the pieces of my life

In our house, the children were capable of earning e-mail once they were in third grade. The thinking is, if they are old enough to attend Hebrew school three days a week, they are old enough to earn the privilege of e-mail. The requirement to get the account is the child must demonstrate the ability to touch type. Nothing extreme. But if they can manage 10 words a minute without looking at the keyboard, they can have the account.

Doodles was motivated. He practiced and practiced and received his account within the first week of third grade. Pie was motivated, but not quite as focused. So she dillydallied. And complained. And said it was “sooooo hard.” And we were “super unfair!” But a weekend with my mom and she practiced and practiced until she hit 13 words a minute. And she has an e-mail account.

Which was fun for me on my trip to New Orleans. I sent the kids a ton of pictures. And they wrote back…

Me, to the kids:
“Pie, don’t look! I don’t want you to have an allergic reaction. Doodles, this was my afternoon snack. Way better than Goldfish!”

And my daughter responded, demonstrating her strong grasp of punctuation and grammar:
“looks yummy were you drinking don’t get too drunk”

And then I sent a picture with the subject, “The Mighty Mississippi,” and wrote: “It’s more muddy than mighty, I’m afraid.”

To which the response from the girl was: “you were in mississippi i thought you went to new warlands.”

Some might agree with her interpretation.

Of course, the boy wasn’t going to be outdone. All over New Orleans, music is played on the streets, in the bars, at concerts. Almost every group had a violin/viola and a bass, so I took photos to send to the kids. I pointed out that even Bruce Springsteen had a violin player. I wrote the boy, “So freakin many of these awesome bands have violin/viola players and upright basses. You guys could totally go rock or funk or blues…”

He wrote back: “I don’t wanna be a musician for a living. If you want me to you might just say hey, heres some ecstasy you wanna snuff it?”

Have I failed as a parent? How have I raised children who don’t understand the concept of apostrophes, capitalization, and an old fashioned map? How have I raised children who don’t see the value of the artistic life? Most importantly, how have I raised a son who thinks the best way to take ecstasy is to “snuff” it?*

Maybe I’ll send them an e-mail and find out.

*Confession: I Googled “how to take ecstasy” and the consensus is swallowing is the easiest method, sniffing it burns like hell, and the most effective way is to, no joke, stick the pill up your butt.

Me: I slept oddly. And I had a dream that we got a divorce.
Husband: Huh. Well, good thing you didn’t dream about your teeth falling out. That would be really bad.
Me: What?!
Husband: Isn’t it supposed to be bad to dream about teeth falling out?
Me: As opposed to our divorce?
Pie: Are you getting a divorce?
Me: No. We are not getting divorced.
Husband: I think teeth falling out in a dream means you’re going to die.
Me: If you dream about teeth falling out, you’ll die? How does that work?
Husband: Dunno.
Me: Speaking of death, look Pete Seeger died. Wow, he was 94!
Husband: Pete Seeger? How could he be 94?
Me: He was.
Husband [doing a quick Google]: Oh, I was thinking of Bob Seger. Who was Pete Seeger?
Me: Really? “If I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the mooorrrrnnning. I’d hammer in the evening, all over this land!!” Is the boy up? I bet he’d love this song.
Husband: Oh boy. Everything is a song.
Pie: You don’t like her singing?
Husband: She just does so much of it!
Pie: You married her.
Husband: She didn’t sing this much when we met.
Me: Yes, I did. You just weren’t listening.

Note: The boy didn’t like the song any better. Especially when I started to hammer him to wake him up. “Where Did All the Flowers Gone” didn’t go over any better, either. Grumpy family. My singing rocks.

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.

As if there was really any question about it.

Everyone has crazy, over-scheduled children and the mishegas that goes with that. I’m not alone in the “Who am I taking where today?” mindset. This year’s planning has required extra care: Pie has Hebrew school Tuesday and Thursday (with a friend who comes home with us); Doodles on Monday and Wednesday. Dance on Monday (with a different friend who comes home with us). Soccer for Pie on Mondays and Thursdays; viola for the boy on Mondays and Thursdays. Girls Scouts the first Friday of the month. And this doesn’t include weekend games and Hebrew school nor the upcoming hockey season.

Pie has been taking piano lessons for a couple of years. And for a couple of years I’ve begged, screamed, bribed, and screamed some more about her practicing piano. She just wouldn’t do it. No amount of anything would get her to practice. So I said, “Fine. No more piano.” I’m not going to pay for her to take the same lesson over and over because she wouldn’t practice. She agreed pretty quickly and we said we’d re-think instruments in 4th grade when wind instruments are introduced at the elementary school. Third grade is string instruments, which she has no interest in, and I’m not letting her do an instrument this year when our schedule is already crazy and she refuses to practice.

