the pieces of my life

On Monday morning of Memorial Day weekend I woke up feeling great. Which means that either I have the stamina of a twenty year old… or I was still drunk. I’m sticking with the former (although I fear it was the latter).

Yes, it was yet another weekend in New York. We hadn’t been in a while, so we took the train down for the weekend. As we walked off the train, Adam was walking with Pie, and I had Doodles. A guy cut between us, and practically ran the boy over. “You okay?” I asked the boy. He nodded and I said, “What an a**hole.” The boy’s eyes opened wide as I leaned down and whispered in his ear, “This is New York City. You’re allowed to curse.”

“I can curse?” he asked with wonder.

“Yep,” I said.

“F*ck yes!” he said. That boy is a Brown through and through.

Adam was just as happy. Not about the cursing. He’s allowed to curse even in Boston. But the first night we met the Tweedle Twirp for dinner at Craftwork. I had mussels. Tweeds had ravioli. And Adam had the special, Pork for Two. For one. Two racks of pork. Pork belly. Pork head. Just for him. He started out happy, but ended up crying uncle and taking a bunch of it home. Adam clearly isn’t as tough as those of us with Brown blood.

The weekend was full of fun: The boy, my dad, Tweeds, and I hit Liberty Island and Ellis Island, while the girl, my mom, and Adam went to the Cindy Sherman show at MOMA (“One room was scary,” the girl told me, “so Nana covered my eyes so we could just walk through it.” I saw the show on Monday. “Scary” isn’t the word I’d use. More like “traumatizing.”)

We hit candy stores: Dylan’s Candy Bar for the girl; Economy Candy for the boy. I love Economy Candy. It’s totally old school, and any candy you remember from your childhood, they have. 

I was looking for a big bag of gummy bears, but they only had them in single colors. In 5 pound bags. I came very close to buying 40 pounds of gummies. I did learn that even I have my limits on gummies and there are some gummies that I refuse to buy. This one in particular:

After the sugar high, we switched children, and Pie, Tweeds, and I went for our regular NYC mani/pedi.

On Sunday, I had brunch with a friend from college, and now I’m plotting how to get to the Galapagos Island with the family to hang out with her (she’ll be moving there soon). Then Adam, my mom, and I took the kids to their first Broadway show, Newsies, and even waited for autographs at the end.

 

After the show, we hit but Strand. But for the first time ever, I messed up at the Strand. Normally I go through the New York Times Book Review for my shopping list, but this time I did some web searches and looked through some magazines and I made a list I was quite excited about (in particular, I’m eager for The Receptionist: An Education at The New Yorker by Janet Groth)… only to discover that the books I had selected aren’t released until the summer. Time was limited, the kids were antsy, and I didn’t have time to aimlessly wander aisles picking books at leisure. So while the kids stocked up, I actually walked out empty handed. Hard to believe, I know, but it’s true. Proof that the impossible is possible in New York.

That night, Adam ended up hanging at my parents’ apartment with the boy, who had a bad headache, while the rest of us went out for a family dinner. We got home at about 8, and I decided I was just too exhausted to go out. But I felt bad that Adam didn’t get to go out, so I said I’d rally for just one drink with him and the Tweedle Twins. Five hours later, we were walking home, my feet were hurting, so I just went barefoot up Avenue A, and stumbled back home to bed. We hit a bar on Avenue C that advertised on its sign “no phone” (too cool to chat with you, I suppose), then we made our way to Death and Co., where the entire time, I wanted to tell the woman at the table next to us that she could do way better than the guy she was on a date with. Of course the drinks were so tasty (and it didn’t hurt that it was my fifth drink of the night) that it probably added to the urgency of the situation, but I managed to keep my thoughts to myself. Back outside, I mentioned to the door person that the woman at the next table was on a date with a guy who clearly was gay, and she said, “Yeah, we get that a lot.” I’m generally happy with my suburban life, but watching that poor girl on that awkward date makes me so incredibly happy I’m no longer in my twenties.

Despite the late hour and the drinks, I was still up bright and early for a walk on the High Line with my family, brunch at Pastis, and a trip to MOMA, where I saw the aforementioned Cindy Sherman show and the others went to the Materials Lab.

