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.

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:

1. Sometimes you just sit and marvel at its beauty
2. You want to hold it all the time
3. You hold it very carefully so as not to drop it
4. Each day brings new surprises and growing capabilities
5. 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:

1. It does not require diapers
2. One does not nurse it (unless one has serious problems)
3. It does tons of stuff for you instead of against you
4. 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.

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.

Don't try this at home

A few weeks ago, I became very agitated because my leaf guys did not come after my repeated attempts to contact them. Therefore, I had a lot of leaves on my front lawn. Day after day, I drove out of the garage, looked at the leaf-covered lawn, and crossed my fingers that my leaf guys would magically appear. And day after day, I came home disappointed that the million gajillion leaves were still there, mocking me.

So one morning, after dropping Gorby (age 5) at school, I parked in my garage, grabbed a rake and a snow shovel (yes, you read right), and started raking. And shoveling. You see, my brilliant children often like to "rake" leaves in the fall. With a snow shovel. Hence, I thought this was a good idea. However, after two hours of raking, I had: a large pile of leaves on my curb, a lot if leaves still on my lawn, flower beds and front walk, and an extremely sore back. Meanwhile, my leaf guys came and used their 7 billion horsepower leaf blowers to get rid of my leaves and take them all away. THAT DAY. And I had to take a lot of Motrin for a lot of days. I am 82 years old. Next time, I will remember: Don't try this at home.

Meanwhile, when the TruGreen guy came a couple weeks later, I ran out to greet him because I had noticed that there was a whole section of my lawn (like the entire middle) that now had little to no grass on it. I was incensed. How was it that TruGreen was constantly fertilizing, seeding, doing whatever it does, and I had this whole bald patch on my front lawn? And, as I was talking to my TruGreen friend, I came to the realization that THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU USE A SNOW SHOVEL TO PICK UP LEAVES FROM YOUR FRONT LAWN AND YOU RUN THAT SHARP METAL EDGE UP AND DOWN YOUR AWESOME LAWN FROM TRUGREEN FOR TWO ENTIRE HOURS. Leaf removal is best left to the professionals. Remember for next time, Honeycake, don't try this at home.

Later that week, I was walking down our street with Zsa Zsa (8), Eva (7) and Gorby and we saw a miraculous sight. A guy, on his roof, running back and forth. Putting up lights. And it dawned on me, this is why Jews don't decorate their houses for the holidays. Because what Jewish guy goes on his roof? EVER? We stood, awestruck, watching this guy just walk around his roof as if it was his back yard. Though he was a large man, he frolicked along that roof as if he were a small sprite, hanging a string of lights here, and another there, beautifying the place for the holidays. And he didn't fall off or anything. Don't try this at home.

And just today, because I didn't learn my lesson when I accidentally gave Perfect Eldest Son (Pes, 10) a reverse mohawk the second or third time I used clippers to cut his hair (like two years ago), today I actually made him bleed. And gave him bad haircut number 32 in the process. I was trying to shave his neck and instead cut his neck (similar, but not exactly the same).

He cried, "Mommy! I was just standing here doing nothing. I didn't even move. You cut me, you cut me!" Oops. I felt horrible, of course, and put a nice big band-aid on his neck after he got out of the shower. And it really didn't bleed that much. But seriously, oops. Meanwhile, Big Shot Husband was like, "Just let me do it next time. I always tell you to let me do it." But he was making quesadillas for everyone so I thought I'd do the haircuts. Next time, I will remember, don't try this at home.

As I was giving Gorby and Pes said haircuts, I thought of the irony of the situation. We bought this haircut kit to "save money." Meanwhile, cutting their hair a) stresses me out b) always turns out looking bad, and c) causes bodily harm. So while I pay my leaf guys and TruGreen a million dollars, I save 15 bucks on giving the boys haircuts while concurrently causing everyone major trauma. Wonderful.

Meanwhile, since I sometimes consider myself a professional parent, I felt that I was qualified to give my children a little talking to on Friday before we went to a nearby city to spend Shabbos with family friends. On the way home from school I pleaded to Zsa Zsa, Eva and Pes, "Please don't fight with each other at the Murmelsteins on Shabbos. I really don't want them to think we're a dysfunctional family." "But Mommy," said Pes, "Aren't we?" Note to self: Honeycake, the parenting thing, don't try this at home.

