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.

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."

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.

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.

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?"