While patiently sitting in the waiting room for Eva's eight-year-old pediatrician visit last week, Eva angled to get her little hands on my precious iPhone. Now, there was a brief period of insanity when I first got my phone (the little darling is coming up on her one year birthday, bless her heart), I reveled in the opportunity it afforded me to completely ignore my children while they played Angry Birds. Soon enough, however, I wised up and realized that, as with any toy, fighting ensues over "turns," glazed-over expressions and selective deafness quickly rear their ugly heads and so, much to my children's collective chagrin, I no longer allow them to play on iPhone.
This day, at the doctor's office, I was lucky to have recently discovered a batch of super fun Chabad videos on YouTube to show Eva. And not only that, I got an email of the latest kiruv video from Aish, AS I WAS SITTING THERE IN THE WAITING ROOM. How lucky is that? So after we were ushered in to the room to wait for the doctor, I said, "Eva, you are so lucky today, do you know why? I am going to let you watch the Chabad video AND the Aish video. Cool, right?" The poor girl is so deprived of feeling that iPhone in her hand that she jumped at the chance to watch the videos. Genius, right?
And just then, as we were enjoying our excellent viewing, Dr F walked in.
"Excuse me," he said, "sorry to interrupt your game."
"Oh, no, Doctor," I said gravely, "I don't believe in video games, we were just catching up on our Chabad and Aish videos."
Bam! Am I the most responsible parent or what? (Yes M family, Gorby does spend hours playing Wii at your house and yes, E family, ditto for Pes, but I didn't have to tell Dr F that, now did I?)
Then Dr F asked Eva, "So Eva, how are you doing in school?"
"OK," she replied, "but I recently got an "S" on a reading paper." S is for Satisfactory, like a B in real life.
"What does "S" stand for?" asked the doctor.
"Superbad," said Eva. He looked at me, disapprovingly.
"Well, in our house, that is kind of what it stands for," I said, defensively.
He opened his eyes wide, told me Eva is short, and we went on our merry way.
Now, I am relaying this tale for a specific purpose: that is, Eva has clearly absorbed some of my neurotic perfectionistic tendencies. And that evening, the unthinkable happened.
I cheerfully told Eva to practice her violin, ("Practice your violin RIGHT NOW!") while I helped the other children get dressed for bed upstairs. A few minutes later, as I was fighting with Gorby to get out of the bath, I heard a loud sobbing coming from the girls' room. "What is that?" I asked.
"Eva's crying," Zsa Zsa said, "in her bed."
At this point, I immediately knew that something had happened that involved breakage/spillage/general household destruction. I sauntered in to her room and found poor Eva under the covers sobbing hysterically, face red and puffy.
"So, Eva," I said, "Sweetie, what is it?"
"I can't tell you, I can't tell you. You are going to scream at me."
"Me? Scream?" I asked (HAHAHAHAHAHA!)
"It's OK, honey, it can't be that bad, just tell Mommy, I promise I won't yell, OK?"
"No I CAN'T I CAN'T I CAN'T TELLYOU!" sob sob sob
At this point, I was SURE that she had dropped her violin. This did not upset me too much because a) it's insured; and b) she has a 500 hour long recital on Sunday and I was not too distressed at the prospect of sitting that one out. So I kept on gently prodding with my calm demeanor waiting for her to confess to breaking her violin. I was SO SURE that was the cause of the hysteria that when she finally said, "I wrote on your new couch," I felt faint and almost fell on the floor.
You see, after my super-intense remodeling project involving my family room over the summer, I finally have a beautiful room with a beautiful wheat-covered microsuede couch, which I bought in a moment of insanity when I forgot I own four children. However, thus far, because of fear of death/dismemberment/disownment, the kids have been excellent at following the "No food in my new room" rule, but sometimes forget about the "No ink anywhere NEAR my new room" rule.
I ran downstairs and saw a HUGE LINE OF INK right across the center cushion of my couch. I ran for my special couch cushion cleaner and, ignoring the cancer/stroke/bleeding warnings on the bottle, got to work. You see, my Daddy has taught me to always have supplies at the ready for any emergency involving carpet/fabrics/furniture. And, phew, after some tense minutes, the ink came out.
And by the time I went back upstairs to check on Eva's mental state, she seemed to have forgotten about the whole thing. Which, to be honest, ticked me off a little bit. I mean, there was no groveling apology, no promises to never do it again. And yes, Mother, you would say, "It's just a couch. Everyone's happy and healthy (never mind the unknown organ damage I caused myself with the fabric cleaner), you are lucky you have a couch, etc etc." However, it really isn't "just a couch," it's my gorgeous wheat-colored microsuede couch in my brand new gorgeous family room, so if anyone gets any kind of ink anywhere near it ever again, I will send them directly to you and let them write on your couch. And, yes, next time, I will buy a darker couch.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Growing Pains
A few days ago, my girls, Zsa Zsa (age 9) and Eva (age 8) experienced something new and exciting. It is called: instead of watching Arthur or Wordgirl on PBS kids for a good time, they were allowed to watch a sitcom!! Now, this form of television was entirely novel to them. Here's how it happened:
Picture Motzei Shabbos in the Cake household. All is quiet, mostly because Gorby (age 6 and completely insane) now accompanies Pes (age 11) and Big Shot Husband to Father-Son Learning at our local yeshiva. All I can say about that is, YAY!!! I have been waiting for the glorious day when Gorby became old enough to go to FSL (as we call it) and join the other male Cakes so I could have peace and quiet with my girls.
Zsa Zsa, "Mommy, can we do something special since the boys are out with Abba?"
Me, "Yes, girls, let's try to recite 50 perakim of tehillim (psalms) for all the cholim (sick people) we know before the boys return!"
HAHAHAHA. I totally didn't say that. Instead, I said, "Sure, do you guys want to watch ONE show?"
Girls, "Yes, yes thank you Mommy!! What should we watch?"
And this is where things took a dark turn. You see, even I am sick of Arthur and Wordgirl, especially since I recently put a kibosh on Cartoon Network shows due to my extreme hatred of slapsticky cartoons. And though I watched plenty of television as a young lass, and Big Shot Husband will tell you that he watched way too much TV as a youth, we both feel that our children are better off reading, with the occasional TV viewing as a special treat. The end.
However, on this night, I said, "So what do you want to watch? I'm not really sure what is good for kids these days aside from what you already watch." And then at that moment, Zsa Zsa said, "Some of my friends like the show 'Good Luck Charlie'."
Of course at this point I went straight to commensensemedia.org to determine if there is anything inappropriate in the show and, though commensensemedia assured me it is a-ok, I still felt guilty as I plopped on the couch, found it On Demand, and pushed play. Duh duh duh dum.
And guess what? It was actually cute. And funny. And harmless. And the girls LOVED it! And, I noticed, it was very similar to that old television classic we all know and love called Growing Pains (1985-1992). This show, which was significant in my life from age 11 until I went to college, was about the Seaver family. The first thing I noticed about the house on Good Luck Charlie is that that layout is EXACTLY THE SAME as the Seaver house.
I felt a warm glow descend on me as I cuddled up to the Gabor sisters and watched them and the TV at the same time. The looks on their beautiful little faces were priceless. It's as if they have been in a TV desert for their whole lives and they suddenly came upon a chocolate fountain.
I thought back on my childhood-how I loved that Seaver family all those years. Maggie, the sweet patient working mother, Jason, the work-at-home psychiatrist (so Maggie could further her career--very 90's PC), Mike, the (hot) Kirk Cameron, nerdy ever-misunderstood Carol, and precocious little brother Ben. (Surprise baby Chrissie came along toward the end of the series).
I realized how I had been depriving my children the pleasure of a good sitcom. I mean, Pes is 11 now and the girls are not too far behind (again, Gorby is an outlier in many ways so I throw up my hands in any dealings with him). Why shouldn't they be watching a good clean American sitcom? Really, it's practically unpatriotic. Yes, Katie Drohn, I realize you watched Sesame Street until you were 12, but come on, you're Canadian.
Then I realized that maybe I am suffering from Growing Pains of my own. I know my babies aren't really babies so much anymore. They understand a lot more than I want to believe. The day a sophisticated teenage relative of Pes's said, "That guy is flamingly gay," I almost stroked out and insisted Pes had NO IDEA what that means. But what if he does? (PS, my Chabad rebbetzin friend, upon hearing my sordid tale, said, "Honeycake, of course he knows what gay is.") I mean, I hope the days when my kids don't know anything "inappropriate" aren't entirely over, but I may have to face facts soon.
I know when my kids were little and completely driving me crazy in every conceivable way, I would get really irked when someone with older kids would say, "You have it easy now. Just wait until your kids are older. Small kids, small problems; Big kids, big problems."
I found this to be entirely irritating and condescending, but, alas, maybe they were correct. How do you know how to tell your kids about stuff you don't really want them to know about? How do you find out what they already know? I mean, if I say, "Oh, hi, Pes, do you know what _____ means?" If he says no, then I've really made a mess of things, right?
However, the moment I knew that I have really crossed the threshold into the "no more babies" stage is when our family friends asked if we want to go on a trip with them. They have three kids under 5 and I said words I thought I'd never say, "Big Shot Husband, I don't know if they should come. I mean, their kids are so little and I'm sure they wouldn't have a good time. I mean, the hotel experience alone is enough to make anyone want to jump out a window."
And so I flashed back to all the times my family members with older kids would say, "Oh, you don't want to take a trip like THAT, your kids are too little," or, "We never traveled anywhere until our youngest was 6." And I would, again, get really ticked off. But maybe there is wisdom with experience. And I am now super wise apparently. Until I have teenagers. Then I am running away.
Picture Motzei Shabbos in the Cake household. All is quiet, mostly because Gorby (age 6 and completely insane) now accompanies Pes (age 11) and Big Shot Husband to Father-Son Learning at our local yeshiva. All I can say about that is, YAY!!! I have been waiting for the glorious day when Gorby became old enough to go to FSL (as we call it) and join the other male Cakes so I could have peace and quiet with my girls.
Zsa Zsa, "Mommy, can we do something special since the boys are out with Abba?"
Me, "Yes, girls, let's try to recite 50 perakim of tehillim (psalms) for all the cholim (sick people) we know before the boys return!"
HAHAHAHA. I totally didn't say that. Instead, I said, "Sure, do you guys want to watch ONE show?"
Girls, "Yes, yes thank you Mommy!! What should we watch?"
And this is where things took a dark turn. You see, even I am sick of Arthur and Wordgirl, especially since I recently put a kibosh on Cartoon Network shows due to my extreme hatred of slapsticky cartoons. And though I watched plenty of television as a young lass, and Big Shot Husband will tell you that he watched way too much TV as a youth, we both feel that our children are better off reading, with the occasional TV viewing as a special treat. The end.
However, on this night, I said, "So what do you want to watch? I'm not really sure what is good for kids these days aside from what you already watch." And then at that moment, Zsa Zsa said, "Some of my friends like the show 'Good Luck Charlie'."
