the pieces of my life

My first post of the year. Will it be uplifting? Bring you hope and joy in 2011? Give you inspiring words to live by or at least a great quote that you can repeat from time to time?

Nah. I’m here to talk about my daughter’s potty mouth. It never fails. Whenever that girl gets truly tired, she gets all Tourettes on us. Tonight at our New Year’s Eve party, she–eventually–fell asleep. But when it was time to leave, we woke her on the way to the car. At which time her mouth started going, almost of its own volition: “Hey! You’re stupid! Stupid! Stop talking! Shut up, shut up, shut up!” We wrangled her into her booster seat amongst the swears, put on her seat belt, and shut the door. To which she promptly unplugged her seat belt, wrenched the door open, all they while kicking and yelling, “You’re stupid! It’s boring! It’s too boring! You’re stupid! It’s so boring!” Finally my friend came to the rescue and showed me how the child safety lock could be triggered so she couldn’t open the door. I whispered to her, “It is against the law to drive without your seat belt on so if the police see us, we’re in big trouble!” At that she sat stoically in her seat, crossed her arms, and shouted, “Shut up! You’re stupid!”

It’s hard to keep a straight face when she’s railing on us, but I try. “You’re laughing! Shut up! I hear you whispering! Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

Within a few minutes she was back asleep. But I’m glad our new year got off to such a quiet start. I’m sure it bodes well for us.

Yes, yes, our holiday is over. Ended a bit ago, actually. Must remind myself, as I enter stores, that for other folks, the holiday rush is still on and I shouldn’t be surprised by the mobs of people, and yet, I always am.

But I do love this time of year and while we forgo Christmas trees, Santa, and gingerbread houses, I still relish a good holiday movie. Last night, White Christmas was on TV. I decided my kids should see it.

“What is this?” demands the boy. “Is this a musical? I hate musicals.”

“What are they doing?” asks the girl. “That’s a war? Why are they at war? When is this? Were you alive when this was made? Was Grandma and Grandpa alive? Was Nana and Peter alive? Were they alive during the war? Where is the war?”

“Just hush!” I say. “Do you want to watch this or not?”

They agree they want to watch it but a few minutes in, when the two main characters meet the Haynes sisters, the boy asks, “Are they going to get married at the end? I don’t like this. Can we turn it off?”

“Sure, we can turn it off if you don’t like it.”

“Can we then watch something else?”

“Nope.”

Huff huff. “Fine. I’ll watch it.”

The girl starts in again, “Why is she mad at him? Who is that guy? Why is he a general? They aren’t at war anymore? Is the war real? Is the movie real? What is that noise? Why are there bombs? Why aren’t they in America?”

I explain, using a kidified CliffsNotes version, World War II. Then we move on.

“Why is there no snow in Vermont? Why don’t they go if there’s no snow? Can’t they just go? I don’t understand. Why was the sheriff there, again?”

And the boy: “They’re getting married at the end, aren’t they. Hurumph.”

“I’m letting you two stay up an hour past your bedtime to watch this. So either watch this or go to sleep!” I yell.

“Fine! I’m watching!”

“Do you know,” I ask the kids, “who wrote the song ‘White Christmas’?”

“No.”

“A Jewish man!” I tell them.

“Really?” starts the girl and I realize the error of my ways. “Why would a Jewish man write a song about Christmas? Why does the Christmas have to be white? Are you sure he was Jewish? The song is about Christmas.”

“Just watch the freakin’ movie.”

“But you said–”

“Never mind and watch.”

For those familiar with the movie, you’ll recall that Bing Crosby’s character goes on TV to ask the folks of his army unit to come up to Vermont. This set the girl off. “Why is that suddenly turning black and white?”

“Because they’re showing him on TV. In the old days, all TV was black and white.”

“No way!”

“Did you know that when I was a kid, I had to actually get up and turn a knob to change the channel on my television? And then I had to move these wires around to get the picture to be clear. Otherwise, it was all fuzzy.”

“Reallllly?”

“Really! Do you know what Peter had when he was your age?”

“A black and white TV?” the girl guessed.

“Nope. Not when he was your age.”

“A radio!” the boy piped up.

“Yep, that’s right!”

The girl looks a little confused. “So, did the radio have like a little screen on it for him to watch?”

