing medicine since the 1960's but has he been ordering blood tests for you frequently enough?" (I have a condition that requires me to have blood tests every so often. Mother would like this to be exactly quarterly.)
"Yes, Mother," I say and roll my eyes even though she can't see it over the phone.
"Are you sure? When's the last time you had bloodwork done? I just want to make sure you stay as healthy as you are now keyn ayin hara."
"Mother, it's fine!" I snap. I can see her worried face over the phone but know she will drop it now before I blow a gasket and remind her that I am THIRTY-SEVEN YEARS OLD.
This loving quality of being in control of every movement your child makes is clearly, I believe, a) genetic and b) ethnic. The stereotype is there for a reason, people.
So maybe today when my children arrive home I will ask them if they have homework only five times instead of 25 times. Maybe I should just trust them to do their own homework now. After all, what do I care if they even do their homework in the first place? I mean, it's not MY homework. I'm not the one in the lower math group (see my post "I've become one of THOSE mothers").
Except I am. And I always will be. What Henrietta doesn't know is that I have everything under control at my house at all times. And woe betide anyone who tries to get in the way of that. I think Pes, Zsa Zsa, and Eva have cottoned on to this already. And Gorby is coming right along.
When all four of my beautiful K"H children are teenagers, I will march in to that dental hygienist and say, "See! They are not rebels, they are perfect in every way. They excel in school, do chesed projects without prompting, have a wide circle of friends and are respectful of their elders. And look at their gleaming teeth. Don't I do such a good job of brushing?"
"See this tartar here?" she asked when cleaning Eva's teeth. "She really needs to brush better behind her bottom front teeth," she tsk-ed.
"Well," I said, "I actually brush their teeth most of the time."
A look of astonishment washed over Hygienist Henrietta's face. "You brush ALL of their teeth? Even Pes (Perfect Eldest Son, yes he's 10 years old)?"
"Well," I stammered, "I do let Pes and Zsa Zsa (age 8) brush their own. Sometimes."
"Boy!" she bellowed, "Are you controlling or what?" I looked around, hoping nobody was listening to this nonsense. "Wait until they're teenagers. They are going to seriously rebel!"
Now, I find it very hard to believe that I am the ONLY Jewish mother she has ever encountered who still helps their children brush their teeth. I mean, a bad dental report reflects mostly on whom? Yes, that's right, on ME! She already criticized the way I was brushing Eva's bottom teeth (a job on which I apparently also fell down in Gorby's sweet 5-year-old mouth). What does she think would happen if I (G-d forbid) let them brush their own teeth ALL THE TIME? She is crazy.
Then I got to thinking. Maybe it would be wise to trust them to, say, brush their own teeth more often. Maybe, as they get older, they will be unhappy that I don't trust them to care for their own teeth properly. I, for example, am annoyed when Mother and I have the following conversation every three months:
"So," starts Mother, "I know Dr. So-and-So has been practicing medicine since the 1960's but has he been ordering blood tests for you frequently enough?" (I have a condition that requires me to have blood tests every so often. Mother would like this to be exactly quarterly.)
"Yes, Mother," I say and roll my eyes even though she can't see it over the phone.
"Are you sure? When's the last time you had bloodwork done? I just want to make sure you stay as healthy as you are now keyn ayin hara."
"Mother, it's fine!" I snap. I can see her worried face over the phone but know she will drop it now before I blow a gasket and remind her that I am THIRTY-SEVEN YEARS OLD.
This loving quality of being in control of every movement your child makes is clearly, I believe, a) genetic and b) ethnic. The stereotype is there for a reason, people.
So maybe today when my children arrive home I will ask them if they have homework only five times instead of 25 times. Maybe I should just trust them to do their own homework now. After all, what do I care if they even do their homework in the first place? I mean, it's not MY homework. I'm not the one in the lower math group (see my post "I've become one of THOSE mothers").
Except I am. And I always will be. What Henrietta doesn't know is that I have everything under control at my house at all times. And woe betide anyone who tries to get in the way of that. I think Pes, Zsa Zsa, and Eva have cottoned on to this already. And Gorby is coming right along.
When all four of my beautiful K"H children are teenagers, I will march in to that dental hygienist and say, "See! They are not rebels, they are perfect in every way. They excel in school, do chesed projects without prompting, have a wide circle of friends and are respectful of their elders. And look at their gleaming teeth. Don't I do such a good job of brushing?"
Monday, October 24, 2011
My baby turns 5
In honor of Gorby's fifth birthday (kein ayin hara pu pu pu, I am an 80 year old grandmother), I am writing an entry all about him. Because when the clock strikes midnight, my youngest child will be five and I will no longer have any babies at home and I will be a little sad. Ironically, for many years, this was my fondest wish. I saw a mother in the parking lot today with four kids six and under and I thought, "Holy cannoli! That woman must be insane. How can she possibly care for all those tiny children?"
And then I remembered that I DID THAT. On a plane to Israel. And back. In restaurants. On long car trips. And all that time I thought, over and over, when will this end? And suddenly, I will wake up tomorrow and it will be done. I no longer have babies. I have no bottles, no diaper bags, no pacifiers, no adorable little onesies, no 7 o'clock sharp bedtime, no little boys' curls until age 3, no first days of preschool. . .
Now, lest you think me uncharacteristically sentimental, let me remind you that I did originally nickname my youngest son "Stalin" in this blog. This was not accidental. Gorby is all kinds of annoying, like, the majority of the time. In fact, Big Shot Husband came up with an even better nickname for him recently: "Captain Annoying." He is so extremely talented at being annoying, I believe it is safe to say that he could be a professional.
He started out life in a very traumatic way. For me. He was almost born in the car, which meant that I had him without an epidural. I liken his birth to that of a farmer woman who squats in the field and just, oops, out comes the baby. But he was perfect and healthy, thank G-d, and five years later I have almost gotten over the PTSD I suffered from the primitive conditions in which he was born. No epidural, no five-star hospital (no time to get there), no IV (!), and a resident delivery. The indignities.
He was an easy baby, my Gorby. I could take him anywhere. He was the only one who wasn't a complete embarrassment in public. And I would mistakenly say this very thing to other people. Word of advice, NEVER TELL ANYONE WHAT AN EASY BABY YOU HAVE BECAUSE IT IS A GUARANTEE THAT HE WILL BECOME POSSESSED BY AN EVIL RUSSIAN DICTATOR IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT WHEN HE IS ABOUT THREE YEARS OLD AND IT WILL TAKE YEARS BEFORE HE BECOMES TOLERABLE. I hope.
So here we are, on the eve of Gorby's fifth birthday and I can honestly say that the only reason I haven't sold him to the Gypsies is because a) I unfortunately have to be really careful about my adherence to the law in all situations because of Big Shot Husband, and b) I would miss him.
I would miss his little endearing habits like asking me over and over, "What's your name?" with a weird little smile on his face. I am sure Sanjay would also miss this (see post "Reader Comment and Are You Jewish?"). Or his daily calls on my cell phone crying because I didn't pick him up from school. Like every other day of the week. Or his interrogations, like on the day he called and said:
"Hi Mommy, what are you doing?"
"Oh, I am about to go pick up your siblings from school."
"Who are you with?"
"Mrs. E and Mrs F."
"Are you at Starbucks?"
So busted!!
How is it that he only knows like 10 of his letters but has memorized my cell phone number and is adept at dialing it. Over and over. Day in and day out. For the hour and a half a day I am not with him.
And though he gets on my nerves (and those of every other member of the household) at least thrice daily, he is, after all, my baby. When he got up from the table after dinner this evening he said, "Captain Annoying strikes again! What's your name? Can I be un-scused?"
I welled up a little. Because one of these days, Captain Annoying will become Captain Mildly Irritating and then Captain You Thought I'd Never Grow Up Mommy But Look At Me I Did. But until then, I will sneak into his room every night and stare at his sweaty little head, rub cream on his bumpy little eczema fingers, and say to myself, "Remember how cute he is when he is all up in your face tomorrow. Breathe deeply. And DON'T call those Gypsies. You have Big Shot Husband's reputation to protect."
And then I remembered that I DID THAT. On a plane to Israel. And back. In restaurants. On long car trips. And all that time I thought, over and over, when will this end? And suddenly, I will wake up tomorrow and it will be done. I no longer have babies. I have no bottles, no diaper bags, no pacifiers, no adorable little onesies, no 7 o'clock sharp bedtime, no little boys' curls until age 3, no first days of preschool. . .
Now, lest you think me uncharacteristically sentimental, let me remind you that I did originally nickname my youngest son "Stalin" in this blog. This was not accidental. Gorby is all kinds of annoying, like, the majority of the time. In fact, Big Shot Husband came up with an even better nickname for him recently: "Captain Annoying." He is so extremely talented at being annoying, I believe it is safe to say that he could be a professional.
He started out life in a very traumatic way. For me. He was almost born in the car, which meant that I had him without an epidural. I liken his birth to that of a farmer woman who squats in the field and just, oops, out comes the baby. But he was perfect and healthy, thank G-d, and five years later I have almost gotten over the PTSD I suffered from the primitive conditions in which he was born. No epidural, no five-star hospital (no time to get there), no IV (!), and a resident delivery. The indignities.
He was an easy baby, my Gorby. I could take him anywhere. He was the only one who wasn't a complete embarrassment in public. And I would mistakenly say this very thing to other people. Word of advice, NEVER TELL ANYONE WHAT AN EASY BABY YOU HAVE BECAUSE IT IS A GUARANTEE THAT HE WILL BECOME POSSESSED BY AN EVIL RUSSIAN DICTATOR IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT WHEN HE IS ABOUT THREE YEARS OLD AND IT WILL TAKE YEARS BEFORE HE BECOMES TOLERABLE. I hope.
So here we are, on the eve of Gorby's fifth birthday and I can honestly say that the only reason I haven't sold him to the Gypsies is because a) I unfortunately have to be really careful about my adherence to the law in all situations because of Big Shot Husband, and b) I would miss him.
I would miss his little endearing habits like asking me over and over, "What's your name?" with a weird little smile on his face. I am sure Sanjay would also miss this (see post "Reader Comment and Are You Jewish?"). Or his daily calls on my cell phone crying because I didn't pick him up from school. Like every other day of the week. Or his interrogations, like on the day he called and said:
"Hi Mommy, what are you doing?"
"Oh, I am about to go pick up your siblings from school."
"Who are you with?"
"Mrs. E and Mrs F."
"Are you at Starbucks?"
So busted!!
How is it that he only knows like 10 of his letters but has memorized my cell phone number and is adept at dialing it. Over and over. Day in and day out. For the hour and a half a day I am not with him.
And though he gets on my nerves (and those of every other member of the household) at least thrice daily, he is, after all, my baby. When he got up from the table after dinner this evening he said, "Captain Annoying strikes again! What's your name? Can I be un-scused?"
I welled up a little. Because one of these days, Captain Annoying will become Captain Mildly Irritating and then Captain You Thought I'd Never Grow Up Mommy But Look At Me I Did. But until then, I will sneak into his room every night and stare at his sweaty little head, rub cream on his bumpy little eczema fingers, and say to myself, "Remember how cute he is when he is all up in your face tomorrow. Breathe deeply. And DON'T call those Gypsies. You have Big Shot Husband's reputation to protect."
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Carpool
I have a lot to say on this topic. I remember when I first discovered the concept of carpool. I was gently introduced to the world of pooling by a more experienced mother who, along with another friend, convinced me that we should share the driving for our preschoolers. This was many years ago. At the time, I was sure that this was a wonderful option. What could be bad about driving a couple of extra kids to the location you are already planning to go, hence sharing the driving, resulting in many fewer drives during the week? What a brilliant concept. But I still remember that first day I picked up the three other little children, strapped them into their carseats, and drove to nursery school. I looked back at the three-year-olds, listened to them chatter, watched them suck their thumbs, and had a panic attack. In retrospect, this was the correct emotion.
Now, I have to say that the carpools I have been involved in have been really nice, flexible, and accommodating and I am friends with all the women I have ever carpooled with TO THIS DAY. But the relationships are fraught with drama. For example, some young children (Eva, ages 2-5) have a complete temper tantrum each time someone comes to the door to pick her up and the mother (moi) has to firmly place the child in the car, sit on top of her, and buckle her in. And leave her shoes and tights in her backpack along with the coat she refuses to put on.
Also, for instance, some people have different ideas of the meaning of the phrase "nursery school starts at 9 AM." One mother I carpooled with (I love you very much you know who you are), used to pull up to my house at 910 for preschool carpool. The school is at least 10 minutes away. Her attitude was, "Who cares? It's only preschool. It's not like they get a late note or something." My attitude was, "I need to get rid of my children as quickly as possible so I can go to Starbucks."
And once your kids are out of preschool and onto elementary school, which is far away and starts at 8:15, getting out the door with your own kids is hard enough, let alone picking up other people's kids. You basically have to start getting ready at 5:43 AM. Especially when you have a newborn and two toddlers, like when Pes was in kindergarten.
And you must realize that even if you do carpool in the morning and your kids are totally ready by 730, it doesn't mean that when you get to House A to pick up Jenny and Bob, they will be running out the door all ready the minute you honk the horn. Each stop robs precious minutes from the trip, and getting to school on time is important when you do get late notes. And by the time you've waited another five minutes at House B for Paul and arrived at school at 814, you are sweating so much and are so exhausted that you just have to go home and take a nap. For the rest of the day. Until you have to pick up afternoon carpool. But this is impossible when you have, say, a screaming baby and two toddlers to take to preschool. For your second carpool of the morning. See where this is going?
So the past couple of years, I have phased out carpool (aside from certain of Perfect Eldest Son's activities, see below) for a wide variety of reasons, some of whom will remain nameless. While most people define carpool as, "a formal arrangement of sharing driving with another family," I have now broadened the definition to, "driving around in circles, which at some point involves picking up mine and/or another person's child/ren."
Recently, for instance, a friend called to ask if I could take a boy home who lives near me. It wasn't really a problem, I was going that way anyway, but I had no idea who the kid was and vice versa. So when I got to school, I said to Rabbi Headmaster, "I have to take Billy home, I have no idea who he is and he has no idea who I am." Rabbi Headmaster wisely yelled into the walky-talky, "Billy has to go with Mrs. Cake, direct him to her car." All taken care of. Except it's weird having a kid in the car you've never met. Because what if they are dangerous or something?
