I Had a Mind Once

Is it Worth the Schlep?

2011-01-07T08:44:00.001-08:00

This column is running in the Jewish Advocate this week, thanks to Judy Bolton-Fasman who invited me to be a guest columnist! Thanks Judy!

The plan was this: We would take our first vacation.
My husband and I would take our boys, 21/2-year-old Ethan and 13-month-old Jonas, to Mystic, Conn., a 90-minute drive from our home outside of Boston. We would stay at the Hilton, near the Mystic Aquarium, and we would have breakfast with Ollie the Octopus. We would go swimming in the indoor pool. I would buy some floaties for the boys who were not yet able swimmers, and we would all have a good time and come back well rested and full of wonderful stories to share.
This was the plan. And although I was looking forward to it, for some reason, a part of me felt like throwing up.
OK, so I am not a world traveler. In college, when friends took off for spring break, I worked. When they spent semesters abroad or hiked overseas after graduation, I wondered, “Aren’t they afraid of getting kidnapped?” But one needn’t look far to find the roots of my apprehension. Growing up, my parents were not big on travel. The word “schlep” was thrown around a lot, as in “Oy, what a schlep that would be.” For my mother, depending on the day, even a trip to the supermarket might fall into the schlep category. Gradually, I must have absorbed this association: leaving the house = schlepping. We did, however, take two trips together as a family. On the first, a trip to Disney World, I became intimate with the little white barf bag on the airplane. Five years later, we went to Florida again, and my mother got seasick on our day cruise to the Bahamas.
So perhaps it should have come as little surprise when Jonas threw up all over me the day before we were supposed to leave for Mystic.
“It’s a family tradition,” I told my husband.
I schlepped Jonas to the pediatrician and paid my $20 to hear the standard answer: “It’s a virus.” When I asked if we should cancel our trip, the doctor was just as ambiguous, his only advice: “See how he’s feeling the night before.”
Although I had mixed emotions about going on vacation, the moment I thought we might be staying home, I became desperate to leave. “Please…I need this vacation,” I begged quietly to no one in particular. It was the way my 21/2- year-old phrased everything these days, replacing want with something much more dramatic: “I need that truck mommy.” Or “I need(insert here whatever is in his brother’s hands at this very moment).”
Fortunately, my prayer was answered.
The illness passed, and we packed up the family Subaru and headed south.
According to the American Heritage Dictionary, a vacation is defined as “a period of rest from work.” What my husband and I experienced in Mystic was definitely not a vacation. What we experienced was basically the work we do every day, but in another location and with other interesting characters inserted, such as Ollie the Octopus, who we met the first morning at breakfast.
“I want to knock him over mommy,” Ethan announced, and then hit him.
This was not the endearing moment I had imagined.
Nor was our outing to the hotel pool, when I tried to insert Ethan into one of the floatie toys I had purchased. He screamed as though I was inserting his legs into a tub of hot wax. “But it’s fun!” I demanded. He screamed again.
In the hotel room, my boys behaved like two rock stars, trashing the place with Cheerios and Cheez-Its. They did laps in the hallway, stopping outside the elevator and waiting for it to open so Ethan could shout “Hello people!”
I figured fish would be a soothing distraction, so on our second day, I bought tickets for the aquarium. I carefully planned our agenda for the afternoon, culminating with the sea lion show at 3 p.m. After barely 20 minutes at the park, Ethan insisted on swimming in the tank with the Beluga whales.
“You can’t swim with the whales, honey,” I said.
He sat on the concrete and bawled.
“How about some ice cream?”
“Noooooo … SWIM … WITH …WHALES!”
My husband scooped Ethan up, and without a word, we headed back toward the hotel. Both Ethan and Jonas cried while I stewed about the sea lion show I would miss, and the money wasted. Not that this was the first time. When I took the boys to the farm close to our house, all they cared about were the rocks. At the zoo, they preferred the sewer covers. Why did I bother?
We kept walking, and no one said a word until, just outside the hotel entrance, my husband knelt down to look at a butterfly.
“Poor little guy,” he said, “He can’t fly.”
Ethan lifted his head for a moment, his face red and puffy from crying. He looked at the struggling insect and – as though channeling some other, saner child – said gently, “We’re sorry butterfly.”
Three little words that made it worth the schlep.

Amy Yelin is a communications professional and freelance writer whose work has appeared inThe Boston Globe, and the anthology “Mamas and Papas.” Her Web site is wwww.yelinwords.wordpress.com.

The Master of Cool

2010-09-28T19:10:00.000-07:00

These days my kids, Ethan in particular, are all about "cool." Either something (or someone) is "cool," or it's not. And if it's not, look out. At 4, Ethan has deemed Curious George, Mickey Mouse and Calliou (see previous post), all programs he used to love, totally Uncool. Jonas's excitement when we find a Mickey Mouse episode is quickly squelched by Ethan's protests of "But I want to watch something cool!"

"Well what's cool?" I'll ask. "Is Berenstain Bears cool?"

"NO!"

I'll fly through the channels. He'll stop me only for one of three shows: SpongeBob Squarepants, Phineas and Ferb (which he insists is Fern no matter how many times I try to correct him because I'm the one who can read and spell), or Dora. That's right. My son thinks Dora the Explorer is cool.

Why would a four year old care about what is cool, anyway? I sometimes wonder if I had something to do with it. I mean, I do catch myself saying "Wow, that's really cool," to Ethan alot. But it doesn't mean anything. It's more like saying "That's interesting," when you don't really know what else to say.

I suspect, however, that more than mommy here, his friends are the cause of his obsession with cool. I know he thinks this kid Lyle is cool. Lyle is in Ethan's class at school. Lyle, I'm convinced, is a bad kid. I decided this after watching Lyle try to steal a popsicle from the freezer in his classroom the other day, a crime he would have committed had it not been for his father.

"It's not yours Lyle," his dad said. "Put it back."

I could see the admiration in Ethan's eyes at the time, as though he too would steal a popsicle right in front of his mom if only Lyle had gotten away with it.

A couple of mornings later, when dropping Ethan off at class, Lyle greeted us with, "Hey Ethan, you're sweeper today. Only bad kids are sweepers."

This confirmed it for me. Lyle was evil. On my way out of the classroom, I vaguely threatened the boy. "You be nice," I whispered in his ear. "I'm watching you."

I was halfway down the hall near the exit when I heard Lyle's voie. "You're not watching me now." I turned around. He was by the door to his classroom.

"I'm watching you now," I said, creeped out by this five-year-old's, how shall I put it...balls?

I turned around and kept walking.

"You're not watching me now," he said louder this time.

OK. He had a point. I didn't have eyes in the back of my head. I turned to look at him again. He was smirking. Then, to my relief, the teacher called him back into the room.

A few days later, when I came to pick up Ethan and asked how his day was, his teacher added something to her standard answer of "Great."

