the pieces of my life

My memories of childhood are hazy, which is why that I remember this one fairly clearly is rather odd: I’m nine years old. There’s a movie out that my father is crazy to see. It’s been out for a bit, and apparently everyone is talking about so we make arrangements to go to the movies with our neighbors, who have a son my age and a daughter Tweedle Twirp’s age.

Because Tweeds has just turned six, she is deemed too young for the movie, and she is offered the opportunity to see, with some random grown-up and the other little sister, in another theater of the multiplex the movie Pete’s Dragon. They decide upon that without hesitation. The brother and I are also given a choice: Pete’s Dragon or this definitely grown-up movie called Star Wars.

The brother and I consult for a few moments, before deciding upon the obvious: Star Wars.

The movie was entrancing. I was hooked.

We didn’t wait as long to see Empire Strikes Back when it was released. Return of the Jedi I saw on the opening weekend, with friends. For these movies, I saw them early enough that the movies were fresh, exciting. No Internet could spoil the endings. The movie reviews were subtle enough not to give anything away. I remember my shock and excitement at the “big reveal” in Empire. It was brillant! Genius! Oh. My. God! (Or, rather, as I would have said back then, “It was totally bitchin’!”)

Flash forward a dozen years or so, and yes, I was the geek outside at the midnight showing of Phantom Menace. To my credit, I wasn’t the one who left the office at 11 a.m., paying good money for the movie Meet Jack Black, just to see the trailer for Phantom Menace and then leaving without seeing the movie. This should not be a surprise to anyone. I worked at Amazon.com in 1999 at a time when it was populated with hipsters and geeks (as opposed to now when it’s filled with blue shirts and khaki pants). One of my geek friends waited in line for opening day tickets, and kindly purchased one for me.

It was disappointing. I was upset. That didn’t stop me from seeing the movie again with my folks, but I was left saddened.

Attack of the Clone Wars came out a month after Adam and I were married. Despite both of us not liking Phantom, we dutifully filed in at the Cinerama for it. Eh.

Here’s a confession. Revenge of the Sith came out in 2005. Something else was happening in 2005. What was it? What was it? Hmmmm. Well, whatever it was, we never got around to seeing the final Star Wars movie. Adam actually DVR’d it a few months ago, and it sits mockingly on our TV, laughing at me every time I go to watch Dance Moms (yes, Dance Moms! See how the mighty have fallen. Get over yourself, people!).

But here we are. Dance Moms not withstanding, Adam and I responsible grown-ups with an obligation to do what’s right for our children. And the big questions these days, the weight upon every parent Gen Xer today, the albatross we must carry is: In what order do you allow your children to view “Star Wars”? Do you see them chronological order, starting with Phantom Menace and ending with Return of the Jedi? Or do you watch them in release order, starting with New Hope and ending with Revenge of the Sith?

This became of grave importance recently when in a discussion of “Star Wars,” Pie asked, “So, Darth Vader is Luke’s father?”

I responded: “You’re not supposed to know that.”

She continued: “And Queen Amidalah is Princess Leia’s mother, so Luke and Leia are brother and sister, right?”

“You’re NOT supposed to know that!” I say louder, feeling agitated.

“Mom!” said my oh-so-wise second grader. “I’ve known that since kindergarten!”

Oh my child. I am your mother. I am here to rescue you.

This past weekend, I declared that we would all be watching the “Star Wars” films. All of them. Doodles had seen Episode IV: The New Hope (for which I still get in trouble for referring to it as the first “Star Wars” film) a while ago, but I think it had been a couple of years.

Adam had previously done extensive research on the “what order to watch the films” dilemma, in anticipation for this day comes. We were in agreement that the films should be viewed in the Machete Order (IV, V, II, III, VI, and then much, much later I), although Adam thinks that we should view Episode I before Episode II, and I think we stick with the order and watch Episode I at the end.

Saturday was a rainy, stormy night. Adam brought our copy of Episode IV up from the basement. The kids curled up on the couch, and I used it as my opportunity to sew badges on Pie’s Brownie vest as I cheered on the Rebel forces.

The movie began. “You are going to love this!” I promised Pie. “Be brave like Princess Leia! Tomorrow night, we’ll watch Empire Strikes Back, and next weekend we’ll move on to the next movie!”