“No, no screen. He could only listen.”

“So he’d have to imagine the pictures in his head?”

“Exactly.”

“Wow. Look!” the girl shouts, radios forgotten. “The dancers are girls! That’s why you thought I’d like this. Because those dancers are girls and I can dance like that! See?” She starts to dance ballet. The boy starts to do some breakdancing. “How old are those girls?”

“During the movie? They look to be about twelve or so. But now they’re about the same age as Peter.”

“Really?!?! But they’re kids!”

“In 1954 they’re kids. In 2010 they’re Peter’s age.”

The boy suddenly vaults over the sofa. “Arg! They’re kissing! Blech! I knew this would happen!”

“Is Miley Cyrus,” I ask the kids, “the most famous person you know of?”

“Um, no,” the boy says. “Selena Gomez is.”

“Yeah, Selena Gomez is the most famous person,” the girl agrees.

“Did you know that in his day, Bing Crosby was more famous than Selena Gomez? And Miley Cyrus?”

“No way,” the boy says.

“Nope,” says the girl.

“You don’t believe me?” I ask.

“No,” the boy says. “It’s not actually possible.”

At which point Adam comes in from the next room. “Bing Crosby really was more famous,” he says. “But Miley Cyrus has more Twitter followers.”

I recorded Miracle on 34th Street for them to watch. I think I might leave they house when they do.

My mother has something to say! This is a guest post from Carol K. Brown, herself:

I (Jenny’s mother) had an equipment malfunction on my bicycle that threw me—literally. OK, I now look like the creature from the black lagoon with face bruises and have a cast on my fractured elbow, but it was my left and I’m a righty so I’m doing quite well, actually.

Jenny prepared the kids who are planning to visit us in Miami Beach in about a week. I got a very serious call from Pie. She explained that she understood I couldn’t play with her, but she would just have to play with Peter (her grandfather) instead. I insisted that I would definitely be able to play with her, that there were only a few things I wouldn’t be able to do as usual. Neglecting to mention that she was getting way too big for it anyway, I explained to her that my only limitation would probably be that I could no longer pick her up, turn her upside down, swing her a lot before throwing her on the bed. She got very quiet and after a long pause announced, “I guess that Peter will just have to do it!”

When the boy became a Cub Scout, the girl started saying, “I want to be a Girl Scout! Can I be a Girl Scout?” It was a refrain I heard often enough that when she started kindergarten, I sought out a Daisy troop (Daisies, which didn’t exist when I was a child, is the first level of Girl Scouts, before Brownies. It’s for kindergartners and 1st graders). Of course, there wasn’t one for her.

So I started one. Of course.

Today was our second meeting. The girls are working on their “Use resources wisely” petal, so for the past month, I have researched crafts. I have experimented doing crafts at home with the girl to make sure they were doable. I have checked out kid recycling books from the library. I have begged friends and neighbors to save me their toilet paper rolls. I’ve shopped for paints and jingle bells. I annoyed Adam with the mounds of recycling that I wouldn’t let him get rid of “just in case I needed it for one of the projects.” I carted three huge bags of supplies over to the school. I got yummy–yet allergy-free–snacks for the girls. I send the boy off to hang with a friend. I, with the help of another mother, shepherded the children through egg-carton jingle bell ornaments, toilet-paper roll bracelets, bottle lid magnets, foil ornaments, toilet-paper roll ornaments. I read about where our garbage goes. I listened to them share ideas about how they can reuse–and about their stuffed animals. I clean up the mounds of paper mess.

We get home. I unload the bags from the car. I sort things and put them away. I eye the wine. I ask my daughter, “So, how was the Daisy meeting?”

She looks up at me, cocks her head, and shrugs one shoulder. “It was medium,” she tells me.

“Medium?”

“Yeah, medium. Not good, not bad. Medium.”

And that’s when open the wine and count the minutes till Adam gets home.

The boy had hockey at 6 a.m. today. Stop rubbing your eyes. You read that right. 6 a.m. So he and Adam were up at 5 a.m. Which means Pie was up at 5 a.m. Way up. Wide awake. Wanting to chat with Mommy who was trying to hide under the covers. At some point I gave up and let her engage me in a conversation. I decided to quiz her on what she learned at school.

