June 4th, 2013 § Comments Off on Because I Am the Mom of the Year… § permalink
My son is required to do a poster for a state for his 4th grade class. He was assigned a state. Nevada. I’m looking over his research. I’m noticing some glaring omissions. “You’re going to put that prostitution is legal as one of your ‘fun facts,’ right?”
“Mom! No!”
“Are you kidding me? Well, are you writing about Area 51?”
“No, Mom! I’m putting the state bird on the poster.”
Who is this boy? My one consolation is that for his “historic figure of the state,” he has chosen Bugsy Siegel.
Also, I tried to explain to the boy why the Bloodhound Gang’s song “Bad Touch†(that the link is not suitable for work goes without saying, right?) is probably the filthiest song ever played on mainstream radio, and all he could say was, “But there are no swear words in it!†The boy needs to understand the phrase double entendre. His most recent spelling words were lithification and asthenosphere, but he doesn’t get “Bad Touch”? (Although on closer examination of the lyrics, I wouldn’t so much call them double entendres as just bad word play.)
In other news, let it be known at the tender age of almost-45, I still become petty when my little (read: almost 42 year old) sister gets something that I don’t. When we were in New York last week, my mom said to Tweeds, “I know you like Malin + Goetz products, so I took a sample for you from that art fair I went to.†To which I automatically responded, “HEY!†Luckily my mom had a second for me.
Oh, did I forget to mention I went to New York? Possibly because my kids were so ill behaved I’ve tried to block it from my mind. My normally hardy travelers turned whiny and miserable, and I can’t say I was sorry that they all left Monday afternoon, while I stayed over till Tuesday morning. Why did I stay till Tuesday? Because I had a date. To see this guy:
Oh, yes I did. And it was just what I needed to help my boy through a Nevada state poster. Will he notice tomorrow morning that there’s an extra line in his “fun facts”?
Shrimp consumption in Las Vegas is more than 60,000 pounds a day.
About 150 couples get married in Las Vegas in a day.
In Nevada it is mandatory that video slot machines pay a minimum of 75 percent on average.
Nevada is the only state to have legalized prostitution.
Howard Hughes stayed at the Desert Inn for so long that he was asked to leave. He bought the hotel.
Vegas Vic, the enormous neon cowboy that towers over Fremont Street, is the world’s largest mechanical neon sign.
(Note: these are actual fun facts from the poster, with one teeny tiny addition…)
Sometimes a conversation goes horribly awry. Horribly, horribly awry. And there’s nothing a mother can do.
Take today. This is one of those conversations that may cross the line of propriety, but it’s too good to not share.
This week is Teacher Appreciation Week. And I am co-chair of it at the kids’ elementary school. One of the things we do is have parents provide breakfast for the staff. We decorate the teachers’ lounge and make a pretty breakfast buffet for them. At the end of the day, I just make sure the room is tidy, things that need to be refrigerated are put away, and wrap up leftovers for the next day. Doodles walks himself home, but Pie tags along with me. In the lounge is a large bulletin board and on it is a horrifying-to-a-parent number of pictures of registered sex offenders in our town.
Pie, of course, is fascinated. “Why are there all those pictures of the men up there?”
I try, in my least scary way, to explain what a sex offender is. How sex is something for grown-ups, but very, very rarely, a grown-up will try to do something sexual with a child and that it’s illegal and those grown-ups go to jail, and when they get out, they become registered sex offenders and they can’t be near a school. We talked about how it’s not okay to touch a child’s private parts and how it’s not okay for a grown-up to try and do sexual things with a child.
“How come it’s only men up there?”
I explain that sex offenders tend to be men. And we talked about how it’s never okay for anyone–male or female, grown-up or child–to touch her in certain places and if anyone does that she should tell a grown-up right away, even if the person said it was a secret and even if the person said she’d get in trouble. I promised her she’d never, ever get in trouble for this, but only the other person would. And I patted myself on the back for a successful reinforcement in a non-scary way about bodies being private.
And then the conversation turned.
“So what do you mean by sexual?”
“Making love,” I explained.