She buried her head in the couch for a few scenes. She watched most of it. She seemed to like it.

But then she didn’t want to go to sleep by herself. And finally, once she was down, she was up a couple of hours later. I was still awake, getting ready for bed, and she refused to leave my side, merely following me around like a little shadow.

Before I could even get her into bed, the bigger one was up. “Back into bed, Monkey,” Adam said quietly, gently leading him back to his bedroom.

“Uh uh!!” came the growl out of the half-asleep boy as he planted himself in our doorway, refusing to be carried back to his room.

I gave up. There were four in the bed and the little one said, “Star Wars is scary!”

Sunday morning, Adam bleary-eyed said to me, “I guess we’re not watching Empire Strikes Back tonight, huh?”

No, my padawan, I don’t think we shall. We’ll try again in a few more years. With luck, the Force in our children will be stronger then. May the Force be with you.

The girl has a minor blackberry addiction.

Which is odd because I tried to get the girl to eat blackberries for years, but she hated them until her Nana* fed her some and now she can’t get enough.

Which (thanks to my genes directly inherited from said Nana) led to me singing, “Blackberries singing in the dead of night! Take these broken wings and learn to fly!”

Which led to a mini-Beatles dance party. The boy pulled out his drum pad and joined in. We went from Blackberries (oops, “Blackbird”) to “Back in the U.S.S.R.” to “Birthday.” But the boy was frustrated.

“Can’t you play something other than the Beatles?” the boy asked.

“Why?” I said. “The Beatles are good.”

“Hippies are annoying. They play music on street corners,” he said.

What? “I blame your father!” I yelled. “You are no longer allowed to spend time with your father!”

Adam perked up here. “What?”

“I don’t like your influence on the kids,” I told him.

“I didn’t say anything!” he protested.

“Say it, Boy,” I told the boy.

“Hippies are annoying,” the boy repeated.

“Oh yeah,” Adam said. “I did say that.”

The gauntlet has been thrown. Adam and Nathan don’t like it when I play the Beatles? Well, they’ll really freak when the Grateful Dead come out…. “Riding that train. High on cocaine….”

*Note, I do know that “Nana” used in this manner is actually a common noun and should be lowercased, but–and this applies going forward in this blog so I will not make note of this again–I make the editorial decision to capitalize because she really is “the Nana.”

[edited: Adam asked, “Did you put that disclaimer in there just for Peter [my dad]?” I said, “I put it in for anyone who knows proper grammar and might think I made a mistake.” He responded, “So you put it in for Peter.” Whatever.]

Yesterday morning I took the girl to school, and then ran home to get the boy, as he had a consult with the (da da da duh!) orthodontist. I was harried, trying to get everything organized to get out the door, when I quickly grabbed my travel mug and went to fill it with coffee. Of which there was none.

“Damn it!” I yelled. “Daddy didn’t leave me any coffee.”

The boy shrugged. “You know, it’s not Mother’s Day anymore!”

So I can tell.

Mother’s Day was lovely. The boy wanted to make me breakfast in bed, and started to prepare it, when Adam pointed out that as nice of a thought as that way, I’d probably be happier being allowed to sleep late. But the second I awoke, the boy was there, ready to take my coffee order (because on Mother’s Day, the coffee pot is bottomless, apparently). I had a beautiful card from the girl plus a flower pot she decorated at school, wonderful coupons from the boy, and two bags of Gummi Bears from Adam.

A side story: We had the girl tested for allergies. She had a reaction to shrimp last November, and we decided before we embark on any summer travels, she should have an actual test. The verdict? The girl is highly allergic to shellfish. All shellfish. Epi-pen allergic. We have a drawer in the kitchen in which we store one of her Epi-pens (the other is in my purse), and I’ve told everyone, “This is the emergency drawer.”

Okay, back to Mother’s Day: After Adam gave me the Gummi bears, he said, “And, just so you know, there’s always the emergency drawer…”

Sometimes all is right with the world.