"Oh, he had a great day...but well, he did hurt his friend Joey, hit him in the tummy...I think they were playing and Joey got hurt but it was an accident. And Ethan hugged him and said sorry right after."

I thought this was odd, but no big deal. Joey is a nice kid, and Ethan's best friend (according to Ethan). I was sure it must have been an accident. I asked Ethan about it and he didn't say much. At least, not at first. Then, a couple of hours later, while giving him a bath, Ethan said, "You know why I hit Joey, mommy?"

"It was an accident, right?"

"No, because Lyle told me to."

Ethan was smirking. I immediately launched into a lecture about what a great kid Joey is and how he shouldn't follow kids like Lyle because Lyle might be a bad kid and it's not cool to be a follower.

When Ethan continued smiling, I wondered if maybe he was lying. Because I forgot to mention this, but lying is WAY COOL these days.

That very same afternoon of the hitting incident Ethan's teacher had asked me if Ethan had really gone to Africa when he was three to see the Pyramids. I shook my head. "He's never even been on an airplane," I said.

"Oh well, he's got quite an imagination then," she said.

Whether Ethan was lying about the Joey incident or not, I suddenly understood how my mother must have felt when at age 11, I broke off from my innocent childhood friends to join an evil suburban Jewish girl gang led by Kelly, who just happened to be an Irish Catholic chick who was really cool. My mother thought she was a bad influence, and tried to talk to me about it then too, the way I tried to talk to Ethan about Lyle. But whatever she said had no effect because right around that time, I had deemed my mother no longer cool. At least with Ethan at age 4, maybe I still had a chance to make a difference. Maybe I still had a chance to open his mind, and teach him not to judge. To teach him that everyone was cool, in his or her own way.

Yet, like so many things we try to teach our kids, change comes slowly. For now, the cool factor continues to weigh heavy in our world. The other morning, Ethan told Jonas that his Batman pajamas shirt wasn't cool. It was a crushing blow to his little bro.

"Yes it is Ethan...Take it back. Say sorry!" Jonas lashed back.

"But it's not cool," Ethan said again.

"Mommy, daddy," Jonas said nearly in tears, "Ethan said my batman shirt isn't cool."

"Of course it's cool," I said. "Don't listen to him." I looked at Ethan and shook my head. "Ethan's not the master of cool, anyway. Daddy is. And daddy wears that Batman shirt we got him for Father's Day!"

This made Jonas smile.

"Ethan you are not the master of cool...,"Jonas repeated. "And I smelled your breath and it's stinky!"

I stifled a laugh and the little cheer I wanted to do for Jonas while thinking: now that is one cool kid.

Making a Case for the C-Word

2010-09-28T09:53:00.001-07:00

How do you feel about Calliou? Read my piece on ErrantParent.com: Making a Case for the C-Word

Am I the only person who thinks the Giving Tree should be banned?

2010-07-16T13:14:00.000-07:00

Why J had to pick that bag at the book swap (see previous post), I'm not sure. But he did. He picked the bag with another copy of the Giving Tree in it.
My first thought was: we'll just give that away. Right away. We already have a copy of the damn book anyway.
But no. Jonas wanted to read it that night.
"Why don't we read Batman again?" I suggested.
But he pushed.
"Mommy cries when she reads this book," I warned him.
"Read mama," he said.
So I began reading.
And there was the little boy who loved his tree. He would swing on the tree's branches, eat her apples, and sleep in her shade.
(so far so good).
But then the little boy grows up and he needs money and he comes back to the tree who says takes my apples (the little boy is about 30 years old now) and the little boy takes his apples. And the tree's happy.
Then the boy comes back and he's middle aged.
"That's not a little boy," J points out.
"You're right," I say.
And the little boy who's a full grown man with a beer belly and less hair needs a house and so he takes up the tree's offer to take all her branches as wood for his house. And after the little-boy-turned-pearshaped-and-balding takes the branches the tree, again, is happy.
(still, no tears...I'm gonna make it!)
Then the little boy who is very old now comes back and wants a boat and the tree offers his trunk, which the elderly little boy takes and the tree (to this reader's horror) is left nothing more than a stump but still happy (although not really.)
Then the little-boy-near-death-old returns again and the tree apologizes saying, "I have nothing left to give you, My apples are gone..."
"Where'd his apples go mommy?" J asks, and the next thing you know I'm bawling like a baby, snot running out my nose and J says, "Can I go see daddy?"
"Of course," I say, half crying, half laughing.
I can't help but wonder: Is it just me? Does anyone else cry when reading this book to their children? Does anyone else wonder why Shel Silverstein had to go and write such a damn depressing children's book?? I know it's supposed to be a lovely tale for the ages but I would much prefer a revised version where the tree says to the boy-man, "Stop being such a selfish brat and go out and make some money to build your house and your friggin boat!"
That would make me very happy.
Now does anyone want a copy (or two) of The Giving Tree?

Book Swappers BEWARE!

2010-07-15T06:03:00.000-07:00

It seemed like a good idea at the time. A book swap instead of presents for J's third birthday party. Although I had never attended a party with a book swap, I knew they were pretty popular around here. In case you are not familiar with book swaps, here's how it works. Each child who attends the party brings a wrapped book, At some point, all the kids sit in a circle and each kid gets to pick a book to take home.
A nice concept, right? One that screams: "We are not a shallow family! We are deep! We value literature, not meaningless toys!
OK.
Here's where this line of thinking backfired. WE equals parents. As far the kid whose birthday it is well, that's a different story.
Perhaps if E had a book swap first, things would have been different. But at E's birthday in January, it was all about the presents. It was all about transformers, Spiderman, hotwheels, you name it. I remember J watching in awe and envy as his older brother opened all those presesnts.
I suppose as his birthday approached he thought in what is now becoming the usual, ongoing sibling rivalry (are children just born knowing how to say "Na na na na na"?), now it's my turn.
Then came the party. As the guests arrived and the wrapped books piled up, Jonas got excited. "Look at all these presents for me mama!" He said.
"Well no, sweetie," I explained. "These are for all the kids."
He stared at me blankly.
"Where are my presents?" he asked.
"Well you already got lots of presents, you know, from me and daddy. And Nana."
Again, the blank stare.
Later, after the party, J was still searching for his missing gifts. He'd see an empty bag. "Is that my present in there, mommy?" Even a simple scrap piece of gift wrap induced longing. "Is this mine mommy?"
"Well no honey, but look at the great new books you got from the book swap!"
"Yes, mommy - a batman book!"
"Yes!" I said relieved, thinking his sadness, his feeling of being ripped off had passed.
Then, the next morning on our way to school, he asked what his friend Kyle gave him.
"He brought a book," I said.
Then E had to chime in and say, "Justin got me a spiderman for my birthday" and I snapped in typical mommy dearest fashion: "No more talking about birthdays! What does it matter what Justin got you anyway?" In the rear view mirror Ethan looked stunned.
But the worst was yesterday...now four days post-party. We're driving in the car when out of nowhere J says, "I didn't want all my friends to take my books at my party."
I wanted to cry. I'm still not sure which one of us is more scarred from this whole swapping experience: him or me.