“Like kissing?”
“Yes, kissing. But also more than that. Touching. Putting the p*nis in the v*gina.”
“Oh, like what you and Daddy did those two times to make me and Doodles!”
I carefully explained that people do that not just to make babies. That people make love because it feels good and it’s something they enjoy doing. That it doesn’t necessarily mean babies will be made.
“But how come you don’t get more babies?”
And again I explain how a doctor can help you not make babies. And she wanted details. About me. And how I don’t make more babies. And I provided her with some bare bone details, being as vague as I could.
“So,” she said, “you won’t make babies! You said, ‘Doctor, no more babies for me!'”
“Yes,” I told her.
“So now you and Daddy make love constantly!”
And I couldn’t think of a single child friendly reply. So I just started laughing. Maniacally.
Someday, when she has a seven-year-old child who won’t sleep through the night I will show her this post. Smugly.
September 10th, 2012 § Comments Off on The Star Wars Dilemma § permalink
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.
One of the traits I inherited from my mother is the ability to relate any familial situation to a song from a musical. You’d be amazed how easily the world can be reduced to a Rodgers & Hammerstein number.
We’re having a problem with Pie. Picture the women from Music Man, standing around gabbing nonstop. “Pick a little, talk a little, pick a little, talk a little, cheep cheep cheep, talk a lot, pick a little more.” The girl talks. Nonstop. Seriously. But Music Man isn’t really the best fit, as “Pick a little” implies a malicious gossip. Pie isn’t malicious. She’s just unstoppable. More South Pacific, I would think:
Happy talk, keep talking happy talk,
Talk about things you’d like to do,
You gotta have a dream, if you don’t have a dream,
How you gonna have a dream come true?
Talk about a moon floating in de sky, looking like a lily on a lake,
Talk about a bird learning how to fly, making all the music he can make
Happy talk, keep talking’ happy talk, talk about things you’d like to do,
You gotta have a dream, if you don’t have a dream, how you gonna have a dream come true?
The. Girl. Can’t. Stop. Talking. Ever.
Now, I can talk. A lot. But I do occasionally come up for air. I don’t want to stifle her. I don’t want her to ever think that women and girls shouldn’t give their opinions. But it’s gotten to the point where I just don’t even hear her anymore. Not a single person who encounters here isn’t treated to a half hour monologue… if they’re lucky enough to get away in time
Last week I took Pie to Adam’s office to sell Girl Scout cookies. The boy was off skiing, so it was just the two of us. On the car ride, it went something like this:
Pie: So you’re favorite colors are green and blue, right?
Me: Yeah, I guess.
Pie: Well, what’s your absolute favorite?
Me: Green.
Pie: And your second favorite?
Me: Blue.
Pie: And your third favorite?
Me: I don’t know. I suppose orange?
Pie: And your–
Me: I don’t have any more favorites.
Pie: Okay. Well, suppose you’re at the store. And there’s a shirt that’s green, blue, and orange. But there’s another shirt that’s pink and purple. But the pink and purple one is actually a prettier shirt! Which shirt do you buy?
Me: The pink and purple one.
Pie: Okay, now suppose those there’s another shirt–
Me: You know, I really don’t like shopping anyway!
This past weekend we drove up to New Hampshire to spend an afternoon with Dutchie and her parents. The questions in the hour-long car ride were nonstop. There were the general variety, “Are we there yet?” and “How much longer?” and “Who sings this song?” to “Would you ever wear a jumper?” and “What are the words they say different in England than they say here” and “Can we get my Fuggs [fake Uggs]? ‘Cause the Fuggs are just $30 and the real Uggs are like $90, so the Fuggs are quite reasonable, so when can we go?” to “When is the next Heidi Hecklebook coming out? Where did you hear of those books? How did you know I’d like them so much” to… Well, frankly, I don’t know to where. Because I stopped listening.
One the way home we instituted a five-quesiton rule. No more than five questions.
Pie: When does it start?
Me: That’s your first question.
Pie: That’s not fair!
Life’s not fair. But please. Let’s not talk about it.