Me: So, who fought in wars?

Pie: Veterans. Some people in my school thought veterans were doctors who take care of animals.

Me: Oh. What are vegetarians?

Pie: I forget.

Me: They’re people who don’t eat meat.

Pie: Right! You’re a vegetarian!

Me: No. Remember, I had chicken for dinner last night. So I’m not a vegetarian.

Pie: Do we know any vegetarians?

Me: Well, Jasmine’s Daddy is a vegetarian.

Pie: Oh!

Me: Would you like to be a vegetarian?

Pie: NO!!

Me: Why not?

Pie: Because my favorite animal is meat!

I’m puttering around the kitchen, listening to the girl babble.

Pie: I’m going to Dartmouth, to Dartmouth. I’m going to go to Dartmouth.

Me: That will make Daddy happy.

Pie: Dartmouth, Dartmouth, I’m going to Dartmouth!

Me: Why don’t we call him and you can tell him that?

Pie: No! If we call Daddy, I’m just going to tell him that I’m going to NYU!

Our DVR is so backed up that it’s randomly deleting stuff. I don’t like it when my stuff is randomly deleted. I told Adam to get me one with more GBs. He said there wasn’t one. So now we’re on a mad dash to watch all the shows we’ve saved. Which means I get to blog, because Grey’s Anatomy is on our list and I can only watch the non-gory parts. Adam tells me when it’s safe to look, and I’ll chat with you guys when it’s gross. I think we’re pretty close to done with the show.

It’s the end of the weekend, although we really don’t have weekends anymore. Hockey has started. The boy has hockey now twice a weekend and next week the girl starts, too (at different times). That plus Hebrew school plus drum lessons plus the usual birthday parties (two this weekend) and playdates (two this weekend), and weekends are pretty much kaput.

I’ve been working the haus frau thing to the max. We went apple picking a couple of weekends ago, and the kids wanted the BIG bag for apple picking. “What are we going to do with twenty pounds of apples?” I asked. “Puh-lease!” they begged. We caved. This was the first year when the kids did all the picking. In the old days, they’d pick for five minutes and then we’d take over. Not this year. They were picking machines. We had to stop them when the bag was overflowing–definitely more than twenty pounds.

And I used them. Every freakin’ last one of them. I used apples in salads, apples with peanut butter, apples in oatmeal. I made apple butter, apple sauce, apple-pumpkin muffins, apple-apple muffins, apple crisp, mini-apple pies, apple fruit roll-ups.

What else can I tell you while Dr. Altman does her heart surgery? Pie has reverted back to impossible bedtimes. It’s gotten to the point where tonight, as she was whining her way upstairs, that Doodles shook his head and announced, “This is not going to end well.”

The boy lost a front tooth. He tortured me with it for a while first–pushing it out of his mouth at odd angles–but it finally came out. He put it under his pillow. The tooth fairy came. She left a dollar and a note. Unfortunately, she wrote a joke in her note (Why do vampires brush their teeth three times a day? So they won’t have bat breath). The next morning, the accusation came: “Mom, you left it, didn’t you?”

Me: Why would you say that?

The boy: Because there was a joke in there and you know lots of jokes.

Hmmm. Didn’t think about that. I leave jokes in lunch boxes. The tooth fairy leaves jokes in her notes.

Me: Well, what was the joke?

The boy: Why does the vampire brush his teeth?

Me: I don’t know. Why?

The boy: Um… what was it? Oh, because his teeth are batty.

I could honestly say: I’ve never heard that before! Nope, not me.

He better watch himself. Next time, the Tooth Fairy just might leave him apples.

Let me preface this post by saying I’m on a train to Poughkeepsie, I’m severely hungover, and I’m sitting next to two backpackers who wish to perpetuate the stereotype of Europeans and their dislike of frequent showers.

So as most of you know, I have my children’s lives plotted out down to who they’ll roommate with in college. And up to now, everyone’s pretty much accepted it.

And then, yesterday:

Pie: I’m not going to school here.

Me: Of course you are. You’ll go to Tisch just like your mommy. You’ll live with Mimi, who’s also going to school here [a bonus about being friends with me: I’ll also plot out your kids’ lives].

Pie: I don’t want to.