Of course at this point I went straight to commensensemedia.org to determine if there is anything inappropriate in the show and, though commensensemedia assured me it is a-ok, I still felt guilty as I plopped on the couch, found it On Demand, and pushed play. Duh duh duh dum.
And guess what? It was actually cute. And funny. And harmless. And the girls LOVED it! And, I noticed, it was very similar to that old television classic we all know and love called Growing Pains (1985-1992). This show, which was significant in my life from age 11 until I went to college, was about the Seaver family. The first thing I noticed about the house on Good Luck Charlie is that that layout is EXACTLY THE SAME as the Seaver house.
I felt a warm glow descend on me as I cuddled up to the Gabor sisters and watched them and the TV at the same time. The looks on their beautiful little faces were priceless. It's as if they have been in a TV desert for their whole lives and they suddenly came upon a chocolate fountain.
I thought back on my childhood-how I loved that Seaver family all those years. Maggie, the sweet patient working mother, Jason, the work-at-home psychiatrist (so Maggie could further her career--very 90's PC), Mike, the (hot) Kirk Cameron, nerdy ever-misunderstood Carol, and precocious little brother Ben. (Surprise baby Chrissie came along toward the end of the series).
I realized how I had been depriving my children the pleasure of a good sitcom. I mean, Pes is 11 now and the girls are not too far behind (again, Gorby is an outlier in many ways so I throw up my hands in any dealings with him). Why shouldn't they be watching a good clean American sitcom? Really, it's practically unpatriotic. Yes, Katie Drohn, I realize you watched Sesame Street until you were 12, but come on, you're Canadian.
Then I realized that maybe I am suffering from Growing Pains of my own. I know my babies aren't really babies so much anymore. They understand a lot more than I want to believe. The day a sophisticated teenage relative of Pes's said, "That guy is flamingly gay," I almost stroked out and insisted Pes had NO IDEA what that means. But what if he does? (PS, my Chabad rebbetzin friend, upon hearing my sordid tale, said, "Honeycake, of course he knows what gay is.") I mean, I hope the days when my kids don't know anything "inappropriate" aren't entirely over, but I may have to face facts soon.
I know when my kids were little and completely driving me crazy in every conceivable way, I would get really irked when someone with older kids would say, "You have it easy now. Just wait until your kids are older. Small kids, small problems; Big kids, big problems."
I found this to be entirely irritating and condescending, but, alas, maybe they were correct. How do you know how to tell your kids about stuff you don't really want them to know about? How do you find out what they already know? I mean, if I say, "Oh, hi, Pes, do you know what _____ means?" If he says no, then I've really made a mess of things, right?
However, the moment I knew that I have really crossed the threshold into the "no more babies" stage is when our family friends asked if we want to go on a trip with them. They have three kids under 5 and I said words I thought I'd never say, "Big Shot Husband, I don't know if they should come. I mean, their kids are so little and I'm sure they wouldn't have a good time. I mean, the hotel experience alone is enough to make anyone want to jump out a window."
And so I flashed back to all the times my family members with older kids would say, "Oh, you don't want to take a trip like THAT, your kids are too little," or, "We never traveled anywhere until our youngest was 6." And I would, again, get really ticked off. But maybe there is wisdom with experience. And I am now super wise apparently. Until I have teenagers. Then I am running away.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
I had a run-in with the law
Today I had the privilege of experiencing something I haven't experienced in many years. It is called: being pulled over by a cop! I felt like such a bad-a**. Sorry for the bad language, Mother. Anyway, Big Shot Husband always says, "It's the 5-0," when we see police cars, because he's super cool. However, he never seems to have the privilege of being pulled over by an actual police officer like I did today. Bam!
Here's what happened: I had dropped Gorby off at his local backyard camp and was driving the other three to the kids' school for the girls' camp. I was on that long road we take, past the hospital but before the twenty-hour light, when I made a really stupid error. Yes, that's right, I changed from the middle lane to the left lane and crossed a double yellow line. That was not the stupid part. The stupid part was that I did it RIGHT IN FRONT OF A COP. I guess the fact that I do this maneuver on a regular basis during the school year when I drive this route over and over and over again inured me to the fact that it is illegal.
I had to actually make a u-turn in front of all those people, drive to the side street where Officer Friendly was parked and show him my actual license and registration. I was lucky that I had my license, because I recently spent three hours at the DMV renewing it, lost it while running the next week, then went to the express DMV near my house and got a new one (10 minutes), even though my plan was to wait for the good citizen who found it to drop it in the mail to me. I am still waiting.
Anyway, I took a page from Big Shot Husband and used the two-pronged strategy called: 1) Do not speak unless spoken to and 2) use as few words as possible when responding.
Officer Friendly: "Ma'am, this is a $90 ticket and a point on your license. Also, it is dangerous to cross that double yellow line because if someone is trying to turn, they would be looking the other direction and not realize that you had pulled around and you could have a major accident." He demonstrated by turning his head in one direction and not looking the other way also, which I'm pretty sure you are always supposed to do while driving and turning.
So I said, "Officer, shouldn't a driver always look in both directions while making a turn? If the driver did so, he would see me regardless of my going around that other car to get in the left lane, right? I'm sure we could Google the actual law right now." Bwahaha! You thought I said that? No way, Jose.
Really, I nodded and said, "Yes, Officer, you are right. It is really dangerous."
"Well," he said, "I am just going to give you a written warning this time. But it really is a $90 fine and one point on your license."
"Thank you, Officer," I said. Or something like that.
So I got my warning and sheepishly joined the left lane (legally this time) and went my merry way. I nattered on to the children about how that was only the second time in my whole life I have been pulled over and I've NEVER had a ticket. Eva kindly reminded me that about once a month or so I get an envelope from the county containing a beautiful photograph of my minivan speeding off somewhere and a brusque request to remit some small fine (this is for Big Shot Husband's eyes) which is actually not so small (for the rest of you who know the truth).
I have to say, though, that I did feel quite the outlaw after my police encounter and it was a little exciting. I tend to be sort of an insane rule-follower (yes, Mother, I know I was rebellious as a teenager, but I am talking about present day. Thirty-seven years old).
I mean, it did hurt my pride that I got dinged doing my most-practiced and skilled activity (no, not Starbucks, I am very serious about keeping my wits about me there), i.e., carpool. But on the other hand, I have logged at least 65,000 carpool miles and this is the first time I got pulled over. Yay, me!! I should be congratulating myself.
Anyway, I am thinking of putting my written warning on the wall somewhere to remind myself that I can be a little wild and crazy too. In fact, I might just break from my comfort zone and make a spicy cholent this week or even make bone-in chicken! Well, a lady can dream. . .
Here's what happened: I had dropped Gorby off at his local backyard camp and was driving the other three to the kids' school for the girls' camp. I was on that long road we take, past the hospital but before the twenty-hour light, when I made a really stupid error. Yes, that's right, I changed from the middle lane to the left lane and crossed a double yellow line. That was not the stupid part. The stupid part was that I did it RIGHT IN FRONT OF A COP. I guess the fact that I do this maneuver on a regular basis during the school year when I drive this route over and over and over again inured me to the fact that it is illegal.
I had to actually make a u-turn in front of all those people, drive to the side street where Officer Friendly was parked and show him my actual license and registration. I was lucky that I had my license, because I recently spent three hours at the DMV renewing it, lost it while running the next week, then went to the express DMV near my house and got a new one (10 minutes), even though my plan was to wait for the good citizen who found it to drop it in the mail to me. I am still waiting.
Anyway, I took a page from Big Shot Husband and used the two-pronged strategy called: 1) Do not speak unless spoken to and 2) use as few words as possible when responding.
Officer Friendly: "Ma'am, this is a $90 ticket and a point on your license. Also, it is dangerous to cross that double yellow line because if someone is trying to turn, they would be looking the other direction and not realize that you had pulled around and you could have a major accident." He demonstrated by turning his head in one direction and not looking the other way also, which I'm pretty sure you are always supposed to do while driving and turning.
So I said, "Officer, shouldn't a driver always look in both directions while making a turn? If the driver did so, he would see me regardless of my going around that other car to get in the left lane, right? I'm sure we could Google the actual law right now." Bwahaha! You thought I said that? No way, Jose.
Really, I nodded and said, "Yes, Officer, you are right. It is really dangerous."
"Well," he said, "I am just going to give you a written warning this time. But it really is a $90 fine and one point on your license."
"Thank you, Officer," I said. Or something like that.
So I got my warning and sheepishly joined the left lane (legally this time) and went my merry way. I nattered on to the children about how that was only the second time in my whole life I have been pulled over and I've NEVER had a ticket. Eva kindly reminded me that about once a month or so I get an envelope from the county containing a beautiful photograph of my minivan speeding off somewhere and a brusque request to remit some small fine (this is for Big Shot Husband's eyes) which is actually not so small (for the rest of you who know the truth).
I have to say, though, that I did feel quite the outlaw after my police encounter and it was a little exciting. I tend to be sort of an insane rule-follower (yes, Mother, I know I was rebellious as a teenager, but I am talking about present day. Thirty-seven years old).
I mean, it did hurt my pride that I got dinged doing my most-practiced and skilled activity (no, not Starbucks, I am very serious about keeping my wits about me there), i.e., carpool. But on the other hand, I have logged at least 65,000 carpool miles and this is the first time I got pulled over. Yay, me!! I should be congratulating myself.
Anyway, I am thinking of putting my written warning on the wall somewhere to remind myself that I can be a little wild and crazy too. In fact, I might just break from my comfort zone and make a spicy cholent this week or even make bone-in chicken! Well, a lady can dream. . .
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Side Bangs
Picture this: A serene Friday afternoon, the first day of summer break in the Cake Household. Mommy is cooking for Shabbos, Housekeeper F is folding laundry, Pes is out roaming the neighborhood like a teenage wastrel, Gorby is in his room sleeping, and the Gabor sisters are looking for trouble.
Now let me back up a minute. For weeks, Zsa Zsa and Eva have been begging for "side bangs." "What are side bangs?" you ask. Well, I have been asking the same thing. For weeks. Unfortunately, as you will soon see, I did not do my hishtadlus to find out what side bangs actually are/entail and, thus, tragedy struck.
You see, on this serene Friday afternoon, Zsa Zsa and Eva begged for the 1000th time for side bangs.
"Mommy," Zsa Zsa popped into the kitchen, "Can we get side bangs?"
"Um, now is not the time to go to the hair cut place, and you will TOTALLY REGRET getting side bangs anyway."
My understanding of side bangs at that point was some shorter hair around your face that constantly falls into your eyes and annoys you all day long, i.e., my Shabbos sheitel. I'm still not sure if this was the look they were going for, because, again, I still don't know what side bangs are and, frankly, don't care.