I’m open with my children. When they have a question, I answer it. I don’t censor them, I don’t censor myself, and it can lead to some interesting conversations. But what surprises me is from where the conversations originate. My six-year-old daughter’s questions have come from out of nowhere (“Mommy, when will I get my period?”) but for my boy, I can see the little hamster wheel in his brain turning and I know exactly when the questions are going to hit and what they are going to be.
Like last night. Last night I took my son out of Hebrew school a half hour early so we could go Christmas caroling. And I mean Christmas caroling in the sense of which my father would approve. We sang about the baby Jesus. We done gone religious. Not our religion, true, but someone’s religion. A friend from the school invited us out for her yearly neighborhood caroling, and it was really fun. Truth be told, I find some of those religious carols quite beautiful. We sang “Holy Night.” We sang the song that goes “Gloria” (which when I saw in the book titled “Angels We Have Heard on High,” I thought was a new song, but then the Glorias hit and I totally knew what we were singing and joined right on in, although I had the mumble every word that wasn’t “Gloria”). We sang “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” We praised Jesus. Oh yes we did. And then we went home and lit the candles on our menorah. Because although we may sing about the baby Jesus, we save our actual observances for the Maccabees.
Anyone want to guess what the question was the boy asked on the way home? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?
Three seconds into the car ride home: “Mommy, what’s a virgin?”
I explained. I explained about virgin births and how this is why people believe Jesus is the messiah. The boy accepted it. The girl was having none of it and we went around in circles. “But how could he have been born if his mom was a virgin?” “That’s the entire point. Because she was a virgin, then it’s a miracle. They believe God is the father.” “But how can he be the father if she’s a virgin?” “Because who else could make a virgin pregnant but God.” And then I scratch my head, wondering why I’m arguing Christian theology when I’m a Jew through and through. So I finally say, “Who wants to open presents when we get home!” and we are suddenly off of virgin births.
But it’s not just the Christians that bring up such topics. The Jews do too. One Jew in particular: Woody Allen. I was watching the American Masters documentary on Woody Allen, conveniently forgetting that an eight-year-old boy might not be the best audience for the PBS show.
Woody Allen on oral contraception: I asked a girl to go to bed with me, and she said “No.”
The boy: What’s oral contraception?
Woody Allen (in Annie Hall): Hey, don’t knock m*asturbation. It’s sex with someone I love.
The boy: What’s m*asturbation?
Woody Allen: … {that’s me turning off the TV before Woody Allen can say anything else that’s going to start a therapy-inducing conversation.}
He’s learning. I’m learning, too, albeit a bit more slowly. I need to watch out for Woody Allen. And the Christians. They bring strange topics into our household.
With that, I leave you all with a Happy Hanukkah. And a Merry Christmas. Or whatever is your family chooses to observe.
When it comes to parenting philosophies, I think I’m closest in spirit to Tom Hodgkinson, who last February wrote this lovely article called, “Idle Parenting Means Happy Children.” So much of the article resonated me, but I think my favorite was this:
My idea of childcare is a large field. At one side is a marquee serving local ales. This is where the parents gather. On the other side, somewhere in the distance, the children play. I don’t bother them and they don’t bother me. I give them as much freedom as possible.
I have a garden. I plant things in it. When I remember, I water those plants. Usually I don’t. And somehow–fertile ground, good conditions, sheer luck–those plants thrive. I get big bouncing beautiful tomatoes at the end of the summer. I call it Gardening by Neglect.
Now, I’m not saying I’m Child Rearing by Neglect. But I do think that self-sufficiency is a good thing. The other day, Doodles and Pie were playing in the front yard, while I was sitting in a yard chair, leafing through a magazine. Doodles: Mommy, pitch to me! Me: No. Doodles: Pul-lease! Pitch to me! Me: Mommy does not pitch. Ask Pie to pitch. Doodles: But Pie doesn’t pitch well. You pitch! Me: The only reason I had Pie was so you could have a playmate. Now go play with her.