One day not too long ago, I had a most interesting carpool day. It all started around 315 when I got a call from a friend who told me to wait for her at school as she had something to give me. So when I arrived at school around 330, I parked in the lot. Normally I participate in the the Carpool Line. This is a very complicated procedure which involves several adults, many walky-talkies, a lot of praying, and, sometimes, I assume, profanity (not that I would ever engage in that). I believe that there is now a degree program at the University of My State in "Carpool Management" in the Industrial Engineering department.
Anyway, I waited in the parking lot until my lovely friend (whose idea of a 330 pick up is around 350, see what I mean?) arrived, and she gave me the most beautiful gift of a Yiddish book of poems. I was pleased. Then I walked around to where Perfect Eldest Son (Pes) was playing in his afterschool recess before the boys' afternoon learning (called mishmar), and saw his English teacher, resulting in a brief parent/teacher conference. Meanwhile, another friend gave me an awesome present (calendar of Yiddish word a day), and I discussed some fascinating articles in Mishpocha Magazine with another friend. The school parking lot can sometimes be a little like Anatevka.
But this pleasant afternoon was about to take a darker turn. I left school with my girls and arrived home well after 4 with a lot of groceries to unload. I quickly did so, dropped them with my housekeeper and Gorby, and then turned right around and headed back to school. That's right, 25 minutes back to where I had just been, to pick up six 5th grade boys (!) from mishmar and take them all home. After that, I arrived home right around 515 and let Pes change for five minutes and, you guessed it, got back in the car with Pes and picked up 6 completely different boys (!) for basketball practice. Which is located far away. And started at 545. In a completely different direction. And as my last basketball carpool had involved a fistfight in the car (yes, really), I was a little stressed, to say the least. Here was an instance where, "Just pick up a bunch of kids so you have to drive less, what's the big deal, no problem," does not apply. This is where, "Strategic seating, careful balance between mean mom/nice mom, and take deep breaths" is crucial.
Let me just say here that last year was the first year I was introduced to the concept of driving home six boys from mishmar. It was an adjustment. If preschool carpool is the shallow end, mishmar carpool is the entire Atlantic Ocean. Let's just say that the Febreeze I keep in my car has come in handy. And I am lucky that I have suffered some hearing loss and, thus, haven't had to purchase earplugs.
I arrived home after that final carpool at 615. I had started driving at 315. Now, I have lost many brain cells over the years, but I am pretty sure this is three hours. If I had just started driving in one direction on a highway or two, instead of carpooling, I could have been visiting my in-laws. Or been in a well-known gambling location. Or the beach. That was a long afternoon.
However, there are those driving moments when things seem a little brighter. This week, I drove for Gorby's four-year-old preschool class field trip. It was sort of like carpooling because it involved picking up children from one location, taking them to a second location, doing an activity, then taking them back to the preschool (aka, driving in circles). I picked up two little boys (one of them mine) and two little girls, and drove to their activity. We parked, and the boys jumped out and tore up the sidewalk to the waiting group. I got the two little adorable girls out of the minivan, and we meandered slowly up the sidewalk. One said, "I love your shoes." I looked down. They looked down. I was wearing one of my favorite pairs of black flats with the big silver buckle. "Oh, I love them too," I said. Then the other girl said, "I love your shoes and your clothes and your hair." I smiled. Now that is what I call carpooling.
Now, I have to say that the carpools I have been involved in have been really nice, flexible, and accommodating and I am friends with all the women I have ever carpooled with TO THIS DAY. But the relationships are fraught with drama. For example, some young children (Eva, ages 2-5) have a complete temper tantrum each time someone comes to the door to pick her up and the mother (moi) has to firmly place the child in the car, sit on top of her, and buckle her in. And leave her shoes and tights in her backpack along with the coat she refuses to put on.
Also, for instance, some people have different ideas of the meaning of the phrase "nursery school starts at 9 AM." One mother I carpooled with (I love you very much you know who you are), used to pull up to my house at 910 for preschool carpool. The school is at least 10 minutes away. Her attitude was, "Who cares? It's only preschool. It's not like they get a late note or something." My attitude was, "I need to get rid of my children as quickly as possible so I can go to Starbucks."
And once your kids are out of preschool and onto elementary school, which is far away and starts at 8:15, getting out the door with your own kids is hard enough, let alone picking up other people's kids. You basically have to start getting ready at 5:43 AM. Especially when you have a newborn and two toddlers, like when Pes was in kindergarten.
And you must realize that even if you do carpool in the morning and your kids are totally ready by 730, it doesn't mean that when you get to House A to pick up Jenny and Bob, they will be running out the door all ready the minute you honk the horn. Each stop robs precious minutes from the trip, and getting to school on time is important when you do get late notes. And by the time you've waited another five minutes at House B for Paul and arrived at school at 814, you are sweating so much and are so exhausted that you just have to go home and take a nap. For the rest of the day. Until you have to pick up afternoon carpool. But this is impossible when you have, say, a screaming baby and two toddlers to take to preschool. For your second carpool of the morning. See where this is going?
So the past couple of years, I have phased out carpool (aside from certain of Perfect Eldest Son's activities, see below) for a wide variety of reasons, some of whom will remain nameless. While most people define carpool as, "a formal arrangement of sharing driving with another family," I have now broadened the definition to, "driving around in circles, which at some point involves picking up mine and/or another person's child/ren."
Recently, for instance, a friend called to ask if I could take a boy home who lives near me. It wasn't really a problem, I was going that way anyway, but I had no idea who the kid was and vice versa. So when I got to school, I said to Rabbi Headmaster, "I have to take Billy home, I have no idea who he is and he has no idea who I am." Rabbi Headmaster wisely yelled into the walky-talky, "Billy has to go with Mrs. Cake, direct him to her car." All taken care of. Except it's weird having a kid in the car you've never met. Because what if they are dangerous or something?
One day not too long ago, I had a most interesting carpool day. It all started around 315 when I got a call from a friend who told me to wait for her at school as she had something to give me. So when I arrived at school around 330, I parked in the lot. Normally I participate in the the Carpool Line. This is a very complicated procedure which involves several adults, many walky-talkies, a lot of praying, and, sometimes, I assume, profanity (not that I would ever engage in that). I believe that there is now a degree program at the University of My State in "Carpool Management" in the Industrial Engineering department.
Anyway, I waited in the parking lot until my lovely friend (whose idea of a 330 pick up is around 350, see what I mean?) arrived, and she gave me the most beautiful gift of a Yiddish book of poems. I was pleased. Then I walked around to where Perfect Eldest Son (Pes) was playing in his afterschool recess before the boys' afternoon learning (called mishmar), and saw his English teacher, resulting in a brief parent/teacher conference. Meanwhile, another friend gave me an awesome present (calendar of Yiddish word a day), and I discussed some fascinating articles in Mishpocha Magazine with another friend. The school parking lot can sometimes be a little like Anatevka.
But this pleasant afternoon was about to take a darker turn. I left school with my girls and arrived home well after 4 with a lot of groceries to unload. I quickly did so, dropped them with my housekeeper and Gorby, and then turned right around and headed back to school. That's right, 25 minutes back to where I had just been, to pick up six 5th grade boys (!) from mishmar and take them all home. After that, I arrived home right around 515 and let Pes change for five minutes and, you guessed it, got back in the car with Pes and picked up 6 completely different boys (!) for basketball practice. Which is located far away. And started at 545. In a completely different direction. And as my last basketball carpool had involved a fistfight in the car (yes, really), I was a little stressed, to say the least. Here was an instance where, "Just pick up a bunch of kids so you have to drive less, what's the big deal, no problem," does not apply. This is where, "Strategic seating, careful balance between mean mom/nice mom, and take deep breaths" is crucial.
Let me just say here that last year was the first year I was introduced to the concept of driving home six boys from mishmar. It was an adjustment. If preschool carpool is the shallow end, mishmar carpool is the entire Atlantic Ocean. Let's just say that the Febreeze I keep in my car has come in handy. And I am lucky that I have suffered some hearing loss and, thus, haven't had to purchase earplugs.
I arrived home after that final carpool at 615. I had started driving at 315. Now, I have lost many brain cells over the years, but I am pretty sure this is three hours. If I had just started driving in one direction on a highway or two, instead of carpooling, I could have been visiting my in-laws. Or been in a well-known gambling location. Or the beach. That was a long afternoon.
However, there are those driving moments when things seem a little brighter. This week, I drove for Gorby's four-year-old preschool class field trip. It was sort of like carpooling because it involved picking up children from one location, taking them to a second location, doing an activity, then taking them back to the preschool (aka, driving in circles). I picked up two little boys (one of them mine) and two little girls, and drove to their activity. We parked, and the boys jumped out and tore up the sidewalk to the waiting group. I got the two little adorable girls out of the minivan, and we meandered slowly up the sidewalk. One said, "I love your shoes." I looked down. They looked down. I was wearing one of my favorite pairs of black flats with the big silver buckle. "Oh, I love them too," I said. Then the other girl said, "I love your shoes and your clothes and your hair." I smiled. Now that is what I call carpooling.
Monday, October 3, 2011
I've become one of THOSE mothers
It was only a matter of time. I've denied it, tried to act all nonchalant. Like, "Oh, I don't care if Zsa Zsa is giving her all to her school work. I mean, I just want her to be happy." Or, "I don't care if Pes gets into a top college someday. I'm just going to let him figure out his own way of doing things and if it happens, so be it." I think this is a reaction to my upbringing, in which I, every so often (i.e., every day), received lectures like the following from Mother:
"I was an immigrant. I didn't speak a word of English when I arrived in Canada at age 9. Within 3 months, I spoke fluent English, was valedictorian of the fifth grade and captain of the field hockey team. If I got a 99 on a test, I marched straight to the teacher and asked where that extra point was and if I could do extra credit to earn it. Plus, within a few years, I was competing for Miss Large Western Canadian City and came in second. This runner-up status is due to the fact that I was only 5 foot 2. And then I went to medical school. After only 3 years of college. And this was in 1960 when there was no such thing as feminism. . ."
By this point, even though I had heard this a few times before (right, Sister?), I was already internalizing what steps I could take that minute, hour, day and week to achieve perfect scores on EVERYTHING. And be captain of the field hockey team. And the lead in the play. And get awesome SAT scores, blah blah blah.
And though I did amazingly in high school, went to a stellar college, did a master's program in one year flat, and am obviously HUGELY successful, what with my mastery of carpool and Yom Tov menus, my expertise in smothering my children, and my awesome blog (duh), I vowed I would take a different approach with my children. So far, I have managed to delude myself into thinking I have done just that.
Perfect Eldest Son (Pes) has, of course, exceeded my expectations of what a child should do and be academically and intellectually. He has always been recognized at school as a talmid chacham, so I never had to push him to succeed, he just did it himself.
Zsa Zsa, though I did not have high expectations for her, has pleasantly surprised me with her above-average academics and her talents in verbal expression and emotional intelligence. Before you berate me for my low expections comment, let me explain: It happened one day when we were visiting her grandparents in Florida.
She was right around two and mesmerized by the mirrored wall found in all second homes in Florida to create the illusion of space. She stared at it and started walking toward it, pointing, and saying the name of her best friend over and over and then. . .smack. Straight into the mirror. She looked so bewildered and hurt that her best friend smacked into her so hard. And it reminded me of a bird flying right into a window and, well, I wasn't so sure about what was going on in there. Thankfully, things developed well because she is a good little student and an overall wonderful girl.
So up the ranks Eva rose, and she finished kindergarten in June with stellar reports from both teachers. Report cards like I'd never seen for the other two. My hopes were high as a kite and, since I decided to be Tiger Mom over the summer and make the older kids do work, I bought Eva the First Grade Brain Quest book and she proceeded to do the entire book over the summer.
Imagine my surprise, then, when I found out that some girls in her class were already getting math enrichment and Eva was in a lower math group (at least that's what I gathered from her first grade perspective). I was bewildered, since I saw her complete a fairly challenging curriculum over the summer very capably. I decided it was time to make the dreaded phone call. The one that made me one of THOSE MOTHERS.
You may be asking, what happened to, "Just let them be happy. Let the teachers figure out what groups they belong in. Don't try to engineer everything so much. If she's happy, leave her alone."? Obviously, this was all wishful thinking on my part, that I could separate my internal drive from my (s)mothering. For if Eva's not in the top math group, it means I am not in the top math group. And that JUST WILL NOT DO.
Just tonight, Eva's mega-word search with the names of all the girls in her class cleverly hidden in all directions was befuddling everyone in the house. Guess who said,as she snatched the thing out of Eva's hands, "Wait, give it to me. I'm so good at these. Time me, I'm sure I can do it in under ten minutes." And guess who did it in just under 13 minutes? (It was seriously hard, yo).
Meanwhile, I had THE CONVERSATION with Ms. BestfirstgradeteachereverintheworldIloveyou. She was very receptive and promised to reassess Eva given the information I provided and would let me know. So here I wait.
And since Gorby isn't in kindergarten until next year, I feel that I can wait at least another year before forcing him to do extra work and asking what math group he's in. However, his brother, sweet Pes, had something to share with me tonight that gave me some food for thought. Pes started going on about how he wanted to live close to his siblings when he grows up and make sure all the cousins are have close relationships. I smiled and said, "Oh sweetie, that is such a nice thought." Then he said, "Unless, of course, Gorby ends up in jail. Which is very likely. In that case, I'll take care of his kids. Fair?"
Maybe this math group thing isn't the worst thing in the world. Maybe tomorrow I should look into some sort of "Anger Management for Your Preschooler" class. Then I'll buy him Hooked On Phonics. It is a little alarming that Gorby barely knows his letters and he is almost 5. Darn it, there I go again.
"I was an immigrant. I didn't speak a word of English when I arrived in Canada at age 9. Within 3 months, I spoke fluent English, was valedictorian of the fifth grade and captain of the field hockey team. If I got a 99 on a test, I marched straight to the teacher and asked where that extra point was and if I could do extra credit to earn it. Plus, within a few years, I was competing for Miss Large Western Canadian City and came in second. This runner-up status is due to the fact that I was only 5 foot 2. And then I went to medical school. After only 3 years of college. And this was in 1960 when there was no such thing as feminism. . ."
By this point, even though I had heard this a few times before (right, Sister?), I was already internalizing what steps I could take that minute, hour, day and week to achieve perfect scores on EVERYTHING. And be captain of the field hockey team. And the lead in the play. And get awesome SAT scores, blah blah blah.