Holy Testosterone Batman!

2010-05-11T14:53:00.000-07:00

The boys latest game is called "Fight."
No more playing with trucks. Or fixing things with tools.
Now it's all about the fight.
There are variations of the game. First you can do it with Lego men. You line them all up on the TV stand and count to twenty.
If you are two-year old J, whenever you get past ten, you just repeat what your older brother is saying or make something up like 'six, ten, five...twenty!' Then you shout "Kapow! Chow! Frow!" as your lego people beat the crap out of each other.
The second variation is to actually fight with each other.
Again, if you're J, you put on your best Superwhy cape and mask, announce that you are Batman (or Robin, depending on your mood), and yell "FIGHT!" If your brother does not respond because he's too tired, you ask more politely:
"Hey, E, wanna fight?'
If he says no, sulk.
If he says yes, pounce.

At first I worried I created this problem by letting the boys watch old Batman episodes on YouTube.
"If it wasn't Batman, it would have been some other fighting game," my mother-in-law, an early childhood specialist assured me. To be sure, I bought the book The Way of Boys, because honestly, I was clueless about the way of boys. I had sisters. We played Barbies, not bad guys, and rarely did Barbie and Ken beat each other up. As a kid, and even into adulthood, boys always seemed a strange and scary species. When I first found out I was having a boy,in fact, I dreamed his was born smoking a cigar and speaking in tongues. No joke. I was terrified.

Sure enough, in the book, there was a whole chapter on how boys need to be bad guys, the author's words again assuring me this was normal.
So, when it comes to the fighting, I try to take the stay out of it approach, telling myself I'm letting nature take its course. The only time I interfere is if the fighting breaks out in public, or when I hear something bang hard against a wall (almost always J's head), followed by crying.
The last time this happened, I went in to the boy's room to console J who was crying and saying "E hit me! E hit me."
Moments later, E started crying too.
"Why are you crying?" I asked him.
"He wanted to fight mommmy," E said.
Was he crying because he was scared of getting in trouble? Or because he felt badly?
I wasn't sure.
Later that evening, J fell off his chair while eating dinner. No one was fighting then. It was just one of those awkward toddler moments when you miscalculate your distance from the table and the next thing you know you're hanging upside down from your chair, your head bonking the floor.
My husband picked up J and took him to the couch where he proceeded to cry and scream for several minutes.
E left the room and to our suprise, returned moments later with J's batman toy. He handed it to his brother, who stopped crying. "Here you go, J," he said.
My husband and I looked at each other.
There is hope for the male species after all.

2010-02-23T08:54:00.000-08:00

Of Squirrels and Squash
Part II
Squirrels

Saturday, February 20

Two days after the squash incident, a squirrel decided to make an appearance in our attic.
I had already forgotten the certainty with which my mother-in-law said we had squirrels in the attic when she slept over two weeks ago.
“Yep, I heard them all night…scurrying around,” she said.
For the next couple of nights, I listened, but heard nothing.
“She was probably confusing the sounds of the heater with squirrels,” I said to Ben, who agreed.
And that was that. At least until something crashed to the ground Saturday morning and Ben opened the attic door to see a squirrel standing at the top of the stairs.
“Was it big?” I asked, as though a slight difference in size mattered when there were wild animals in the house.
“Yep,” he said. “Looked big to me.”
The boys were excited.
Jonas grabbed his Red Sox baseball bat and kept calling “Where are you squirrel?” Then he practiced how he’d “bonk” the critter, using his stuffed penguin as a stand-in.
All day, philosophical discussions ensued, such as the following:

Ethan: Um, the squirrel jumped up to the window then he chewed up the squares and the glass and found a hiding spot in the attic.

Jonas: We can build a house for him.

Ethan: But the squirrel likes hiding places in the forest. Only in the forest, not here where there are houses. They like bears. If a bear comes and tries to get him he finds a really good hiding spot.

Jonas: No, he gets in his car and drives away.

Ethan: But squirrels can’t drive – but they have legs on their bottom and they run like babies (Ethan demonstrates by crawling on the floor)

Jonas: And, um, we can build a cage for him.

Ethan: but he likes it in the forest only

Ben: So, Jonas, are you still going to bonk the squirrel?

Jonas: Yep.

Ben: So you’re going to build a house for the squirrel and then bonk it?

Jonas: Yep.

Ethan: But his house has to be in the forest.

Ben: Where’s the forest? We don’t really have forest in Arlington.

Ethan: It’s in Chicago.

Ben: So how does the squirrel get to Chicago?

Ethan: On an airplane. Um, Squirrel Air.

Ben: But who drives the squirrel airplane?

Ethan: Um, Captain Squirrel.

Jonas: Can I watch Spiderman?

I am happy to report that no squirrels were bonked that day. A nice man from BayState Wildlife (doesn’t really sound like a pest removal company does it? More like an animal sanctuary) came and installed little one way doors over the areas where the squirrels were coming in. We haven’t seen a squirrel in our house since.
Then again, they probably took a plane to Chicago where they’re living in a nice house in harmony with the bears.