Of course, that probably serves me right when five minutes later I heard a thud that was the dull sort of sound that can only mean a child’s skull is caving in. The screams of agony didn’t help. Doodles: It was an accident! Pie [clutching a bright red cheek]: AAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAaaaaaaa! Doodles: It was an accident! You know she doesn’t pitch well. So I got close so I could hit the ball. I call it good parenting that he only had a plastic bat, as I refuse to buy him a wooden bat, so Pie wasn’t seriously injured. I assuaged all hurt feelings (and guilt) with a few extra shows.
But as I’ve mentioned before, Doodles is exhibiting signs of a need for independence. I respect this. I understand this. He’s getting ready to enter kindergarten and it’s normal for a separation process to begin. He’s at an age where he wants to do–and can do–many things on his own. Doodles can use a knife to cut his own French toast. He can turn on the iPod himself, but due to limited reading skills, he has to take whatever song is on. He can get his own yogurt out of the fridge, dress himself (including doing all buttons and tying up lace shoes), go by himself to the bathroom at the Res (the local swimming hole), recite his address and phone number, and countless other things that seem to multiply daily. But there is a limit to what he can–and is allowed–to do. On the no list: Driving a car. Drinking beer. Crossing the street by himself. Swimming in the Res without a grown-up watching him. Jumping from the top of his dresser. All things he will dispute. All things I stand firm on. All things that will cause a serious interval of pouting. The stubbornness and pouting when he doesn’t get what he wants and the plain old not listening is making me insane! (I actually heard Adam tell him he was being “fresh” the other night. “Fresh.” Take that Ward Cleaver!)
In a quest to conquer our stand-offs, I’m returning to a world I had left behind: the world of parenting books. But finding the right parenting books is a pain. After all, we’re cosleepers so we must be attachment parents. But wait! I let my kids scream and don’t go running at every tale of woe. So I must be a Babywise parent. But wait! I try to inject strong Jewish values in my parenting. So I must be a follower of Wendy Mogel. Pie actually went to visit the great and good Doctor Ferber, so perhaps it’s at his altar we should be bowing?
You see my dilemma? I don’t have a stand. And in the world of parenting books, you need a stand. I’m currently reading the highly recommended Playful Parenting, which tells me to do the one thing I really don’t have any interest in doing: playing with my kids. For, seemingly, hours on end. This seems to me to be an uber-attachment philosophy, always open to my children to stop, drop, and play.
Now don’t get me wrong. I’m always open to a dance party (definitely in if it includes little naked tushies), happy to read stories, and can certainly be talked into doing a craft project or two. But I’m not a “throw the ball, get on the climber, toss ’em into the Res” kind of mom. But this playful parenting thing seems to go to an extreme, as evidenced even by the author who, by his own examples, frequently slips and forgets to be playful.
So I’m on the search for parenting books that fit my non-philosophical parenting philosophy. I’ve gotten some recommendations from friends (and I’m dying to know about this $115 parenting book. It’s not even anywhere in our entire library system, which consists of “35 public and 6 college libraries in the Metrowest region of Massachusetts”!) and I’m wading through the stacks on my shelves that have been ignored all these years. So, in attempt to embrace all my parenting non-philosophies, my current reading list includes: Raising Your Child to Be A Mensch; Children: The Challenge; the aforementioned Playful Parenting; The No-Cry Discipline Solution; the one my own mother swore by all those years, Parent Effectiveness Training; and just for good measure, Siblings Without Rivalry.
What does this all mean? It means in a matter of minutes after opening each book, I’ll throw it down and through a little temper tantrum of my own. “Why oh why,” I’ll scream, “can’t they just get to the point!” These books have so much filler garbage to justify the cover price and all I want is the information. You know, for the same price as I’d pay for the hardcover–no, for more than I’d pay for the hardcover–I’d pay for a pamphlet that distills all the necessary information without all the filler necessary for them to charge a hardcover price. Think about it, publishers!
So, unless anyone can come up with some easy summaries for me, I’m off to bury myself beneath the avalanche of books. Because, let’s face it, if I just stay hidden long enough, this phase too shall pass and I’ll be looking for the answer to some other problem! Meanwhile, I’ll be on the far side of the playground. Drinking my ale. Come join me!