And though I did amazingly in high school, went to a stellar college, did a master's program in one year flat, and am obviously HUGELY successful, what with my mastery of carpool and Yom Tov menus, my expertise in smothering my children, and my awesome blog (duh), I vowed I would take a different approach with my children. So far, I have managed to delude myself into thinking I have done just that.
Perfect Eldest Son (Pes) has, of course, exceeded my expectations of what a child should do and be academically and intellectually. He has always been recognized at school as a talmid chacham, so I never had to push him to succeed, he just did it himself.
Zsa Zsa, though I did not have high expectations for her, has pleasantly surprised me with her above-average academics and her talents in verbal expression and emotional intelligence. Before you berate me for my low expections comment, let me explain: It happened one day when we were visiting her grandparents in Florida.
She was right around two and mesmerized by the mirrored wall found in all second homes in Florida to create the illusion of space. She stared at it and started walking toward it, pointing, and saying the name of her best friend over and over and then. . .smack. Straight into the mirror. She looked so bewildered and hurt that her best friend smacked into her so hard. And it reminded me of a bird flying right into a window and, well, I wasn't so sure about what was going on in there. Thankfully, things developed well because she is a good little student and an overall wonderful girl.
So up the ranks Eva rose, and she finished kindergarten in June with stellar reports from both teachers. Report cards like I'd never seen for the other two. My hopes were high as a kite and, since I decided to be Tiger Mom over the summer and make the older kids do work, I bought Eva the First Grade Brain Quest book and she proceeded to do the entire book over the summer.
Imagine my surprise, then, when I found out that some girls in her class were already getting math enrichment and Eva was in a lower math group (at least that's what I gathered from her first grade perspective). I was bewildered, since I saw her complete a fairly challenging curriculum over the summer very capably. I decided it was time to make the dreaded phone call. The one that made me one of THOSE MOTHERS.
You may be asking, what happened to, "Just let them be happy. Let the teachers figure out what groups they belong in. Don't try to engineer everything so much. If she's happy, leave her alone."? Obviously, this was all wishful thinking on my part, that I could separate my internal drive from my (s)mothering. For if Eva's not in the top math group, it means I am not in the top math group. And that JUST WILL NOT DO.
Just tonight, Eva's mega-word search with the names of all the girls in her class cleverly hidden in all directions was befuddling everyone in the house. Guess who said,as she snatched the thing out of Eva's hands, "Wait, give it to me. I'm so good at these. Time me, I'm sure I can do it in under ten minutes." And guess who did it in just under 13 minutes? (It was seriously hard, yo).
Meanwhile, I had THE CONVERSATION with Ms. BestfirstgradeteachereverintheworldIloveyou. She was very receptive and promised to reassess Eva given the information I provided and would let me know. So here I wait.
And since Gorby isn't in kindergarten until next year, I feel that I can wait at least another year before forcing him to do extra work and asking what math group he's in. However, his brother, sweet Pes, had something to share with me tonight that gave me some food for thought. Pes started going on about how he wanted to live close to his siblings when he grows up and make sure all the cousins are have close relationships. I smiled and said, "Oh sweetie, that is such a nice thought." Then he said, "Unless, of course, Gorby ends up in jail. Which is very likely. In that case, I'll take care of his kids. Fair?"
Maybe this math group thing isn't the worst thing in the world. Maybe tomorrow I should look into some sort of "Anger Management for Your Preschooler" class. Then I'll buy him Hooked On Phonics. It is a little alarming that Gorby barely knows his letters and he is almost 5. Darn it, there I go again.
Friday, September 23, 2011
My hobbies
Because I am very talented, I have managed to squeeze in a couple of hobbies in between all the carpools that I do. One of these you may have already figured out. It is called Starbucks. This is a very good hobby. Here's why: you can do it alone, with friends, and with children. You can do it on the rare Friday when your Big Shot Husband is working at home and he is nice enough to make you a quesadilla to take and eat it with your coffee. Like a date. You can do it while you're working (or blogging, like I am doing as I type), reading, staring at the people around you wondering why they don't have jobs or filling out school forms. If you build model airplanes as a hobby, for example, you can't do any of these things surrounding the hobby. I feel I have chosen well.
I also enjoy the dog-eat-dog aspect of getting a table at particularly crowded Starbucks where lots of people go to "work." This happened just yesterday. I ended up at the only available table, the one with the wheelchair sign on it. Though I felt a little guilty, there was nobody there who needed it. And since I was doing actual PAID work yesterday, I felt especially justified in grabbing the table because I had lots and lots of articles on diabetes that I was busy summarizing (yes, it is extremely fascinating work, yawn).
OK, so total oops when a couple who were extremely disabled appeared on the scene. The lady looked at me accusingly (yes, she was right), and I jumped up and said, "Ma'am, would you like this table?" "Well, yes,"she said, looking down at her canes (doh!). Of course it took me a million hours to gather the 57 articles I was summarizing, my lunch, my coffee, my computer, my mouse pad and my purse and skedaddle to another table. Cringe. But it was the most exciting thing that happened to me yesterday. Well, almost. Because that brings me to my second hobby: Yiddish!
Every time anyone learns about my passion for the language (which I started learning a year and a half ago now), they invariably ask, "Why?" And look at me as if I am from another planet. They are right. But I also have a theory as to where my Yiddish love stems from. I believe that in the 19th century, I was a lovely shtetl-living girl named Rivka. That's my Hebrew name in real life. My nom de plume is Honeycake, my nom de Jew is Rivka.
Anyway, Rivka lived on a shtetl and was married to a fun-loving Rebbe who loved her for her sharp mind and not-too-shabby looks (work with me, people). He gave her ten children (K"H) and she worked tirelessly to keep their dwelling clean, put good food on the table, educate her children, and tend to the chickens. She was a ba'alas chesed and well-respected in her shtetl. And she spoke tons of Yiddish, duh.
Now, obviously some of Rivka's traits have morphed over the centuries, but the Yiddish loving part is still 100% there. And I firmly believe that because little Rivka worked her fingers to the bone in the shtetl, today this Rivka likes to relax (I mean work) at Starbucks.
So yesterday I trekked back to the JCC for another start of another semester of Yiddish at the JCC!! It was so much fun. This session, we have a new boy in class. His name is Rudy and he's from Brooklyn. And he's in his 70s. Like everyone else in the class. That's right, it's an early-bird special crowd in Intermediate Yiddish, but those are my peeps.
We started off the class with the teacher (who's not that old, maybe 50s), speaking only in Yiddish. Pure heaven. He asked us all to introduce ourselves. Here's what I said:
"Ich heis Lekach. Ich voyn in a shtetl. Ich bin a mame. Un a schreiber!" (My name is Honeycake. I live in a small community with lots of other Orthodox Jews. I am a mother. And a writer). So zayde number 1 asks, "Du bist a schreiber?" (You are a writer?) So I said, "Ich hob a blog.!" Right?! I am plugging Honeycake613 any way I can.
Anyway, here's why I really love Yiddish. It's the only language that is impossible to teach with language tapes (there aren't any), television shows (none), movies (few available), immersion (difficult to impossible--there are no cultural exchange programs with New Square or Mea Shearim). It is a language that is taught with linguistics, history, songs, jokes, and Jewish religion. For example, last night we learned the origins of Slavic words and sounds in Yiddish. That was most of the class. The highlight of the class for me, though, was when our teacher said about a particular imperative, "That's the word you use when you point." Have you ever taken a language class where that sentence was uttered? As the DEFINITION of a word? Awesome.
Lucky for you, I have carpool now because I could go on and on about Yiddish. I will sign off with the following lyrics from a famous Yiddish tune (one of my faves) that I was just thinking about:
A bisl zun a bisl regn
A ruig ort dem kop tzu legn
Abi gezunt ken men gliklakh zayn
A little sun, a little rain [actually a lot of rain today]
A quiet place where things are mellow (or I can lay my head) [I can't believe they wrote about Starbucks back then]
As long as you have your health, you can be happy!
I'll keep reminding myself of that as I slog through traffic to pick up my kids. One thing you can say about the shtetl: no minivans allowed.
I also enjoy the dog-eat-dog aspect of getting a table at particularly crowded Starbucks where lots of people go to "work." This happened just yesterday. I ended up at the only available table, the one with the wheelchair sign on it. Though I felt a little guilty, there was nobody there who needed it. And since I was doing actual PAID work yesterday, I felt especially justified in grabbing the table because I had lots and lots of articles on diabetes that I was busy summarizing (yes, it is extremely fascinating work, yawn).
OK, so total oops when a couple who were extremely disabled appeared on the scene. The lady looked at me accusingly (yes, she was right), and I jumped up and said, "Ma'am, would you like this table?" "Well, yes,"she said, looking down at her canes (doh!). Of course it took me a million hours to gather the 57 articles I was summarizing, my lunch, my coffee, my computer, my mouse pad and my purse and skedaddle to another table. Cringe. But it was the most exciting thing that happened to me yesterday. Well, almost. Because that brings me to my second hobby: Yiddish!
Every time anyone learns about my passion for the language (which I started learning a year and a half ago now), they invariably ask, "Why?" And look at me as if I am from another planet. They are right. But I also have a theory as to where my Yiddish love stems from. I believe that in the 19th century, I was a lovely shtetl-living girl named Rivka. That's my Hebrew name in real life. My nom de plume is Honeycake, my nom de Jew is Rivka.
Anyway, Rivka lived on a shtetl and was married to a fun-loving Rebbe who loved her for her sharp mind and not-too-shabby looks (work with me, people). He gave her ten children (K"H) and she worked tirelessly to keep their dwelling clean, put good food on the table, educate her children, and tend to the chickens. She was a ba'alas chesed and well-respected in her shtetl. And she spoke tons of Yiddish, duh.
Now, obviously some of Rivka's traits have morphed over the centuries, but the Yiddish loving part is still 100% there. And I firmly believe that because little Rivka worked her fingers to the bone in the shtetl, today this Rivka likes to relax (I mean work) at Starbucks.
So yesterday I trekked back to the JCC for another start of another semester of Yiddish at the JCC!! It was so much fun. This session, we have a new boy in class. His name is Rudy and he's from Brooklyn. And he's in his 70s. Like everyone else in the class. That's right, it's an early-bird special crowd in Intermediate Yiddish, but those are my peeps.
We started off the class with the teacher (who's not that old, maybe 50s), speaking only in Yiddish. Pure heaven. He asked us all to introduce ourselves. Here's what I said:
"Ich heis Lekach. Ich voyn in a shtetl. Ich bin a mame. Un a schreiber!" (My name is Honeycake. I live in a small community with lots of other Orthodox Jews. I am a mother. And a writer). So zayde number 1 asks, "Du bist a schreiber?" (You are a writer?) So I said, "Ich hob a blog.!" Right?! I am plugging Honeycake613 any way I can.
Anyway, here's why I really love Yiddish. It's the only language that is impossible to teach with language tapes (there aren't any), television shows (none), movies (few available), immersion (difficult to impossible--there are no cultural exchange programs with New Square or Mea Shearim). It is a language that is taught with linguistics, history, songs, jokes, and Jewish religion. For example, last night we learned the origins of Slavic words and sounds in Yiddish. That was most of the class. The highlight of the class for me, though, was when our teacher said about a particular imperative, "That's the word you use when you point." Have you ever taken a language class where that sentence was uttered? As the DEFINITION of a word? Awesome.
Lucky for you, I have carpool now because I could go on and on about Yiddish. I will sign off with the following lyrics from a famous Yiddish tune (one of my faves) that I was just thinking about:
A bisl zun a bisl regn
A ruig ort dem kop tzu legn
Abi gezunt ken men gliklakh zayn
A little sun, a little rain [actually a lot of rain today]
A quiet place where things are mellow (or I can lay my head) [I can't believe they wrote about Starbucks back then]
As long as you have your health, you can be happy!
I'll keep reminding myself of that as I slog through traffic to pick up my kids. One thing you can say about the shtetl: no minivans allowed.
Monday, September 19, 2011
YouTube is my parenting tool
Since I am the proud mother of a 10-year-old boy (Pes), I have begun to learn a few things about boys in general. I grew up in a house with a sister, and have almost exclusively girl cousins, so I just didn't grow up with boys. Having friends and schoolmates who are boys is one thing, living with them is quite another. One thing I have learned is: they are not big on discussing feelings. If, for example, I were to ask Zsa Zsa or Eva to elucidate the finer points of emotion stratification vis-a-vis friendship disappointment, school stress, or an unsuccessful shopping expedition, we would be here for days. Boys, not so.
There are other differences as well. Pes would be happy if I were not so cognizant of his personal hygiene. We had a discussion on the topic this summer and he said, "Oh, I don't need that (meaning, hygiene). I'm going to be one of those guys who sits on the couch all day eating cheese puffs. I'll be a cheesepuffologist like Rat (see Pearls Before Swine)." OK, then.
Lately, in honor of the upcoming Rosh Hashana holiday, I have been taking stock of my life and trying to institute some improvements. I'm sure you can guess that one of these is to (ding ding ding you guessed it) be a better mother. This evening, I parlayed my resolution into an activity I thought we could all enjoy--It's called watching stuff on YouTube.
It started when I noticed that Zsa Zsa and Pes had begun some sort of synchronized hand clapping/dance thingamajig and what's the first thing I thought of? Of course, Ross and Monica's dance routine, Dick Clark's Rockin' New Year's Eve, first aired Thurs, Dec 16, 1999. Friends. The TV Show. Keep up, Mother.
So I ran to the computer and was like, "Kids, gather 'round, you have to see this it is SOOO funny!" Any chance to run to the computer and watch something at my house is like feeding raw meat to lions and within seconds, we were all whooping it up with Ross and Monica. They laughed, I laughed, it was great. Then, Pes reminded me that as we were viewing another YouTube video on Rosh Hashana the day before (yes, I know), I got him hooked on "Charlie bit my finger." For those of you who haven't seen this, it is the funniest 56 seconds you will ever see. And it has over 370 MILLION hits so if you haven't seen it yet, I'll give you a second to go do that now.
Good job. We had all had a great laugh, and everyone took turns feeling the scar tissue on my leg. I somberly recounted the war story in which I earned that scar; a two-year-old Gorby biting my leg right through my jean skirt causing a near-fainting episode from the pain. Incidentally, it was Gorby who laughed the absolute hardest at "Charlie bit my finger." Then, it was off to bed.