However, the Gabors were just DYING for side bangs and I remembered how, as a young girl in the '80s, I was DYING for a perm. I would beg, Mother would say no, and around we went until I ended up looking like a crazy poodle and regretting every permed moment as I said, "Wow, it looks so great, I love it!" with tears welling up in my eyes every time I looked in the mirror, not able to cry out loud since then Mother would know she was actually right and I actually totally regretted it.
So I thought to myself, "Those girls can just learn that same lesson I learned and go get those crazy side bangs. And as an added bonus, maybe I will actually find out what they are."
So I looked at Zsa Zsa and said, "Fine, go ahead, but you will TOTALLY REGRET IT!" Now, they had talked Housekeeper F into doing this lunacy for them because they had somehow come to understand that she had completed beauty school.
Two minutes after I gave my non-permission permission, Zsa Zsa walked into the kitchen. I almost passed out. She had a chunk of hair missing from the side of her face. Picture someone taking the hair from the center of the forehead until the ear and just chopping it straight across right above the ear. If you can't picture it, just know that it was SO HORRIBLE I ALMOST DIED!!!!
Now, as a testament to the deep love I have for my housekeeper, who keeps me alive and sane on a daily basis, I smiled at her and then turned to Zsa Zsa and screamed, "GET IN THE CAR RIGHT NOW WE ARE GOING TO THE HAIR CUT PLACE!!!!!" Eva and Gorby wanted in on the action and I screamed at them to hurry put their shoes on get in the car RIGHT NOW. Misplaced anger.
We zoomed along to our favorite family haircut place, a barber/beauty shop attached to a house on one of our main semi-highways, manned by two extremely hardworking Vietnamese immigrants, Lila and Vinny. Vinny is a perpetually smiling, sweet and gentle black belt in tae kwon do, and Lila has an acerbic tongue and says, "Honey," after every sentence. We sheepishly walked in and I said, "Um, she tried to get side bangs," as I pointed to Zsa Zsa. My daughter smiled guiltily, braces glinting in the afternoon sun.
Lila looked at us as if we were complete morons. "Those aren't side bangs, honey," she scolded in her thick Vietnamese accent. "Who did this?"
Busted. I was trying to make it seem like Zsa Zsa had done it herself, but the wily Lila caught on pretty quick.
"Mmmm-my housekeeper," I stammered. "What?!! Honey!! Leave your housekeeper to keep your house. Those aren't side bangs, uh-uh, honey." And she began to try to fix the damage.
This was not easy. It's amazing how one quick slip of the scissors can undo years of hair growing outedness. You totally know what I mean if you're a girl. So she snipped away and finally ended up with, um, a MULLET!!!!
I said, "No, um no, that's no happening. Lila, this is a mullet."
Zsa Zsa said, "Mommy, it's fine, I don't want her to cut off all my long hair."
I said, "Nobody in my house is ever going to have a mullet. It is not allowed in the Cake family. Lila will have to cut it so it's layered all around. Sorry."
Zsa Zsa sighed and sat back down in the chair. And I am totally not making this up: Lila turned around and mouthed to me, "Mullet is Red Neck?" I smiled. She nodded conspiratorially.
So Lila fixed it up. And Zsa Zsa ended up with a very cute layered hair cut that will take a year or two to grow out. And I realized that while Housekeeper F may have gone to beauty school, she may only have been licensed to practice on Afro-Caribbean individuals.
Now we have spent the weekend convincing ourselves how cute Zsa Zsa's hair is. And since she is a gorgeous girl (naturally, as a Gabor), she really does look amazing. But I wonder, as she looks in the mirror, if the tears aren't welling up a little. And I see myself looking in the mirror at exactly Zsa Zsa's age and thinking, "Mother--how could you have let me PERM MY HAIR???"
Now let me back up a minute. For weeks, Zsa Zsa and Eva have been begging for "side bangs." "What are side bangs?" you ask. Well, I have been asking the same thing. For weeks. Unfortunately, as you will soon see, I did not do my hishtadlus to find out what side bangs actually are/entail and, thus, tragedy struck.
You see, on this serene Friday afternoon, Zsa Zsa and Eva begged for the 1000th time for side bangs.
"Mommy," Zsa Zsa popped into the kitchen, "Can we get side bangs?"
"Um, now is not the time to go to the hair cut place, and you will TOTALLY REGRET getting side bangs anyway."
My understanding of side bangs at that point was some shorter hair around your face that constantly falls into your eyes and annoys you all day long, i.e., my Shabbos sheitel. I'm still not sure if this was the look they were going for, because, again, I still don't know what side bangs are and, frankly, don't care.
However, the Gabors were just DYING for side bangs and I remembered how, as a young girl in the '80s, I was DYING for a perm. I would beg, Mother would say no, and around we went until I ended up looking like a crazy poodle and regretting every permed moment as I said, "Wow, it looks so great, I love it!" with tears welling up in my eyes every time I looked in the mirror, not able to cry out loud since then Mother would know she was actually right and I actually totally regretted it.
So I thought to myself, "Those girls can just learn that same lesson I learned and go get those crazy side bangs. And as an added bonus, maybe I will actually find out what they are."
So I looked at Zsa Zsa and said, "Fine, go ahead, but you will TOTALLY REGRET IT!" Now, they had talked Housekeeper F into doing this lunacy for them because they had somehow come to understand that she had completed beauty school.
Two minutes after I gave my non-permission permission, Zsa Zsa walked into the kitchen. I almost passed out. She had a chunk of hair missing from the side of her face. Picture someone taking the hair from the center of the forehead until the ear and just chopping it straight across right above the ear. If you can't picture it, just know that it was SO HORRIBLE I ALMOST DIED!!!!
Now, as a testament to the deep love I have for my housekeeper, who keeps me alive and sane on a daily basis, I smiled at her and then turned to Zsa Zsa and screamed, "GET IN THE CAR RIGHT NOW WE ARE GOING TO THE HAIR CUT PLACE!!!!!" Eva and Gorby wanted in on the action and I screamed at them to hurry put their shoes on get in the car RIGHT NOW. Misplaced anger.
We zoomed along to our favorite family haircut place, a barber/beauty shop attached to a house on one of our main semi-highways, manned by two extremely hardworking Vietnamese immigrants, Lila and Vinny. Vinny is a perpetually smiling, sweet and gentle black belt in tae kwon do, and Lila has an acerbic tongue and says, "Honey," after every sentence. We sheepishly walked in and I said, "Um, she tried to get side bangs," as I pointed to Zsa Zsa. My daughter smiled guiltily, braces glinting in the afternoon sun.
Lila looked at us as if we were complete morons. "Those aren't side bangs, honey," she scolded in her thick Vietnamese accent. "Who did this?"
Busted. I was trying to make it seem like Zsa Zsa had done it herself, but the wily Lila caught on pretty quick.
"Mmmm-my housekeeper," I stammered. "What?!! Honey!! Leave your housekeeper to keep your house. Those aren't side bangs, uh-uh, honey." And she began to try to fix the damage.
This was not easy. It's amazing how one quick slip of the scissors can undo years of hair growing outedness. You totally know what I mean if you're a girl. So she snipped away and finally ended up with, um, a MULLET!!!!
I said, "No, um no, that's no happening. Lila, this is a mullet."
Zsa Zsa said, "Mommy, it's fine, I don't want her to cut off all my long hair."
I said, "Nobody in my house is ever going to have a mullet. It is not allowed in the Cake family. Lila will have to cut it so it's layered all around. Sorry."
Zsa Zsa sighed and sat back down in the chair. And I am totally not making this up: Lila turned around and mouthed to me, "Mullet is Red Neck?" I smiled. She nodded conspiratorially.
So Lila fixed it up. And Zsa Zsa ended up with a very cute layered hair cut that will take a year or two to grow out. And I realized that while Housekeeper F may have gone to beauty school, she may only have been licensed to practice on Afro-Caribbean individuals.
Now we have spent the weekend convincing ourselves how cute Zsa Zsa's hair is. And since she is a gorgeous girl (naturally, as a Gabor), she really does look amazing. But I wonder, as she looks in the mirror, if the tears aren't welling up a little. And I see myself looking in the mirror at exactly Zsa Zsa's age and thinking, "Mother--how could you have let me PERM MY HAIR???"
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Science Experiment
This morning, Eva and I were lucky enough to unwittingly be part of a neat science experiment. Here's what happened:
Eva overslept due to our late night at my nephew's graduation. I decided to take her to school after dropping Gorby. Well, this was extremely fortuitous, as we would soon discover. On the way into the car, we smelled something that was strongly fishy as the three of us lingered in the mudroom. First, I powdered Eva's shoes with Odor Eater powder as I do most days. Though she is a gorgeous little girl, she has super smelly feet. Anyway, that didn't seem to be the problem, which I discovered after she shoved a shoe into my nose when I asked, "Are your shoes the smelly culprit?"
The three of us could still smell the icky odor as we got into the car so searched the car fervently. Gorby declared from the depths of the minivan, "Here! I found it!" and handed me a cereal bar wrapper. Um, OK. "Gorby--that's not it! Come on now." We decided to press on after the three of us concurred that it was probably something in the garbage or recycling in the garage.
We dropped Gorby at school and finally arrived Eva's school. Since she was over an hour late, the parking lot was quiet and I pulled up right in front of the door. We exited the vehicle and, suddenly, the lights went on in Eva's brain.
"OH!" she exclaimed, "IT'S THE BIRD'S EGG!" I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. You see, the other day (please don't tell me it was Friday, but I fear it was), Eva ran over to me as we were hanging out in the front yard (i.e., kids were playing ball and I was playing Scramble on my iPhone). "Mommy, look, it's a blue birdy egg!" I looked up, wrinkled my nose and we both noted that it looked like something was inside the egg. Then one of the following two things occurred:
1) I jumped up, dragged out the microscope and we both excitedly inspected the interior of the bird's egg under intense magnification.
or;
2) I kept wrinkling my nose, said, "Hm," continued my Scramble game, and said, "Wash your hands REALLYWELLWITHSOAP!!!!"
Anyway, Eva decided to place the shell into a baggie and take it to her beloved first grade teacher Ms. G.
And there we were, many days later (shudder!), in front of a venerated Torah institution with a baggie thrown on the ground. The contents of said bag were: 1) bird's egg, 2) gooey liquid and 3) maggots. Yes, you read that right. The two of us looked at each other and then started laughing. This laughter was the kind where you are in disbelief and don't quite know what to do, not the one where you are reading, for example, a blog and laughing hysterically. But since I was the mother (darn it), I had to figure out something quick. Good grief.
"Wow, Eva," I said, "Those are maggots in there."
"What are maggots?" she asked.
"Well. maggots are little bugs that like to eat dead stuff." Here is where I realized that the contents of that little blue egg must have been an embryo or dead bird. Luckily, just yesterday, I was listening to the "This American Life" podcast about gory crime scenes and it talked about maggots so I instantly identified those little guys.