Of Squirrels and Squash

2010-02-21T16:14:00.000-08:00

Part I
Squash

Thursday, February 18

Hell morning.
The boys are at each other, fighting and whining over everything.
I take them out in the backyard, in the snow, to try and relieve some tension.
It works. For a few minutes at least. Then:
“Jonas you’re standing on my snow!” It’s Ethan. He’s hysterical.
“Nobody owns the snow, Ethan,” I try to explain.
“But that’s MINE…my snow. I want it!” He pushes his younger brother, who tries to bite him.
“There’s enough snow to go around for everyone,” I say, while wondering how on earth I got here...to be the mother of these two insane beings.
Every now and then the irrational behavior of my children gets to me. Every now and then, my nerves feel dangerously raw. And this is definitely one of those days.
The boys continue to fight like the Arabs and the Palestinians over whose snowy territory is whose. Finally, it’s 12pm. Time for lunch.
“Time to go in!” I say, trying to sound chipper.
They both cry. They want to stay outside. I end up carrying them both upstairs, one in each arm, the two of them slipping so low their boots hit the stairs with each step. Breathless and irritable, I plop them in front of the TV to watch Calliou while I put water on the stove for Mac and Cheese.
Then I grab the squash out of the freezer.
I read the directions:
Remove from package and place in microwaveable dish.
Cook for five minutes.
Stir.
Cook for 1 minute.
This sounds easy enough, right? I mean, what could possibly go wrong?
As I begin to peel the paper off the squash, however, I notice some pieces are being difficult. They cling to the icy squash as though their worthless little paper lives depend upon it.
“Shit,” I mumble as I pick at the squash and little chunks get stuck beneath my fingernails.
I try to run the block of squash under hot water to see if that helps. Nope. The paper still clings and taunts me. For a moment I consider just throwing it, paper and all, into the microwave, but I am afraid of poisoning my children.
Instead, I grab a steak knife from the drawer. I begin by artfully trying to extract each piece of paper from the squash’s icy grip, but each time a piece comes out, there is more. I’m digging deeper and deeper, and there’s no end in sight.
“Mother f’ing squash!” I say, now manically stabbing it with the knife (BTW, did I mention that I was also hungry?). “I hate you!”
I’m lunging the knife now, barely missing the tips of the finger of my other hand. I am Tony Bates in psycho, only instead of stabbing a woman in the shower, I’m stabbing a frozen vegetable.
Then, finally, it’s out: The last piece of paper. I am elated. Game over m’fucker. I’m thinking.
“F’ you squash!” I say out loud now as I throw it in the microwave to beam it to death.
“Mom?” Ethan says from the other room. “Who are you talking to?”
“Oh, nobody, just myself,” I say, wondering who the crazy one is now.
I mean, who am I to call my children irrational when I’m stabbing and talking to a squash? This last thought makes me chuckle.
Still, it’s not over.
I pick up the remaining packaging and look for the 1-800 number to call Birdseye’s customer complaint department. A sweet woman on the other end tells me how this happens to her all the time. “What I do is run it, packaging and all, under hot water.”
I don’t want your stupid advice, lady, I’m thinking. But all I say is “Oh.”
After a pause she says, “How about I mail you some coupons?”
“That would be wonderful,” I say. “Thank you.
I hang up the phone and it's like I’m like a new person now, my nerves calmed, all thanks to some therapeutic squash mutilation, and a few coupons to look forward to in the mail.

Shout out to my sister...

2010-01-11T12:58:00.001-08:00

Some storytelling tips for all you mommies out there!
(I'd like to add one: Don't fall asleep while reading the stories, like my husband often does...)

The Grinch Who Stole Santa

2009-12-28T11:00:00.001-08:00

Why is it that Santa always seems so much better from afar?
Seriously.
In talking about going to see Santa, the child jumps up and down and chatters on with delight. “Let’s go! Let’s go! See Santa!”
And then the reality sets in. Slowly.
Even standing in line, the child still seems excited and restless. “When will it be my turn?!”
When Santa gets up from his throne to take a water break, the child worries. “Where is he going?! Is he coming back?”
And Santa does come back. (The parent wonders: why not keep a bottle of water by your throne? But perhaps water is just a buzz word for potty).
Finally, after a nearly 45 minute wait, it is the child’s turn.
By that time, close up, Santa isn’t looking so hot.
“Go sweetie,” we tell the child. We even push a bit.
“Go tell Santa what you want.”
The child walks up to Santa stunned.
And why shouldn’t he be stunned?!
Santa is a stranger.
Santa is old.

I remember my mother trying to get me to visit Santa in his house at the local shopping center. I was young; maybe three or four, and I remember crying in terror. Yes, terror. I did not want to go in his house. "But he'll give you a candy cane," she'd say. I'd cry some more.
Looking back, I always thought it was because I was Jewish. Maybe Jews are inherently scared of Santa or something.
Then, however, I had children of my own. Children who are only half-Jewish. And they too, seem to be frightened of Santa.

“Now get on Santa’s lap, honey, and smile,” we tell the child.
He approaches cautiously. Skeptically.
He refuses to get on Santa’s lap.
“What do you want for Christmas?” Santa bends down and asks him.
“A computer,” he whispers.
“Now turn around and look at the camera!” we yell at the child.
He turns. He stares at the camera with a blank look on his face. “Smile!” we yell. But he won’t. At least he’s not screaming and crying this year, we think. Progress.

So, I wonder, are these visits to Santa really worth it? Do we risk scarring our children by forcing them to come face to face with an overweight, elderly stranger? Look at me, for instance. I’m over 40 and I still can’t eat a candy cane.
Isn’t it better to just put the cookies out and imagine Santa coming from afar in the dark of night when we won’t have to talk to him or sit on his lap? Sure, I sound like a Grinch, but what do you think??

The Snowy Day - updated and revised

2009-12-07T22:56:00.000-08:00

Author Ezra Jack Keats published his classic children's book the Snowy Day in 1962. It begins "One morning Peter work up and looked out the window. Snow had fallen during the night. It covered everything as far as he could see."
This is about the point where Keat's version of events digresses from my own. The following line reads "After breakfast he put on his snowsuit and ran outside."
Did he actually put on his own snow suit? Was it really that simple that he just ran outside?! I don't know who this Peter kid is, but he's nothing like my kids.
Ladies and Gentleman, here is my updated version of A Snowy Day based on the events of this past Sunday:

One almost-winter morning Ethan and Jonas woke up and looked out the window. Snow had fallen during the night. It covered everything as far as they could see.
"MOMMY! DADDY! Wake up!! It snowed! Let's shovel!!"
It was 6:30am.
Ethan and Jonas cried to go outside. They gathered their snowsuits, boots, hats and gloves from the closet and scattered everything throughout the kitchen, living room and hallway. "We're ready!" Ethan screamed.
Unfortunately, their mommy and daddy were not. They were still in bed. "Come on...!" Ethan screamed. "GET UP!"
Eventually, mommy and daddy did. Eventually, they had some coffee and much to the children's delight, began getting ready to go outside.
Mommy and daddy gathered up the snowsuits, boots, hats and gloves, which were scattered everywhere. Of course, they couldn't find one glove and mommy said "God damn it!"
"What did you say?" Ethan asked.
"Oh..nothing Let's go outside and have some fun!"
"YAY!"
On went the snowsuits. On went the boots. On went the hats and jackets. Off came a jacket.
"I dont' want to wear it," Ethan whined.
"You have to wear your jacket," mommy said.
"But it ruuuuuuuubbbbs...."
"What?"
"It's rubbing...my neck. I don't want to wear it."
"You have to wear it."
"Then I'm just going to wear it like this." He draped it around his shoulders like a shawl.
"Fine," mommy said, annoyed.
The gloves came next. Mommy tried to make them wear the waterproof ones, explaining how the kind they preferred, the regular kind, would make their hands wet and cold. Nobody was having it. Mommy tried to get the nice waterproof Land's End gloves she had purchased for Jonas on his hands but they were too big and simply slid off. "God damn it!" Mommy said again.
"Let's goooooo" Ethan whined.
Mommy gathered several different types of gloves for the boys to take outside, just in case. Daddy grabbed the camera and finally, after 20 minutes of preparing, off they went to the front yard for fun fun fun.
Ethan shoveled briefly with his kid shovel and Jonas found a large stick, which he dragged across the snow and then used to poke his brother in the leg.
"Ouch!" Ethan yelled, then swung his shovel in his brother's direction.
"Let's make a snowman!" Daddy cried, hoping to distract them. He started rolling a snowball. The boys tried to help him, but their hands were cold. Out came the gloves. Ethan was agreeable this time, putting on his waterproof mittens, which thankfully fit. Mommy tried Jonas's again but they fell to the ground and he cried and refused to try any other pairs.
"I'm hungry mommy," he said.
Moments later Ethan said "I'm cold, I want to go inside."
"What?" Mommy and Daddy said. "But we're building a snowman! This is FUN!"
"I want to go inside! Ethan whined again. "Let's goooooooooo."
Ethan cried, then Jonas followed.
"PIck me up mummy," Jonas said.
"I'm cold!" Ethan whined again. "God Damn it."
Mommy and Daddy looked at each other. They hoped the neighbors would not hear all this. Then mommy wondered Is there something wrong with my children that they can't have fun in the snow? She was pleased when she saw another father and his son across the way and the father was saying to his boy in frustration "You said you wanted to go on your scooter! Now ride your scooter or we're going home!" The boy was crying. This made mommy feel better and less alone.
In the end, mommy and daddy quickly finished the snowman as Ethan cried from behind the door to the foyer. Daddy took some pictures and then they all went inside, everyone frazzled, and had some hot cocoa.
"That was fun," Ethan said as he sipped his drink.
Mommy looked at him in wonder, forced a smile and prayed it would not snow again until next December.