Around 9 o'clock, Pes came downstairs to say goodnight and since Big Shot Husband was not home yet, I thought this would be a perfect opportunity to gauge how I'm doing as a mother. One thing I always fear is that my kids don't feel loved enough because I can sometimes, once in a while, be a little tad bit critical of them. Knowing that my subject was a 10-year-old boy who wasn't about to give me a lengthy discourse on his psyche, I came up with a clever multiple choice test.
"So, Pes," I said, "Do you feel like I love you?"
"Duh, Mommy, of course," said Pes.
"So, like, if you're at school and you're really upset about something, do you think to yourself:
a) I wish Mommy were here;
b) I can't wait until I can hug Mommy later;
c) I know Mommy loves me; or
d) Charlie Bit My Finger."
Gales of laughter erupted. He shook his head, indicating, I guess, e) None of the above.
"But Mommy," he said, "Today on our field trip when we were doing the pulley thingy when I had to go really high up in the air, I thought to myself, 'My mom would be really proud of me.'" That's all I needed to know.
There are other differences as well. Pes would be happy if I were not so cognizant of his personal hygiene. We had a discussion on the topic this summer and he said, "Oh, I don't need that (meaning, hygiene). I'm going to be one of those guys who sits on the couch all day eating cheese puffs. I'll be a cheesepuffologist like Rat (see Pearls Before Swine)." OK, then.
Lately, in honor of the upcoming Rosh Hashana holiday, I have been taking stock of my life and trying to institute some improvements. I'm sure you can guess that one of these is to (ding ding ding you guessed it) be a better mother. This evening, I parlayed my resolution into an activity I thought we could all enjoy--It's called watching stuff on YouTube.
It started when I noticed that Zsa Zsa and Pes had begun some sort of synchronized hand clapping/dance thingamajig and what's the first thing I thought of? Of course, Ross and Monica's dance routine, Dick Clark's Rockin' New Year's Eve, first aired Thurs, Dec 16, 1999. Friends. The TV Show. Keep up, Mother.
So I ran to the computer and was like, "Kids, gather 'round, you have to see this it is SOOO funny!" Any chance to run to the computer and watch something at my house is like feeding raw meat to lions and within seconds, we were all whooping it up with Ross and Monica. They laughed, I laughed, it was great. Then, Pes reminded me that as we were viewing another YouTube video on Rosh Hashana the day before (yes, I know), I got him hooked on "Charlie bit my finger." For those of you who haven't seen this, it is the funniest 56 seconds you will ever see. And it has over 370 MILLION hits so if you haven't seen it yet, I'll give you a second to go do that now.
Good job. We had all had a great laugh, and everyone took turns feeling the scar tissue on my leg. I somberly recounted the war story in which I earned that scar; a two-year-old Gorby biting my leg right through my jean skirt causing a near-fainting episode from the pain. Incidentally, it was Gorby who laughed the absolute hardest at "Charlie bit my finger." Then, it was off to bed.
Around 9 o'clock, Pes came downstairs to say goodnight and since Big Shot Husband was not home yet, I thought this would be a perfect opportunity to gauge how I'm doing as a mother. One thing I always fear is that my kids don't feel loved enough because I can sometimes, once in a while, be a little tad bit critical of them. Knowing that my subject was a 10-year-old boy who wasn't about to give me a lengthy discourse on his psyche, I came up with a clever multiple choice test.
"So, Pes," I said, "Do you feel like I love you?"
"Duh, Mommy, of course," said Pes.
"So, like, if you're at school and you're really upset about something, do you think to yourself:
a) I wish Mommy were here;
b) I can't wait until I can hug Mommy later;
c) I know Mommy loves me; or
d) Charlie Bit My Finger."
Gales of laughter erupted. He shook his head, indicating, I guess, e) None of the above.
"But Mommy," he said, "Today on our field trip when we were doing the pulley thingy when I had to go really high up in the air, I thought to myself, 'My mom would be really proud of me.'" That's all I needed to know.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Zsa Zsa gets braces
So last week, my Zsa Zsa got braces. This is a good thing since she has some weird things happening in her little mouth. Let's just say that her teeth look she is the progeny of two first cousins marrying. Luckily, she's pretty smart, so the inbreeding didn't seem to affect her intellect. Actually, there are people who have said that Big Shot Husband and I look alike. This is ludicrous. Big Shot Husband is tall, dark and handsome and I am, well, short. And pale. One person actually asked where our families were from (Russia, Poland) and smiled a see-I-knew-it smile. I mean, I'm sure they are onto something since no other Ashkenazic Jews come from those locales. Ahem.
Anyway, have you noticed that certain people are always trying to discuss how your kids resemble/act like/otherwise take after you or your husband? Like, I always get, "Your girls look just like you," or, "Perfect Eldest Son must be JUST LIKE Big Shot Husband when he was that age," or, "Gorby sure is athletic, which one of you is?" This one garners the following response: "It's a mutated recessive gene." I mean, I'm not sure if people are trying to make conversation, or are just interested in that sort of thing. But if the comment is flattering to me, I don't question it too much. Sometimes, however, it's not so flattering. To me.
I had this boss once whom I really respected. He was funny and smart and liked me and I really enjoyed working for him. To be honest, I think the reason he talked to me so often is that he was totally interested in Big Shot Husband's doings, which, at the time, were pretty darn interesting.
So even though he had eight kids of his own, I still thought he would DEFINITELY be interested in what 5- year-old Pes was up to and how smart he was. At that time, I was one of those REALLY ANNOYING parents who tells everyone how brilliant their first-born child is (N.B. to my friends who are reading this: yes, I know I still do this).
Anyway, my boss always seemed impressed with my tales of Pes's newest trick. So one day I was bragging about how Pes could recite all 43 (at the time) presidents in order. (I didn't mention that it was a big fat joke between Pes, Big Shot Husband and Mother that I had never heard of Chester A. Arthur before Pes started his studies). I went on a bit about the Presidents trick and his affinity for chess, and boss looked at me and said, "Wow, he sounds really smart. He must get that from your husband."
Back to Zsa Zsa's braces. We're at the friendly neighborhood orthodontist (yes, he's friendly and we live in the same neighborhood but of course his office is inconveniently located in the next city). I take a deep breath and ruminate on how completely crazy the day had been thus far (it was exactly noon at this point). It was pouring all day, I had done a million errands, I schlepped 25 minutes to school to collect her, then sloshed another 25 minutes in the opposite direction to the orthodontist.
As we arrived, I thought about how this was the end of the day already, as by the time we were finished, we would be heading to preschool to pick up Gorbachev, doing a quick "kill an hour" errand before getting Eva, arriving home at 4+ and doing homework, dinner blahblahblah, culminating in the prodigal son finally returning home after mishmar, basketball etc at 7PM and I know you are so bored by this your eyes are glazing over.
I have noticed of late that since some of my children are cognitively able to intereface at a semi-sophisticated level, I sometimes confide in them. This is usually a mistake. Nonetheless, as we were waiting for the appointment, hanging out in the bathroom, I confided in Zsa Zsa that this appointment really was somewhat inconvenient being right in the middle of the day and we're always rushing around and it's hard to get things done, and the day was over almost as soon as it had begun.
She said, "Mommy, how do the other mommies manage? I mean, Dr./Mrs. E has 6 kids, and Mrs. S has 7 kids, and Mrs.L has 10 kids and the so-and-so's have twelve kids, and they all seem to do it...
Don't worry, you'll get used to it." And she dried her hands and walked confidently out of the bathroom.
I looked after her and sighed. She's eight years old. How many more years of Life Lessons from Zsa Zsa will I have to endure? But of course, she's right. The mommies we know have a million kids and still seem to manage. And one day, G-d willing, she'll be a mommy and she'll complain to me about how much she has to do and how she has 57 carpools, and Shloimy has an ear infection, and Malky needs glasses and the baby was up all night and I'll just say, "Don't worry, you'll get used to it."
Anyway, have you noticed that certain people are always trying to discuss how your kids resemble/act like/otherwise take after you or your husband? Like, I always get, "Your girls look just like you," or, "Perfect Eldest Son must be JUST LIKE Big Shot Husband when he was that age," or, "Gorby sure is athletic, which one of you is?" This one garners the following response: "It's a mutated recessive gene." I mean, I'm not sure if people are trying to make conversation, or are just interested in that sort of thing. But if the comment is flattering to me, I don't question it too much. Sometimes, however, it's not so flattering. To me.
I had this boss once whom I really respected. He was funny and smart and liked me and I really enjoyed working for him. To be honest, I think the reason he talked to me so often is that he was totally interested in Big Shot Husband's doings, which, at the time, were pretty darn interesting.
So even though he had eight kids of his own, I still thought he would DEFINITELY be interested in what 5- year-old Pes was up to and how smart he was. At that time, I was one of those REALLY ANNOYING parents who tells everyone how brilliant their first-born child is (N.B. to my friends who are reading this: yes, I know I still do this).
Anyway, my boss always seemed impressed with my tales of Pes's newest trick. So one day I was bragging about how Pes could recite all 43 (at the time) presidents in order. (I didn't mention that it was a big fat joke between Pes, Big Shot Husband and Mother that I had never heard of Chester A. Arthur before Pes started his studies). I went on a bit about the Presidents trick and his affinity for chess, and boss looked at me and said, "Wow, he sounds really smart. He must get that from your husband."
Back to Zsa Zsa's braces. We're at the friendly neighborhood orthodontist (yes, he's friendly and we live in the same neighborhood but of course his office is inconveniently located in the next city). I take a deep breath and ruminate on how completely crazy the day had been thus far (it was exactly noon at this point). It was pouring all day, I had done a million errands, I schlepped 25 minutes to school to collect her, then sloshed another 25 minutes in the opposite direction to the orthodontist.
As we arrived, I thought about how this was the end of the day already, as by the time we were finished, we would be heading to preschool to pick up Gorbachev, doing a quick "kill an hour" errand before getting Eva, arriving home at 4+ and doing homework, dinner blahblahblah, culminating in the prodigal son finally returning home after mishmar, basketball etc at 7PM and I know you are so bored by this your eyes are glazing over.
I have noticed of late that since some of my children are cognitively able to intereface at a semi-sophisticated level, I sometimes confide in them. This is usually a mistake. Nonetheless, as we were waiting for the appointment, hanging out in the bathroom, I confided in Zsa Zsa that this appointment really was somewhat inconvenient being right in the middle of the day and we're always rushing around and it's hard to get things done, and the day was over almost as soon as it had begun.
She said, "Mommy, how do the other mommies manage? I mean, Dr./Mrs. E has 6 kids, and Mrs. S has 7 kids, and Mrs.L has 10 kids and the so-and-so's have twelve kids, and they all seem to do it...
Don't worry, you'll get used to it." And she dried her hands and walked confidently out of the bathroom.
I looked after her and sighed. She's eight years old. How many more years of Life Lessons from Zsa Zsa will I have to endure? But of course, she's right. The mommies we know have a million kids and still seem to manage. And one day, G-d willing, she'll be a mommy and she'll complain to me about how much she has to do and how she has 57 carpools, and Shloimy has an ear infection, and Malky needs glasses and the baby was up all night and I'll just say, "Don't worry, you'll get used to it."
Friday, September 2, 2011
Shopping with the Gabor Sisters
So every year around this time, Mother and I take Zsa Zsa and Ava (8 and 6) to a department store to buy pretty frocks for Shabbos/Yom Tov/Simchas etc for the fall/winter season. Each girl gets around four dresses and in recent memory, they came from the 4-6x section of the store. I have been concerned, of late, that though Zsa Zsa is a mere slip of a girl at four foot one and 44 pounds, the four footers and above really do land in the realm of size 7.
The reason I have nervously approached this size 7 thing is that these days in America, dresses in the size 7-14 range are made to be as short and tight as possible. I have a teacher friend who says in her (secular) school, she sometimes walks behind girls on the staircase and tells them she can see their (thong) underwear. Um, yuck.
Anyway, we were on our way to the mall to purchase our fall/winter frocks when my phone rang.
"You're on your way to the mall, right dear?" asks Big Shot Husband.
"Yeah," I say.
"Could you please please see if you can find me a yellow tie to wear on TV tomorrow?" he sweetly requests. I grunt and hang up.
You see, when I am focused on a project, I DO NOT LIKE to veer away to another project as I usually allot a certain number of minutes to said project because I have tightly scheduled my next appointment. Yes, even on vacation. So I had allotted exactly one hour and ten minutes for the Gabor Shopping Extravaganza and did not want to go to a totally different store at a totally different part of the mall to start shopping for ties. Unfortunately, I mentioned the tie thing to Mother who is Big Shot Husband's groupie extraordinaire.
"Honeycake," she says, "we can just run into Department Store A for a few minutes to get the tie and then get the dresses at Department Store B."
"Mother," I say, "that is just not possible what with our time constraints and given that Department Store B is located at least a seven minute walk from Department Store A." (I am also excellent at estimating time and distance).
"Hm," she says thoughtfully.
We arrived at the mall and I saw Mother drive toward Department Store B (dresses) and then say, "Oh, you know what, there really isn't a lot of parking down there, I'm just going to park here, right in front of Department Store A (tie)." She is pretty smart and crafty, that mother of mine. That's why she is a medical doctor and I write blogs.
When we were safely at Department Store B, we split up. I looked for dresses with Eva in 4-6x and Mother and Zsa Zsa braved the 7-14 department. Since I had already gone online looking at the merchandise, I knew exactly which dresses I liked. Eva was pretty easy, we chose about eight dresses to try. Zsa Zsa, on the other hand, was extremely verbose and wanted to discuss each and every dress, both in the choosing stage and, later, in the try-on stage.
For example, I found a supercute dress in leopard print in size 7 and she said, "I don't really wear leopard, it's not my style." Um, what? I thought this girl was related to me and I adore animal prints. Plus, she IS a Gabor. In the dressing room, they tried on dress after dress, preening in the mirror and keeping up a running dialogue about the process.
Zsa Zsa: "They make really cute dresses these days."
Eva: "This I'm DEFINITELY getting."
Zsa Zsa: "That really brings out your eyes, Eva!"
Eva: "Wait, let me pose."
Zsa Zsa: "I have different poses for different dresses."
In the end, they each found four adorable dresses. Luckily, Zsa Zsa can still wear some 6x's but one of Zsa Zsa's dresses is a size 10(!) because the 7 was so tight and so short. And it fits her fine. We are in trouble next year. But we were done with fifteen minutes to spare. Oh, think of that! Mother could pick out ties for Big Shot Husband on our way out. She's pretty wily.
