the pieces of my life

The boy: Why do you have a thing on your bulletin board that says, “God bless you. Stay strong. Kick it. Billy Blanks”?

Me: When I was at Amazon, I used to interview people for the Web site. Billy Blanks had a series of workout videos called Tae-Bo that I really liked. When I interviewed him, he signed that for me.

The boy: Oh. I didn’t know that.

Me: I used to interview a lot of people. You know, I interviewed Harrison Ford.

The boy: Cool.

Me: You know who that is, right?

The boy: Yeah. He’s the guy who invented cars, right?

I’m apparently very well preserved.

Hungry, desperate furloughed-government officials came knocking on the door this afternoon. The only thing that I had that would cheer them up was a Charleston Chew bar of my daughter. I sent them on their way with the chocolate and that, my dear daughter, is why your candy bar is missing. There is no other reason. No, don’t go looking in our trash can for an empty wrapper. It’s not in there. What kind of mother would steal her own child’s chocolate and then lie about it? Seriously, get away from the garbage can.

Of course, if I had eaten her candy bar, it would have been justifiable (not that I would do that!). On this miserable, foggy, rainy morning, as I was rushing to pack lunches, finish exercising, and clean up the mess that forms after every weekend, she stopped me to ask, “Mommy? What month did you and Daddy have sex in to get pregnant with me?” It wasn’t the question I minded so much as the math. Math before 7 a.m. is not my forte. “Uh… November? December? I don’t remember!” When I asked Adam, he just sort of gave us a panicked look and ran back to his computer.

Kids had their annual check-ups today. The 8 year old is officially taller than the 10 year old. Not that I told her (that’s not a lie! Just an omission) as she would never let him live it down. However, I think she figured it out. Eh, if he’s upset about it, I can give him some candy. The girl has another Charleston Chew lying around. At least for the moment she does.

Q: How many servings of candy corn are there in a nine-serving bag of Brach’s candy corn?

Sorry, that was a trick question. Because all of you, knowing me, would answer, “One.” But I’m PMSing, which means it’s really only about 3/4th of a serving. But what to do what that needed additional 1/4th? How long before the kids notice that their candy stashes are slowly disappearing?

Hey, did you see what now lives in my front room?

It is freakin’ ginmormous.
“How am I going to cart that thing around?” I muttered this morning.
“Bass cases have wheels on them,” Doodles said.
“This one doesn’t,” I said.
“Oh,” he said. “I guess Pie will have to carry it by the handles.”
Really? Your sister is going to carry this thing? And this is coming from the boy who frequently asks, “Mom, can you please carry my viola?” Viola, boy! A viola is the size of that bass’s pinky! And, help me lord, because that bass is a 1/10th size. I cannot fathom the mama bass that goes with this baby bass. The girl had better stop growing right where she is, if she plans on continuing to play bass. Jealous much?

Eating 3/4 of a serving of candy corn makes me realize that too much candy corn is not a good thing. It really needs to be balanced with other foods. Like, say, a bag of gummy bears. Or a box or twelve of Peeps. Why don’t my kids have any good candy in their candy stashes? And it’s not just because I’ve already eaten it all. They have bad taste in candy.

On a non-musical, non sugar-related note, guess what I just received!

Yep, containing my lovely essay (yes, I know you can’t read the name, but that is my finger pointing to me).

Get yer own copy of The Best Women’s Travel Writing, Vol. 9: True Stories from Around the World

I’m off to work on the ol’ novel. I advise you all to lock up your candy cabinets. When I’m writing, no sugar is safe from my clutches.

I asked my son to read me the weather report but he said he couldn’t. What exactly is he learning in that school of his?

Minke whale and puffin on the menu

Gullfoss Waterfall

Helicopters over Reykjavik

Toto, I don’t think we’re in Boston anymore!

Hello, Iceland!

Off on another grand adventure! This time to…

Me: What’s today?

10 year old: My birthday

Me: How do you know it’s your birthday?

10 year old: Because we have stuff like calendars and computers and stuff and also I know because I know when camp ended and I knew certain days after that and blah blah blah.

Me: How does it feel to be a ten year old?

10 year old: Same as it felt to be a nine year old.

Me: How did you spend your birthday?