And then, sadly, it was time to go. I hate leaving NYC. But we made it home and we dove back in. To Colonial Day. To Daisies bridging to Brownies. To baseball, soccer, track, piano, and drums. It’s been a week. And I’m ready to go back to New York.

I have a start to a (long) post about our Memorial Day weekend in New York, but things have just been way too busy! For starters, today was the day for pickling the cucumbers.

Then it was time to practice letters, both with a quill and ink and on the slate.

Then the tin had to be punched to make new lanterns, the candles had to be made, silhouettes were needed to decorate the barren walls, and the weaving had to be done.

Every now and then, mother and son can take a break to say hi.

But then lunch has to be served…

…before the planting has to be done…

…and sachets need to be made to cover the stank of the unwashed Colonists (side note: I know why the Colonist women wore shawls. It was to hide the pit stains! Those clothes are hot!).

But be careful! You never know where the Redcoats are lurking.

No need to worry though. The Minutemen will have your back.

Hopefully the next few days will be less busy and I can post. That is, if I can find a computer in Ye Olde Computer Tavern.

My son has officially learned the meaning of “addiction.” He’s having a hard time quitting the finger habit (the boy has been sucking on his finger since he was practically in utero).

The boy. His finger. At eight months.

We paint his fingernails with this really nasty stuff, which is supposed to serve as a reminder to take his finger out of his mouth. But instead, he’s learned that if he just sucks long enough, the nasty taste goes away.

Me: But, Doodles, it’s supposed to just be a trigger to tell you take your finger out of your mouth.

Boy: I know. I put my finger in my mouth, and I taste it and I remember I should take my finger out. But it feels so good! So I don’t take it out.

Of course, we all have our crosses to bear. Pie has a close friend who knows my love of Peeps. She had a box of Peeps left over from her Easter stash and she wrote me a lovely card and gave me the Peeps! And she even knew they were in my favorite color (green! I didn’t even know they made green Peeps!). My children were threatened when it seemed that I suddenly preferred another child to them (hey, they’ve never given me Peeps!), but I assured them that no matter how many Peeps anyone else gave me, they’d still always be my favorite children. But Peeps in May. I was in heaven!

I took the box, punched a hole in it, and let it sit for a few days, because, as everyone knows, no Peep is a bad Peep, but a stale Peep is the very best kind of Peep in the world.

And, now, the Peeps are gone. I’m so sad. I IM’d Adam that very sentiment. “I’m so sad. The Peeps are gone.”

And he wrote back, “Already?”

But in my mind, I was extremely impressed with myself. Because it was a box of 10 Peeps. And I made it last TWO WHOLE DAYS! I don’t think I’ve ever shown such restraint in my life.

That said, I may not be the best one to guide Doodles on his finger-free journey. Because clearly I’m not good at stopping when “it feels so good!” Peeps and fingers all around!

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.)

The good news is Pie is still alive. The bad news is I may still kill her. I love her. I love her little brain. But we seem to have re-entered the question phase. It’s nonstop. Last Friday I was in the midst of Passover prep. We were hosting a seder for 17 of us. And the girl would not stop talking. “How much longer till people come over? Are we having bisket for dinner? I mean brisket? Where is it? What are you making? Can I eat chips over Passover? Why potato chip and not corn chips? Can I have pasta? Can I have cream cheese and jelly on matzah? Will you spread the jelly thin? Daddy spreads it clumpy. How much longer till the seder? Can I sit next to Jasmine and Cee? I’m bored. What can I do? But I don’t want to set the table. I wish I had school today. How much longer till the seder?”

Finally I screamed, “The youngest is only supposed to ask four questions! Four! You’re over your limit by about 137!”

To which she said, “Why are there just four questions?”

Seders are over. The first night we hosted, the second night we went to a friend’s house. Ours was a loose affair–it started early (before sundown) so we wrapped by 9:30. The second night was at the rabbi’s house, so it was more traditional, but extremely lively. We had to do “homework,” research a rabbi, and luckily Doodles is old enough that I was able to pawn the job off onto him. He did amazingly well–when we all went around the table reading from the haggadah, we had the choice of reading in English or Hebrew. About 80 percent of us chose English. Doodles chose to do the Hebrew and he did beautifully. Pie napped, so she was able to make it till the bitter end (which was shortly after midnight), but Doodles fell asleep after dinner on my lap. Of course, I made the mistake of telling Pie we’d be there till at least midnight, so starting at 8 p.m., she began asking, “Is it midnight yet? How about now? Now? Is it midnight now?”

