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.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
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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