Perfect.

Until she came running out of school today. “I’m going to play the bass! I’m going to play the bass!”

And now the battle of the wills begins. Me, who doesn’t have the inclination for her to 1) play an instrument twice her size and 2) not practice yet another instrument and 3) schedule in more lessons because bass instruction is after school at the high school.

And her. Who wants to play the bass.

I think we’re about to find out who is in charge in this house. If you see a small girl with a huge instrument, you’ll know it’s not me.

With my foot still in pain, I’m trying something quite new, quite different this morning. It’s an odd kind of exercise, but one that’s apparently been around for a while, but just hasn’t been something that appealed to me when I was a young and able-bodied person. I always thought this was something I might try when I’m old. Am I old?

Anyway, I’m meeting the Duchess this morning for this thing called “walking.” Apparently it’s in many ways it’s similar to running, but without the harsh pouding. But the thing is, I have no idea how one dresses for this activity. It’s currently 33 degrees/feels like 22. (Some day I’ll look back on this post and do a double take and think, “Wait, I thought this post was from April!”) Running means a pair of running pants and a long-sleeved shirt because after fifteen minutes, I’ll be sweating. But I’m pretty sure one does not sweat the same way on this walk-thing.

At first I suspected I was overreacting by not running, but one late-night dance party with my kids (and, yes, “late night”=9 p.m., so maybe I am old) and I’m hobbling. My dance moves never graduated from the ’80s jump up and down. I took the kids on a walk down memory lane, playing with the songs from my childhood. It started with “Run Joey Run,” the first 45 I ever bought (Pie: “What’s a 45?”). We moved on to Pink Floyd (Pie: “Pink Floyd? She is going to be awesome! Wait, that’s Pink Floyd? I hate Pink Floyd.”) We hit a little Depeche Mode (Me: “I could have sworn I had this song. Oh, wait, it was on a mixed tape.” Pie: “What’s a mixed tape?”). Meanwhile, the boy excels at the Robot (thank you “Mr. Roboto) and he can groove Billy Squier (cue making Adam uncomfortable as I explain what “The Stroke” is actually about). An excellent night. A hobbled foot. Such is life.

So I’m off to try this new-fangled exercise. We’ll see how it goes!

On Sunday, Pie and Jasmine were making friendship bracelets in the kitchen while I was reading a book in the family room. I wasn’t paying too much attention, but I heard them say something about “fat” and “thin” so I perked my ears up. I missed that conversation completely, but I did hear this exchange:

Pie: When we grow up, we’ll have wrinkles.
Jasmine: Yeah, like your mom.
Pie: My mom doesn’t have wrinkles! Well, I guess she does.

Way to stand up for your mom, Pie!

And this was after Pie and I were reading Rebecca and the Movies together. It’s a story about the American Girl Rebecca Rubin, who lived in New York in 1914. She’s the daughter of immigrants, trying to lead an assimilated Jewish life amidst the goyim.

In the opening of the book, Rebecca is listening to a phonograph at the candy store with her friend. There’s a picture:

Which led to a conversation:
Pie: Mom, you played records when you were little, right?
Me: Yep.
Pie: So you just put the plastic on the machine?
Me: Uh huh.
Pie: So did your record player look just like Rebecca Rubin’s record player?

Yes, sweetie. My Victrola was a hand-cranked machine that I used to listen to the newest Irving Berlin tune. Oh that Irving Berlin! He was so divine!

Of course, the reality of it is really the same to her. Irving Berlin and the truth–the first single I purchased was “Run Joey Run,” which is a hell of a lot more embarrassing than anything that came up in the 1910s–are close enough in her mind: They’re both ancient music.

This week I received my e-mail from Amazon: “Free MP3 Versions of CDs You’ve Bought!” Amazon’s new program searches your order history for CDs so you can download the MP3s. It’s a virtual walk down memory lane. Or in this case, a listen. Upstairs, in the dark recesses of a closet, I have all my CDs. I haven’t looked at most of them for years. So getting this visual of songs 1) reminded me how much music I have that I really enjoy but don’t listen to anymore and 2) brought me back to a different era of my life. My heaviest CD purchases happened when I worked at Amazon, right after it launched the music store. I had about three years of heavy CD purchases. All the various periods of my Seattle years lay before me: my chanteuse phase (Diana Krall, Edith Piaf, Karrin Allyson); my world music phase (Manu Negra, Youssou N’Dour); my hip chick phase (Belle and Sebastian, April March), to name but a few. Over 1,000 songs were added, reminding me of Seattle bars, ex-boyfriends, rain. That song list is a history of my life in Seattle. And I realized, nothing makes you feel older than seeing the music you used to listen to. Phil Collins and I’m in twelfth grade, catching rides at lunch to the Hoagie Hut. Mazzy Star and I’m in my illegal apartment on 10th Street in Alphabet City. Fun Lovin’ Criminals and Adam and I just started dating. I played some clips from the various songs until Doodles ran screaming from the room. Although it doesn’t take much any more to make the boy run screaming.