I haven’t posted much about my Martha tendencies, but Passover brings them all out. Each year I make a new haggadah.

A year or two ago I made a Passover bingo that keeps the kids busy during the meal (bingo gets you a piece of chocolate).

And last year I embroidered and sewed my own matzah cover because I couldn’t find any I liked.

Next year, I’ll make a matching afikoman cover as well.

In the meantime, Passover lasts until Saturday at sundown. Which means I have to figure out what to feed a boy whose entire diet consists of chicken taquitos and pasta and bread and brie (verboten, verboten, and verboten! Unless he’s willing to eat the brie on matzah, which I doubt). As long as he doesn’t ask me any questions about it, we’ll do just fine.

People are giving me grief about not blogging (I’m looking at you, Peter and Keaton), but hey, life’s busy. Anyone who wants to fill in the gaps with a nice guest blog post is welcome. In the meantime, I’m trying to find a little peace and quiet to do things, like, oh, write. But it’s not to happen. I can’t even read a magazine in peace these days. I’ve resorted to hiding in the bathroom. Although the other day I tried that. Being alone. In the bathroom. Peacefully.

What’s that? Oh, the pounding of little footsteps.

From outside the door I hear:
The boy: Mom!

Me: I’m in the bathroom.

The boy: Mom!

Me: I’m in the bathroom!!

The boy stands outside the bathroom door.

The boy: Hey, Mom, I decided I don’t want a flame thrower anymore.

Me: I’m in the bathroom. I don’t care.

The boy: Instead, I want an M16.

Me: LEAVE ME ALONE! I AM IN THE BATHROOM!

The boy: Yeah, I know. I heard you the first five times.

Me: SO WHY ARE YOU STILL TALKING TO ME?

So the next time you harass me about this blog? Bite me. I’m hiding in the bathroom. And you can’t have an M16, either.

Um, London? Wasn’t I telling you about London? I think we’ve been back for a few years now, and I still haven’t finished telling you about London? Way to milk it, no? Or, as it’s London we’re talking about, way to tea it, no?

Okay, Days 3 to 7 in rapid speed:

Monday was our first day sans Adam, who kept having this annoying thing called “work” get in the way of our fun. But the children and I were not to be deterred so off to the London Eye! After that, we met up with cousins at the Museum of Natural History. I have one cousin who lives full time in the London area, complete with British-born kids, and another cousin who is taking a semester abroad in London during his freshman year of college. Freshman cousin is apparently desperate for free meals as he was willing to put up with no end of humiliation from me on four evenings. (What kind of humiliation, you ask? Why, I mocked his reading choices. I critiqued his post-college plans. And, perhaps most horrifying to him, I gave him [da da dum] … the sex talk!)

Tuesday we decided to try for a less crowded view of Changing of the Guard activities. We went to the Inspection at the Wellington Barracks. Perfect! We got there five minutes early, walked right up to the fence, and had an amazing view of the fresh guards being inspected for duty with bonus that the band played lots of songs. From there, the Royal Mews.

After we headed to Kensington Park, which is completely under construction, and after much wandering in circles, we found our way to the Orangery where we had high tea. Well, Pie and I did. Doodles didn’t want it and so he just sat reading his book while Pie and I, pinkies poised, had tea sandwiches, cakes, and scones (and champers for me. It was a vacation, after all). We played at bit in the Princess Diana Memorial Playground and then met Adam for dinner and a West End show that was out of this world: Matilda. All four of us loved it and we haven’t stopped singing the songs since.