So what did I do? You ask. I wondered the same thing. After trying not to die, I sprung into action. "Eva!" I shouted, "I have Clorox wipes in the car, let's use them!" I started scrubbing out her backpack (luckily it was just the outer zipper pocket, and there wasn't actual spooze in there, just odor. I scrubbed it out with about 27 wipes and took out 5 plastic bags from my car to throw maggot-bag into and tie up with a plan to toss it into the outdoor Starbucks garbage can, and wishing I was there right then.
I asked Eva to grab my keys and iPhone (she hadn't touched maggot-bag) so I could do a surgical scrub after I signed her in. I left my stuff in the office and started scrubbing like crazy in the hallway washing sink. I used so much foaming soap that it was all over the sink, the soap dispenser and the paper towel dispenser. I also ran into Zsa Zsa's teacher who is about 10 months pregnant (and adorable still) and when I told her the story she looked extremely queasy. Oops.
I grabbed my stuff and drove quickly to Starbucks so I could dispose of the bag. On the way, I used my five different flavors of hand sanitizer. However, there is not enough hand sanitizer or soap in the world to scrub the memory of what was brewing in the baggie right in my very own Eva's backpack, right in my very own mudroom. I'm happy I took her in late because think how many days those maggots (AAARRGH) could've lived in there (Big Shot Husband usually drops them at school extremely quickly on his way to work, with no time to sniff, locate and fumigate). So I will leave you here while I go wash my hands again. With lye.
Eva overslept due to our late night at my nephew's graduation. I decided to take her to school after dropping Gorby. Well, this was extremely fortuitous, as we would soon discover. On the way into the car, we smelled something that was strongly fishy as the three of us lingered in the mudroom. First, I powdered Eva's shoes with Odor Eater powder as I do most days. Though she is a gorgeous little girl, she has super smelly feet. Anyway, that didn't seem to be the problem, which I discovered after she shoved a shoe into my nose when I asked, "Are your shoes the smelly culprit?"
The three of us could still smell the icky odor as we got into the car so searched the car fervently. Gorby declared from the depths of the minivan, "Here! I found it!" and handed me a cereal bar wrapper. Um, OK. "Gorby--that's not it! Come on now." We decided to press on after the three of us concurred that it was probably something in the garbage or recycling in the garage.
We dropped Gorby at school and finally arrived Eva's school. Since she was over an hour late, the parking lot was quiet and I pulled up right in front of the door. We exited the vehicle and, suddenly, the lights went on in Eva's brain.
"OH!" she exclaimed, "IT'S THE BIRD'S EGG!" I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. You see, the other day (please don't tell me it was Friday, but I fear it was), Eva ran over to me as we were hanging out in the front yard (i.e., kids were playing ball and I was playing Scramble on my iPhone). "Mommy, look, it's a blue birdy egg!" I looked up, wrinkled my nose and we both noted that it looked like something was inside the egg. Then one of the following two things occurred:
1) I jumped up, dragged out the microscope and we both excitedly inspected the interior of the bird's egg under intense magnification.
or;
2) I kept wrinkling my nose, said, "Hm," continued my Scramble game, and said, "Wash your hands REALLYWELLWITHSOAP!!!!"
Anyway, Eva decided to place the shell into a baggie and take it to her beloved first grade teacher Ms. G.
And there we were, many days later (shudder!), in front of a venerated Torah institution with a baggie thrown on the ground. The contents of said bag were: 1) bird's egg, 2) gooey liquid and 3) maggots. Yes, you read that right. The two of us looked at each other and then started laughing. This laughter was the kind where you are in disbelief and don't quite know what to do, not the one where you are reading, for example, a blog and laughing hysterically. But since I was the mother (darn it), I had to figure out something quick. Good grief.
"Wow, Eva," I said, "Those are maggots in there."
"What are maggots?" she asked.
"Well. maggots are little bugs that like to eat dead stuff." Here is where I realized that the contents of that little blue egg must have been an embryo or dead bird. Luckily, just yesterday, I was listening to the "This American Life" podcast about gory crime scenes and it talked about maggots so I instantly identified those little guys.
So what did I do? You ask. I wondered the same thing. After trying not to die, I sprung into action. "Eva!" I shouted, "I have Clorox wipes in the car, let's use them!" I started scrubbing out her backpack (luckily it was just the outer zipper pocket, and there wasn't actual spooze in there, just odor. I scrubbed it out with about 27 wipes and took out 5 plastic bags from my car to throw maggot-bag into and tie up with a plan to toss it into the outdoor Starbucks garbage can, and wishing I was there right then.
I asked Eva to grab my keys and iPhone (she hadn't touched maggot-bag) so I could do a surgical scrub after I signed her in. I left my stuff in the office and started scrubbing like crazy in the hallway washing sink. I used so much foaming soap that it was all over the sink, the soap dispenser and the paper towel dispenser. I also ran into Zsa Zsa's teacher who is about 10 months pregnant (and adorable still) and when I told her the story she looked extremely queasy. Oops.
I grabbed my stuff and drove quickly to Starbucks so I could dispose of the bag. On the way, I used my five different flavors of hand sanitizer. However, there is not enough hand sanitizer or soap in the world to scrub the memory of what was brewing in the baggie right in my very own Eva's backpack, right in my very own mudroom. I'm happy I took her in late because think how many days those maggots (AAARRGH) could've lived in there (Big Shot Husband usually drops them at school extremely quickly on his way to work, with no time to sniff, locate and fumigate). So I will leave you here while I go wash my hands again. With lye.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Zsa Zsa and Eva in the kitchen
As I took a brief pause from preparations for the upcoming three day Yom Tov (Shabbos then two days of Shavuous) a few minutes ago, I opened up my Facebook for the first time all day. The first thing I saw was one of my FB friends posing adorably with her young daughter, showing their gorgeous Har Sinai (Mt. Sinai) cakes. They baked them in honor of Shavuous (holiday celebrating the Jews receiving the Torah on Mt. Sinai). [OK, who are we kidding? I was checking email/texting/fb messaging/checking fb/playing Scramble since I awoke this morning, but I am going for dramatic effect]. She always posts all this awesome looking food she has made and I post pictures of my kids at Starbucks.
Anyway, just moments prior to opening the gorgeous cookbook-worthy shot, I had finished a grueling project with my own little darlings. That's right, Zsa Zsa and Eva were baking today. There is a reason they are named Zsa Zsa and Eva--they should not be allowed in the kitchen. But as their future will likely demand some level of proficiency in the kitchen, I have signed Zsa Zsa up for a backyard camp for the summer that is staffed by Yeshiva (high school) girls and purports to teach girls ages 9-12 how to bake, cook, set a Shabbos table, and magically make the house perfect for Shabbos with several dripping wet/screaming children and only 15 minutes to spare before candlelighting. OK, maybe not the last thing.
You will notice that I did not say, "Because my girls are likely to have to do a lot of cooking and baking in the future, I have decided to begin patiently and lovingly teaching them the fundamentals at the tender ages of 7 and 9." This is because I am neither patient nor loving when it comes to baking. And half the time my stuff does not turn out well and I FOR SURE never post my results on Facebook. Except that time a few months ago I put a photo of my chocolate cake which literally EXPLODED in the oven when I put in 1.5 TBSP baking soda instead of 1.5 TSP. This is a true story. Check my FB page.
So Zsa Zsa and Eva decided yesterday they were going to bake brownies from scratch today to bring to our lovely friends who are hosting us for lunch tomorrow. Because we love them so much (I just put that in there as a shout-out to the G family). They picked out the recipe from our "Kids in the Kitchen" cookbook and we made sure all the ingredients would be ready at our fingertips. This book, by the way, is a bit of scam because it purports to have recipes which children can actually do on their own. I love the cookbook because it contains several recipes I MYSELF regularly cook. This is my level of proficiency on the kitchen.
Today after our morning jaunt to Starbucks and Target, we came home and began baking. They decided they would "do it themselves." As soon as Eva started reading the recipe out loud and saying "Three four cups of flour, what's that mean? Zsa Zsa, come read this!" I knew we were in trouble. And when Zsa Zsa wanted to know if she could use the 1/4 cup measure for the 2/3 cup of whatever, I felt like my head would explode.
Basically, baking with them is akin to baking with two people from Chelm. But the real reason I don't like baking with them is that I kind of turn into a little bit of a control freak/Momster in the process. Example 1) Zsa Zsa: "Mommy, how do I get six tablespoons of margerine from this stick?" Me: "Cut on the line after you count six TBSP from the end." Zsa Zsa: "What do I cut it with?" Me: "A knife." Zsa Zsa: "What kind of knife?" Me: "A SHARP ONE!" Zsa Zsa: "OK." Goes to cutlery drawer to search for knife. Me: "THAT'S NOT WHERE WE KEEP OUR SHARP KNIVES!" Exasperatedly point to knife block. Sigh.
Now, I am not proud of this, but I am proud that I recognize my limitations and, therefore, when the Gabor sisters told me they were planning this baking project, I very maturely said, "Ooooo-kaaaayyyy," while rolling my eyes. Unfortunately, this subtlety was lost on them and they thought I actually meant, "OK."
So the brownies are now, by some miracle, done. We even made frosting. In spite of the fact that Eva read me the ingredients list without looking at the corresponding instructions so I didn't realize we were supposed to add the confectioners sugar and soy milk AFTER mixing the other ingredients (notice that by the time the frosting was made there was no pretense that they were "doing it themselves").
No matter, we will cut them up, arrange them on a plate covered with saran and put some decorations on top. Never mind that our friend is AMAZING in the kitchen and even knows how to make those cake balls on a stick that they have at Starbucks and look awesome (but we don't eat because they aren't kosher). And can bake/cook/decorate anything. We will proudly take our imperfect brownies and deliver them this afternoon. And try to arrange them so their lopsidedness is de-emphasized.
And instead of posting a picture of them on Facebook, I am posting this blog instead.
Anyway, just moments prior to opening the gorgeous cookbook-worthy shot, I had finished a grueling project with my own little darlings. That's right, Zsa Zsa and Eva were baking today. There is a reason they are named Zsa Zsa and Eva--they should not be allowed in the kitchen. But as their future will likely demand some level of proficiency in the kitchen, I have signed Zsa Zsa up for a backyard camp for the summer that is staffed by Yeshiva (high school) girls and purports to teach girls ages 9-12 how to bake, cook, set a Shabbos table, and magically make the house perfect for Shabbos with several dripping wet/screaming children and only 15 minutes to spare before candlelighting. OK, maybe not the last thing.
You will notice that I did not say, "Because my girls are likely to have to do a lot of cooking and baking in the future, I have decided to begin patiently and lovingly teaching them the fundamentals at the tender ages of 7 and 9." This is because I am neither patient nor loving when it comes to baking. And half the time my stuff does not turn out well and I FOR SURE never post my results on Facebook. Except that time a few months ago I put a photo of my chocolate cake which literally EXPLODED in the oven when I put in 1.5 TBSP baking soda instead of 1.5 TSP. This is a true story. Check my FB page.