Last week Pie, Doodles, and I were driving, and while at a stop light, a group of girls slowly walked by.
“Hey, isn’t that H?” I asked.
The boy said, “Nope.”
“No, I’m pretty sure that’s her. You know who I mean. The sister of M. You know, M from Cub Scouts.”
“That’s not her.” The boy was certain.
“I really think it’s her. Hey! Look! There’s their mom! It is H!”
“It’s not them, Mom!” Doodles protested.
“What are you talking about? Of course it’s them!” I’m looking right at them and can clearly see who it is.
“Just don’t stop. Please! It’s mortifying!”
“Mortifying? You’ll be mortified if I speak to them?”
“Yes!”
“It doesn’t mortify you when I speak to other people.”
“Yes, it does,” he told me. “I just don’t tell you.”
And I thought, “Ah, we’ve now come to this,” and I flashed back to my father mortifying me by speaking to my friends. My father only had to suggest speaking to my friends for me to want to crawl into a hole with my humiliation. The torch has been passed. I am now old enough that I mortify my son.

The universe (or at least my kids) is trying to send me a message. I’m old. My music belongs on a Victrola. And it’s time I start using wrinkle cream.

I save my son from a lifetime of humiliation and does he thank me for it? Noooo.

Boy: I want to go the Jingle Ball [which is advertised nonstop on the radio station he has on at all times.]

Me: No.

Boy: Why not?

Me: First of all, it’s sold out.

Boy: You can still get tickets.

Me: Second of all, the bands playing suck.

Boy: No, they don’t!

Me: Name who’s playing.

Boy: Uh, I don’t remember.

We go online and look it up.

Me: Oh, fer Christ’s sake. Justin Bieber is headlining. You like Justin Bieber?

Boy: No. But I like the other bands.

Me: Which one? You like The Wanted? Train? Karmin? Bridget Mendler? Isn’t she the one from Disney Channel? Alex Care?

Boy: Yeah, him. I like him.

Me: Name one song he sings.

Boy: I don’t know the name! I just know I like it.

Me: No.

Boy: Look up how much tickets are.

We got to StubHub. Tickets are in the $39 to $5,000+ range.

Boy: They’re not that much.

Me: No! The money is not the point! The point is that someday you will go to college, and people will say to you, “What was the first concert you went to,” and you’ll have to say, “Justin Bieber,” and then you will cry yourself to sleep at night from the shame.

Boy: I could lie!

Me: No. I forbid it. I forbid you going to see Justin Bieber. Have some pride in yourself, boy!

He’s still pissed. But I can live with that. And one day, he’ll be in college, and I’ll show him this post, and he’ll have to buy me flowers or chocolate or cars in gracious thanks that I didn’t let him go.

It started out innocuously enough. The song “Call Me Maybe” would play on the the radio, and I’d change the station. It’s an annoying song. Truly. And then a friend posted a link to the Harvard baseball team dancing in their car to the song. She thought it meant she was a cougar, because she liked the boys in the video. I thought it meant I was a total mom because all I could think was, “Why aren’t they wearing their seat belts? I can see them, right there in the corner! Put on the DAMN seat belts!” I played it for the girl. She liked it. And then there was the Barack Obama version. I played it for the kids. They were amused.

And then the kiddos went off to a movie-making camp. And for part of the camp they made a music video. To Carly Rae Jepsen. And that’s when I discovered how much the boy hates the song. I mean it really upsets him. Makes his skin crawl. Which means I now love it. Frequently. At top volume. The girl is in on this.

I find the song online and play it. Today, we were driving home from the library and the song came on just as I pulled into the driveway. I locked the doors and cranked the volume, while the boy tried to frantically claw his way out of the minivan. But I prevailed. I feed lines to the girl. “Hey, I just met you!” I say. And she responds, “And this is crazy!” I whisper to the song to him as he’s falling asleep. “I’d trade my soul for a wish, pennies and dimes for a kiss…” [Edit: Even Cookie Monster is in on it!]

Just another reason of why I deserve the Mom of the Year award. And why he’ll be in therapy before he’s twelve.

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.]