For those who don’t read 1st grade, it says that when she grows up, she’s going to be a writer. The amount of money she will make is “thousands and thousands of money.” She’ll be attending New York University and her best friend will remain Jasmine (that’s Jasmine on the left; Pie on the right).

“Aw,” I said when I saw it. “This is lovely. But just so you know, writers don’t make ‘thousands and thousands of money.’ At least not more than a handful of writers. Most writers make very little money.”

And Pie said, “Not me. I’ll make lots of money! I’m going to write BIG books! Hardcover ones!”

So that’s what I’ve been doing wrong…!

The boy. His finger. At eight months.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he wrote back, “Already?”

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

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

“Damn it!” I yelled. “Daddy didn’t leave me any coffee.”

The boy shrugged. “You know, it’s not Mother’s Day anymore!”

So I can tell.

Mother’s Day was lovely. The boy wanted to make me breakfast in bed, and started to prepare it, when Adam pointed out that as nice of a thought as that way, I’d probably be happier being allowed to sleep late. But the second I awoke, the boy was there, ready to take my coffee order (because on Mother’s Day, the coffee pot is bottomless, apparently). I had a beautiful card from the girl plus a flower pot she decorated at school, wonderful coupons from the boy, and two bags of Gummi Bears from Adam.

A side story: We had the girl tested for allergies. She had a reaction to shrimp last November, and we decided before we embark on any summer travels, she should have an actual test. The verdict? The girl is highly allergic to shellfish. All shellfish. Epi-pen allergic. We have a drawer in the kitchen in which we store one of her Epi-pens (the other is in my purse), and I’ve told everyone, “This is the emergency drawer.”

Okay, back to Mother’s Day: After Adam gave me the Gummi bears, he said, “And, just so you know, there’s always the emergency drawer…”

Sometimes all is right with the world.

But, of course, sometimes it’s not as yesterday there was no coffee, the orthodontist read the boy the riot act about his finger sucking, and my monthly movie night was canceled, because both Beatle and (what shall I name her? She wants something glamorous, but maybe I’ll do something like Polynomial, just to be irritating. Nah…), let’s say, Lilith, both decided they had better things to do than drink wine, eat chocolate, and watch ’80s flicks. (And by better I mean a last-minute work meeting for one and an inability to get a babysitter for the other–clearly these are women who do not have their priorities straight!). Which wouldn’t have been a problem except that I did recently post about how I was going to be so much better about what I eat, and because of those two, I was forced to be alone in my house with copious amounts of chocolate that weren’t just going to eat themselves!

Sigh.

At least if things get too bad, I have my emergency stash. That should last me a day. (Not two.)

Which is why it was so important to me that my kids bet in yesterday’s Kentucky Derby. Because betting… it’s a family tradition from my childhood.

My grandfather loved a good bet. He always took our bets, didn’t matter if it had him betting against his favorite team (I’m pretty sure he was still betting on his favorites with a bookie). He taught me about spreads and odds and he always paid up promptly. When my grandfather passed away, my father took over the position of family bookie. He pays the track odds, plus 10 percent.

For the past week, the kids and I have been going over the horses. To my surprise, neither of them bet on Hansen (an all-white horse). I tried to convince Pie to put her money on Done Talking, but she clearly isn’t and refused to bite.

The way my kids bet so clearly defines their personalities. Doodles wanted to bet on both the horse with the best odds and the longest odds, so he had the potential to make the most money, but had a safety bet as a just in case. I told him one bet, so he went with the favorite (at the time of his betting), which was Bodemeister. Pie wanted to go for the biggest bucks. She kept looking over the odds to find the one with the longest odds, so her dollar was on Prospective. Adam was half asleep on his Saturday nap, so the kids pretty much picked for him: Daddy Nose Best. Watching the race was a family event, and even though Adam and I passed on the mint juleps this year, everyone was excited, even though all three of them lost.

As for me? Well, if you’ve read this blog long enough, you’ll know exactly who I picked. Guess that next round is on me. Tradition!

But I had an epiphany. When they (whoever the great Gods of “they” are) say, “like a temple,” they mean something along the lines of a Buddhist temple or even a Jewish temple or a church.

And see, all these years, when I thought temple, I was thinking more along the lines of those pagan temples. You know the ones. Temples where virgins were sacrificed, where the priests drank copious amounts of alcohol, where animals were sodomized. I mean, right? Now we’re talking!

I think this epiphany struck when I read in my comments that Angela toasts her Peeps. This comment sent me into a fervor. Toasted peeps! That. Is. Freaking. Brilliant.