Adam questioned my parenting techniques. Was it “irresponsible” or “idiotic”? Can’t remember. He seems to think it isn’t a good idea, when it’s an hour past your child’s bedtime and said child announces, “I’m tired,” to then crank up the iPod, hand the kid a drum, and yell at him, “No! Sleep! Till! Brooklyn!”
To my credit, he did rally. The kid that is. Not Adam. And Pie? She never let them see her sweat. She grabbed the guitar, started hopping up and down, singing right along. “Dance, Mommy!” she screamed over the music. I picked her up and did the mommy version of the mosh pit. I yelled, “Are you going to be a party girl, Pie?” and she yelled back, “Yea!” Finally, a child I can identify as my own!
To preschool folks reading this, don’t be surprised when Pie shows up to school, bags under her eyes, yelling, “I’ve got to fight! For my right! To par-tay!”
Random things said to children on a Sunday night: Pie, we don’t put artichoke leaves on our ears. Pie, seriously. Pie, get the artichokes out of your ears now! Pie, you can’t hide artichoke leaves in your hair, either. Pie!
Me: Doodles, you can’t celebrate both Purim and Easter. You have to pick just one. Doodles: Okay. I’ll celebrate Easter.
Questions asked in the car on one thirty-five-minute ride from home to ice skating:
Why does your shadow follow you?
Why do babies wake up at night?
Why do moms wear bras?
What is that song about? [Song on radio: “Cruel to Be Kind”]
Why is the world going to stop and melt? [Song on radio: “I’ll Stop the World and Melt with You”]
Why did the pharaohs get buried in the pyramids the Jewish slaves built?
How do they make the pointy part on the top of the pyramid?
Why do people die in boxes?
Then who puts them in boxes?
Some cars, they have DVD players in them, in the top, and the kids can watch them when they are in the car. Why don’t we have a car like that?
Thing on shopping list that Adam insisted the Shaw’s didn’t carry: Paper towels made out of recycled paper
The thing I bought three packs of the next day at Shaw’s–on special! Buy one, get two free: Paper towels made out of recycled paper
My week in Facebook status updates:
Jenny is eating all of her daughter’s “potty treats.” Good thing there’s no danger of her daughter using the potty anytime soon. 3:12pm
Jenny is not sure where she’s going to come up with a 4T sized king costume by 4 p.m. tomorrow…. 5:27pm
Jenny can freakin’ work miracles. 1:11pm
Jenny is making an–ack–princess potty chart. 11:41am
Jenny is laughing at Adam for not realizing that the “C” in YMCA meant it would be closed on Easter Sunday. 7:08am
Jenny can’t believe the things she obsesses about. 11:27pm
Jenny would rather be in Paris. Cafe au lait anyone? 5:19am
Things that surprise Adam: Pie: I want a Cinderella coloring sheet! Adam: Look, there’s one! Pie: That‘s not Cinderella! That‘s Snow White! Adam to me: She knows the difference between Cinderella and Snow White?!?
My typical Tuesday:
Argue with Pie about getting into the car.
8:45 a.m. Argue with Pie about dropping Doodles off at school. No she cannot stay in the car by herself.
Argue with Pie about holding hands crossing the street to go to singalong.
Contemplate a detour to the orphanage.
10: 15 a.m. Tell Pie she can’t order her friend, A, to dance with her, no matter how much Pie wants to dance with A and only with A.
Tell Pie that no, A’s mother cannot take Pie to the muffin shop because I am going to take Pie to the muffin shop.
Lose Pie’s shoe in the street on the way to the muffin shop, but don’t realize that’s why she’s screaming because she’s always screaming.
Sheepishly remove shoe from street when a trucker yells to me, “Hey, your daughter lost her shoe.”
Notice teenlike smirk on Pie’s face.
Tell Pie that she has to come home with me, she cannot go home with A and her mother.
Argue with Pie about how many pieces her muffin should be cut into.