THE END.

Bye Bye Sadie

2009-11-24T08:37:00.001-08:00

My mother-in-law’s dog died this weekend. It wasn’t a shock, but it was a surprise nonetheless. Sadie was ill for some time, but we had just seen her two weeks ago and she seemed to be doing OK. With her passing occurring just before Thanksgiving, the first thing I thought when I heard she had died was “The boys will be so sad.” Then “What will we tell them?”

But it also dawned on me that I am sad. We always go to my mother-in-law’s house for holidays, and Sadie is always there, waiting for scraps from the table or a good belly rub. She was a part of our family. I can remember when she was just a puppy; back when I was just my husband’s girlfriend. She had spunk then. She’d run around, driven by all that puppy energy, just like a furry toddler. Give her a toy, like the stuffed monkey or mailman dolls we picked up for her, and she’d tear it to shreds in no time at all. Yes, she had mellowed, as most of us do as we age. And then her illness sapped even more energy, but with the help of my mother-in-law, she hung in there.

Some folks say “Well, it’s just a dog.” But typically the attachment goes much deeper than that. No doubt animals, dogs in particular, often make better companions than humans. They’re loyal. They’re goofy without self-consciousness, making us laugh and smile. They’re warm, and like to cuddle.

So this is my little goodbye tribute to Sadie. In the spirit of Thanksgiving, thanks for bringing joy to our lives. You will surely be missed.(and if anyone has tips for what to tell the boys, please let me know!)

Julie and Amy (and poop)

2009-11-20T18:38:00.000-08:00

So last weekend I actually went to the movies with a friend. We saw Julie and Julia. Although I really enjoyed the movie, I couldn't shake this negative feeling I was having toward Julie, the main character. At first I wasn't sure why I disliked her so, but then it dawned on me: I was jealous. Julie wanted to be a "real" writer. And so do I. Only thing is is that Julie's dream came true...the book and then, even more astounding, the movie! I couldn't help thinking why her and not me?

Some of the reasons are obvious. For one, I hate cooking. And my timing is off. Julie caught the blogging buzz early while I came to it after everyone and their mother and grandmother started doing it. Finally, Julie had no kids at the time she launched her cooking adventure, while I have two of them. In other words, I'm probably screwed.

Still, I've been thinking about this. Maybe all it takes is a good idea. Maybe that's really all that sets me and miss Julie apart, and holds the key to my book and movie deal.
So, here it is. My good idea (And free to tell me what you think...not that anyone is actually reading this):
I will start a blog about re-potty training my son.
I'll post daily and tell everyone how it's going. Then, after the buzz takes off maybe some NY Times or Wall Street Journal reporter will want to come over and write a story about us. Oh, and I'll parallel my life with the life story of the great Mrs. Fyodor Vassilyev of Shuya, Russia, in the 1700s. Perhaps you've heard of her? She had 69 children ...the most children born to any woman ever. Imagine how much potty training she had to do?! I'm sure it will make for some very juicy narrative. Probably more juicy than watching someone murder innocent lobsters and dissect dead ducks, don't you think?
Anyway, wish me luck!

Poop - the Sequel

2009-11-20T13:37:00.000-08:00

It was an act of desperation. Normally, I prefer not to ask for help. I don't like to air my dirty laundry (in this case literal dirty laundry) to others if I can avoid it. But the time had come for getting some advice.
You see, after successfully bribing Ethan to pee and poop on the potty, we were regressing. At first I thought it was a fluke, but as pooping in his underwear became an almost daily, if not twice daily, occurence, I sensed the problem was more serious than I originally thought.
So I posted the following cry for help on the local parent's list: Poop; the sequel PLEASE HELP! Then I described the problem, and waited for the wisdom to come trickling in.

But let me digress for a moment. My relationship with poop wasn't always this bad. In the beginning , I remember poop being more of a wondrous affair. How happy we were when the miconium, the first poop, arrived! How adorable it was when Jonas would grunt in the library or the grocery store to announce that his next poop was coming! But alas, those days are long gone. I have reached poop saturation. I knew this for certain when I had a dream recently in which I stumbled upon a locker room covered in crap. I don't think you have to be Sigmund Freud to diagnose my problem.

Fortunately, the good and wise folk of the Arlington parent's list came to my rescue. The responses to my cry for help did not just come trickling in - they came pouring in! It seems Ethan's poopy problem was a common one, and one that people wanted to talk about. Most parents, it seemed, were against punishing for "accidents." Although there were a couple who proposed that I make my son actually wash the shit out of his underwear.
"Just have him wring it out in the toilet," one mom wrote. "I did this with my son and he never pooped in his underwear again!"
At first this seemed like a novel and promising idea. Then I rememberd how much my son likes to clean things; how he begs to wash the dishes, or play with the spray bottle, or pretend to mop the kitchen. With my luck, he'd probably love washing out his underwear so much that he'd poop in them even more.

Some moms asked if Ethan might be constipated. Others wondered if there was something stressful at home that could be causing the problem and I of course deleted those emails immediately. The majority of folks, however, agreed that this was just a normal phase, and one best treated with patience and bribes. The mom who most convinced me that positive reinforcement was the answer was the one who sent her five year old to potty school. She wrote, "The folks there said never, EVER punish your child for not going on the potty."
This was straight from the mouth of a potty school graduate's mom. Who was I to question her?