So Zsa Zsa and Eva decided yesterday they were going to bake brownies from scratch today to bring to our lovely friends who are hosting us for lunch tomorrow. Because we love them so much (I just put that in there as a shout-out to the G family). They picked out the recipe from our "Kids in the Kitchen" cookbook and we made sure all the ingredients would be ready at our fingertips. This book, by the way, is a bit of scam because it purports to have recipes which children can actually do on their own. I love the cookbook because it contains several recipes I MYSELF regularly cook. This is my level of proficiency on the kitchen.
Today after our morning jaunt to Starbucks and Target, we came home and began baking. They decided they would "do it themselves." As soon as Eva started reading the recipe out loud and saying "Three four cups of flour, what's that mean? Zsa Zsa, come read this!" I knew we were in trouble. And when Zsa Zsa wanted to know if she could use the 1/4 cup measure for the 2/3 cup of whatever, I felt like my head would explode.
Basically, baking with them is akin to baking with two people from Chelm. But the real reason I don't like baking with them is that I kind of turn into a little bit of a control freak/Momster in the process. Example 1) Zsa Zsa: "Mommy, how do I get six tablespoons of margerine from this stick?" Me: "Cut on the line after you count six TBSP from the end." Zsa Zsa: "What do I cut it with?" Me: "A knife." Zsa Zsa: "What kind of knife?" Me: "A SHARP ONE!" Zsa Zsa: "OK." Goes to cutlery drawer to search for knife. Me: "THAT'S NOT WHERE WE KEEP OUR SHARP KNIVES!" Exasperatedly point to knife block. Sigh.
Now, I am not proud of this, but I am proud that I recognize my limitations and, therefore, when the Gabor sisters told me they were planning this baking project, I very maturely said, "Ooooo-kaaaayyyy," while rolling my eyes. Unfortunately, this subtlety was lost on them and they thought I actually meant, "OK."
So the brownies are now, by some miracle, done. We even made frosting. In spite of the fact that Eva read me the ingredients list without looking at the corresponding instructions so I didn't realize we were supposed to add the confectioners sugar and soy milk AFTER mixing the other ingredients (notice that by the time the frosting was made there was no pretense that they were "doing it themselves").
No matter, we will cut them up, arrange them on a plate covered with saran and put some decorations on top. Never mind that our friend is AMAZING in the kitchen and even knows how to make those cake balls on a stick that they have at Starbucks and look awesome (but we don't eat because they aren't kosher). And can bake/cook/decorate anything. We will proudly take our imperfect brownies and deliver them this afternoon. And try to arrange them so their lopsidedness is de-emphasized.
And instead of posting a picture of them on Facebook, I am posting this blog instead.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Oh, Baby
Today I enjoyed the marvelous opportunity of babysitting a very small infant for two entire hours. That's right, someone entrusted me to take care of their baby even though I haven't done so for at least five years. Of course, he is my dear friend Katie Drohn's nephew, so I am practically family. And coupled with the fact that the mother just luckily happened to be up all night last night, I was able to take him to my house and cuddle him for two whole hours.
Now, the truth is that I haven't pushed a baby stroller for several years and it felt really weird. I started pushing and then looked at Baby and said, "Hi, I haven't done this for a long time. Boy, stroller technology sure has improved in the past few years, huh?" Silence. I walked along a little more. "So, Baby, how you doing in there? You comfortable? It's a little chilly, isn't it?" Silence.
Did you know that 3-month-old babies don't have a lot to say for themselves? I forgot this part. It came back to me very quickly, however. I remember when Pes was a baby, lo those almost 11 years ago, and I would walk all over town with him talking away about the most inane things, thinking that I was, "stimulating his brain," or some nonsense. Now, don't get me wrong, a woman can appreciate a child who doesn't say you are, "mean," "unfair," or that you, "like Pes/Zsa Zsa/Eva/Gorby better," or ask, "Can you please buy more juice pouches/help me with my book report/buy a birthday present for Shloimy's birthday by tomorrow?"
Anyway, I picked up Baby at 1115 and was to have him until his mommy came at 115 to retrieve him. When I arrived home, marveling the whole way at his adorable mop of black hair and his calm silence, I brought him in and set him on the floor in his carseat. My plan was to throw in some laundry and clean up my email inbox and, hopefully, shower. Also, I thought that since his brain cannot be marred by poor viewing choices, if worst came to worst and he didn't want to be put down ;) I could hold him while catching up on some TV viewing so I could get that DVR percentage down. I try to be considerate of my husband that way.
So I ran to the laundry room and when I got halfway there, Baby started crying. I put the clothes in the dryer and heard, "Waahh! Waahh! Waahh!!"
"Hold on!" I cried, "Let me just push the button to start the dryer!" I ran back the few steps to the baby and scooped him up from his confinement. He stopped crying. "Oh, that's better, isn't it?" I cooed, "I am so sorry I left you there for ten seconds, I will hold you now."
Next, we tried to clean out my inbox but Baby wasn't happy so we retired to the family room where I may or may not have caught up on a "Real Housewives" franchise episode or something more educational on PBS while Baby fell asleep in my arms. I alternately kissed his little sleeping face and was like, "What up Teresa? Why you be frontin' like that?"
When he awoke, I quickly showered while he screamed, got dressed while he screamed, changed his (luckily mild) diaper and gave him a bottle. When his mom picked him up, I said, "He is adorable and sweet and awesome but babies are really a lot of work." She graciously agreed. I breathed a sigh of relief and retired quickly to Starbucks to "work" and eat some lunch before my afternoon of driving, watching Tae Kwon Do, feeding children (they have gotten really hungry all of a sudden and require A LOT of food), homework, etc.
As I was "working," my phone rang.
"Hello," I said.
"Hello Mommy," said a voice of a child who sounded remarkably familiar but seemed so....mature. I held the phone away from my ear and checked the caller ID. Home. I cocked my head. Hm. GORBY? Then I was really surprised when I heard,
"Mommy, I am just calling to see how your day was." I held the phone away from my ear and double checked. It still said Home.
"Gorby, it was great! I got to watch the baby."
"Was he soooo cute Mommy? Was he so so so so cute?"
"Oh Gorby, he was adorable."
"OK, Mommy, see you at Tae Kwon Do."
I sat there, stunned. Who had just called me? That was supposed to be my baby. But he wasn't at all like the baby I took care of this morning. He a) talks b) eats solid food c) makes me laugh and d) sleeps through the night. So all in all, as cute and delicious it is to hold a sleeping baby in my arms for 45 minutes while I may or may not be watching an episode of a Real Housewives franchise, it is a little more fun to watch my baby grow up and communicate with me. I smiled, self-satisfied at what a fantastic job I am doing with my five-year-old baby.
Ten minutes later, as I was driving to meet Gorby at Tae Kwon Do, the phone rang. "MOOOMMYY!!!!!" Someone screamed. I didn't have to guess who that was. Gorby. "I NEED TO GO TO TAE KWON DO AND HOUSEKEEPER (AND YOUR PERSONAL HERO) WON'T TAKE ME AND I WANT TO GO RIIIIGHHTTT NNOOOOOWWWWW!!!!" I sighed.
OK, maybe Gorby isn't, like, super mature yet, and maybe he screams still, but we are past that diaper changing, up all night baby who doesn't say a word to you. I mean, I got NOT ONE WORD from that adorable baby this morning. And while the words I do get don't always ring my bell, I enjoy the conversations I have with my four little duckies. Especially when they say, "Mommy you are so beautiful/I love you/You are the best Mommy in the whole world." Even if it's just because they are trying to appease me and/or want stuff. But once in a while, I am pretty sure they really really mean it.
Now, the truth is that I haven't pushed a baby stroller for several years and it felt really weird. I started pushing and then looked at Baby and said, "Hi, I haven't done this for a long time. Boy, stroller technology sure has improved in the past few years, huh?" Silence. I walked along a little more. "So, Baby, how you doing in there? You comfortable? It's a little chilly, isn't it?" Silence.
Did you know that 3-month-old babies don't have a lot to say for themselves? I forgot this part. It came back to me very quickly, however. I remember when Pes was a baby, lo those almost 11 years ago, and I would walk all over town with him talking away about the most inane things, thinking that I was, "stimulating his brain," or some nonsense. Now, don't get me wrong, a woman can appreciate a child who doesn't say you are, "mean," "unfair," or that you, "like Pes/Zsa Zsa/Eva/Gorby better," or ask, "Can you please buy more juice pouches/help me with my book report/buy a birthday present for Shloimy's birthday by tomorrow?"
Anyway, I picked up Baby at 1115 and was to have him until his mommy came at 115 to retrieve him. When I arrived home, marveling the whole way at his adorable mop of black hair and his calm silence, I brought him in and set him on the floor in his carseat. My plan was to throw in some laundry and clean up my email inbox and, hopefully, shower. Also, I thought that since his brain cannot be marred by poor viewing choices, if worst came to worst and he didn't want to be put down ;) I could hold him while catching up on some TV viewing so I could get that DVR percentage down. I try to be considerate of my husband that way.
So I ran to the laundry room and when I got halfway there, Baby started crying. I put the clothes in the dryer and heard, "Waahh! Waahh! Waahh!!"
"Hold on!" I cried, "Let me just push the button to start the dryer!" I ran back the few steps to the baby and scooped him up from his confinement. He stopped crying. "Oh, that's better, isn't it?" I cooed, "I am so sorry I left you there for ten seconds, I will hold you now."
Next, we tried to clean out my inbox but Baby wasn't happy so we retired to the family room where I may or may not have caught up on a "Real Housewives" franchise episode or something more educational on PBS while Baby fell asleep in my arms. I alternately kissed his little sleeping face and was like, "What up Teresa? Why you be frontin' like that?"
When he awoke, I quickly showered while he screamed, got dressed while he screamed, changed his (luckily mild) diaper and gave him a bottle. When his mom picked him up, I said, "He is adorable and sweet and awesome but babies are really a lot of work." She graciously agreed. I breathed a sigh of relief and retired quickly to Starbucks to "work" and eat some lunch before my afternoon of driving, watching Tae Kwon Do, feeding children (they have gotten really hungry all of a sudden and require A LOT of food), homework, etc.
As I was "working," my phone rang.
"Hello," I said.
"Hello Mommy," said a voice of a child who sounded remarkably familiar but seemed so....mature. I held the phone away from my ear and checked the caller ID. Home. I cocked my head. Hm. GORBY? Then I was really surprised when I heard,
"Mommy, I am just calling to see how your day was." I held the phone away from my ear and double checked. It still said Home.
"Gorby, it was great! I got to watch the baby."
"Was he soooo cute Mommy? Was he so so so so cute?"
"Oh Gorby, he was adorable."
"OK, Mommy, see you at Tae Kwon Do."
I sat there, stunned. Who had just called me? That was supposed to be my baby. But he wasn't at all like the baby I took care of this morning. He a) talks b) eats solid food c) makes me laugh and d) sleeps through the night. So all in all, as cute and delicious it is to hold a sleeping baby in my arms for 45 minutes while I may or may not be watching an episode of a Real Housewives franchise, it is a little more fun to watch my baby grow up and communicate with me. I smiled, self-satisfied at what a fantastic job I am doing with my five-year-old baby.