Wednesday morning we cleverly decided to go to Westminster Abbey. Where we were cleverly told we couldn’t go in until 11:30 because people were–gasp!–praying! Yes, it appears we Jewish Yanks forgot all about Ash Wednesday. So instead we walked up Whitehall, reading the relevant bits for our Rick Steves’s book and oohing and ahhing over the sites. We did a fabulous kids’ audio tour at the National Gallery. We had a pub lunch, which Doodles and I enjoyed, and Pie just whined about (“They don’t understand what chicken salad is! This isn’t chicken salad! It’s a slab of chicken with mayonnaise!”). We did a bit of shopping after lunch and then early evening we split up: Pie and Adam had dinner at the hotel, and Doodles, Freshman Cousin with a Penchant for Abuse, and I all went on a Harry Potter tour. Walking around London at night with a fabulous tour guide was terrific, even if there aren’t that many Harry Potter sites to see, although Doodles got a huge kick out of Platform 9 3/4.

Thursday morning we first hunted for the spy clues in the kids’ spy pack around the hotel. Then we had Westminster Abbey Take 2, which almost went okay. Pie was slightly whiny, though Doodles loved doing the kids’ tour, and by the time we exited both had pushed buttons and I was standing outside of Parliament yelling, “We are going to go back to the hotel RIGHT THIS INSTANT AND STAY THERE ALL AFTERNOON!” I don’t know why people say Americans are so loud and ugly.

We did get over our spat and decided to make our way to Camden Markets for a wee bit o’shopping. Pie had to buy something for everyone in her class. Doodles refused to buy anything for anyone because he didn’t want the mortal embarrassment of having to give it to them (“Fine! You can buy my teacher some tea, but I’m not giving it to him! You are!”). That evening we met up with Adam at a cocktail party at his office, where Doodles sat in the corner reading Harry Potter 6 and Pie decided to pull her tooth out in the bloodiest of ways she could. Freshman Cousin with a Penchant for Abuse met us for dinner and Adam left his wallet in a taxi. Good dinner, though. (And just after Adam canceled all his cards, the wallet was returned, and Adam was completely dependent on me to pay for the rest of the trip. Ha ha ha ha ha!)

Friday morning, Adam returned to us. He took Friday off of work and we crammed in as much as we possibly could. We went to The Monument (designed by Christopher Wren in memory of the London fire), climbed the 311 steps, only to have the kids freak out and decide they are scared of heights. From there we went to London Tower, lunch, tour of the Globe Theatre, the Victoria & Albert Museum, and Harrods. Deep breath. We made it! We met the Freshman Cousin with a Penchant for Abuse and his roombuddy (as Pie called him) for a Chinese dinner, and thus ended our London trip, as in the early hours of the next morning, we headed toward Heathrow where we bought enough chocolate for our friends back home to keep them on a sugar high for a month.

Not enough for you? Here’s our trip in a seven minute video (music from the Clash, of course, and from the musical Matilda).

Whew! Done. And now back to writing the school newsletter; driving to dance, Hebrew School, Cub Scouts, hockey; preparing for the next Girl Scout meeting; planning for the synagogue seder; writing my novel; and, oh yes, planning the next vacation….

Report cards came out last Friday. Both kids did beautifully, both are right where they should be, perhaps a little ahead in the reading areas. But the third grade teacher sent home a class letter reporting that he was no longer hounding the kids to turn in their reading journals–he was merely giving them one reminder–and as a result some kids aren’t turning in their reading journals. If that was the case with our student, it would be noted on the report card. Reading journals are done in school, and kids have different due dates for them. Doodles’s reading journal is due Mondays. Sure enough, on the report card, it said, “This term his reading journal wasn’t always turned in.”

Me: This is unacceptable. Why don’t you turn it in?

Doodles shrugs.

Me: You need to be responsible for your work. Your grade suffered because of your lack of effort on doing your reading journal.

Doodles: But I don’t like doing my reading journal.

Me: Doesn’t matter. You still need to get it done. There will be lots in life that you don’t like doing, but you still need to do. We need to brainstorm a way that you can remember to write it and turn it in. Maybe we tape an index card to your desk that reads, “Thursday: Do writing journal.”

Doodles: But it’s not due till Monday.

Me: That doesn’t mean you should do it at the last minute. You know, you tell me you want to go to M.I.T., but to get into M.I.T. and survive at M.I.T., you need to be organized and responsible for your work. No one is going to nag you and tell you to turn in your assignments when you’re at college.

Doodles: Well, you could call me every day–no, not everyday. You don’t have to call me on weekends. But you could call me five days a week and nag me to get my work done when I’m at college.