So, as of this morning, Ethan's potty chart is back on the refrigerator. And I am happy to report that this afternoon Ethan completed the deed on the potty. In return, he got two chocolate kisses, a Bob the Builder sticker and several high fives and hugs from his mom.
Shortly after he said to me, "Mommy, I like going on the potty because it makes you really happy."
Ah...if only that were enough.

Halloween Envy

2009-10-30T05:34:00.000-07:00

Listen all you crafty mamas out there...it's time to stop. Stop whipping up these elaborate outfits with your nifty little crafty magic fingers. No more homemade ladybugs, creatures from Finding Nemo (saw this one at Ethan's daycare yesterday...the kid had a light bulb coming off an antannae on his head...his parents are engineers I think), made from scratch dinosaurs or pretty princesses. There's a reason big companies manufacture Halloween costumes - so we will buy them! And right now, with the economy the way it is, we must buy buy buy our costumes! Heed the call, ladies!

OK. Yes, I admit. None of this really has anything to do with the economy. It's just that, well, I could not make a Halloween costume if my life depended on it. Crafty I am not (although i can talk like Yoda).

Every year, as Halloween looms closer, my stress level rises. I don't want to spend money on a costume, but I know that trying to make costumes is just not in the cards due to lack of time and artistic ability. Ethan's first Halloween I ran out and bought a kangaroo costume last minute and even that didn't go so well. Everyone thought he was a bear. Come on people! I thought. Do bears carry their young in pockets on their bellies??
This year, my husband took the lead and tried to save us some money by being crafty. He pulled out some old white sheets, cut them down and attempted to make some eye holes so the children could be ghosts. It was a decent attempt ( and he's quite sensitive about it so I won't go on about the lopsided eyeholes and the way the boys nearly tripped over themselves due to the length of the sheets).
But when it came time to dress up for their school's halloween party yesterday, nobody wanted to be a ghost. What then would we do? I pulled out the old costumes - the fireman, the turtle donated by our neighbors next door, the construction worker. But they refused.
"Mama, Justin's going to be a transformer," Ethan said.
I wasn't sure why he was telling me this. We were running late and I started to lose patience snapping "You have all these great costumes...now pick one out! There are chcildren all over the world who are starving for Halloween costumes!"
Ethan looked at me blankly. Then he started to cry, which made me feel awful. Which made me, during my lunch break, get crafty with my credit card, scooping up a Buzz LightYear costume and a Super Why costume at Toys R Us for Ethan to choose from.

So again, as fate will have it, there will be no homemade costumes for our family this year. And I will rave about your homemade this or that, "How did you do that? WOW"...swallowing my envy along with too many piece of candy.

Happy Halloween everyone.

Excuse me Disney, but my kids ARE genuises

2009-10-27T11:54:00.000-07:00

Can you believe the nerve of the Disney company? They want to give me my money back for the Baby Einstein videos I purchased to turn my babies into genuises. Why are they assuming that these videos, such as Classical Baby, Baby MacDonald on the Farm, and my kids favorite,the Baby Wordsworth video "First Words around the House" with the cat puppet and Marlee Matlin doing the words in sign language, failed to turn my babies into genuises?!

Of course they worked! My children, now ages 3 1/2 and 2, are genuises thank you very much. Why just this morning, when I told Ethan, my 3 1/2 year old, that his breath was awful, he was smart enough to blow it in my face off and on for 45 minutes! How would he have known to do that had he not spent his early, most impressionable days plopped in front of the TV watching Baby Einstein videos for hours on end? And what about Jonas? Don't try to tell me that Baby Einstein had nothing to do with his ability to refer to the lines in my forehead as "train tracks?!" Pure genuis, I tell you. I'm a published writer and I could never have come up with such a perfet metaphor! But then again, I was a baby in the late sixties and seventies when there was no Baby Einstein.

For insinuating that my children are not genuises, I think Disney should not just reimburse me for their videos, but also pay my mortgage for six months and send Mickey Mouse to clean my house once a month. Otherwise when my genuises grow up and become high-powered lawyers, look out.

Are These People Trying to Tell Me Something?

2009-03-07T12:53:00.001-08:00

This morning I went to have my eyebrows waxed. Yes, I have hairy eyebrows, but that is not what this blog post is about. The moment I laid down on the table and shut my eyes, the esthetician said, “You have a lot going on right now, don’t you?” Was she psychic or something?

“How did you know?” I said.

“It’s your energy....,” she said. “You must be tired.”

Boy, had she hit the nail on the head. I was just thinking this morning about how I’d gone and fallen in the hole again. The hole was a metaphor that Dr. K, a couple’s therapist my husband and I used to see, would use for us. It seemed we were always falling in the same holes; fighting over the same things. What we needed to do was learn to see the hole coming and step around it, something we are still trying to master.

In my own life, the hole I’m trying to avoid is taking on too much. But I can’t seem to help myself. Besides the regular activities of my part-time job, taking care of the kids, my writing, and trying to maintain some sanity, I recently committed myself to an online class called StilletoBootcamp, joined a community service committee in my town, and decided to start this blogging thing. Oy.

This habit is nothing new. After having my first child, I decided to try teaching for the first time. I would stay up until 3am preparing for class as I had terrible stage fright, and then the baby would wake me at oh, 4 or 4:30 am and I’d walk into my 8am freshman comp class ten minutes late, barely awake. This lasted for about two months, when I just couldn’t sustain it any more. I wrote an email to the dean, “Can you please try to find me a replacement?” I asked. They did. I chalked it up to something I’d try again later, when life was more under control.

But I’m beginning to wonder if my life will ever be under control. And do I really want it to be? Maybe I simply like all this fast pace and pressure. Although it would be nice to have a little more balance.

At the time I was teaching and juggling my new baby, I went to see a new eye doctor. The eye doctor was an elderly gentlemen, maybe in his early 70’s, with a Kennedy-esque accent. What struck me most about him, however, was his office. With its brown panelling and simple furnishings, it looked like it hadn’t been update since 1965. His demeanour struck me too; he was so calm and unlike most more doctors, he took a full hour to get to know me and do my eye exam. Although i felt ancy to get out of there because, of course, there was so much to do, I did appreciate the attention. And he made a comment to me that I always go back to:

“Simplify,” he said. “That’s what we need to do to enjoy life.”

I suppose the fact that he was my eye doctor was what infused that comment with such meaning. Believe me, I read things about simplifying all the time...open any women’s magazine and they’ll tell you the same thing. But when it comes from your eye doctor (or your eyebrow esthetician for that manner) one can’t help but think “how wise”...or at least I can’t help but think that. Eye doctors are all about perception, and vision and the way we see things. So I always go back to this: simplify, Amy.

I haven’t done it yet, of course, but I’ve heard awareness is the first step to change. Forgot who told me that one. Maybe it was my hairdresser.

Really...they get older and I'm responsible for them?