Ten minutes later, as I was driving to meet Gorby at Tae Kwon Do, the phone rang. "MOOOMMYY!!!!!" Someone screamed. I didn't have to guess who that was. Gorby. "I NEED TO GO TO TAE KWON DO AND HOUSEKEEPER (AND YOUR PERSONAL HERO) WON'T TAKE ME AND I WANT TO GO RIIIIGHHTTT NNOOOOOWWWWW!!!!" I sighed.
OK, maybe Gorby isn't, like, super mature yet, and maybe he screams still, but we are past that diaper changing, up all night baby who doesn't say a word to you. I mean, I got NOT ONE WORD from that adorable baby this morning. And while the words I do get don't always ring my bell, I enjoy the conversations I have with my four little duckies. Especially when they say, "Mommy you are so beautiful/I love you/You are the best Mommy in the whole world." Even if it's just because they are trying to appease me and/or want stuff. But once in a while, I am pretty sure they really really mean it.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
ABC, easy as one two three...
"You went to school to learn, girl, things you never never knew before
Like I before E except after C and why two plus two makes four..." Jackson Five ABC
My youngest son, Gorbachev, age 5, has been enjoying a weekly outing with Mommy since December. It is called, leave school at 130 to get to next city by 2 to enjoy an hour of occupational therapy (OT) at great expense and, not incidentally, cutting short Mommy's entire afternoon of potentially free time.
Gorby, apparently, has some sort of "low tone." This is code for "pale, floppy, Jewish child of Ashkenazi descent"--I know this because in all kinds of different therapeutic settings, one after another of my children has been diagnosed as such. Perfect eldest son, now 10, for example, didn't walk until he was 20 months old and I was hugely pregnant with Zsa Zsa. This was because he is, you guessed it, low tone. He required years of therapy but is perfectly functional in a) excelling at math, b) learning mishnayos, c) getting a brown belt in Tae Kwon Do, and d) being perfectly content to be on the basketball team and not be starting center or whatever. He mostly does it for the uniform.
I digress. Gorby has been happily tooting along in OT, learning how to hold a pen, swinging from contraptions (this is a hallmark of OT, don't ask me what it does but the kids love it), and form many of his letters. This past week, however, I returned from my outing (I usually don't sit in) early so actually watched half the session. Mrs. OT says to me, in a concerned voice, "So, this week I realized that as we work on forming letters, little Gorby doesn't really seem to, uh, actually know them so he can't actually write them." I stared at her blankly, smiling.
"Mrs. Cake," she said, "Gorby seems to have some confusion in recognizing some of his letters so each week as I ask him to write them, while his form has improved, he doesn't seem to remember what the letters look like. The bottom line is....we need to teach him his letters." My smile remained frozen on my face. "Oh, no," I thought, "Is there something wrong with Gorby? Why doesn't he know his letters? He is 5 and a half after all. Pes knew his letters by age 2!"
"So Mrs. Cake, Gorby is having trouble especially with U and L; G and J; V is hard...Watch."
We all sat around a tiny table, I was barely breathing. Mrs. OT starts writing letters.
"Gorby," she says, "what is this letter?" writing an L. "U," says Gorby.
I smile.
"Look again," she says. After many fraught moments he comes up with right answer. Phew.
She then writes an R, he knows it, she writes a C, he knows it, I smile. Then she writes an L. Again. Gorby says, "U." Mrs. OT looks knowingly at me. I stammer, "Um, do you think he might have a learning disability?"
"Well," she says, "One never knows how the brain works."
Then it dawned on me. Gorby doesn't know his letters because NOBODY EVER TAUGHT THEM TO HIM. Who has time to sit and teach him letters? Doesn't everyone just know them automatically? For example, when the rest of the five of us are sitting around reading, all we notice is that Gorby is systematically annoying us one by one and we sigh, saying, "Oh, won't it be glorious when Gorby learns to read?" And we all nod to one another, rolling our eyes. None of us has made the connection that IN ORDER FOR HIM TO LEARN TO READ ONE OF US BETTER TEACH HIM HIS FRACKING LETTERS. Or even read out loud to him once in a while.
Mrs. OT and I discussed this gap in his education and the very next day, Eva and I ran to Target and bought a letters puzzle and a board with magnetic letters. The past few days we have been drilling him endlessly. Every time I see an "L" anywhere, like on the side of a bus, I say, "WHAT'S THAT LETTER, YES THAT ONE, RIGHT THERE??!!!" And he'll say, "L." Eva reads to him religiously each night and plays school with him during the day.
It is, I realize, a disgrace that this child has not been taught his letters up to this point. Honestly, I was just lazily waiting until he starts kindergarten in September because I know for sure he'll be learning his letters there. The other kids went to school and learned to read and it was fine. With the education level of the adults living in this house, not to mention all of his relatives, not one of whom possesses less than a Masters degree, it is a wonder that he has managed to end up like a poor child living in the ghetto with non-English speaking parents. He is truly exceptional.
Now we can breathe a big sigh of relief, because two days after buying him those teaching tools, he can recognize all 26 letters of the alphabet like any other Cake child and even can read a few short words. However, I still suspect that he is not quite like all the other children. Tonight at the pizza place, the cutest girl in all of his four-year-old nursery class walked in and spotted him, made a beeline for him and said, "Hi Gorby!" And what did he do? He put his head down, stared intently at the table and pretended not to see her. I really have a lot to teach this kid.
Like I before E except after C and why two plus two makes four..." Jackson Five ABC
My youngest son, Gorbachev, age 5, has been enjoying a weekly outing with Mommy since December. It is called, leave school at 130 to get to next city by 2 to enjoy an hour of occupational therapy (OT) at great expense and, not incidentally, cutting short Mommy's entire afternoon of potentially free time.
Gorby, apparently, has some sort of "low tone." This is code for "pale, floppy, Jewish child of Ashkenazi descent"--I know this because in all kinds of different therapeutic settings, one after another of my children has been diagnosed as such. Perfect eldest son, now 10, for example, didn't walk until he was 20 months old and I was hugely pregnant with Zsa Zsa. This was because he is, you guessed it, low tone. He required years of therapy but is perfectly functional in a) excelling at math, b) learning mishnayos, c) getting a brown belt in Tae Kwon Do, and d) being perfectly content to be on the basketball team and not be starting center or whatever. He mostly does it for the uniform.
I digress. Gorby has been happily tooting along in OT, learning how to hold a pen, swinging from contraptions (this is a hallmark of OT, don't ask me what it does but the kids love it), and form many of his letters. This past week, however, I returned from my outing (I usually don't sit in) early so actually watched half the session. Mrs. OT says to me, in a concerned voice, "So, this week I realized that as we work on forming letters, little Gorby doesn't really seem to, uh, actually know them so he can't actually write them." I stared at her blankly, smiling.
"Mrs. Cake," she said, "Gorby seems to have some confusion in recognizing some of his letters so each week as I ask him to write them, while his form has improved, he doesn't seem to remember what the letters look like. The bottom line is....we need to teach him his letters." My smile remained frozen on my face. "Oh, no," I thought, "Is there something wrong with Gorby? Why doesn't he know his letters? He is 5 and a half after all. Pes knew his letters by age 2!"
"So Mrs. Cake, Gorby is having trouble especially with U and L; G and J; V is hard...Watch."
We all sat around a tiny table, I was barely breathing. Mrs. OT starts writing letters.
"Gorby," she says, "what is this letter?" writing an L. "U," says Gorby.
I smile.
"Look again," she says. After many fraught moments he comes up with right answer. Phew.
She then writes an R, he knows it, she writes a C, he knows it, I smile. Then she writes an L. Again. Gorby says, "U." Mrs. OT looks knowingly at me. I stammer, "Um, do you think he might have a learning disability?"
"Well," she says, "One never knows how the brain works."
Then it dawned on me. Gorby doesn't know his letters because NOBODY EVER TAUGHT THEM TO HIM. Who has time to sit and teach him letters? Doesn't everyone just know them automatically? For example, when the rest of the five of us are sitting around reading, all we notice is that Gorby is systematically annoying us one by one and we sigh, saying, "Oh, won't it be glorious when Gorby learns to read?" And we all nod to one another, rolling our eyes. None of us has made the connection that IN ORDER FOR HIM TO LEARN TO READ ONE OF US BETTER TEACH HIM HIS FRACKING LETTERS. Or even read out loud to him once in a while.
Mrs. OT and I discussed this gap in his education and the very next day, Eva and I ran to Target and bought a letters puzzle and a board with magnetic letters. The past few days we have been drilling him endlessly. Every time I see an "L" anywhere, like on the side of a bus, I say, "WHAT'S THAT LETTER, YES THAT ONE, RIGHT THERE??!!!" And he'll say, "L." Eva reads to him religiously each night and plays school with him during the day.
It is, I realize, a disgrace that this child has not been taught his letters up to this point. Honestly, I was just lazily waiting until he starts kindergarten in September because I know for sure he'll be learning his letters there. The other kids went to school and learned to read and it was fine. With the education level of the adults living in this house, not to mention all of his relatives, not one of whom possesses less than a Masters degree, it is a wonder that he has managed to end up like a poor child living in the ghetto with non-English speaking parents. He is truly exceptional.
Now we can breathe a big sigh of relief, because two days after buying him those teaching tools, he can recognize all 26 letters of the alphabet like any other Cake child and even can read a few short words. However, I still suspect that he is not quite like all the other children. Tonight at the pizza place, the cutest girl in all of his four-year-old nursery class walked in and spotted him, made a beeline for him and said, "Hi Gorby!" And what did he do? He put his head down, stared intently at the table and pretended not to see her. I really have a lot to teach this kid.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
The Anna Karenina principle
The Anna Karenina principle describes an endeavor in which a deficiency in any one of a number of factors dooms it to failure. Consequently, a successful endeavor (subject to this principle) is one where every possible deficiency has been avoided.
This is a very important principle to internalize when shoe shopping with the Gabor sisters. Thank you Mr. Tolstoy.
Today it was necessary that Zsa Zsa, Eva, Eva's friend and I braved the traffic to foray into the next city to the specialty children's shoe store. You see, Zsa Zsa has had beautiful Michael Kors Shabbos shoes for the past several months, you know the silver ballet slipper with the jewel on the front? Anyway, the jewel on one of them fell off recently and this past Shabbos, I temporarily ameliorated the problem by quickly, on the way out the door, chewing a piece of gum and using it to stick the jewel back on the shoe. I smiled all the way to shul, so impressed was I by my flash of genius. Then it fell off again. But she made it through the day.