Meanwhile, I was proud of my daughters, with their tznius (modest) values, never asking for anything short or tight. Still dressing like adorable little girls (not trashy teenagers) since they are, after all, adorable little girls. I congratulated myself for the fact that they have never watched those deplorable shows on Nickelodeon so therefore don't know how "tweens" dress (that is the dumbest word ever, by the way). I thought of the values they learn at school and how their dress code teaches them that even when away from school they should wear long skirts, knee socks and long sleeves. Even in summer. And, by the way, this dress code provides excellent sun protection!
The next day, I was sitting outside on my parents' deck, content with the world. And then I saw them. Zsa Zsa and Eva were playing dress-up. They took their regulation frum girl ankle length black skirts, hiked them up to their chests to approximate short dresses, tied cardigans around their necks to look like scarves, and put their hair in buns. I almost had a stroke. I thought of that Robert Palmer video circa 1986 ("Addicted to Love"). I looked at them again. Yep, dead ringers. I thought about how sweet, innocent, and modest they are. And how all the values I and their school have instilled can so quickly fly right out the window. But by an hour later, they were all buttoned up again. For now.
The reason I have nervously approached this size 7 thing is that these days in America, dresses in the size 7-14 range are made to be as short and tight as possible. I have a teacher friend who says in her (secular) school, she sometimes walks behind girls on the staircase and tells them she can see their (thong) underwear. Um, yuck.
Anyway, we were on our way to the mall to purchase our fall/winter frocks when my phone rang.
"You're on your way to the mall, right dear?" asks Big Shot Husband.
"Yeah," I say.
"Could you please please see if you can find me a yellow tie to wear on TV tomorrow?" he sweetly requests. I grunt and hang up.
You see, when I am focused on a project, I DO NOT LIKE to veer away to another project as I usually allot a certain number of minutes to said project because I have tightly scheduled my next appointment. Yes, even on vacation. So I had allotted exactly one hour and ten minutes for the Gabor Shopping Extravaganza and did not want to go to a totally different store at a totally different part of the mall to start shopping for ties. Unfortunately, I mentioned the tie thing to Mother who is Big Shot Husband's groupie extraordinaire.
"Honeycake," she says, "we can just run into Department Store A for a few minutes to get the tie and then get the dresses at Department Store B."
"Mother," I say, "that is just not possible what with our time constraints and given that Department Store B is located at least a seven minute walk from Department Store A." (I am also excellent at estimating time and distance).
"Hm," she says thoughtfully.
We arrived at the mall and I saw Mother drive toward Department Store B (dresses) and then say, "Oh, you know what, there really isn't a lot of parking down there, I'm just going to park here, right in front of Department Store A (tie)." She is pretty smart and crafty, that mother of mine. That's why she is a medical doctor and I write blogs.
When we were safely at Department Store B, we split up. I looked for dresses with Eva in 4-6x and Mother and Zsa Zsa braved the 7-14 department. Since I had already gone online looking at the merchandise, I knew exactly which dresses I liked. Eva was pretty easy, we chose about eight dresses to try. Zsa Zsa, on the other hand, was extremely verbose and wanted to discuss each and every dress, both in the choosing stage and, later, in the try-on stage.
For example, I found a supercute dress in leopard print in size 7 and she said, "I don't really wear leopard, it's not my style." Um, what? I thought this girl was related to me and I adore animal prints. Plus, she IS a Gabor. In the dressing room, they tried on dress after dress, preening in the mirror and keeping up a running dialogue about the process.
Zsa Zsa: "They make really cute dresses these days."
Eva: "This I'm DEFINITELY getting."
Zsa Zsa: "That really brings out your eyes, Eva!"
Eva: "Wait, let me pose."
Zsa Zsa: "I have different poses for different dresses."
In the end, they each found four adorable dresses. Luckily, Zsa Zsa can still wear some 6x's but one of Zsa Zsa's dresses is a size 10(!) because the 7 was so tight and so short. And it fits her fine. We are in trouble next year. But we were done with fifteen minutes to spare. Oh, think of that! Mother could pick out ties for Big Shot Husband on our way out. She's pretty wily.
Meanwhile, I was proud of my daughters, with their tznius (modest) values, never asking for anything short or tight. Still dressing like adorable little girls (not trashy teenagers) since they are, after all, adorable little girls. I congratulated myself for the fact that they have never watched those deplorable shows on Nickelodeon so therefore don't know how "tweens" dress (that is the dumbest word ever, by the way). I thought of the values they learn at school and how their dress code teaches them that even when away from school they should wear long skirts, knee socks and long sleeves. Even in summer. And, by the way, this dress code provides excellent sun protection!
The next day, I was sitting outside on my parents' deck, content with the world. And then I saw them. Zsa Zsa and Eva were playing dress-up. They took their regulation frum girl ankle length black skirts, hiked them up to their chests to approximate short dresses, tied cardigans around their necks to look like scarves, and put their hair in buns. I almost had a stroke. I thought of that Robert Palmer video circa 1986 ("Addicted to Love"). I looked at them again. Yep, dead ringers. I thought about how sweet, innocent, and modest they are. And how all the values I and their school have instilled can so quickly fly right out the window. But by an hour later, they were all buttoned up again. For now.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Swim Lessons
This past spring, I woke up in a cold sweat one morning. I was panicking. I didn't know where to turn. That's right, I realized that MY KIDS DIDN'T KNOW HOW TO SWIM!! OK, Perfect Eldest Son (Pes) swims OK and Zsa Zsa and Eva. . .well, let's just say that as of the beginning of summer, they were happy to buy many super cute bathing suits ("Oh, Zsa Zsa, look at this one!!! Isn't it sooooo cute??!!) but REALLY couldn't swim. And Gorby was what Big Shot Husband calls a "barnacle" in the pool. No explanation required (I hope).
You see, I was not able to think clearly about how to proceed because I was suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder after sending my three older kids to swim lessons at the local county pool almost two years prior (no I don't get over things quickly). Dragging three tired children after school (ages 4, 6, and 8) to the pool at 5PM, is never fun in any circumstance. But Zsa Zsa and Eva were particularly unlucky in the teacher they were given. Let's call him Meaniehead.
Every day after lessons (which we were not allowed to watch), I was regaled with tales of misbehavior of then-four-year-old Eva. And he would continually threaten to, "Kick her out," of the class. Seriously, what kind of teacher for the 4-6 year old crowd uses the words, "Kick her out." I mean, it's not like she was smoking in the bathroom, right?
I was finally asked to come and watch so I could see her misbehavior myself. I did notice that Eva tried to have fun and laugh a little more than the other children. But I didn't see anything that would warrant such admonitions. So I concluded that he just didn't like her. Even my mother-in-law agreed with me when I called her all huffy about the injustice and stuff. And she is really smart about these things.
But despite being constantly told how much she was misbehaving, getting timeouts on the stairs and threatened with expulsion, she was perfectly happy and felt she had done just great in swim lessons. The crowning moment was when I received her report card, which contained comments like, "Failed to complete any skills assigned. Needs basic water adjustment and should not enroll in any county class, EVER. May benefit from private instruction. But not from me." I sighed and tried to figure out how I would hide that from the Harvard admissions officers.
Then I called the pool manager and screamed and ranted and said Meaniehead was the worst swim teacher ever and he shouldn't be allowed around small children and how could he treat my precious Eva this way, and I am not a mom who usually calls about things but this was just the most egregious case of swim teacher malpractice I could ever imagine. "And," I concluded, "I am NEVER coming back to your pool." "Well," said Pool Manager, "I hear Pool X in the other part of the county has very good lessons. Good luck."
So this summer, I was finally able to take a deep breath and make a plan for how to get my three older kids swimming. Since we were planning a very extended break at the west coast home of my parents, I decided to sign Pes, Zsa Zsa and Eva up for swim lessons at the local county pool, a pool I used when I was a lass. It is beautiful and new and I was sure we would have a better experience than we had at our county program back home. The kids all spent some time in various pools before we left for our trip, and Zsa Zsa managed to learn to doggy paddle before we embarked on vacation.
So as I have sat watching lessons for the past week, I have been quite pleased. First, it is a perfect 75 degrees and sunny each day so it is pleasant to sit and watch. Second, I am allowed to sit and watch. Third, the lessons run like a German train station, with a loudspeaker announcing, "1030 lessons are beginning." Then "1100 lessons are beginning, 1030 lessons leave the pool." And lickety split, their teacher disappears from the premises. Seriously, I don't even see her leave the pool and I keep trying to find her all over the place. I think she apparates.
And, speaking of teachers, Meaniehead was nothing to look at, believe you me. He was chubby and could have used a manzier, if you know what I'm getting at. The swim teachers at the pool where we are taking lessons now in small town west coast USA are, yes, a little like commandants. But they are cute, have long legs and zero percent body fat. And somehow, Eva has managed to get hers to pay attention mostly to her though there are seven kids in the class. But in a good way. I wish I could see Meaniehead now and say, "See, she can swim. See, Miss Teen USA could teach her and be nice to her and call her, 'Sweetie.' See, you totally need a manzier." But it's not like I'm holding a grudge or anything.
You see, I was not able to think clearly about how to proceed because I was suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder after sending my three older kids to swim lessons at the local county pool almost two years prior (no I don't get over things quickly). Dragging three tired children after school (ages 4, 6, and 8) to the pool at 5PM, is never fun in any circumstance. But Zsa Zsa and Eva were particularly unlucky in the teacher they were given. Let's call him Meaniehead.
Every day after lessons (which we were not allowed to watch), I was regaled with tales of misbehavior of then-four-year-old Eva. And he would continually threaten to, "Kick her out," of the class. Seriously, what kind of teacher for the 4-6 year old crowd uses the words, "Kick her out." I mean, it's not like she was smoking in the bathroom, right?
I was finally asked to come and watch so I could see her misbehavior myself. I did notice that Eva tried to have fun and laugh a little more than the other children. But I didn't see anything that would warrant such admonitions. So I concluded that he just didn't like her. Even my mother-in-law agreed with me when I called her all huffy about the injustice and stuff. And she is really smart about these things.
But despite being constantly told how much she was misbehaving, getting timeouts on the stairs and threatened with expulsion, she was perfectly happy and felt she had done just great in swim lessons. The crowning moment was when I received her report card, which contained comments like, "Failed to complete any skills assigned. Needs basic water adjustment and should not enroll in any county class, EVER. May benefit from private instruction. But not from me." I sighed and tried to figure out how I would hide that from the Harvard admissions officers.
Then I called the pool manager and screamed and ranted and said Meaniehead was the worst swim teacher ever and he shouldn't be allowed around small children and how could he treat my precious Eva this way, and I am not a mom who usually calls about things but this was just the most egregious case of swim teacher malpractice I could ever imagine. "And," I concluded, "I am NEVER coming back to your pool." "Well," said Pool Manager, "I hear Pool X in the other part of the county has very good lessons. Good luck."
So this summer, I was finally able to take a deep breath and make a plan for how to get my three older kids swimming. Since we were planning a very extended break at the west coast home of my parents, I decided to sign Pes, Zsa Zsa and Eva up for swim lessons at the local county pool, a pool I used when I was a lass. It is beautiful and new and I was sure we would have a better experience than we had at our county program back home. The kids all spent some time in various pools before we left for our trip, and Zsa Zsa managed to learn to doggy paddle before we embarked on vacation.
So as I have sat watching lessons for the past week, I have been quite pleased. First, it is a perfect 75 degrees and sunny each day so it is pleasant to sit and watch. Second, I am allowed to sit and watch. Third, the lessons run like a German train station, with a loudspeaker announcing, "1030 lessons are beginning." Then "1100 lessons are beginning, 1030 lessons leave the pool." And lickety split, their teacher disappears from the premises. Seriously, I don't even see her leave the pool and I keep trying to find her all over the place. I think she apparates.
And, speaking of teachers, Meaniehead was nothing to look at, believe you me. He was chubby and could have used a manzier, if you know what I'm getting at. The swim teachers at the pool where we are taking lessons now in small town west coast USA are, yes, a little like commandants. But they are cute, have long legs and zero percent body fat. And somehow, Eva has managed to get hers to pay attention mostly to her though there are seven kids in the class. But in a good way. I wish I could see Meaniehead now and say, "See, she can swim. See, Miss Teen USA could teach her and be nice to her and call her, 'Sweetie.' See, you totally need a manzier." But it's not like I'm holding a grudge or anything.
Monday, August 15, 2011
The Wild West
Today is my anniversary. Coincidentally, it is also Big Shot Husband's anniversary. We got married 12 years ago. Today. For me, it's been nothing but wedded bliss. For him. . .you'll have to ask him yourself.
As a result of said anniversary, we gave my parents the gift of not only paying for the wedding 12 years ago which I believe cost A LOT of money, they are watching our children (yay) while we are taking a side trip to a hot state in the Southwest to visit friends. It is hot here. Like 100 degrees. At 10 PM. (Not yay).
So I awoke this morning, in a lovely mood just like every other morning, sat up, and immediately experienced excruciating pain in my neck. No, the irony is not lost on me. Yes, I know Big Shot Husband should have experienced the pain in HIS neck. Haha.
We decided to drive two hours to a well-known tourist destination chock full of red rocks, psychics, crystals and the like. I was solely interested in taking an off-road Jeep tour. On our way into town, Big Shot Husband was temporarily detained by the lure of the Gap outlet where he bought himself a new wardrobe. Hm.
Finally, we got into town and ran to the nearest shopfront with a sign saying, "If you are a tourist and want a Jeep ride, come here." I squealed, "That's us, honey!" Except I didn't squeal and I didn't say "honey." The guy recommended a certain tour company which offers the "Little Rattler" tour (this is for people who don't want to do death defying Jeep rides down sheer cliffs on the "Big Scary Giant Rattlesnake" tour), and we bought tickets. Except first he asked us questions about our health: Any recent surgeries? No. Pregnant? G-d no! Back Problems? No. Neck problems? No, I said to myself, except when I woke up and couldn't move my head to either side this morning, but I have taken six Advil and the pain is at least 10% diminished now. So I just told him no.
We trotted off to the Jeep lot and ran into some of our best family friends from back home. How weird is that? Not as weird as when we met the friends for a drink later and a Chassidishe couple from Brooklyn (he with the bekishe, perfectly curled peyos and she with the black synthetic outfit, black synthetic sheitel and hat on top) asked Big Shot Husband to take a picture of them and thanked him in Yiddish.
