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???"
Sunday, June 17, 2012
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.
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