But, of course, sometimes it’s not as yesterday there was no coffee, the orthodontist read the boy the riot act about his finger sucking, and my monthly movie night was canceled, because both Beatle and (what shall I name her? She wants something glamorous, but maybe I’ll do something like Polynomial, just to be irritating. Nah…), let’s say, Lilith, both decided they had better things to do than drink wine, eat chocolate, and watch ’80s flicks. (And by better I mean a last-minute work meeting for one and an inability to get a babysitter for the other–clearly these are women who do not have their priorities straight!). Which wouldn’t have been a problem except that I did recently post about how I was going to be so much better about what I eat, and because of those two, I was forced to be alone in my house with copious amounts of chocolate that weren’t just going to eat themselves!

Sigh.

At least if things get too bad, I have my emergency stash. That should last me a day. (Not two.)

It’s a sad day in Brownville. The Easter candy is all done. What? How does a house of Jews have Easter candy? Well, that’s the point. We don’t. At least not anymore. I dutifully went to the after-Easter sales and loaded up. I will say that I didn’t eat a single bite of it until Passover ended, but when the holiday was over, I embraced the one that starts after: The Festival of Peeps.

I had planned on telling all of you about our spring break and how Adam and I just celebrated a wonderful 10th anniversary together–an elegant, exquisite dinner and lovely gifts. But then yesterday he annoyed me, so I won’t be telling you about that. I IM’d him yesterday:

Me: We are officially out of Easter candy.
Him: Officially? Has this been certified?
Me: Yes.
Him: Maybe I stashed some emergency Peeps.

Which made me the happiest person in the world. My husband loved me enough to know to stash Peeps for when I ran out! Joy! Happiness!! Elation! Only…

Me: Are you serious?!?
Him: No, I’m not serious. But I could have.

So now I’m here to blog to tell you what an ass my husband is. Maybe later I’ll write something nice. But don’t hold your breath.

My Daughter Exhibits her Worldliness
Looking at a book on London, she spies a picture of Westminster Abbey.

(Photo from About London Picture Gallery)

She looked at it and then asked in her most astonished voice, “Mommy! Is that Downton Abbey?”

My Husband Makes Me Feel Incredibly Old, Part 1
Waiting for Downton Abbey to begin, there’s a show on about British weddings.
Me: Hey, Adam. Ring ring!
Adam: Huh?
Me: I’m calling you.
Adam: Oh. Hello.
Me: Do you have Prince Albert in a Can?
Adam: Do I have what?
Me: Do you have Prince Albert in a Can?
Adam: What the hell are you talking about?

Sigh.

My Husband Makes Me Feel Incredibly Old, Part 2
Again, Downton Abbey is about to start.
Me: I read that Laura Linney’s stupid intro causes a few seconds to be trimmed from the show!
Adam: Really?
Me: I can’t stand those intros.
Adam: Why do you think they have them?
Me: I dunno. Because Alistair Cooke is dead?
Adam: Who?
Me: You know. Alistair Cooke. [in my British voice, otherwise known as my “hold my nose” voice] “I am Alistair Cooke and this is Masterpiece Theater.”
Adam: I have no idea who you’re talking about.
Me: The old guy who came on before your parents watched Upstairs Downstairs.
Adam: Still no idea who you’re talking bout.
Me: Well, what about Alistair Cookie? Do you remember Alistair Cookie?
Adam: Sure.
Me: Really?
Adam: No. I have no idea who that is either. But I’ve seem to have done pretty well despite it.

Again. Sigh.

And as a point of comparison:

I’m ashamed. I’ve done something that’s just so… wrong. I feel so dirty. Which will sound a little ironic when I tell you the horrific thing I’ve done.

I’ve– I’ve–

God, it’s hard to spit this out. But I must. Deep breath. Okay. Here it is. I’ve done the laundry. And not just once. I did it three times. I know! It’s horrible! Please don’t tell Adam about this. I don’t want him to know that I’ve located the machines and figured out what the “Oxi-timed” cycle is. (I’m sure he’ll never see this, here on my very public blog; I’m guessing his eyes will just skate right over this, in shocked disbelief.)

I can explain. Seriously. I had good reason. Not that there is ever a good reason to do laundry. But we had a Hanukkah party on Sunday.* A rousing party with bourbon and latkes and sufganiyot** and a lively time was had by all.