Flash forward to today, when the children had early dismissal and, hence, time to spend the necessary two plus hours to get shoes for Zsa Zsa and Eva. The deficiency which dooms us to failure each time we go shoe shopping is this: Zsa Zsa's feet are approximately the width of, oh, say, a yard stick. Hence, most shoes that are cute don't actually fit her because when she tries to walk in them, her foot keeps going and the shoe is left behind wondering what happened. So of course, by the end of things, Eva (whose foot is also narrow but still workable because she sports toddler size shoes), got the shoes that Zsa Zsa SO DESPERATELY WANTED, and Zsa Zsa ended up with the shoes that are a) cute, b) extremely expensive, c) fit her and d) make her miserable.
Flash back to 1979. Imagine, if you will, two sisters: Lemoncake and Honeycake. They have freakishly narrow feet. In those days, the only store Mother could take them (us) to was called, "The Children's Bootery." It no longer exists. With that name, it is no wonder. Anyway, we would go there and get these shoes called Famolares. Close your eyes, picture in your head your own personal vision of the '70s. Now apply it to shoes. That's what they looked like. I am obviously still traumatized.
Today, Zsa Zsa got super cute silver shoes. But as Eva was happily trotting through the store in her bejeweled silver shoes, ZZ couldn't help but cry a little. I told her it's better to have skinny feet than the opposite. And that she is going to be so happy as a teenager and grownup for being so svelte with such delicate feet. She said, "I know, I just want to have jewels on my shoes!"
The irony, of course, is that I spent $73.00 on her shoes (Eva's were "only" $50), Zsa Zsa was crying and I was like, "It's OK ZZ, let me just pay the million dollars to the nice man and we'll go get ice cream so you feel better." And that, folks, is how we comforted the girl with the $73.00 shoes that don't have jewels on them.
Ironically, due to a massive closet purgation, I am desperately in need of new shoes. And since I expend all of my shoe-allotted energy on the girls, I have very little leftover for myself. But it is past time for me to update my shoe wardrobe. I have to say that though my feet were problematic as a child, I can now wear many cute styles.
Since I am a scientist, I am hoping to prove the other half of the Anna Karenina principle, since I have, obviously, already proven the failure part. Therefore, I need to remove any possible deficiencies. I can definitely think of some: 1) lack of funds; 2) lack of expertise; and 3) positive attitude/open mindedness.
So here's what I have done: 1) Big Shot Husband doesn't see the credit card bill; 2) I have enlisted the help of a shoe expert, Mrs. K, who wears five inch heels to do carpool while pregnant with her fourth child, and she's not even short like me; and 3) I like jewels on my shoes too, but I'll try not to cry if they don't have them in my size.
For now, we sigh a great sigh of relief that we don't have to go shoe shopping again for at least a few months. And in the back of my mind I have this nagging fear of what shopping trips will entail in the coming years. Although I'm sure when they're teenagers they'll be much more reasonable and mature than they are now, right?
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
(S)mothering
I have noticed recently that maybe I am a little bit of an overprotective mother. Ha! Just kidding! I noticed that a long time ago already.
Big Shot Husband has, of late, become infatuated with the new parenting trends exemplified by other, more exotic, cultures. For example, when Tiger Mom came out last summer, Big Shot Husband was all like, "You should be more Tiger Mom. No TV, no sleepovers, hours of music practice, hours of academics, hours of no fun." I liked the idea, in theory. However, my Jewish mother came out about five minutes later and I couldn't imagine depriving my poor darlings of free time, fun, friends, or, well, anything.
Then, recently, this French parenting thing got some buzz. It is theorized that French parents are so busy eating gourmet food, baguettes and drinking wine that their kids have to a) wait until their parents are ready and willing to pay attention to them, b) eat whatever is put in front of them, and c) obey each and every command the French parent makes because they "say no like they really mean it."
Big Shot Husband, of course, said, "You should be more French Mom. Let them wait, no snacks between meals, say no like you mean it." Yes, I thought, that would be wonderful. Except for the fact that I am really a Jewish mother and there's, like, nothing I can do to change that.
For example, Zsa Zsa (9) has lost some weight recently due to illness. This is one of the worst things to happen to a Jewish mother. And even worse is that it was right before her 9 year old check up so when her weight dropped below the zeroth percentile, I was in BIG TROUBLE. Not only that, Dr F said I have to come back in a month to get her re-weighed and gave me all kinds of (unrealistic) ways to get her to increase her calorie count.
So what did I do? What any Jewish mother would do, of course: 1) Feel tremendous amounts of guilt and flagellate oneself 2) ask anyone who would listen how they would go about fattening up their child while expressing extreme worry 3) seek out Syrian lady at weekly shiur, sure that she has the secret formula for feeding children better than we Ashkenazim do. When I told my dear friend, Dr E, that I had sought out the Syrian friend's advice, I was gently told that she wasn't sure Syrian friend had more answers than I did but that, "at least she would present the food beautifully."
Really, though, having an underweight child is a mark of shame for a Jewish mother since we spend an inordinate amount of time worrying about, shopping for and preparing food for our children from morning to night. Meanwhile, another of my children, 5-year-old Gorby, had a weird challah-related incident which rendered him completely terrified to eat challah. This was also an almost unbearable stain on my Jewish motherhood and I panicked, imagining his shidduch (matchmaking) resume:
"Handsome, tall (well, I hope), smart (ditto), from a (secularly) chashuva family, earner and learner.
Oh, and a slight aversion to challah. Is willing to eat matza year-round instead."
Can you imagine? Of course I had to call the pediatrician tout de suite to find out what to do. I left a message and received a return call almost immediately. I believe this is because Dr F gets a kick out of me, or at least my neuroses and unique communication techniques. Ring Ring (can barely hear over the ruckus of 6 fifth grade boys on way to basketball game):
"Hello?" I say.
"Hello, Mrs. Cake?"
"Oh hi, Dr F, wait a second....BOYS BE QUIET I AM ON THE PHONE ON AN IMPORTANT CALL. Go ahead Dr F," I say.
"Um, Mrs. Cake, would you like me to call you at a better time?" Now nobody in their right mind is going to fall for that. I have him on the phone, I am going to lodge my complaint right now.
I explain that we had a couple of incidents with challah recently where Gorby couldn't/wouldn't swallow it and what should I do. And then I used a bunch of extra words I didn't need to express how concerned I was ad nauseum.
Now here's the part where I am convinced that in pediatrician school they have a special course in "How to deal with Jewish parents." This entails a technique called, "Count to ten before responding to the most unbelievably inane questions you have ever heard." And also, "Do not let on that the mother sounds like a complete lunatic." And, "You are lucky that 90% of parents' questions do not require any special training to answer, just common sense, which most of these parents do not possess in relation to their offspring. Or maybe at all."
So he politely, sanely and patiently explained that perhaps Gorby had had a scary experience with the challah and now he is afraid to eat it, and, since he is actually cognizant and not a baby like I might think he is, I should sit down and talk to him about eating slowly, taking small bites and working together to make sure he eats safely. Or somesuch. "Oh," I said, "so now I have to be a kind and patient mother too?" He laughed, "Ha ha, you're a great mother," he said, "Now how's Zsa Zsa doing with the food?" Ouch! A stab in the heart.
He reminded me that I need to come back in a month for a weight check. I guess if things haven't improved in a few weeks (i.e., I can't still see every bone poking through Zsa Zsa's skin at bathtime), I can take my Syrian friend up on her offer to let Zsa Zsa live there for a week. I wonder if she'll take Gorby too? Now there's an idea. I hear that Syrian Jewish mothers are even MORE involved in their children's lives. Maybe I should tell Big Shot Husband, "You know, I don't think I am involved enough in the children's lives, I have decided to be more like Syrian Mother." That'll teach him.
Big Shot Husband has, of late, become infatuated with the new parenting trends exemplified by other, more exotic, cultures. For example, when Tiger Mom came out last summer, Big Shot Husband was all like, "You should be more Tiger Mom. No TV, no sleepovers, hours of music practice, hours of academics, hours of no fun." I liked the idea, in theory. However, my Jewish mother came out about five minutes later and I couldn't imagine depriving my poor darlings of free time, fun, friends, or, well, anything.
Then, recently, this French parenting thing got some buzz. It is theorized that French parents are so busy eating gourmet food, baguettes and drinking wine that their kids have to a) wait until their parents are ready and willing to pay attention to them, b) eat whatever is put in front of them, and c) obey each and every command the French parent makes because they "say no like they really mean it."
Big Shot Husband, of course, said, "You should be more French Mom. Let them wait, no snacks between meals, say no like you mean it." Yes, I thought, that would be wonderful. Except for the fact that I am really a Jewish mother and there's, like, nothing I can do to change that.
For example, Zsa Zsa (9) has lost some weight recently due to illness. This is one of the worst things to happen to a Jewish mother. And even worse is that it was right before her 9 year old check up so when her weight dropped below the zeroth percentile, I was in BIG TROUBLE. Not only that, Dr F said I have to come back in a month to get her re-weighed and gave me all kinds of (unrealistic) ways to get her to increase her calorie count.
So what did I do? What any Jewish mother would do, of course: 1) Feel tremendous amounts of guilt and flagellate oneself 2) ask anyone who would listen how they would go about fattening up their child while expressing extreme worry 3) seek out Syrian lady at weekly shiur, sure that she has the secret formula for feeding children better than we Ashkenazim do. When I told my dear friend, Dr E, that I had sought out the Syrian friend's advice, I was gently told that she wasn't sure Syrian friend had more answers than I did but that, "at least she would present the food beautifully."
Really, though, having an underweight child is a mark of shame for a Jewish mother since we spend an inordinate amount of time worrying about, shopping for and preparing food for our children from morning to night. Meanwhile, another of my children, 5-year-old Gorby, had a weird challah-related incident which rendered him completely terrified to eat challah. This was also an almost unbearable stain on my Jewish motherhood and I panicked, imagining his shidduch (matchmaking) resume:
"Handsome, tall (well, I hope), smart (ditto), from a (secularly) chashuva family, earner and learner.
Oh, and a slight aversion to challah. Is willing to eat matza year-round instead."
Can you imagine? Of course I had to call the pediatrician tout de suite to find out what to do. I left a message and received a return call almost immediately. I believe this is because Dr F gets a kick out of me, or at least my neuroses and unique communication techniques. Ring Ring (can barely hear over the ruckus of 6 fifth grade boys on way to basketball game):
"Hello?" I say.
"Hello, Mrs. Cake?"
"Oh hi, Dr F, wait a second....BOYS BE QUIET I AM ON THE PHONE ON AN IMPORTANT CALL. Go ahead Dr F," I say.
"Um, Mrs. Cake, would you like me to call you at a better time?" Now nobody in their right mind is going to fall for that. I have him on the phone, I am going to lodge my complaint right now.
I explain that we had a couple of incidents with challah recently where Gorby couldn't/wouldn't swallow it and what should I do. And then I used a bunch of extra words I didn't need to express how concerned I was ad nauseum.
Now here's the part where I am convinced that in pediatrician school they have a special course in "How to deal with Jewish parents." This entails a technique called, "Count to ten before responding to the most unbelievably inane questions you have ever heard." And also, "Do not let on that the mother sounds like a complete lunatic." And, "You are lucky that 90% of parents' questions do not require any special training to answer, just common sense, which most of these parents do not possess in relation to their offspring. Or maybe at all."