So now I need to take stock and re-evaluate, just in time for the secular New Year. I should never:
1) rake leaves
2) go on the roof
3) give my boys haircuts with electrical devices (or scissors, let's be honest)
4) ask my children to behave

So, I will just make the resolution to write more blogs. And leave the rest to the professionals.

A rabbi jump-started my car

Now, in my post entitled "Carpool" I warned all of you that I have a lot to say on this topic. Carpool is fraught with danger at every turn (no pun intended). I mean, just when you think you've got it under control, something happens to throw you off.

I recently volunteered to drive some of the 5th and 6th grade boys to their basketball game. I arrived a few minutes before dismissal, and sat around with the van lights on, listening to the radio, gabbing on the phone, saying hi to Pes's teacher, and, hence, paying no attention whatsoever to my surroundings.

Ladies, let's be honest here, does it ever occur to you that your BFF, your minivan, will just suddenly fail you at the absolutely worst moment? That's right, friends, it is altogether possible that when six boys are in your car jabbering excitedly away about their impending basketball game that you have JUST ENOUGH TIME NOT A SECOND MORE to get to, your car will not start.

Never before have I seen six boys flee a car more quickly to scramble for other rides. Even my usually considerate Pes didn't stop for a second to say, "Mommy, hope you get the car started, gotta go." Or anything else except, "AAARGHH NOOOO!! We have to get to the..." Outta there. Meanwhile, the basketball coach came over and said, "Um, yeah, Mrs. Cake, that's why I've been sitting here with my lights and radio off this whole time. Battery. Gotta go." This is code for, "Lady, I am disappointed in your obvious lack of judgment, however, please volunteer for another carpool soon."

At this point, I felt downright betrayed by my best friend the minivan. And even more importantly, it meant that I didn't get credit for doing basketball carpool. But dependable Rabbi Headmaster was there within seconds with his car and some jumper cables, ready to save the day. And then, as if by magic, a little Lubavitch rabbi came along with one of those gizmos that you just clamp on and voila, the car started! Now, you have to understand, that the small west coast town in which I was raised was populated by blonds named Peter and Jenny, with roots that could be traced straight back to the Vikings, if you get my drift. And here I was with not one but two rabbis, at the ready, handily jump-starting my car. Being overseen by the ten other rabbis in the parking lot. Life has some strange twists.

Anyway, my victory (i.e., getting the car to start again in order to take boys home after the game and, therefore, getting at least half credit for carpool) was short-lived when I received an email from a mom in my non-basketball carpool upon arriving home. It explained, in no uncertain terms, the strife caused by someone forgetting to pick up the non-basketball boys and take them home, hence requiring her to do it. And, therefore, someone had to do her carpool the next day. Since she never called anyone reminding them to pick the boys up and I wasn't actually the one who forgot, and I explained that even if I had been slated to take the boys, poor me my car died, guess what? Of course, silly, I offered to do hers the next day. And then grumbled about for like 20 hours straight.

However, even though I hate to admit it, I actually enjoy doing my Pes's carpool these days. He and the five other 10-year-old boys are entertaining. I learn much valuable information to take with me straight to parent-teacher conferences. And, because of the cooler weather, my Febreeze has been safely tucked away until spring.

This does not mitigate the fact that I firmly believe that carpool laws should be codified, as in "the Shulchan Aruch of Carpool" (l'havdil). I mean, creating a legal structure for carpool is really a job for the most learned statisticians, ethicists, and talmudic scholars. Instead, the people who have the job are moms who might be the slightest bit emotional when it comes to, well, everything. Not to mention the inevitable clashes resulting from vastly different personalities, i.e., hotheaded Mrs. Cake, mellow Katie Drohn, most-experienced Mrs. E, stickler Mrs. X...The alternative, of course, is worse. Who could possibly do that many drop-offs and pick-ups all alone? So we learn to work together to get our children to and from school/activities in a safe and timely manner. Now I'm going to go read this book someone suggested I pick up, you might have heard of it.

How to Win Friends and Influence People

 I believe this will help me to better function in carpool. And as an added bonus, maybe in real life too.