10 year old: Playing with laser tag, playing on the computer, and sorting Magic cards.

Me: By yourself?

10 year old: With friends. Well, laser tag with friends.

Me: Was it a good birthday?

10 year old: Yes.

Me: What do you like to do these days?

10 year old: Go on the computer. Play on the computer. Animate.

Me: Can you be more specific?

10 year old: Animate stuff, play Minecraft, code, do stuff on the Web.

Me: How do you animate and code?

10 year old: I use Komodo Edit for coding and I use Blender for animation.

Me: What are you coding and animating?

10 year old: Animating movies and coding just random projects.

Me: Like?

10 year old: I don’t know.

Me: What are your favorite books?

10 year old: I don’t know.

Me: What have you been reading lately?

10 year old: What have I been reading lately? Books. The Secret Series. House of Stairs.

Me: What are you listening to?

10 year old: Kiss 108.

Me: But who?

10 year old: The popular artists, I guess. Macklemore. Eyal Golan.

Me: What are your favorite things to watch?

10 year old: Phineas and Ferb. Mad. Lab Rats.

Me: What do you want to be when you grow up?

10 year old: Computer programmer.

Me: What do you want to program?

10 year old: Stuff that will get me a lot of money.

Me: What are you looking forward to in 5th grade?

10 year old: Going on all the outings, like going to a sleepaway camp [science camp] and going to Canobie Park.

Me: What are your goals as a 10 year old?

10 year old: To… to… to… I don’t know.

Me: You can do better than that.

10 year old: I’m sure I can, but I don’t know. To fart less.

Me: Really?

10 year old: Fine! To code more stuff! To animate more stuff! Is that good?

Me: Any grand pronouncements?

10 year old: I am awesome.

Me: That’s the first year I didn’t have to tell you what a pronouncement is.

10 year old: Actually I still don’t know what it means. I just said that. It’s my default answer for anything I don’t know.

Me: We’ll buy you a dictionary. Happy birthday, Doodlebug!

While the posting of pictures and blog entries is all fine and dandy for the camp to do, it turns me into an analytical mess while I try to detect every emotional nuance from the slight glimpses of my children I see in the photos.

Me: I NEED PICTURES!
Adam: i saw his head in one. and he’s standing on the beach in the swim photos (with no goggles)
Me: i saw that! what’s up with that? I packed him three pairs. where did you see his head? i missed his head. why isn’t he having friends?
Adam: actually I think he’s holding goggles in this one.
Me: oh, you’re right.
where’s his head?
why isn’t he talking with anyone?
is his head talking to anyone?
or at least smiling?
Adam: his head is in middle in this one: [link to photo]
he’s fine
Me: but his head isn’t talking!

The camp not only posts pictures, but it has a blog and a Facebook account, so I’m basically stalking the camp. I was reassured to see pictures of Pie playing hand games–the girl can’t be too unhappy if she’s teaching other kids her hand games. Although I did hear from the camp mom that there has been one bout of homesickness, although she seemed to recover fairly quickly.

We can send the kids e-mails, which the office prints out and delivers to them. They have no access to computers, so it’s a one-way communication. Finding stuff to write to them is difficult. How many creative ways can I write, “Mommy spent the day writing. And then I had drinks.” I’ve been bugging Adam to write so I don’t have to do it every day. Yesterday morning I asked him, “Did you write the kids this morning?”

He said, “I worked out this morning! I didn’t have time to write them!”

I reminded him, “You often work out when the kids are home. But this morning you didn’t have to cook breakfast, go upstairs while Pie got dressed, break up the fights, say no to the iPad, and all the other things you do in the morning that you tell me prevent you from doing other things.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Turns out, that stuff really doesn’t take up much time.”

At which point I made him write an e-mail. See? Even with the kids gone, I have to make someone do homework.

Refresh, refresh, refresh!!

I thought that by rationing out my gummy bears into a cute little bowl, it would prevent me from overdoing it on the candy. Turns out, I was wrong. But it’s okay, because with the kids gone, I’m not getting in enough steps on my pedometer (most steps were spent walking Pie to camp, walking Pie to Starbucks, walks with with Pie around the neighborhood, etc. Where was the boy? Playing Minecraft, of course), so the only steps I’m really getting now are those from the couch to the gummy bear drawer. And how does anyone figure there are 3.5 servings in a 5 ounce bag? That is simply wrong.