So he politely, sanely and patiently explained that perhaps Gorby had had a scary experience with the challah and now he is afraid to eat it, and, since he is actually cognizant and not a baby like I might think he is, I should sit down and talk to him about eating slowly, taking small bites and working together to make sure he eats safely. Or somesuch. "Oh," I said, "so now I have to be a kind and patient mother too?" He laughed, "Ha ha, you're a great mother," he said, "Now how's Zsa Zsa doing with the food?" Ouch! A stab in the heart.
He reminded me that I need to come back in a month for a weight check. I guess if things haven't improved in a few weeks (i.e., I can't still see every bone poking through Zsa Zsa's skin at bathtime), I can take my Syrian friend up on her offer to let Zsa Zsa live there for a week. I wonder if she'll take Gorby too? Now there's an idea. I hear that Syrian Jewish mothers are even MORE involved in their children's lives. Maybe I should tell Big Shot Husband, "You know, I don't think I am involved enough in the children's lives, I have decided to be more like Syrian Mother." That'll teach him.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Our new addition
I had it circled on my calendar for six months. As soon as I found out the date, January 10th, I was gleefully anticipating the impending addition that would irretrievably, irrevocably change my life and my family's life forever. I went in on January 9th on the off chance that it would happen a day early. I said, "So, I think I'm supposed to have it tomorrow, but could you just check?" He said, "Yep, you're good. You can have it today." I almost fainted with joy. I had been waiting so long. "There are two possibilities," he told me. I waited breathlessly for him to tell me what I was expecting. "You can have either the 32 gigabyte or 64 gigabyte." A huge smile spread over my face. And that's how I became the proud owner of my very own iPhone 4S with Siri! Bam!
Getting a new iPhone really is very much like adding a new baby to the family. Here is what I mean:
Getting a new iPhone really is very much like adding a new baby to the family. Here is what I mean:
- Sometimes you just sit and marvel at its beauty
- You want to hold it all the time
- You hold it very carefully so as not to drop it
- Each day brings new surprises and growing capabilities
- The kids in the house share the excitement but sometimes get jealous when Mommy pays too much attention to it
Here is how having a new iPhone is not like having a new baby:
- It does not require diapers
- One does not nurse it (unless one has serious problems)
- It does tons of stuff for you instead of against you
- You can insure it against loss, theft, or damage
And I have to say, it does give me a little extra happiness to see Big Shot Husband for once not have a cooler phone than I have. I mean, I know that he's the one who actually earns money and therefore needs/deserves the better phone. However, I have told him that since he is not eligible for an upgrade for another 6 months, by that time they may have the iPhone 12 and/or I can teach him how to use it. This information does not seem to reassure him.
This was especially true the other day when I shared the following with him. See, if I were one of those people who watched, say, really trashy TV like, say, Teen Mom 2, I might have noticed that Jenelle has an iPhone. This girl:
- had a baby at 16
- lost said baby to her mother as she was unable to care for him
- is constantly tangling with the law
- has no job
- smokes funny cigarettes
- is failing community college
- has a loser boyfriend she repeatedly bails out of jail
So I told him that if he really wants a new iPhone he can either pay $800 now, before his upgrade or get on a reality show. I firmly believe that the Cake family would be awesome as a reality show. Long-suffering BiSh lives with fun yet moody Honeycake and their four havoc-creating, maddening yet cute, hijinx prone children.
I can see it now, "Next week on the Cake Family: The Honorable and Mrs. Cake go to another Torah Institution dinner while a Yeshiva girl comes to babysit. Perfect Eldest Son gets another 100% on his chumash test, Zsa Zsa goes to the orthodontist, Eva buys a new piece of clothing with sequins on it, and Gorby drives everyone crazy with his constant comedy routine that is not funny after a while. And Honeycake does carpool and makes Shabbos."
I guess there would only really be one episode because, let's face it, it doesn't vary all the much from one week to the next. Although, there could be the "Yamim Noraim special," and "The Pesach Special," which would both involve more cooking yet less carpool. And the contrast between cooking a lot for three Yom Tovs in as many weeks and massive cleaning for many weeks coupled with cooking for just one week would make for fascinating TV. Intriguing. Meanwhile, Big Shot can sometimes borrow my iPhone if he has a pressing question for Siri or is dying to play Angry Birds. I am so generous that way.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Are you my mother?
Lately, my 10-year-old son, my eldest progeny in whom I have so much pride, has seemed to get a little too much pleasure from all the similarities he has noticed between him and his father. For example, he will say, "I got my eyesight from Abba." Big grin. This is nothing to be proud of. Or, "I got my supersonic hearing from Abba." Seems good, except Big Shot Husband is sure that the hearing thing is a direct result of the severe myopia (i.e., one sense gets sharpened when another fails).
There are other traits Perfect Eldest Son directly attributes to his father. Many of them are not good. Pes will tell you that he and his father's organizational skills are, "terrible." There is also the fact that Pes has an obsession with baseball that borders on the pathological, stores many varieties of reading material in his bed and simultaneously sleeps there, reads 1970s comic books (the same ones Big Shot Husband read in the 1970s, my in-laws never throw anything out), and, the thing that aggrieves me the most, is that he and BiSH are both MORNING PEOPLE. Ugh.
Now don't get me wrong, Big Shot Husband is wonderful (don't tell him I said that), and Pes is also. And certainly I get nachas from many of his wonderful qualities. Like just the other night he read a 150 pg book while in bed for 12 minutes and I said, "Did you just read that whole book?" And he said, "No, I read some of it during snack time." So I said, "Yeah, I'm still struggling to finish my 922 pg Murakami book." He said, "Mommy, you've had that for like 5 weeks already. I would have finished it 10 times already." Gloat gloat. No, that pretty much irritated me also. (Yeees, he gets his fast reading skills from BiSH too).
Even though he doesn't recognize it now, I think he will grow to appreciate the things I've contributed to his makeup: his blue eyes, his sensitivity, his weird sense of humor, his bad posture, his diminutive size (Ok maybe not this one, I'm still pulling for BiSh's genes to kick in at least a little). And I know he will come to appreciate me when I give him the talk about how girls REALLY work.
But for now, our evenings play out like the following (watching football):
Me: "I like the guys in the white tops and shiny blue pants, how about you?"
Pes: "Bwa Ha Ha Ha."
Me: "So what's going on now?"
Pes: "10 yards blah blah stuff blah sack blah blah."
Me: "That guy is really buff."
Pes: "Woa! Did you just see what happened? Blah blahty blah. Woo-hoo!!!"
Me: "I'm going to go read my 922 page Murakami book I've been working on for the past five weeks. I'm on page 793?" Hopeful glance around, looking for approval/encouragement. Nobody is paying attention. However, BiSh is kind and tries to explain football to me in the voice one uses for the mentally impaired. Same conversation over and over throughout the football season. And nothing ever penetrates because, apparently, I am mentally impaired in this regard.
I have to say that I have always believed that the rules and nuances of football are encrypted on the Y-chromosome. This is a small chromosome so there isn't much room, just enough to assign a gender and those ever-important football rules. And that's the thing that Big Shot and Pes share that I can never understand, that pesky little Y. It informs their outlook on everything and I can never begin to understand. And if I don't sell him to the zoo, 5-year-old Gorby will join in all their fun soon too.
But if I am ever feeling left out, I simply say, "Zsa Zsa, Eva, let's go shopping." And then I remember: I have the Gabor sisters with whom to enjoy, relish, and revel in the shopping experience. They are already trained in shoes, accessorizing, party planning and gift buying. Internet shopping is the next advanced skill we will tackle. And I will teach them my trick: always memorize your credit card information before you begin. If you don't have it in your mind and type it in really quickly, you might actually think before you buy that thing you really need. I have so much to teach them. I am so happy I have girls.
There are other traits Perfect Eldest Son directly attributes to his father. Many of them are not good. Pes will tell you that he and his father's organizational skills are, "terrible." There is also the fact that Pes has an obsession with baseball that borders on the pathological, stores many varieties of reading material in his bed and simultaneously sleeps there, reads 1970s comic books (the same ones Big Shot Husband read in the 1970s, my in-laws never throw anything out), and, the thing that aggrieves me the most, is that he and BiSH are both MORNING PEOPLE. Ugh.
Now don't get me wrong, Big Shot Husband is wonderful (don't tell him I said that), and Pes is also. And certainly I get nachas from many of his wonderful qualities. Like just the other night he read a 150 pg book while in bed for 12 minutes and I said, "Did you just read that whole book?" And he said, "No, I read some of it during snack time." So I said, "Yeah, I'm still struggling to finish my 922 pg Murakami book." He said, "Mommy, you've had that for like 5 weeks already. I would have finished it 10 times already." Gloat gloat. No, that pretty much irritated me also. (Yeees, he gets his fast reading skills from BiSH too).
Even though he doesn't recognize it now, I think he will grow to appreciate the things I've contributed to his makeup: his blue eyes, his sensitivity, his weird sense of humor, his bad posture, his diminutive size (Ok maybe not this one, I'm still pulling for BiSh's genes to kick in at least a little). And I know he will come to appreciate me when I give him the talk about how girls REALLY work.
But for now, our evenings play out like the following (watching football):
Me: "I like the guys in the white tops and shiny blue pants, how about you?"
Pes: "Bwa Ha Ha Ha."
Me: "So what's going on now?"
Pes: "10 yards blah blah stuff blah sack blah blah."
Me: "That guy is really buff."
Pes: "Woa! Did you just see what happened? Blah blahty blah. Woo-hoo!!!"
Me: "I'm going to go read my 922 page Murakami book I've been working on for the past five weeks. I'm on page 793?" Hopeful glance around, looking for approval/encouragement. Nobody is paying attention. However, BiSh is kind and tries to explain football to me in the voice one uses for the mentally impaired. Same conversation over and over throughout the football season. And nothing ever penetrates because, apparently, I am mentally impaired in this regard.
I have to say that I have always believed that the rules and nuances of football are encrypted on the Y-chromosome. This is a small chromosome so there isn't much room, just enough to assign a gender and those ever-important football rules. And that's the thing that Big Shot and Pes share that I can never understand, that pesky little Y. It informs their outlook on everything and I can never begin to understand. And if I don't sell him to the zoo, 5-year-old Gorby will join in all their fun soon too.
But if I am ever feeling left out, I simply say, "Zsa Zsa, Eva, let's go shopping." And then I remember: I have the Gabor sisters with whom to enjoy, relish, and revel in the shopping experience. They are already trained in shoes, accessorizing, party planning and gift buying. Internet shopping is the next advanced skill we will tackle. And I will teach them my trick: always memorize your credit card information before you begin. If you don't have it in your mind and type it in really quickly, you might actually think before you buy that thing you really need. I have so much to teach them. I am so happy I have girls.
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