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? 

(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.