Anyway, I digress. Here we were at the Jeep place and the lady again asked all the health questions. Back problems, pregnancy, surgery, neck problems. Nope, nope, nope, nope. Except my neck hurt like the dickens but I was determined to get that back canyon Jeep tour. So off we went.
Our tour guide, let's call him John Wayne, informed us on the way out of town that he was a great grandfather. Yes. And he was about to drive us up a really scary mountainy, cliffy, canyony thing in a totally open vehicle. But he was wearing cowboy boots, jeans, western shirt and cowboy hat so his street cred was good. Also, the arthritis in his hands didn't look too bad.
Then he informed us that lots of snakes reside up where we were headed. Rattlesnakes, apparently, are born live, like humans, and baby rattlers use all their venom when they bite because they haven't learned that biting with all their venom will leave them venomless and, hence, foodless for two weeks.
Then John Wayne proceeded to tell us that his wife was bitten by a baby one (!) and went to two hospitals and had 14 vials of anti-venom stuff and was in ICU for days and then was discharged with a $30,000 medical bill. OK.
He drove us all around, totally off-roading, and stopped periodically to show us all the ways one can get hurt and/or killed in the vast desert.
"You can survive no more than three days out here without water," said John Wayne. I looked to the right. All I saw were rocks, dirt and very sharp plants. I couldn't look to the left because my neck hurt too much. I was hoping he wouldn't leave us up there. I reminded myself to laugh very hard at his jokes.
"You do not need a license to carry, shoot or conceal a gun in the state of Arizona," said John Wayne. That sounded cool. Big Shot Husband asked if he was, "Packing heat," on our tour. I was embarrassed except that I reminded myself that as a nerdy Jewish guy who had just outfitted himself at the Gap a mere hour earlier he just couldn't help himself. John Wayne said he "only" carried his .45 up here. Oh. He advised that if we had any machloches with another driver in Arizona to just let it go because most are armed. Except he didn't say machloches.
We were also informed that you could ride any kind of crazy vehicle on the off-road dirt paths with no helmet (if you were over 16) and do any kind of crazy thing you'd want to out there in the desert period. Except all there is up there, to my understanding, are deadly animals, scary sharp plants and rocky bumpy crevices/canyons/I don't know whats. And it's a million degrees. With no shade. I was ready to go shop. But first we had to do a lot of bumpy off-roading. My neck hurt. A lot. I also held on to Big Shot Husband's arm very hard. I think he has a bruise.
Finally, we were back on the paved highway close-ish to town. John Wayne said, "It's startin' to rain. We have to try to outrun the storm." Oh, I thought, good idea. But John Wayne meant that we should drive 100 miles an hour on a 25 mph road. And not always on the right side of it. I dug my nails into Big Shot Husband's arm again. Stressful. Finally, we were going a normal speed on a normal road with no rain (go John Wayne) and were almost back to town. John Wayne told us we'd have to bring our children next time because he was, "sure they would love dirt biking down the steep cliffs up there." Yeah. My frail Ashkenazi children would totally not love that. At all.
And then we got the phone call. "Mommeeeeeee!!!" wails from Eva. "I can't believe you made me take swimming lessons at Grandma's" Sob sob sob shriek. "The teacher was sooooo strict and mean!!" You see, I signed them up for two weeks of swim lessons while visiting my family and today was the first day, when I am away in a sunny Southwestern state.
I look around and take in the beautiful sights. The rocks, the sky, the scenery, all so different from where I'd ever been. And somehow, that voice just brought me right back to reality in two seconds flat. Pes gets on and says, "The lessons are too easy, Mommy, I don't want to do them. Please don't make me." Sniff sniff. Gorby, "Hi Mommy, I played on the babysitter's phone." He didn't do lessons, guess he had fun and he is not causing any problems for five minutes.
Finally, dear Zsa Zsa gets on, but before she can speak, I say, "Zsa Zsa, come on, Mommy really can't do anything about the swimming from here. Ask Grandma," I sigh exasperatedly, "I mean, you know I can't help you, currently I am in a hot Southwestern state where it is 110 degrees in the shade." Zsa Zsa says, "Mommy, I wasn't going to complain. I liked the swimming lessons. I just wanted to say I miss you and love you soooo much." My darling Zsa Zsa. I am the Worst Mother Ever.
As a result of said anniversary, we gave my parents the gift of not only paying for the wedding 12 years ago which I believe cost A LOT of money, they are watching our children (yay) while we are taking a side trip to a hot state in the Southwest to visit friends. It is hot here. Like 100 degrees. At 10 PM. (Not yay).
So I awoke this morning, in a lovely mood just like every other morning, sat up, and immediately experienced excruciating pain in my neck. No, the irony is not lost on me. Yes, I know Big Shot Husband should have experienced the pain in HIS neck. Haha.
We decided to drive two hours to a well-known tourist destination chock full of red rocks, psychics, crystals and the like. I was solely interested in taking an off-road Jeep tour. On our way into town, Big Shot Husband was temporarily detained by the lure of the Gap outlet where he bought himself a new wardrobe. Hm.
Finally, we got into town and ran to the nearest shopfront with a sign saying, "If you are a tourist and want a Jeep ride, come here." I squealed, "That's us, honey!" Except I didn't squeal and I didn't say "honey." The guy recommended a certain tour company which offers the "Little Rattler" tour (this is for people who don't want to do death defying Jeep rides down sheer cliffs on the "Big Scary Giant Rattlesnake" tour), and we bought tickets. Except first he asked us questions about our health: Any recent surgeries? No. Pregnant? G-d no! Back Problems? No. Neck problems? No, I said to myself, except when I woke up and couldn't move my head to either side this morning, but I have taken six Advil and the pain is at least 10% diminished now. So I just told him no.
We trotted off to the Jeep lot and ran into some of our best family friends from back home. How weird is that? Not as weird as when we met the friends for a drink later and a Chassidishe couple from Brooklyn (he with the bekishe, perfectly curled peyos and she with the black synthetic outfit, black synthetic sheitel and hat on top) asked Big Shot Husband to take a picture of them and thanked him in Yiddish.
Anyway, I digress. Here we were at the Jeep place and the lady again asked all the health questions. Back problems, pregnancy, surgery, neck problems. Nope, nope, nope, nope. Except my neck hurt like the dickens but I was determined to get that back canyon Jeep tour. So off we went.
Our tour guide, let's call him John Wayne, informed us on the way out of town that he was a great grandfather. Yes. And he was about to drive us up a really scary mountainy, cliffy, canyony thing in a totally open vehicle. But he was wearing cowboy boots, jeans, western shirt and cowboy hat so his street cred was good. Also, the arthritis in his hands didn't look too bad.
Then he informed us that lots of snakes reside up where we were headed. Rattlesnakes, apparently, are born live, like humans, and baby rattlers use all their venom when they bite because they haven't learned that biting with all their venom will leave them venomless and, hence, foodless for two weeks.
Then John Wayne proceeded to tell us that his wife was bitten by a baby one (!) and went to two hospitals and had 14 vials of anti-venom stuff and was in ICU for days and then was discharged with a $30,000 medical bill. OK.
He drove us all around, totally off-roading, and stopped periodically to show us all the ways one can get hurt and/or killed in the vast desert.
"You can survive no more than three days out here without water," said John Wayne. I looked to the right. All I saw were rocks, dirt and very sharp plants. I couldn't look to the left because my neck hurt too much. I was hoping he wouldn't leave us up there. I reminded myself to laugh very hard at his jokes.
"You do not need a license to carry, shoot or conceal a gun in the state of Arizona," said John Wayne. That sounded cool. Big Shot Husband asked if he was, "Packing heat," on our tour. I was embarrassed except that I reminded myself that as a nerdy Jewish guy who had just outfitted himself at the Gap a mere hour earlier he just couldn't help himself. John Wayne said he "only" carried his .45 up here. Oh. He advised that if we had any machloches with another driver in Arizona to just let it go because most are armed. Except he didn't say machloches.
We were also informed that you could ride any kind of crazy vehicle on the off-road dirt paths with no helmet (if you were over 16) and do any kind of crazy thing you'd want to out there in the desert period. Except all there is up there, to my understanding, are deadly animals, scary sharp plants and rocky bumpy crevices/canyons/I don't know whats. And it's a million degrees. With no shade. I was ready to go shop. But first we had to do a lot of bumpy off-roading. My neck hurt. A lot. I also held on to Big Shot Husband's arm very hard. I think he has a bruise.
Finally, we were back on the paved highway close-ish to town. John Wayne said, "It's startin' to rain. We have to try to outrun the storm." Oh, I thought, good idea. But John Wayne meant that we should drive 100 miles an hour on a 25 mph road. And not always on the right side of it. I dug my nails into Big Shot Husband's arm again. Stressful. Finally, we were going a normal speed on a normal road with no rain (go John Wayne) and were almost back to town. John Wayne told us we'd have to bring our children next time because he was, "sure they would love dirt biking down the steep cliffs up there." Yeah. My frail Ashkenazi children would totally not love that. At all.
And then we got the phone call. "Mommeeeeeee!!!" wails from Eva. "I can't believe you made me take swimming lessons at Grandma's" Sob sob sob shriek. "The teacher was sooooo strict and mean!!" You see, I signed them up for two weeks of swim lessons while visiting my family and today was the first day, when I am away in a sunny Southwestern state.
I look around and take in the beautiful sights. The rocks, the sky, the scenery, all so different from where I'd ever been. And somehow, that voice just brought me right back to reality in two seconds flat. Pes gets on and says, "The lessons are too easy, Mommy, I don't want to do them. Please don't make me." Sniff sniff. Gorby, "Hi Mommy, I played on the babysitter's phone." He didn't do lessons, guess he had fun and he is not causing any problems for five minutes.
Finally, dear Zsa Zsa gets on, but before she can speak, I say, "Zsa Zsa, come on, Mommy really can't do anything about the swimming from here. Ask Grandma," I sigh exasperatedly, "I mean, you know I can't help you, currently I am in a hot Southwestern state where it is 110 degrees in the shade." Zsa Zsa says, "Mommy, I wasn't going to complain. I liked the swimming lessons. I just wanted to say I miss you and love you soooo much." My darling Zsa Zsa. I am the Worst Mother Ever.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Air Travel
Every year we go on a Big Trip. We get on an airplane, fly 3000 miles to the opposite coast and spend several weeks at my childhood home with my parents. It is Fun. My children wait all year for this Trip, which involves vast amounts of space to run, ice cream, cool weather and extreme Grandma spoilage. And I get to relive my past, year after year. This year I even cleaned out the closet of my childhood bedroom which involved delving deep into the fashions of the 80s and 90s, including a white sequined dress I wore for some high school dance. My girls insisted I try it on and guess what? Some of you will be seeing me in it on Purim, yippee!! I will be Queen Esther. Zsa Zsa and Eva decided.
Anyway, this is about air travel so let's get to it. The past two or three years we have been flying out of Small Icky Airport instead of Big Luxe Airport due to the fact that the direct coast-to-coast flight is much cheaper from Small Icky International. And because there are many of us flying, even a cheap ticket becomes expensive when you multiply it by six. This is a principle I discovered after I had Gorby. I would go to, for example, Target and see something "cute for the kids." "Oh, it's so cute and so cheap, I should buy it for them," I would say to myself. Then I would multiply that cheap number by four and suddenly it wasn't that cheap anymore.
So the other day, we started off EARLY to get to Small Icky International. The two non-stop flights from there to here are either 8AM (which we all know means out of the house no later than 530 AM), or 9PM, which is stupid (it is a multi-hour flight--about five and a half but feels like 20). Of course, I needed coffee when I arrived at SII because I got up at 430 and was darn tired. Now, after many airplane trips from SII, I have finally cottoned on to the fact that the Starbucks in this airport is located in the terminal BEFORE you enter security. Um, what? What genius came up with that? Who gets to the airport sufficiently early to leisurely drink their Starbucks without worrying that if they wait another few minutes, they will get stuck in the security line, have all their stuff searched and/or get stuck behind a family with four kids, each with two carry ons. Or be that family.
OK, this time I was not going to stand for an early morning flight without Starbucks. We arrived somewhat sufficiently early to have a quick Starbucks (at least Big Shot Husband and I could, do you know how expensive it is to multiply a Starbucks order by six?), and I ran to the information desk and lunged at the kindly elderly security guy. "Do you know where the Starbucks is?" I frantically asked him, pushing my children out of the way so they wouldn't interrupt my fact-finding mission. "Oh," he said, "It's somewhere around here, but you know there is a coffee shop after security, don't you?" I gave him a steely-eyed glare. "I need my Starbucks," I admonished him. He looked scared. He gestured down a hallway where we quickly ran and found ourselves behind the only four people in America who have NEVER BEEN TO A STARBUCKS.
Here's what their ordering sounded like:
"How big is the tall lah-teh?" asked the mom.
"12 oz, ma'am," said Barista (who was literally the oldest barista I had ever seen. I kind of surreptitiously backed up to look at the sign again to make sure it was Starbucks).
"What's in it?" asked mom.
"Um, espresso and foamed milk, ma'am."
Mom thinks. Then is distracted by the pictures of frappuccinos. "Jim Bob," she says, "How's about one of those in the picture? The fra-pew-kee-no." I almost stroked out. There were four of them ordering.
I busied myself by remembering that it is a big mitzvah to give people the benefit of the doubt even if their names are Darlene, Jim Bob, Dwayne and Earl.
I finally got my coffee and we shuffled off to the security line. I thought about how long the line was and how I'd have plenty of time to drink my coffee, make it through security, and onto our flight just in time. I congratulated myself on my impeccable timing, starting with the 430 wake-up call and ending right here, in the security line, Starbucks successfully in hand.
Well, apparently everyone else had had their coffee too because darn if that security line wasn't just buzzing right along. I gulped my Starbucks down fast. Luckily, I was just about finished when I got to the front. I needed it, though. I had to muster up the energy to irritate everyone behind me by helping four children through security, each with two pieces of luggage (2x4=8), two shoes (2x4=8), and a hidden sippy cup with milk (oops). But it doesn't bother me, I already had my Starbucks.
Anyway, this is about air travel so let's get to it. The past two or three years we have been flying out of Small Icky Airport instead of Big Luxe Airport due to the fact that the direct coast-to-coast flight is much cheaper from Small Icky International. And because there are many of us flying, even a cheap ticket becomes expensive when you multiply it by six. This is a principle I discovered after I had Gorby. I would go to, for example, Target and see something "cute for the kids." "Oh, it's so cute and so cheap, I should buy it for them," I would say to myself. Then I would multiply that cheap number by four and suddenly it wasn't that cheap anymore.