Consider letting Pie go home with A and conveniently “forgetting” to pick her up–for a week or two.
Reassert with a little less conviction that Pie has to come home with me.
Argue with Pie about taking juice into the car.
Noon: Pick Doodles up from school.
Argue with Pie about lack of snack provided a mere twenty minutes after her juice and muffin.
Drive an extra twenty minutes to make sure Pie falls asleep.
Relax with Doodles. Read a book. Play some Legos. Have lunch. Take a brief nap.
2:30 p.m. Pie wakes up. Change Pie. Feed Pie. Appease Pie. Pie Pie Pie Pie Pie.
Take kids to swimming class.
Sit alone for thirty glorious minutes.
5 p.m. Take kids to “Tasty Tuesday” at Whole Foods.
Try to shush kids as they scream at the top of their lungs, “LOOK! THERE’S ANOTHER SAMPLE! GO, MOMMY, GO!!”
Get out of Whole Foods with just two $97 bags full of groceries.
6:20 p.m. Get kids in bath.
Argue with them about bubbles. “No bubbles!” insists Doodles. “BUBBLES!” insists Pie.
Let them play/fight in the tub.
Tolerate screaming while hair is washed.
6:45 p.m. Adam walks in. Hand over kids half bathed and hide in the office.
Wonder if Adam could function if I decided to take the summer off to travel and do something that’s easier than dealing with Pie, like cure cancer or end poverty.
Spend one and a half hours trying to cajole Pie into bed.
Kids sleep. I zonk.
9 p.m. Miss the kids. Consider waking them so I can cuddle with them.
9:01 p.m. Adam blocks stairs to keep me from making huge mistake.
11:45 p.m. Go to bed after working on top-secret preschool project that is taking way more time than I would have thought.
11:57 p.m. Set alarm for 5 a.m. Boot camp tomorrow!
Evidence Pie is ready for college:
She prefers her pizza cold
She’s up at all hours
She finds bodily functions hilarious
You can’t get that girl off her cell phone
She’s a little cliquish
She’s perfected the eye roll
She binge eats
She’s got the moves
Watch out DartmouthU MassMiddlesex Community College Blaine Beauty School!
Pie’s in a big girl bed. I really, really didn’t want to do it, but she was starting to sling her leg over the side of her crib, and I feared for the splat.
Last Thursday morning, she was up at 3:47 a.m. Adam tried bringing her into our already overcrowded bed (Doodles had climbed in at about 11:30 p.m. and had a kickful night), but it was clear by 4:20 that she wasn’t going back to sleep and by 4:40 that Doodles too was up for the day. I got up, but was absolutely miserable, so I left the kids to their father, went back to bed and finally fell back asleep shortly after 5:30. At 7:30, Adam wakes me up. I’m having a hard time getting out of bed, not made easier by my darling children.
Pie: Mommy! Read me! Read me Valentine and Cheerio book! Mommy, I have slippers! Mommy, where are your feet? Doodles: Why do you have cracks in your eyes? Adam [who is trying–and failing–to convince me to get out of bed]: What cracks? Doodles: Those red cracks. In Mommy’s eyes. Why does she have them?
Mommy looks haggard because you made her that way. Now let me go back to sleep!!! Let’s just say that after that comment, Adam had a hell of a time
Do you ever just have one of those days? When your toddler hasn’t napped, your preschooler is hopped up on sugar, and everything seems to be slightly off kilter? Like you turn around and your dinner (Shabbat dinner, no less) is setting off the smoke alarm, your daughter has peed on the floor and is crying for dry clothes, and your son is trying to cram the elephant he’s brought home for the weekend from school into a pair of doll pajamas. And the next thing you know, everyone is hungry and tired and you’re in the basement, frantically looking for some outgrown pajamas for Hippo the Patamus, because if your son’s animal has pajamas, then you know damn well your daughter’s animal needs some, too, and you can hear the timer going off for the food, and you can hear your husband come clomping in and the sounds of him riling up the kids and all you can think is, “Where can I possibly find pajamas for a hippo?” and then you think, “What the hell am I doing?”