2009-02-26T16:49:00.000-08:00

One of my most memorable new mommy group moments was when one of the new mommy's expressed her amazement that yes, her baby will keep getting older and yes, she will be taking care of him for a long, long time. Her comment floored me because, guess what? That thought never crossed my mind either. Having a baby at 36 was more of an experiment...I wanted to know what it was like to give birth, and to love a child. Well, a baby. At least that was as far as I got into thinking about it. There was so much to worry about with just taking care of a baby for the first time; how to feed, bathe, clothe, and properly hold one, for instance. Honestly, I never thought past the first six months.
But as life would have it, thankfully, my children have continued to grow and thrive. Well, sort of thrive. Today I had the pleasure of taking them to their joint three year and 18 month check up. Seems my children are a little on the small side. My three year old in particular. The way the pediatrician--a man my kids call "Dr. Penguin" because his last name sounds like penguin and not because he looks like one--put it was "About 98 percent of kids his age are bigger than him."
"Hmm," I said. "Well, he doesn't look that small."
"He's all muscle," Dr. Penguin said, "No fat."
For a 35 year old woman that's a good thing, I suppose. But for a 3 year old boy? What if it continues? Would he be picked on...an easy target?Was it my fault because I'm not much of a chef? Because i don't make us all sit down at the same time and eat dinner together? Because I sometimes go for days and forget to offer him something new? Or because I was the one who got him to try peanut butter, a milestone we were both very happy about, until he broke out in hives and had to be taken in an amublance (just a precaution) to the ER?
In the pediatrician's office, we went over what E eats, his basic menu consisting of: yogurt, blueberries, bananas, mac and cheese, cheese, the occassional cottage cheese, crackers, cookies, chocolate, and "apple doo doo."
E was the one who slipped that one out.
"What's apple doo doo?" Dr. Penguin asked.
"It's apple sweet potato," I explained. "Baby food."
"Wow, he's 3 and he's still eating baby food...huh."
Ok, now I felt stupid.
"Well, at least it's fruit and vegetable," I said. "And the doo doo just came about because he couldn't pronounce sweet potato."
Dr. Penguin smiled.
"Does he eat any meat?"
"Nope. Won't try any." I shrugged.
At that moment, Ethan asked for a snack. "I'm huuuuuuungry mommy," he said, trying to break into my backpack.
I pulled out a large sandwich bag with two rice cakes inside. Both of my boys started panting like dogs waiting for a table scrap.
"Who wants a rice cake??" I asked, only then realizing what this must look like to Dr. Penguin who immediatley commented:
"A nice, no calorie treat, huh? Rice cakes?
"Oh, yeah...well, these are actually mine," I said. "They just like them so I share."
There was a short, uncomfotable pause and then Dr. Penguin asked, "How about you? Have you lost weight? You look thinner...your face."
Well that's a weird thing for your kid's pediatrician to ask you, I thought.
"Sure, I've lost weight since I had my kids," I joked.
What was he getting at? was he trying to guage if I have an eating disorder and as a result, not feeding my children well either?
"I'm on a gluten sensitive diet," I said, as though that explained everything.
Fortunately, we moved on after that.
Tonight at dinner time, however, I came on strong trying to get E to try something new. In exchange for one bite of something new (my suggestions included such traditional kids favorite as grilled cheese or pizza), I would give him M&Ms as well as a surprise present, a toy (I had a stash of small toys in my car in preparation for potty training bribing). A lot of parenting, I'm slowly learning, revolves around bribery.
But E wouldn't have any of it. "Not even one little bite to see if you like it?" I begged. He shook his head defiantly.
I threw my hands up in frustration, as though the weight of the world, his world, was on my shoulders. How will I get him to use the potty? To give up his pacy? To eat something new? It was all too much. Too much reponsibilty for one day.
I made him his favorite Annie's Mac and Cheese with a little apple doo doo and called it a day. Maybe tomorrow I'll try again.

While we're on the subject of monkeys...

2009-02-23T11:54:00.000-08:00

Did you hear about the study regarding male monkeys and toy preference by researchers in Emory University's Department of Psychology? If not, here's a bit about it:

We compared the interactions of 34 rhesus monkeys, living within a 135 monkey troop, with human wheeled toys and plush toys. Male monkeys, like boys, showed consistent and strong preferences for wheeled toys, while female monkeys, like girls, showed greater variability in preferences. Thus, the magnitude of preference for wheeled over plush toys differed significantly between males and females. The similarities to human findings demonstrate that such preferences can develop without explicit gendered socialization. We offer the hypothesis that toy preferences reflect hormonally influenced behavioral and cognitive biases which are sculpted by social processes into the sex differences seen in monkeys and humans.

This was amazing to me. I remember someone at my baby shower (for my first baby) giving me books about trucks. I knew I was having a boy, but still, my first thought was: Yuck. I mean, who wants to read a book that simply shows a picture of a truck on every page...Dump Truck, Digger, Cement Mixer? The woman who gave it to me was already the mom of two young boys and she wrote in her card, "My boys love these!" I thought: 'Well mine won't.'

I always assumed that the differences between boys and girls was more nature than nurture. That society and advertising and our parents shaped our preferences and behavior. Well, lo and behold, then I had my first boy. I was floored when, at quite a young age, he started pointing to trucks and buses on the street. I certainly wasn't getting excited about them, so he wasn't learning that behavior from me. Nope, it was 100% innate. His first word was actually truck (pronounced with a c, however,since he had not yet mastered 'tr'). Interestingly, his second word was ball, so we had a few moments where we'd be walking down the street and he'd suddenly shout out "Cock!" followed by "Ball!" But that's another story.

All and all it has opened my eyes - the way that E, without any outside influence whatsoever, has gravitated toward standard boy toys. Although he still likes trucks, tools have taken over as his toy of choice. And his little brother is following in his footsteps. I have no problem with this whatsoever, nor would I have any problem if they wanted to play with Barbie dolls. Whatever makes them happy. In fact, the thing that makes them happy right now happens to be a Minnie Mouse doll that came with a box of Rice Krispies. They fought over it so much that we had to keep buying Kellogg's cereal until we got another Minnie Mouse. Now they take their little Minnies anywhere they go, a blow to male stereotypes everywhere! Just yesterday at the doctor's office a father had to confirm with me that it was Minnie, and not Mickey, they were carrying. I smiled and said "Yep, Minnie," while thinking "You got a problem with that??"

One last thing: to the friend who bought me those truck books for my shower: Nice job, and we thank you from the bottom of our gender-neutral hearts.

Monkey business

2009-02-22T11:50:00.000-08:00

Here is a headline I read the other day: CT Woman had Unusual Relationship With Chimp.
Huh?
Can any human have a "usual" relationship with a chimp? And hadn't we heard all about the weirdness of their relationship for a couple of days? We already knew how police had to shoot the animal after he attacked the woman's friend. We already knew that she loved her chimp like a son; That she slept with him at night, and let him brush her hair. I'm sorry, but did I somehow miss the unusual part of the relationship before this new headline/story came out?