The kids made it off to camp with just about everything they needed. We had the predictable:
[Three weeks ago]
Me: Doodles, do your Shabbat shoes fit?
The boy: Yeah.
[Two weeks ago]
Me: Doodles, are you sure your Shabbat shoes fit?
The boy: Yeah.
[One week ago]
Me: Doodles, would you please try on your Shabbat shoes and make sure they fit?
The boy: They fit me, already! Leave me alone!
[Two days before we leave]
Me: Doodles, I am going to stand here and watch you. Try on your Shabbat shoes.
The boy: Mom! [Tries on shoes.] Hey! They’re too small!

We had the nervous:
Pie: With the counselors help me do my hair?
Me: Of course.
Pie: Will the counselors help me when I get a bug bite?
Me: Of course.
Pie: Will the counselors help me if I can’t cut my food?
Me: Of course.

We had the frantic:
Me: Where are all your shorts! Find your flashlight! No, I’m not buying you a new flashlight if you lost last year’s flashlight! You’ll just have to be in the dark! Bring me your Shabbat pants! No, not those, the ones that fit! What do you mean all of those shorts don’t feel right? WE HAVE TO PACK! I need to label how many pairs of socks? Screw that. Don’t lose your socks.

But we made it to camp. In case you’re wondering, the camp web site is not adding photos in 15 minute increments, but I am continually checking, just to make sure.

And the house is dead quiet. I’ve been able to read. Work on my novel. Eat gummy bears. No one is dancing to Selena Gomez in the kitchen. No one is begging for computer time. No one is demanding a trip to the Res.

Peace and quiet.

Man, do I miss them.

While everyone else is frolicking in pools and lakes, sending kids off to sleepaway camp, embarking on fabulous summer vacations, we are… still going to school.

Thanks to the wealth of snow days plus a few Hurricane Sandy days thrown in, Pie and Doodles are in school till Friday, which is miserable given the lack of school A.C. and the 90+ degree days we are expecting this week.

So we’re still in the throes of it all. I still have a school newsletter to put out this week. Yesterday was the last Girl Scout event of the school year. The literary journal, which I advised on, came out last week. Leis and flowers had to be dug out this morning for the 2nd grade Hawaiian day. Lunches to be made. It is still the school year.

I will now digress a moment: When I was a child, I was not, let’s say, the “obedient” child. I had a knack for getting myself into trouble. I was generally grounded from something as often as I wasn’t. My sister, however, was the angel child. Perfect grades. Did her chores. Never broke a curfew. And yet, my parents worried about her in a way they didn’t worry about me. Because they had confidence if I got myself into a situation, I would be able to get myself out. But the Tweedle Twirp? I remember one parent saying, “I worry that she’ll be home alone, become hungry, and just not think to go into the kitchen and open up a can of soup.”

A couple of weeks ago, the boy had his viola recital. Pie and I had to be at a Girl Scout meeting, so I wasn’t home to get him ready, as he had to be there an hour and a half before the show started. I put a snack out for him. I laid out his outfit (a tuxedo shirt, bow time, cumberbund, pants, socks, shoes). I left a detailed note of what time he was to be outside waiting for his ride. I had it all covered.

When Pie and I arrived at the recital with plenty of time to spare. I peeked into the back room, and saw the boy was there, he was dressed, his tie was on, he looked good. “Everything go okay?” I asked.

“Fine!” he said.

And then he got up to walk into the next room. And I saw about a foot of underwear on his rear side.

“Uh, Doodles?” I said. “Why are your pants falling down?”

He rolled his eyes at me. “You forgot to leave out a belt for me!”

This boy is finishing 4th grade. He is going to sleepaway camp for four weeks this year. He’s trying to convince me he’s old enough to stay home at night by himself. But apparently he needs to be told that if his pants are too big, he should find a belt.

I don’t need a genetic test to know that Doodles and the Tweedle Twirp are clearly related. Of course the Tweedle Twirp turned out okay. And she apparently feeds herself. Although I don’t know what her belt situation is. I can only cross my fingers and hope that Doodles figures this stuff out for himself.

Because in four days, that boy is a 5th grader. Yikes. And yikes again.