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."
Monday, October 24, 2011
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.
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