I went on a frenzy. I hit every drugstore in a five-mile radius. I checked the supermarket clearance aisles. I searched every nook and cranny in the house in case I had some Peeps I had forgotten about.

Alas. There are no more Peeps to be had. And then it hit me. If I spent even half the time planning out healthy meals as I did on my Peep hunt, I’d be living in that Buddhist temple instead of my pagan den of iniquity. I wouldn’t have to suck in my gut whenever I got on the scale (anyone else notice how that doesn’t change the needle on the scale one iota? And yet I do it faithfully every time I stand on the scale).

It’s time. Time to convert. I need a new temple. One that doesn’t allow you to yell at your children to leave the kitchen because you need to get another spoonful of raw cookie dough. One that doesn’t think, “Eh, cooking those veggies is going to take too long, but I’ve got a nice loaf of bread I can make into lunch.” One that doesn’t include children peering in the garbage in wonder at all the candy wrappers. (Hey! No judging allowed! You try writing a novel without copious amounts of gummy bears!)

Healthy food. Eating all the fruits and veggies in our Boston Organics delivery, even the funny ones like black radishes. Pasta no more than once a week (okay, maybe twice; we don’t want to be insane about this.). Trying new grains. Not making four different meals for four different family members but finding foods that we’ll all eat. This could happen, right?

My body will be a temple. Of the most pious sort.

Of course that doesn’t mean come October, I’m not hunting me down some Halloween Peeps. Because even though my temple doesn’t have virgin sacrifices, the Peeps are going to be most definitely burned at the stake!

I had planned on telling all of you about our spring break and how Adam and I just celebrated a wonderful 10th anniversary together–an elegant, exquisite dinner and lovely gifts. But then yesterday he annoyed me, so I won’t be telling you about that. I IM’d him yesterday:

Me: We are officially out of Easter candy.
Him: Officially? Has this been certified?
Me: Yes.
Him: Maybe I stashed some emergency Peeps.

Which made me the happiest person in the world. My husband loved me enough to know to stash Peeps for when I ran out! Joy! Happiness!! Elation! Only…

Me: Are you serious?!?
Him: No, I’m not serious. But I could have.

So now I’m here to blog to tell you what an ass my husband is. Maybe later I’ll write something nice. But don’t hold your breath.

Me: Lots of boyfriends.

Pie: A hundred boyfriends?

Me: Maybe!

Pie: So you did aloooooot of kissing!

****

After a day of massive chauffeuring. Adam was in San Francisco. The kids had to be on opposite sides of town three times over the course of the day. I couldn’t remember which way was up. We had just dropped Doodles off and I was taking Pie to the next event, which was a Passover dinner at the synagogue. Jasmine and her family were to be there.

Me: Pie, your mom is falling apart.

Pie: Really?

Me: What are you going to do when I fall apart. Will you put me back together?

Pie: How would I put you back together?

Me: Well, what would you do?

Pie: I’d look for Scooby.

Me: So she could put me back together?

Pie: [with a "duh" voice] No, Mom. So she could give me a ride home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I’m wondering if perhaps I’ve made them a little too independent. Pie and I were walking to school one morning, on the way to the before-school PE class she takes and at which I volunteer (Doodles opted out of it this year).

Me: Be careful. You’re pushing me into the street.

The girl: Oh, sorry.

Me: You don’t want me to get run over by a car. Then you’d have a pancake mommy.

The girl: You’d be a pancake? Oh, I get it! Because you’d be flat from the car hitting you.

Me: Yep. And I don’t think I’d be able to drive you to dance class if I were a pancake. I wouldn’t fit behind the wheel of the car.

The girl: Yep.

Me: So let’s walk on the side of the road.

The girl: Okay. But if you did get hit, I’d run to school and call 911.

Me: Wouldn’t it be closer to run home and call 911?

The girl [confused]: Well, then I’d be late for school!

Me: Don’t you think, if your mother was hit by a car, that they’d let you skip school?

The girl: But why would I skip school? I love school!

Me: Because I’d be hit by car?

The girl: I’d run to school. I’d have them call 911. And then I’d look for Beetle and tell her she’d have to take me home after school.

One mommy. Already obsolete…

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

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

Me: I’m in the bathroom.

The boy: Mom!

Me: I’m in the bathroom!!

The boy stands outside the bathroom door.

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

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

The boy: Instead, I want an M16.

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

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

Me: SO WHY ARE YOU STILL TALKING TO ME?

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