So the other day, we started off EARLY to get to Small Icky International. The two non-stop flights from there to here are either 8AM (which we all know means out of the house no later than 530 AM), or 9PM, which is stupid (it is a multi-hour flight--about five and a half but feels like 20). Of course, I needed coffee when I arrived at SII because I got up at 430 and was darn tired. Now, after many airplane trips from SII, I have finally cottoned on to the fact that the Starbucks in this airport is located in the terminal BEFORE you enter security. Um, what? What genius came up with that? Who gets to the airport sufficiently early to leisurely drink their Starbucks without worrying that if they wait another few minutes, they will get stuck in the security line, have all their stuff searched and/or get stuck behind a family with four kids, each with two carry ons. Or be that family.
OK, this time I was not going to stand for an early morning flight without Starbucks. We arrived somewhat sufficiently early to have a quick Starbucks (at least Big Shot Husband and I could, do you know how expensive it is to multiply a Starbucks order by six?), and I ran to the information desk and lunged at the kindly elderly security guy. "Do you know where the Starbucks is?" I frantically asked him, pushing my children out of the way so they wouldn't interrupt my fact-finding mission. "Oh," he said, "It's somewhere around here, but you know there is a coffee shop after security, don't you?" I gave him a steely-eyed glare. "I need my Starbucks," I admonished him. He looked scared. He gestured down a hallway where we quickly ran and found ourselves behind the only four people in America who have NEVER BEEN TO A STARBUCKS.
Here's what their ordering sounded like:
"How big is the tall lah-teh?" asked the mom.
"12 oz, ma'am," said Barista (who was literally the oldest barista I had ever seen. I kind of surreptitiously backed up to look at the sign again to make sure it was Starbucks).
"What's in it?" asked mom.
"Um, espresso and foamed milk, ma'am."
Mom thinks. Then is distracted by the pictures of frappuccinos. "Jim Bob," she says, "How's about one of those in the picture? The fra-pew-kee-no." I almost stroked out. There were four of them ordering.
I busied myself by remembering that it is a big mitzvah to give people the benefit of the doubt even if their names are Darlene, Jim Bob, Dwayne and Earl.
I finally got my coffee and we shuffled off to the security line. I thought about how long the line was and how I'd have plenty of time to drink my coffee, make it through security, and onto our flight just in time. I congratulated myself on my impeccable timing, starting with the 430 wake-up call and ending right here, in the security line, Starbucks successfully in hand.
Well, apparently everyone else had had their coffee too because darn if that security line wasn't just buzzing right along. I gulped my Starbucks down fast. Luckily, I was just about finished when I got to the front. I needed it, though. I had to muster up the energy to irritate everyone behind me by helping four children through security, each with two pieces of luggage (2x4=8), two shoes (2x4=8), and a hidden sippy cup with milk (oops). But it doesn't bother me, I already had my Starbucks.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Babes in the Woods
So we had a little mishap this past Shabbos. I almost had a heart attack. Here's why: I lost four boys in the woods. Oops.
My nephews, Banana (14) and Chabibi (11) were in town from the Holy Land, and spent many hours playing army, throwing balls and talking baseball with my Perfect Eldest Son, Pes (10), and my darling little Gorbachev (4). On Shabbos afternoon, I decided they needed a little nature walk. There is a beautiful wooded trail behind our house which is the perfect venue for children to frolic. We headed out to the woods: Big Shot Husband, cousins, sons and daughters Zsa Zsa (8) and Eva (6). There is a small trail behind our house leading to the large main trail. Generally, we take this trail a little ways to a large rock formation which we named "Pride Rock" many eons ago in deference to the Lion King.
On the way to Pride Rock, the raindrops started. Zsa Zsa began to get nervous, "Mommy, it's not safe to be near trees during a storm." There were like three raindrops falling and no discernible air movement. "Don't worry, Zsa Zsa," I said soothingly, "It's just a few raindrops." By the time we got to Pride Rock, however, it was a torrential downpour. Luckily, Pride Rock provided shelter from the storm. Unluckily, our usual summer storms, which normally last ten minutes, appeared to be lasting a million minutes. Plus, the kids decided it was a lot of fun to run around in the downpour, jump in the mud and get really wet. This makes children smell like wet dogs. Especially boy children.
Anyway, we decided to head back home in spite of the storm (the children could not have been any wetter anyway) and the boys quickly ran ahead up the path. By the time Zsa Zsa, Eva, Big Shot Husband and I got to the small, difficult to find path leading back to our house, the boys were nowhere to be seen. "Oh," I said, "The boys must be home already." That was unlike me because normally I think the worst in any situation. We walked home. The boys were still nowhere to be seen. This is where I panicked.
Apparently when I panic, I make stupid decisions and my brain shuts down quickly. Big Shot Husband offered to go back to the trail and find them which would have been a good idea because a) he is cool-headed in most situations, b) he has way longer legs than I do and, hence, walks much more quickly, and c) most likely they had probably just missed the little trail leading back to our house, so walking quickly would have served him well in this kind of situation.
However, I decided to go on a LONG walk all the way up the main road to "head them off at the pass" where I knew they would end up if they kept walking instead of doubling back to find the path leading to our house. This was stupid because a) It took me a thousand hours to get to the entrance of the big trail on the main road and b) if they had made it to the main road, they would have been able to find their way home, and c) who says, "head them off at the pass?"
Anyway, I started toward the main road. They weren't there. After a long walk wherein I prayed a lot, I got to the beginning of the trail via the main road. They weren't there. I started walking back into the woods hoping to run into them. I didn't. I did, however, run into a weird-looking guy carrying a plastic container filled with twigs, leaves and dirt. Hm. "Hidey-ho!" He greeted me. I was like, great, now I am going to get killed. I looked at him and said, "Did you see four boys?" "Nope," he said, "I just got onto the trail by that big rock and didn't see a soul." I started crying. He looked at me like I was crazy.
"It's OK," he said, "That's how boys are. I am sure they are fine." This was after I told him my eldest nephew was 14 and there were FOUR of them together. "And," he continued, "It's much safer back here than out on the road." "Yeah, right?" I brightened up. "All my friends think I'm crazy because I like to run out here by myself and I think it's much more dangerous on the main road because any maniac could grab me, I'm not that big." "Yeah," he said, "I tell my wife that all the time. I mean, on the road a van could quickly pull up next to you, grab you, and you're gone. No vans in the woods!" I gave him a sidelong glace. "Yeah, heh heh," I said.
"Anyway," he continued, "If you want to use my phone you can call home and see if they made it." Oh geez. "Um. . .It's our Sabbath today and I can't use the phone." He looked at me like I was crazy. Again. A lightbulb went off in his brain. "How about if I call?" Oh no. "Um, they won't really answer. . ." "OK," he said. "Good luck. I am sure you'll find them." By this time we had reached my turn off, the little trail leading back to our house. He told me if he saw them he'd take them right back there.
I started trudging home, praying and crying again. I imagined all kinds of horrific scenarios. I blamed myself for not keeping better track of them. I wondered how we would manage to get on the airplane the next day for our big trip if we were missing two of our four kids. Plus, I imagined that my brother-in-law and sister-in-law might be slightly peeved if we lost two of their kids. I cried and cried. When I arrived home, Big Shot Husband greeted me on the front lawn and I saw the 57 pairs of wet shoes gracing our front porch and I thanked Hashem for bringing them back to me. Big Shot Husband said, "Don't cry, you'll scare the children." I kept crying.
I walked in. All the kids looked at me, the boys apologizing profusely for disappearing. "We just walked too far, we turned back and found the trail and came straight home. It's OK, don't cry." I kept crying. I said, "Boys, you'll never know what it is to be a mother. It's like having your heart ripped out over and over." Silence.
A few minutes later, I was sitting with Pes and hugging and drooling over him. I said, "I am so glad you are OK," sniffle sniffle, "I don't know what I would ever do without you and Gorby. I'm just glad Banana and Chabibi were with you, otherwise I would have fainted long before I could have even started to search for you." "Don't worry," said Pes, "If Banana and Chabibi weren't here I never would have run ahead in the first place."
My nephews, Banana (14) and Chabibi (11) were in town from the Holy Land, and spent many hours playing army, throwing balls and talking baseball with my Perfect Eldest Son, Pes (10), and my darling little Gorbachev (4). On Shabbos afternoon, I decided they needed a little nature walk. There is a beautiful wooded trail behind our house which is the perfect venue for children to frolic. We headed out to the woods: Big Shot Husband, cousins, sons and daughters Zsa Zsa (8) and Eva (6). There is a small trail behind our house leading to the large main trail. Generally, we take this trail a little ways to a large rock formation which we named "Pride Rock" many eons ago in deference to the Lion King.
On the way to Pride Rock, the raindrops started. Zsa Zsa began to get nervous, "Mommy, it's not safe to be near trees during a storm." There were like three raindrops falling and no discernible air movement. "Don't worry, Zsa Zsa," I said soothingly, "It's just a few raindrops." By the time we got to Pride Rock, however, it was a torrential downpour. Luckily, Pride Rock provided shelter from the storm. Unluckily, our usual summer storms, which normally last ten minutes, appeared to be lasting a million minutes. Plus, the kids decided it was a lot of fun to run around in the downpour, jump in the mud and get really wet. This makes children smell like wet dogs. Especially boy children.
Anyway, we decided to head back home in spite of the storm (the children could not have been any wetter anyway) and the boys quickly ran ahead up the path. By the time Zsa Zsa, Eva, Big Shot Husband and I got to the small, difficult to find path leading back to our house, the boys were nowhere to be seen. "Oh," I said, "The boys must be home already." That was unlike me because normally I think the worst in any situation. We walked home. The boys were still nowhere to be seen. This is where I panicked.
Apparently when I panic, I make stupid decisions and my brain shuts down quickly. Big Shot Husband offered to go back to the trail and find them which would have been a good idea because a) he is cool-headed in most situations, b) he has way longer legs than I do and, hence, walks much more quickly, and c) most likely they had probably just missed the little trail leading back to our house, so walking quickly would have served him well in this kind of situation.
However, I decided to go on a LONG walk all the way up the main road to "head them off at the pass" where I knew they would end up if they kept walking instead of doubling back to find the path leading to our house. This was stupid because a) It took me a thousand hours to get to the entrance of the big trail on the main road and b) if they had made it to the main road, they would have been able to find their way home, and c) who says, "head them off at the pass?"
Anyway, I started toward the main road. They weren't there. After a long walk wherein I prayed a lot, I got to the beginning of the trail via the main road. They weren't there. I started walking back into the woods hoping to run into them. I didn't. I did, however, run into a weird-looking guy carrying a plastic container filled with twigs, leaves and dirt. Hm. "Hidey-ho!" He greeted me. I was like, great, now I am going to get killed. I looked at him and said, "Did you see four boys?" "Nope," he said, "I just got onto the trail by that big rock and didn't see a soul." I started crying. He looked at me like I was crazy.
"It's OK," he said, "That's how boys are. I am sure they are fine." This was after I told him my eldest nephew was 14 and there were FOUR of them together. "And," he continued, "It's much safer back here than out on the road." "Yeah, right?" I brightened up. "All my friends think I'm crazy because I like to run out here by myself and I think it's much more dangerous on the main road because any maniac could grab me, I'm not that big." "Yeah," he said, "I tell my wife that all the time. I mean, on the road a van could quickly pull up next to you, grab you, and you're gone. No vans in the woods!" I gave him a sidelong glace. "Yeah, heh heh," I said.
"Anyway," he continued, "If you want to use my phone you can call home and see if they made it." Oh geez. "Um. . .It's our Sabbath today and I can't use the phone." He looked at me like I was crazy. Again. A lightbulb went off in his brain. "How about if I call?" Oh no. "Um, they won't really answer. . ." "OK," he said. "Good luck. I am sure you'll find them." By this time we had reached my turn off, the little trail leading back to our house. He told me if he saw them he'd take them right back there.
I started trudging home, praying and crying again. I imagined all kinds of horrific scenarios. I blamed myself for not keeping better track of them. I wondered how we would manage to get on the airplane the next day for our big trip if we were missing two of our four kids. Plus, I imagined that my brother-in-law and sister-in-law might be slightly peeved if we lost two of their kids. I cried and cried. When I arrived home, Big Shot Husband greeted me on the front lawn and I saw the 57 pairs of wet shoes gracing our front porch and I thanked Hashem for bringing them back to me. Big Shot Husband said, "Don't cry, you'll scare the children." I kept crying.
I walked in. All the kids looked at me, the boys apologizing profusely for disappearing. "We just walked too far, we turned back and found the trail and came straight home. It's OK, don't cry." I kept crying. I said, "Boys, you'll never know what it is to be a mother. It's like having your heart ripped out over and over." Silence.
A few minutes later, I was sitting with Pes and hugging and drooling over him. I said, "I am so glad you are OK," sniffle sniffle, "I don't know what I would ever do without you and Gorby. I'm just glad Banana and Chabibi were with you, otherwise I would have fainted long before I could have even started to search for you." "Don't worry," said Pes, "If Banana and Chabibi weren't here I never would have run ahead in the first place."
Thursday, August 4, 2011
The Nine Days and the Party Store
We are currently in the midst of the Nine Days. These are the days leading up to the 9th day of the Jewish month of Av. This day, occurring next Tuesday, is known as Tisha B'Av. On Tisha B'Av you fast, refrain from wearing leather, and read depressing things to commemorate the destruction of the first and second temples in Jerusalem. The three weeks leading up to Tisha B'Av are semi-no-fun. Like, for example, you can't get haircuts, can't have weddings or other simchas (joyful events), or listen to live music. Additionally, in the nine days leading up to Tisha B'Av (like now), you aren't allowed to wear clean clothes, eat meat (except on Shabbos), go swimming (or bathe excessively) or go to movies. Or do anything fun. So what to do with three restless children during this week (yes Perfect Eldest Son and Big Shot Husband are STILL away)?
Well, none of the halachas (Jewish laws) I have studied with regard to the Nine Days say anything specific about Starbucks, so this morning we started with that. Yes, I know I go every day. This morning, I ran into a friend on the way in so gave Zsa Zsa my credit card and let her, Eva, and Gorby order for all of us while my friend and I chatted. I meandered to the cash register as they were finishing their order. It was one of the proudest moments of my life. Another milestone. The kids can now do our whole Starbucks order while I sit and check my email! Awesome. Zsa Zsa then said to me, "Mommy, you trusted me with your credit card. That's a good sign." I'm like, yeah, don't get used to it Zsa Zsa. Your name is Zsa Zsa for a reason.