The next morning I was not in the mood for much. Except to try and count exactly how many whiskey sours I had consumed while flipping latkes. And how many glasses of champagne I had at the post-party party (yes, people, I am cool enough to have a post-party party. Deal.) The last thing I wanted to do was household chores of any kind, which included making food for my children:

Me to Doodles: Do you want to buy lunch today?
Doodles: Nah. Nothing looks good on the school menu.
Me: I’ll pay you a dollar to buy lunch today.
Doodles: Five dollars.
Me: Forget it. I’ll make you lunch.
Doodles: Two dollars.
Me: You’re on. Go tell your father to pay you two dollars.

Yet, soon the house was clear and all that was left was an oil-laden stack of linens and my clothes from the night before. The stank of oil was harshing my hangover, so I reluctantly made my way down and surreptitiously stuck the items in the wash. I had them out and put away before Adam ever knew about it.

But then that morning crises struck. It was pajama day in Pie’s class. She wanted to wear her Hanukkah pajamas. But I wouldn’t let her sleep in her pajamas if she was playing in them outside all day. But Hanukkah was starting Tuesday night. So? Adam can wash the pajamas. But Adam had the NERVE to decide to go to New York to be part of the team that rings the opening bell of NASDAQ the day his company spun off into it’s own company.

Which left me alone. With dirty clothes. And a girl with a sad face who wanted to wear Hanukkah pajamas.

And so the descent into the laundry room occurred again.

A side note that is really not a side note: I have two pairs of jeans. Really I have four pairs of jeans, but two are ones that a friend pressured me to buy because they actually look good on me, but frankly, they’re too expensive for me to wear on a daily basis so they sit in my drawer unless I’m going to New York, at which time they come out and say, “Hi!” And of the two I have left, one is my favorite pair of Gap Boyfriend jeans that they’ve discontinued and which also have a lovely hole in them. The other pair is a pair of Target jeans, which suit my meeds. But with just two pairs of jeans in play, I’m constantly begging the laundry guy to do laundry so I can have clean jeans. Adam has yet to understand that jeans on the floor means, “I will wear these again if I have to, but if there’s a load of laundry being done, these jeans would be much happier going for a spin.” And so my jeans can go weeks without ever experiencing the soothing relaxation of a shower of water and soap.

This week I broke down and bought new jeans. Four pairs. From Target. Actually online Target, because even I am not crazy enough to weather Target the week before Christmas, no matter how much of my thigh is exposed in my hole-y jeans. They didn’t have my “short” length, but the regular length is serviceable. But new jeans require a washing. Because I hate that indigo-dye look I get when I don’t wash new jeans. So the new jeans went into the wash. By my hand. Although in all fairness to me, they never made it to the dryer and are sitting there, sad in the washer, shivering in cold, waiting for an unsuspecting Adam to find them and eventually move the near-dry pants to the dryer. Because, although I bought four pairs of jeans in order to ensure that laundry is near never needed, I can’t bring myself to complete the process for a third time. Because the third time’s the charm. And I’m so not charmed.

You’re pretty sorry you stopped by my blog today, aren’t you? Well, they can’t all be days of wine and roses. Or even bourbon and sufganiyot. Sometimes there’s laundry involved. It’s an ugly world out there, people.

*Yes, I know that Hanukkah hadn’t started on Sunday. But we always hold our party on the Sunday of Hanukkah only this time there was some conflict. Something else happened on the Sunday of Hanukkah this year. A big guy in a red suit? The birth of the Christian Messiah? Not sure, but something took precedence over our party.

**Traditional Israeli fried donut served on Hanukkah. This is not your Dunkin Donuts donut but a completely different animal. Kosher animal, of course. Minus the animal part.

Am I the only one who gets teary eyed at Schoolhouse Rock? Seriously! Every time that Bill becomes a Law, I just want to weep in happiness for him.

The pressure in not blogging very often is that when I finally do blog, I know you all think I’m going to have something interesting to say. But very often—okay, always—I don’t. So then you just have to hear about what’s on my mind. And, oh, there are many things on my mind! For instance:

Adam and I play this little game. The recycling bin fills up to the point where we can’t close the garbage drawer. So someone pulls it out of the drawer. And we leave it in the middle of the kitchen. And continue to fill it. It’s like Jenga, in reverse. Who can add on the most without the pile toppling over? And who’s going to be chicken, finally taking the recycling out? Last time, it was me. Next time, I won’t give in so easily.