Me: That is so not going to happen on so many different levels. Kids who can’t turn in their reading journals don’t go to M.I.T.

Doodles: Fine. Then I’ll go to Princeton.

When Pie came home from school today, she said, “Mommy! You had a lot of candy today, didn’t you!”

“Huh?” I cleverly responded.

“You had a real lot of candy today! I see a lot of candy wrappers in the garbage! Exactly how much candy did you eat today?”

I ate a f*ckload of candy. What do you expect? I want a freakin’ medal for surviving this week. Oh wait. It’s only Wednesday.

As you know, Adam went to Germany on Sunday. “Oh the travel is so hard! Oh, I’m so tired!” Yeah, bite me buddy.

This was day 1, aka Monday:
Write 1,000 words of work in progress novel
Supervise homework, Hebrew school homework, and the building of Neptune
Run lines and practice songs for Doodles’s play audition
Teach son how to wash face (he has a medicine he uses on his face that needs to be washed off. After breakfast, I said, don’t forget to wash the medicine off your face, plus you have egg yolk on you. On way to school, notice the egg yolk is still on his face. “You didn’t wash!” “Yes, I did!” “But you still have egg yolk on you.” “Well, yeah. It’s not like I use water when I wash my face.” Uh….)
Take child to play audition at 6:30 p.m.
Be wrangled into chairing a committee for play
Argue with son in car on why Eli Manning is superior to Tom Brady; yelling ensues.
Get child back from audition, retrieve daughter from neighbors, in time for hosting a 7:30 meeting for the synagogue at my house

Deep breath, on to day 2:
Volunteer for Books on the Go in first grade
Write 1,200 words of Work in Progress (WIP)
Back up WIP to Dropbox
Volunteer for workboard in first grade
Daughter meltdown in first grade
Mother meltdown in first grade
Mother takes away every extra activity
Mother immediately regrets taking away every extra activity because it messes up carpool and brother’s plans
Mother, in a most unauthoritative way, recants
Bring boy to Hebrew school
Bring girl to ballet
Post office, library, bank
Pick girl up from ballet
Feed children
Bring boy, girl, and Pinewood derby car to Cub Scout meeting that goes an hour past girl’s bedtime

Deep breath, on to day 3:
Daughter wakes me up at 6 a.m.
Reprimand daughter for washing hands for too short of a time after using the bathroom. “You need to wash for at least 20 seconds,” I tell her. “Wet your hands, soap up, rub, rinse, dry.” The girl informs me, “But there’s no soap in that bathroom.” Excuse me? “There’s been no soap for a few months.” “So you and your brother have been going to the bathroom and not using soap to wash for a few months now?” “Yeah.”
Write school newsletter
Go to mall to buy socks, birthday present, and underwear (for the boy)
Tweak WIP a little
With five minutes till school pick up time, realize that the work in progress I’m currently working on is actually a version from a month ago, as Dropbox somehow synched my computer’s version with the one on Dropbox from February
Freak out
Pick up daughter
Freak out some more
Take daughter to ice skating
Yell at daughter because I’m freaking out about WIP
Try to find a current version of work in progress
Take son to to string instrument concert rehearsal
Go to store, playground, and freak out
Pick son up from string instrument concert rehearsal
Freak out
Realize kitchen lights are somehow broken as the circuit keeps flipping and won’t stay on
Feed kids in the dark
Play with computer some more
FIND CURRENT WORK IN PROGRESS!
Feel guilty for yelling; tell kids they can eat extra hamantashen
Take the kids to synagogue for the Megillah reading and Purim party
Load kids up with sugar
Get children, who are normally in bed by 7, home at 9 and to bed

And the sad part? I don’t drink when Adam’s not in town! So I’m here, beat, done, exhausted, and stone cold sober.

Tomorrow night, when Adam is home, I’m holing up in front of reality TV with a big ass bottle of wine. Don’t call. Don’t write. Don’t even think about me. Just leave me and bottle of wine in peace while I find my happy place.

Pie: You give out 18 percent of your love on Valentine’s day.
Doodles: That sounds like a scientific fact.
Pie: Valentine’s Day is the day you dance with someone you love and that’s you, Doodles!
Doodles: I’m honored and all, but that’s not going to happen.