Anyway, they engaged in another fun activity as we sat outside drinking our coffee. It's called running up and down the sidewalk like meshugannas. Screeching. It's not really my favorite activity, but you know it is the Nine Days and there is really little else to do. Yesterday, one of my friends who is used to taking her kids to the pool every day in the summer took them to the kosher pizza store in the next city so she could kill time. True story.
The next activity we did was called, go to the new awesome Party Store that recently opened in our town. We also went there yesterday. When I surveyed Zsa Zsa, Eva and Gorby this morning as to what activity they wanted to do, it was unanimous. Again. It really is an amazing store. Everywhere you turn there is another magnificent sight to behold. Rocker wigs? Check. Hello Kitty EVERYTHING? Check. Bulk candy (even kosher)? Check. And in the wedding aisle, Eva asked, "Mommy, can we buy everything for my wedding here?" Why yes, Eva, what a phenomenal idea! That will save me literally thousands of dollars. I was feeling great until Gorby found the Dora mask. Yes, a mask of Dora's face.
He then put it on. Seriously, straight out of a horror movie. I used to know this guy who was literally terrified of Dora. I always thought he was an idiot until I saw Gorby with the Dora mask on. Then it dawned on me. I took a picture. Maybe I could email this picture to him anonymously and freak the guy out. Except then it wouldn't be anonymous because it would have my name on it. Then I realized I'm an idiot. And I also realized that it's the Nine Days and I shouldn't be thinking bad thoughts about people. Then I realized that I had an enormous headache so we took our four Ring Pops for the plane, the Hello Kitty phone book, the Hello Kitty notepad with stamp, the slinky, and the sparkly key chain notebooks and went to the cash register. The lady said, "Oh, you're back." "Oh, no, this is our first time here. Nice store," I said. Except I didn't. Because lying during the Nine Days is extra bad. But I really wanted to.
Well, none of the halachas (Jewish laws) I have studied with regard to the Nine Days say anything specific about Starbucks, so this morning we started with that. Yes, I know I go every day. This morning, I ran into a friend on the way in so gave Zsa Zsa my credit card and let her, Eva, and Gorby order for all of us while my friend and I chatted. I meandered to the cash register as they were finishing their order. It was one of the proudest moments of my life. Another milestone. The kids can now do our whole Starbucks order while I sit and check my email! Awesome. Zsa Zsa then said to me, "Mommy, you trusted me with your credit card. That's a good sign." I'm like, yeah, don't get used to it Zsa Zsa. Your name is Zsa Zsa for a reason.
Anyway, they engaged in another fun activity as we sat outside drinking our coffee. It's called running up and down the sidewalk like meshugannas. Screeching. It's not really my favorite activity, but you know it is the Nine Days and there is really little else to do. Yesterday, one of my friends who is used to taking her kids to the pool every day in the summer took them to the kosher pizza store in the next city so she could kill time. True story.
The next activity we did was called, go to the new awesome Party Store that recently opened in our town. We also went there yesterday. When I surveyed Zsa Zsa, Eva and Gorby this morning as to what activity they wanted to do, it was unanimous. Again. It really is an amazing store. Everywhere you turn there is another magnificent sight to behold. Rocker wigs? Check. Hello Kitty EVERYTHING? Check. Bulk candy (even kosher)? Check. And in the wedding aisle, Eva asked, "Mommy, can we buy everything for my wedding here?" Why yes, Eva, what a phenomenal idea! That will save me literally thousands of dollars. I was feeling great until Gorby found the Dora mask. Yes, a mask of Dora's face.
He then put it on. Seriously, straight out of a horror movie. I used to know this guy who was literally terrified of Dora. I always thought he was an idiot until I saw Gorby with the Dora mask on. Then it dawned on me. I took a picture. Maybe I could email this picture to him anonymously and freak the guy out. Except then it wouldn't be anonymous because it would have my name on it. Then I realized I'm an idiot. And I also realized that it's the Nine Days and I shouldn't be thinking bad thoughts about people. Then I realized that I had an enormous headache so we took our four Ring Pops for the plane, the Hello Kitty phone book, the Hello Kitty notepad with stamp, the slinky, and the sparkly key chain notebooks and went to the cash register. The lady said, "Oh, you're back." "Oh, no, this is our first time here. Nice store," I said. Except I didn't. Because lying during the Nine Days is extra bad. But I really wanted to.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
A great start and why I hate going to the allergist
So since Big Shot Husband and Perfect Eldest Son (Pes) have abandoned us for some "father-son bonding" nonsensical trip, Zsa Zsa, Eva and Gorby have had to endure my cheerful and sunny disposition in the morning. Let me explain. Though I am sometimes quick to point out Big Shot Husband's flaws, I cannot complain about his recognition and acceptance of my sole flaw: I hate the morning. As such, I stay in bed as long as humanly possible and he gets up and deals with the fray. To be fair (to myself), I am not entirely immune, as I get frequent visits (sometimes upwards of 20) between 630 and whenever I have to drag myself out of bed. Obviously, though, when Big Shot Husband is out of town, I have to be the responsible parent.
This morning I wake up to Eva gently caressing my arm and saying, "Mommy, can I lie down next to you?" I smile(ish) and grunt, "Hm." This means yes. She scrambles into bed with me and snuggles up. This is so sweet, I think. Two minutes later, the whole thing falls apart. Zsa Zsa and Gorby want in on the action, tearing into the room and my bed, screaming, fighting, namecalling. . .I stay still with my eyes closed. I think this is the same procedure as when a large wild animal wants to eat you. Eventually they leave and continue to fight and scream downstairs. After many visits to tattle on each other, I drag myself downstairs. Then we have to go to the allergist.
Zsa Zsa had a big allergy test last month that she failed. Her allergy to nuts was so severe that the scratch test alone resulted in a major reaction necessitating a shot of epi in the office. I guess we shouldn't ever feed her nuts again. So today we were to test for a few environmental allergens and once more for peanut. Because our regular doctor had the audacity to tear his ACL or somesuch, we were rescheduled from yesterday to today. When we got there, Zsa Zsa said, "I hate this rotten place." How prescient she was. It was clear when we arrived that they had no idea we were coming. Even though they called me to reschedule two days prior and just an hour earlier had called to make sure I applied the Emla cream to anesthetize her skinny little arms for the transdermal allergy tests, we were not on their list.
After half an hour of sitting there, I noticed that a) everyone else had been called back and b) Zsa Zsa's arms were getting reddish under the saran wrap (don't ask). I went to the desk, "Hi, um, my daughter's arms are getting really red and we've been sitting here for half an hour." "Oh yes," desk lady says, "She's calling you back soon." This is when I realize that at Shmordnick School of Medical Technicianry (you've seen the commercials), the sole training they receive is to either 1) be extremely vague or b) make stuff up really quick to avoid the ire of aggravated patients. You'll see what I mean. Soon.
Fifteen minutes later (30 + 15 = 45 minute wait time), we are called back. "How are you?" lady asks. "I was fine until I had to wait here for 45 minutes and Zsa Zsa's arms are getting quite red," I said. "Oh, that just means it's working," lady says. "And we didn't have you on the schedule, that's why it took so long." Note to self: 1) Google 'red skin means Emla is working' when I get home, and 2) Don't kill this lady. "Well," I retort, "that's not my fault, they called me to switch the appointment time two days ago and also just a couple of hours ago to remind me to put the cream on." And this is where she pulls out the Shmordnick School strategy, "Well, the longer the cream is on the better. In fact, one hour is just the bare minimum. So she's better off having had it on for two hours." Except that my head is about to explode, but no matter.
She does the tests, comes back and declares that Zsa Zsa is definitely allergic to peanut and mold. "Wow, interesting," I say, "because last time I told Dr. Adrenaline that she had just recently eaten chocolate peanut butter cups with no problem, isn't that strange?" "Not necessarily," she replies. Mr. Shmordnick would be so proud. "The doctor will be in soon," she huffs out. Except it was the nurse who comes in next. Wow, I guess they grant medical degrees here too. This fact was also corroborated when I opened the desk drawer earlier looking for a piece of paper and I found a blank prescription pad. I didn't touch it. I promise. Anyway, we were pushing a two hour visit here so after she consults with us, we get up to go. "Wait," she says, "the doctor is coming." We sit.
Finally, many moons later, Dr. Wienerschnitzel walks in. He is about 157 years old and wearing a brown shirt, ok, not really. (Is it un-PC to say stuff like that?) He looks at Zsa Zsa's chart and then starts dictating to himself and writing each word as he says it aloud, VERY SLOWLY, "Allergy to mold, takes blahblah nasal spray, only option is immunotherapy which will be started as soon as we can make solution." Hold on there, Dr. Sauerkraut, I am not doing allergy shots, I do not need another extracurricular activity. "OK," he says, "you can make an appointment to start the immunotherapy next month." It's called allergy shots in America, dude. "OK, sounds good," I say, and hightail it out of that place.
I am exhausted. "Zsa Zsa," I say, "Will you do me a solid and take the other kids downstairs tomorrow morning and put them in front of the TV?" "TV?" she asks, incredulous, "At 7 in the morning? Are you crazy?" Our anti-TV campaign sometimes has its failings. "Please," I say, "I am begging you." "OK," she says. "Oh, and make them breakfast too," I add. I figure now that my older kids are 10 and 8, I can relax a little. I mean, I did spend all those years getting up early with them. Ahem.
My cell phone rings, "HELLOOOO!" my mother chirps. (She is very cheerful, even in the morning). "How are you?!!" "I'm fine," I say. "What's going on?" she asks. "Nothing," I say. I realize I don't have to tell her anything anymore. She can just read it on my blog. I smile.
This morning I wake up to Eva gently caressing my arm and saying, "Mommy, can I lie down next to you?" I smile(ish) and grunt, "Hm." This means yes. She scrambles into bed with me and snuggles up. This is so sweet, I think. Two minutes later, the whole thing falls apart. Zsa Zsa and Gorby want in on the action, tearing into the room and my bed, screaming, fighting, namecalling. . .I stay still with my eyes closed. I think this is the same procedure as when a large wild animal wants to eat you. Eventually they leave and continue to fight and scream downstairs. After many visits to tattle on each other, I drag myself downstairs. Then we have to go to the allergist.
Zsa Zsa had a big allergy test last month that she failed. Her allergy to nuts was so severe that the scratch test alone resulted in a major reaction necessitating a shot of epi in the office. I guess we shouldn't ever feed her nuts again. So today we were to test for a few environmental allergens and once more for peanut. Because our regular doctor had the audacity to tear his ACL or somesuch, we were rescheduled from yesterday to today. When we got there, Zsa Zsa said, "I hate this rotten place." How prescient she was. It was clear when we arrived that they had no idea we were coming. Even though they called me to reschedule two days prior and just an hour earlier had called to make sure I applied the Emla cream to anesthetize her skinny little arms for the transdermal allergy tests, we were not on their list.
After half an hour of sitting there, I noticed that a) everyone else had been called back and b) Zsa Zsa's arms were getting reddish under the saran wrap (don't ask). I went to the desk, "Hi, um, my daughter's arms are getting really red and we've been sitting here for half an hour." "Oh yes," desk lady says, "She's calling you back soon." This is when I realize that at Shmordnick School of Medical Technicianry (you've seen the commercials), the sole training they receive is to either 1) be extremely vague or b) make stuff up really quick to avoid the ire of aggravated patients. You'll see what I mean. Soon.
Fifteen minutes later (30 + 15 = 45 minute wait time), we are called back. "How are you?" lady asks. "I was fine until I had to wait here for 45 minutes and Zsa Zsa's arms are getting quite red," I said. "Oh, that just means it's working," lady says. "And we didn't have you on the schedule, that's why it took so long." Note to self: 1) Google 'red skin means Emla is working' when I get home, and 2) Don't kill this lady. "Well," I retort, "that's not my fault, they called me to switch the appointment time two days ago and also just a couple of hours ago to remind me to put the cream on." And this is where she pulls out the Shmordnick School strategy, "Well, the longer the cream is on the better. In fact, one hour is just the bare minimum. So she's better off having had it on for two hours." Except that my head is about to explode, but no matter.
She does the tests, comes back and declares that Zsa Zsa is definitely allergic to peanut and mold. "Wow, interesting," I say, "because last time I told Dr. Adrenaline that she had just recently eaten chocolate peanut butter cups with no problem, isn't that strange?" "Not necessarily," she replies. Mr. Shmordnick would be so proud. "The doctor will be in soon," she huffs out. Except it was the nurse who comes in next. Wow, I guess they grant medical degrees here too. This fact was also corroborated when I opened the desk drawer earlier looking for a piece of paper and I found a blank prescription pad. I didn't touch it. I promise. Anyway, we were pushing a two hour visit here so after she consults with us, we get up to go. "Wait," she says, "the doctor is coming." We sit.
Finally, many moons later, Dr. Wienerschnitzel walks in. He is about 157 years old and wearing a brown shirt, ok, not really. (Is it un-PC to say stuff like that?) He looks at Zsa Zsa's chart and then starts dictating to himself and writing each word as he says it aloud, VERY SLOWLY, "Allergy to mold, takes blahblah nasal spray, only option is immunotherapy which will be started as soon as we can make solution." Hold on there, Dr. Sauerkraut, I am not doing allergy shots, I do not need another extracurricular activity. "OK," he says, "you can make an appointment to start the immunotherapy next month." It's called allergy shots in America, dude. "OK, sounds good," I say, and hightail it out of that place.
I am exhausted. "Zsa Zsa," I say, "Will you do me a solid and take the other kids downstairs tomorrow morning and put them in front of the TV?" "TV?" she asks, incredulous, "At 7 in the morning? Are you crazy?" Our anti-TV campaign sometimes has its failings. "Please," I say, "I am begging you." "OK," she says. "Oh, and make them breakfast too," I add. I figure now that my older kids are 10 and 8, I can relax a little. I mean, I did spend all those years getting up early with them. Ahem.
My cell phone rings, "HELLOOOO!" my mother chirps. (She is very cheerful, even in the morning). "How are you?!!" "I'm fine," I say. "What's going on?" she asks. "Nothing," I say. I realize I don't have to tell her anything anymore. She can just read it on my blog. I smile.
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