My son, who has Hebrew school three days a week, (soon) hockey twice a week, drums once a week, Cub Scouts every other week, has now decided he’s going to take up the viola. The viola. I had to look it up. I mean, who the hell knows what a viola is? Why not the violin? “The viola makes a better sound.” Let’s try him in a blind listening test. I don’t think he’d be able to tell the viola from, oh, I don’t know, a garbage truck.

My daughter is coming up with yet more creative ways to get out of going to sleep. “My arm hurts! My eye hurts! Mommy, let’s make out!” [Making out being our snuggle time with lots of kisses] Pie is currently working on being “brave and independent.” Uh, yeah.

Speaking of my daughter, she said to me, “I’m reading level M books! I can read Junie B. Jones!” I asked her, “Were you tested on level M books?” quite surprised. Level M is the beginning of 3rd grade reading. My little first grader is a great reader, but an age-appropriate reader. Last anyone checked, Pie was solidly on the end of kindergarten/beginning of 1st grade level. So I asked again, “Someone tested you on Level M books?” She happily replied, “Yes!” Very surprised, I said, “Who tested you on Level M books?” She rolled her eyes. “Me, Mommy! I tested myself! I can read Level M books!” Sigh. And now comes the process of “managing expectations.”

My son is not immune to problems. Last Wednesday he said to me, “School is boring. I’m not going today.” I tried to ascertain if something had happened, but no, it was simply boring and he wasn’t going. “Okay,” I said logically. “Everyone needs a mental health day every now and then. And if you need one, you can take one. However, in March, when you truly need a mental health day and want to take one, I’m going to say, ‘No, because you took a mental health day ON THE FIFTH DAY OF SCHOOL, YOU TOTAL DOLT!'” Shockingly, the boy decided to go to school. Boredom and all.

A friend and I went to see John Irving speak the other night. He read from his next book, which will be out next year, and it definitely intrigued me. But I enjoyed when he talked about writing, how he plots out every part of his book before he starts so he knows exactly what will happen and just needs to worry about language. An interesting way of looking at it. I want to try that on my next book, for which I have some pretty strong ideas but no formally written plot yet. But then he said things like, “I think writing in the present tense is lazy” and “I don’t like most modern writing” and it made me happy that literary curmudgeons still exist today.

After school this afternoon, my son said, “I’m so happy! We have homework and it’s due tomorrow!” I said, “Really? That’s great!” He looked at me with third-grade eyes, and said, “Duh, Mom! That was sarcasm!” Gee, how did I miss that?

I e-mailed an author I like to see if she’d blurb my novel, and she e-mailed me back to have my agent send it to her agent. How exciting is that! She basically told me, “Have your people call my people,” and, I HAVE PEOPLE! Life throws you a bone every now and then.

Even if today, I’m still just a Bill.

My hair was a mess. It really need a good dye job. My gray roots were showing. “I look old,” I told Adam.

“No, you don’t,” he assured me, because he had to assure me because it was my birthday, I had agreed to go to his 20th high school reunion, and there was no cake. What was he going to say? “Besides, everyone at the reunion is going to look old. I saw some of their pictures on Facebook. Old!”

Guess what? No one looked old. Well, except for me and Adam.

Adam has one high school friend I really like. Correction: Adam’s high school friend is okay and all. Adam has one high school friend whose wife I really like (if you read this, high school friend, nothing personal). I asked Adam what to wear. I confused and flustered him with my question. He said he was wearing a blazer. So the wife (and I’m going to go ahead and call her by her real name, as she’s a blogger who writes somewhat sarcastic things about her kids and is therefore fair game. She’s Jen! Do you hear me? Jen!) and I conferred on what to wear, and I settled on jeans with no holes and a nice shirt. Ugh. I don’t know what I was thinking. I was completely overdressed. Borrowing Doodles’s Bruins jersey would have been the way to go.

The evening started off oddly when we walked in and I went to fill out a name tag. “Guests don’t wear name tags,” I was told. Welcome to you, too! I then had a moment of panic when I looked at my phone… no service. “Do you have AT&T?” Jen asked me. “Yes,” I said. She laughed at me. “Welcome to New Hampshire!”

My birthday. No cake. And no tweets? This was going to be a horrific night… but I was saved by wifi. Thank God for sports bars with wifi.