Now don't get my wrong. I like chimps and monkeys. For several years, as a working adult at an advertising agency, I had a monkey puppet in my office. Yes, our relationship could also be labeled unusual. For me, it was love at first sight at a toy store in the mall. I had to have him. I named him Monkey, and although I hugged and talked to him, I never, ever, slept with him, or let him brush my hair. Once I came into my office to find the outline of a monkey body in masking tape on the rug; a ransom note on my desk. I was in despair until I found him a few days later, shoved into the company microwave. Fortunately he was unharmed.

As far as real monkeys, however, I'm not too excited about nuzzling up to them. I met some on a beach in Costa Rica and they were a little noisy and aggressive. They liked to steal food from tourists and they pooped everywhere. Not my idea of a good house pet, but hey, to each their own, right?

The Worst Idea Ever?

2009-02-19T13:39:00.001-08:00

I can't help but think that taking my kids to Trader Joe's after a long day at daycare falls into the Worst Idea Ever category. Really. I had reservations going into it, a strong feeling in my gut. A smarter woman may have just brought her exhausted children straight home and called it a day. But no. I just had to have fresh blueberries and another box of gluten free Gorilla Munch cereal.

If you've ever been to a Trader Joe's, you know that some of their stores cater to kids. The one we go to in Burlington, Mass. features little kids shopping carts and a play area with a bus that my 18 month old goes crazy for. The first time we discovered both of these items we were all very excited. Shopping could now be more than just a chore, I thought, but a playful experience for all of us! Ah, the good times we would have together, with E pushing around his little cart and J being a perfect angel just sitting and smiling in the front seat of my shopping cart, enjoying the ride. I think this actually happened. Once.

Of course, this was not at all what happened last night. Last night we had a coup d'etat . Instead of sitting peacefully in mommy's cart, j insisted on driving his own cart. Not good. At 19 months old, most kids do not have great cart control and his kept crashing into things (fortunately no people) including a large box of clementines, which then went scattering in various directions across the floor. Perhaps it's important to note here that I am not one who likes being the center of attention. I'm perfectly happy to be all but invisible at the grocery store, or anywhere, for that matter. But now, with one child screaming and clementines rolling like pool balls just after a break, all eyes were on me.

"Let's do this quickly, guys," I whispered to my children. I began literally racing around the store, grabbing milk, yogurt, raisins, coffee (I highly recommend Trader Joe's coffee, by the way, if you're looking for a new brand). Then we hit the aisle with the school bus. To understand what is so wonderful about this bus, you must understand that it is open on one end so children can sit inside and play driver. On the other side, where the hood would be, is a train table. Even I have to admit, that's pretty cool. And if the bus wasn't enough, the folks at Trader Joe's had gone and added a play kitchen complete with fake stove and sink to the area. Witnessing my boys stumble upon this combination of bus and now new play kitchen was akin to seeing two weary travelers spot the ocean after walking miles through the desert. Pure joy.

"Five minutes," I said, and let them loose.

But five minutes turned into ten and it was now 7pm. "Two more minutes," I announced, hovering over the bus.
"But I don't want to go home," E whined.

"Yes, but we have to…daddy is waiting for us. It's getting late."

When their two minutes were up, no one was coming home without a fight. J tried to steal a fake telephone, and when I made him put it down, E picked it up.

"You can't take that," I said. "Please put it back."

"Why?" He asked.

"Because it's not yours."

"But I waaaaaant it."

"Sorry, but it's got to go back."

This is when he took off, running around the store with the phone in his hand. I put J in the cart with my shopping bags and told E we were going to leave without him. Now, I don't know if you're "allowed" to do that or not, but it's a threat that almost always seems to work. Of course I would never really leave without him, but as long as he thinks I would, that's all that matters.

As I got closer to the store exit, E inched toward me, but still refused to leave or put down the telephone he was trying to steal. I knew he was challenging me. I swooped him up and held him like a football under my arm (someone recommended this to me) but he squirmed and screamed so much that I had to put him down. Now everyone on the checkout line was staring at us, but fortunately most were women and I read sympathy in their collective gaze.

"We're leaving now," I said again, this time going so far as to walk out the front door. He followed, but was still screaming, nearly hyperventilating, for most of the ride home.

I cannot tell you how many times, as a mother, I've thought 'now this is a really bad idea'…yet done it anyway. Some days parenting feels like nothing more than an endless stream of really bad ideas, going back to the very idea to even become a parent. Or perhaps I'm just blowing a few bad occasions out of proportion. I think of a class I went to recently on parenting. The instructor talked quite a bit about temperaments, and how life with kids will run a whole lot smoother if you bend your own temperament to accommodate theirs (since their moods and temperaments, as all mothers know, are a lot less flexible). I interpret this to mean despite what you, the parent, wants to do, try to tune into your child's mood, and what they want or even more importantly need to do, including go home and go to sleep. I didn't think much of it at time she pointed it out, but perhaps it's not such a bad idea.

Tina Torture

2009-02-16T11:48:00.000-08:00

Ok, so another person told me I look like Tina Fey today. This should be a compliment, right? I mean, alot of men think Tina's hot...and here i am at 40, a working mother with a three year old and a 19 month old. I could be compared to much, much worse.
But none of this is really about Tina's looks. It's more that, well, I was supposed be Tina.
You see, I was supposed to write for Saturday Night Live. I was supposed to be hanging out with the likes of Lorne Michaels, Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin. Not her! I was the one who sent in a truly revolutionary idea for a skit to SNL when I was ten years old. In my letter I wrote, "You have a family with big heads (the coneheads), why not a family with big noses??" I then proceeded to draw this big-nosed family, all of whom I'm now convinced appear to have penises in the middle of their faces. This was purely unintentional of course. Then, in return for my hard work and creativity, the folks at SNL mailed me a stinking generic rejection letter! One would think that they could have at least scribbled an inspiring note on the letter...I mean I was only 10. Something along the lines of We're not really interested in big penis-nosed people, but we'd love to see more of your work in the future.
But nope. No hopeful words for me. Perhaps that's the difference between me and Tina. Then again, maybe there is no difference between me and Tina at all (insert twilight zone theme music here). Maybe she is just me in an alternate universe. It's possible, right? I mean if people can have penises for noses, anything is possible really.

About the name of this blog

2008-07-17T18:55:00.000-07:00

I am not the type who collects postcards, but this one was a keeper. It was my older sister Nili who sent it to me, shortly after the birth of our 2nd child. I'm sure I was complaining about something...lack of sleep, sore boobies, too many whiny, needy creatures who wanted to suck more than milk out of me. My first son was only 17 months old when his brother, an unexpected gift, entered the world. My life, and my mind, have never been the same.
I had a mind once, the postcard with the 1950's looking mama and her offspring says. Then I had small children.
I hear ya sister.