Me: Yes, you do. The school color is violet. Purple is your favorite color.

Pie: I’m going to go to school in Arlington.

Me: Sweetie, there are no colleges in Arlington. But you don’t have to worry, because as soon as you come to NYU for school, we’ll be moving to New York, too! That way we’ll be right near you at NYU and really close to your brother at Princeton.

Pie: I’m not going to NYU and I’m not living with Mimi!

Me: Oh?

Pie: Yes! I’m going to Princeton and I’m living with Doodles!

Doodles: Oh man! I don’t want to live with Pie in college!

Me: Oh hush. It’s a wonderful idea! Absolutely, Pie. You can go to Princeton and live with your brother.

Doodles pouts. Pie is happy.

Pie: But you can still buy me a purple NYU shirt. I’ll still wear it.

Me: Oh joy.

This is what happens when you forsake the GPS Lady in favor of the Google: A four-hour drive turns into a five-hour ordeal that still has hours to go.

The GPS Lady wanted us to take 84 to 91, which gets you off 84 pretty far north. The Google wanted us to take the Hutch. Which means miles and miles and miles of 84. No problem. Unless there’s a shooting on 84 that shuts the highway down on both sides for ninety minutes.

Freakin’ Google. Of course we left a full 40 minutes late because Pie decided to have a little temper tantrum about going, so the extra hour on the Pike didn’t help.

Once in the car, Pie took a two-hour nap. Then she got carsick, which necessitated a Coke. Which means I’ll have the Daughter Who Doesn’t Sleep in the City That Doesn’t Sleep. Thank God she’s willing to come out with me for martinis later.

We are all totally punch drunk. The boy is trying to sleep and the girl is trying to talk. She’s done math in the backseat (“2 + 2 + 2 = 6. It’s the same as 3 + 3”). Periodically she checks in on the shooting: “Shooting a policeman is a bad idea. It’s like the Libyans,” which took a little deciphering to understand. Finaly she says, exasperated, “Like in ‘Back to the Future'” and of course Michael J. Fox goes back in time because Libyans are shooting him. So we have to, once again, explain why the Libyans were shooting at Michael J. Fox and at that point I turn up my iPod, which then leads to me explaining what “bitch” means. One of these days I’ll censor the songs on my iPod but given that we have nightly dance parties to Cee Lo Green’s “F You” song, that might be a bit like shutting the barn door after the horses are out.

Where was I? Oh yes, punch drunk and trapped on a highway. Freakin’ highway. Freakin’ Google. 38 miles till my martini. Follow the olive-paved road! Follow the olive-paved road! If there’s only a beer behind the curtain, I am going to be pissed!!

Let’s start this by saying Adam is wrong. Screw top wines are never good and the Bordeaux did not improve after a day.

Now, let’s ask: Where did this boy of mine come from? I just had to tell him that two hours of reading was too long and he had to go to bed, but he was determined to continue studying the multiplication tables in some random book he found. Not my child.*

Shall we continue? My daughter has put a song in my head about a gooney bird. A mother gooney bird to be exact. With seven gooney birds. They can’t walk, they can’t talk. But they can flap their right arms. Like this.  And I can’t freakin’ get it out of my head.

But I’ve gotten even. I’ve put Cee Lo Green’s song in my kids’ heads. And have forbidden them from singing it in public. Not an issue for my boy. But my girl will be suffering. She can’t stop the music. She’s like my mother that way. But I’ve scared her that if she says the grown-up word at school she’ll get in big trouble. I like to parent that way. With fear. And profanity. The latter you can also credit my mom. She can drop an f-bomb like Mel Gibson on a traffic stop.

Speaking of cursing like Braveheart, I’ll be doing just that while I go all Fight Club on the next person who asks me, “So, Pie is in kindergarten? What are you doing with all that free time?” I’ll tell you what I do with all that free time. I spend all that free time at the gym, bulking up, so I can wale on the next person who asks me that. Don’t let it be you.

And that’s the way it is: Tuesday, September 28, 2010. Good night.

*Speaking of my boy and of film, my boy entered a film contest and came in second, proving there is some shared DNA (remember me? I did go to film school. Once upon a time). Unfortunately, his real name is on it so I can’t link to it here, but if I know you, comment or e-mail and I’ll send you a link.