The Gabashians

Mother and Daddy are here in town visiting from the small west coast town in which they dwell. Except for the several weeks a year they "vacation" here. At our house. Now, if you ask me, coming to my house isn't exactly a vacation, but they (Mother) want to hang with the eineklach (grandchildren) and, I have surmised, get an up close and personal view of our day-to-day life. Carpool and all. This is very nice for Mother, as she enjoys being (very, extremely) involved in all aspects of our lives and so keeps herself busy.

Daddy, however, likes to do his projects (OK, stuff we leave for him to do when he gets here because he is very skilled in many areas in which we are not), "work" on the computer, and eat. And watch TV. Now this particular habit has provided an excellent opportunity for us. See, since Mother drags him out our way for several weeks each year, he has finally had enough of our television situation, which is this: We own ONE TV, an old-school 32" one which we keep locked away, only turning it on for our children's weekly Friday afternoon viewing, sporting events, political debates, and my infrequent viewing of reality TV (ahem). Also, it is used for enjoying quality educational movies with Big Shot Husband for sharing and discussing when we're not having our two-person book club or learning Torah together.

Anyway, Daddy has become so agitated each time he visits, he finally just went and bought us a 42" plasma HD etc TV which, I have to say, I was a little reluctant about at first. You see, I am extremely resistant to change. I get thrown if my morning routine gets the slightest bit disturbed (go downstairs, grunt at children, grab phone, check email, grab coffee mug, make coffee, sit in family room, start reading paper). Or if someone wants to change a carpool with me, I get all jittery and nervous about how it will change my schedule for the week. It's just another one of my charming qualities.

However, after all was said and done, and Big Shot Husband put together the TV table for the new TV because normally super-handy Daddy broke his shoulder when he and Mother took a trip (no pun intended) out of state last weekend, and Big Shot Husband showed his true talent at assembling furniture so I will have to have him do more of it, it was time to test it out. The new TV. As we sat watching an educational show last night on PBS about turtles and other nature-oriented stuff in HD (those turtles sure look different in HD, you can see the flaws on their faces a lot more), I said to Big Shot Husband, "I am falling in love. With this TV." We sat glued to it, barely able to speak. "Thank you so much," said BiSH to Mother and Daddy. "I love this TV."

It did entail some work on my part, this new TV. It is no simple task to figure out how to not only find the HD channels corresponding to the regular old ones, but also to then change all the DVR settings appropriately. We looked through our series recordings and worked on changing them one by one. When we got to "Keeping up with the Kardashians," BiSH, Mother and Daddy scoffed and looked over at me. Daddy said, "I think you like the Kardashians because they are like the modern day Gabor sisters." Brilliant Daddy! I knew that's why I have to watch it. Research for my blog/child-rearing.

But I don't really need that TV. I have 7-year-old Eva Gabor Cake living my house. As I watched her in the bath today, I enjoyed the following commentary, "Mommy, I like the hat you're wearing today, but could you wear your black one tomorrow? If it's still raining and you aren't wearing your sheitel? And I love your cardigan with that puffy vest you wore today because it looks kind of like sleeves of a shirt, not a cardigan. And I'm not sure about that dress we picked out for my siddur party, I am not sure if I should wear it with black tights and a white shell, or white tights and a black shell. Actually, I think I want to wear a different dress, ok? I don't like puffy dresses. And I'll wear a silver headband."

Here I interjected, "What if we both wear the headband with the silver flower that we bought together? Wouldn't that be so fun?" I mean, I am not going to lie and be one of those "I don't know where she gets it, I mean I don't care that much about my clothes/makeup/accessories" moms, because, um, I do.

"Mommy," said Eva, "I don't really want to be matchy-patchy."

Momentarily hurt, I quickly snapped out of it and we went to her room to proceed in planning her siddur party outfit ("Oh, you should wear Zsa Zsa's old black patent shoes! Those are so cute and I think they fit you now!" I squealed. See what I mean?). I'm sure this outfit we put together will change 12 times between now and then. Of course I will hold her hand every step of the way because, I mean, that's what moms are for. Oh, and for instilling good values like not caring about what you're wearing and stuff like that. I can work more on that tomorrow. After I watch my new TV.