We had two drink choices: beer and a funky cold medina. (Which proves that math is not the school’s forte; “Funky Cold Medina” is from 1989. This was a class reunion from 1991. Yes, Adam is young. Yes, I robbed the cradle. Shut up already!) I chose beer. Jen chose the funky cold medina. One was wiser than the other (name the poem that line comes from and I’ll… um, I’ll be impressed). I’m pretty sure her drink was simply grape juice and vodka. My beer, happily enough, was all beer.

The best part of the night was watching Adam struggle. All of the name tags had folks’ high school pictures on them (note to self: educate Doodles on “unibrow” and “waxing” well before his senior year of high school). The minute we walked in, some guy covered his name. “Hey, Adam!” he said. “Guess who I am?”

Hey, guy! Guess who has no idea!

Adam couldn’t get it. He looked at the high school picture. Still couldn’t get it. The guy uncovered his name. Adam still had no idea who he was.

For fun I started a drinking game. I took one swing every time Adam was completely unsubtle in saying, “Hi”—eyes drift to name tag, he squints at name—“so and so!” I drank two swallows for every time Adam said, “Long time!” I got very drunk, very quickly.

I finally got to meet a high school friend of Adam’s whom I’ve heard a lot about. She sends a lovely newsy Christmas card every year. She gave me a big hug, chatted with Adam, and in 3 minutes 23 seconds gave us the lamest excuse to not talk to us anymore. Something along the lines of “Oh, you know what? I think I left my hat in my car! I better go check.”

The music was fun. The tweeting was good. And all of an hour and 12 minutes into the event, Adam said, “Okay, I’ve had enough. Let’s go.”

“I’m doing fine!” I assured him. Despite not being done with the beer I had, Jen shoved another beer in my hand so I was literally doublefisting. It was just like 1991!

“Yeah, but I’m done. I’ve talked to everyone I wanted to talk to. Let’s go.”

We walk out of the bar. Outside, a guy walks up to me, puts an arm around my shoulders. “Adam married you?” he said. “Wow. Who would have thought he could get a woman like you!” I’m liking this guy already! “Let me tell you,” he said, “your husband and I have known each other since kindergarten. We went to school together since kindergarten all the way through high school.”

“Hey,” Adam said. “Long time.”

We get to the car. “That was cool running into him,” I said.

“I have no idea who he is,” Adam told me.*

For that I didn’t get cake?

*Thirteen hours later, sitting at breakfast at The Friendly Toast, appropos of nothing, Adam shouted out, “I know who he is! We did go to school together starting in kindergarten!”

After a week with three time outs, two out-and-out temper tantrums (plus one from the kids), mornings that started an hour before I would have preferred, a switch to daylight savings meaning kids who won’t go to sleep, hockey, a birthday party, two separate visits to the dentist, a playdate, drum lesson, ballet lesson, Hebrew school, and a visit from our friendly, neighborhood fire department, my husband has the nerve to walk into the house after a week in Europe and say, “Wow. It’s been a long week.”

He’s lucky I’m using the corkscrew on the wine and not on him.

Yes, my husband did go by the store today for an iPad 2. The AT&T store was supposed to get in a shipment, but alas, they had not. They could order one for him… that would come in two weeks. No thanks, he said. He’s going on a business trip overseas and he’ll simply buy one when he returns.

He didn’t want to deal with the mall lines, so he came home without one, much to the distress of my children. “The iPad 2 came out today?” the little one asked with wide eyes.

“Yes, it did,” he said.

“And you didn’t get one?”

“No,” he told us. “And, you’ll be disappointed to hear that the St. Patrick’s Day version of Angry Birds came out.”

“I want to play it!” yelled the boy.

“Too bad,” I said. “Daddy is going out of town.”

“So? Can’t I still play it?”

“The iPad goes with Daddy,” I told him.

“Harumph,” both kids said.

“You can play it when I get back and I get my new iPad,” Adam told them.

“Who gets your old iPad?” they asked.

“I do,” I said to their disappointment. Until…

A thought occurred to me. “You know,” I told them, “just because Daddy’s going away doesn’t have to mean anything. Daddy isn’t the only one with a credit card.”

“So?” asked the boy.

“So, we have a whole week to go buy us a new iPad 2. And then Daddy is the one stuck with the old iPad.”

And, once again, I am the most loved parent.