the pieces of my life

What do you think he is trying to tell me? (From xkcd.)

My memories of childhood are hazy, which is why that I remember this one fairly clearly is rather odd: I’m nine years old. There’s a movie out that my father is crazy to see. It’s been out for a bit, and apparently everyone is talking about so we make arrangements to go to the movies with our neighbors, who have a son my age and a daughter Tweedle Twirp’s age.

Because Tweeds has just turned six, she is deemed too young for the movie, and she is offered the opportunity to see, with some random grown-up and the other little sister, in another theater of the multiplex the movie Pete’s Dragon. They decide upon that without hesitation. The brother and I are also given a choice: Pete’s Dragon or this definitely grown-up movie called Star Wars.

The brother and I consult for a few moments, before deciding upon the obvious: Star Wars.

The movie was entrancing. I was hooked.

We didn’t wait as long to see Empire Strikes Back when it was released. Return of the Jedi I saw on the opening weekend, with friends. For these movies, I saw them early enough that the movies were fresh, exciting. No Internet could spoil the endings. The movie reviews were subtle enough not to give anything away. I remember my shock and excitement at the “big reveal” in Empire. It was brillant! Genius! Oh. My. God! (Or, rather, as I would have said back then, “It was totally bitchin’!”)

Flash forward a dozen years or so, and yes, I was the geek outside at the midnight showing of Phantom Menace. To my credit, I wasn’t the one who left the office at 11 a.m., paying good money for the movie Meet Jack Black, just to see the trailer for Phantom Menace and then leaving without seeing the movie. This should not be a surprise to anyone. I worked at Amazon.com in 1999 at a time when it was populated with hipsters and geeks (as opposed to now when it’s filled with blue shirts and khaki pants). One of my geek friends waited in line for opening day tickets, and kindly purchased one for me.

It was disappointing. I was upset. That didn’t stop me from seeing the movie again with my folks, but I was left saddened.

Attack of the Clone Wars came out a month after Adam and I were married. Despite both of us not liking Phantom, we dutifully filed in at the Cinerama for it. Eh.

Here’s a confession. Revenge of the Sith came out in 2005. Something else was happening in 2005. What was it? What was it? Hmmmm. Well, whatever it was, we never got around to seeing the final Star Wars movie. Adam actually DVR’d it a few months ago, and it sits mockingly on our TV, laughing at me every time I go to watch Dance Moms (yes, Dance Moms! See how the mighty have fallen. Get over yourself, people!).

But here we are. Dance Moms not withstanding, Adam and I responsible grown-ups with an obligation to do what’s right for our children. And the big questions these days, the weight upon every parent Gen Xer today, the albatross we must carry is: In what order do you allow your children to view “Star Wars”? Do you see them chronological order, starting with Phantom Menace and ending with Return of the Jedi? Or do you watch them in release order, starting with New Hope and ending with Revenge of the Sith?

This became of grave importance recently when in a discussion of “Star Wars,” Pie asked, “So, Darth Vader is Luke’s father?”

I responded: “You’re not supposed to know that.”

She continued: “And Queen Amidalah is Princess Leia’s mother, so Luke and Leia are brother and sister, right?”

“You’re NOT supposed to know that!” I say louder, feeling agitated.

“Mom!” said my oh-so-wise second grader. “I’ve known that since kindergarten!”

Oh my child. I am your mother. I am here to rescue you.

This past weekend, I declared that we would all be watching the “Star Wars” films. All of them. Doodles had seen Episode IV: The New Hope (for which I still get in trouble for referring to it as the first “Star Wars” film) a while ago, but I think it had been a couple of years.

Adam had previously done extensive research on the “what order to watch the films” dilemma, in anticipation for this day comes. We were in agreement that the films should be viewed in the Machete Order (IV, V, II, III, VI, and then much, much later I), although Adam thinks that we should view Episode I before Episode II, and I think we stick with the order and watch Episode I at the end.

Saturday was a rainy, stormy night. Adam brought our copy of Episode IV up from the basement. The kids curled up on the couch, and I used it as my opportunity to sew badges on Pie’s Brownie vest as I cheered on the Rebel forces.

The movie began. “You are going to love this!” I promised Pie. “Be brave like Princess Leia! Tomorrow night, we’ll watch Empire Strikes Back, and next weekend we’ll move on to the next movie!”

She buried her head in the couch for a few scenes. She watched most of it. She seemed to like it.

But then she didn’t want to go to sleep by herself. And finally, once she was down, she was up a couple of hours later. I was still awake, getting ready for bed, and she refused to leave my side, merely following me around like a little shadow.

Before I could even get her into bed, the bigger one was up. “Back into bed, Monkey,” Adam said quietly, gently leading him back to his bedroom.

“Uh uh!!” came the growl out of the half-asleep boy as he planted himself in our doorway, refusing to be carried back to his room.

I gave up. There were four in the bed and the little one said, “Star Wars is scary!”

Sunday morning, Adam bleary-eyed said to me, “I guess we’re not watching Empire Strikes Back tonight, huh?”

No, my padawan, I don’t think we shall. We’ll try again in a few more years. With luck, the Force in our children will be stronger then. May the Force be with you.

Am I memorable? Am I notable? Sometimes, perhaps. Sometimes, perhaps not. But today, today I am. Today I am notable person (hence why you should click on “notable”). And that is a good thing.

Running has to be the least forgiving sport. Take a couple of weeks off, start back up again, and… splat. It’s starting from zero. Last week was readjustment week and I ran one miserable run, but I was so tired, it didn’t even count. But this weekend I had to start up again, so I plunged in. Although plunge isn’t the right word. Waddled in? Flopped in? Whatever it was, it wasn’t pretty, so I’m back to plodding along at a snail’s pace. I ran a miserable three on Sunday, a horrible six yesterday, and plan on making myself unhappy with a four or five tomorrow. Running sucks. The only thing that sucks more than running, though, is not running, so I guess I’m stuck.

We’re back in sprint mode. School starts this Thursday, today is full of doctor’s appointments, orthodontist appointments (yes! We are there! Orthodontia has begun!), errands, the start of soccer practice, and general crankiness. Seemingly overnight, our calendar has gone from lazy summer days to being filled with dance class, religious school activities, viola, piano, soccer, Girl Scouts…. I am dizzy just looking at it. And the Jewish holidays are smack upon us! Time to start baking hallah, finding new fruits, and planning the sukkah.

But it’s good for us. Pie has had a rough week without routine. She’s anxious for school to start and I know once the first day passes, she’ll be fine, but for now, there’s this little body that has been appearing in our bed in the wee hours of the night. And, frankly, I am dying to get back to writing! The second draft of my novel has been critiqued, and I am eager to get the third draft written. I’m excited about the novel (again! don’t worry; this feeling will pass), and I have been fidgety that I haven’t had any writing time for over a month. This Thursday, it’s novel time! My goal is to have it to my next set of readers come October, which means a lot of focused writing for me.

Run. Write. Parent. Run. Write. Parent. It’s going to be a busy fall!

Me: What’s today?

7 year old: My birthday.

Me: How do you know it’s your birthday?

7 year old: Because Mommy told me this morning.

Me: Did I actually tell you?

7 year old: You put on a birthday song to wake me up.

Q: Where are you?

7 year old: In Italy.

Me: Where?

7 year old: Venice.

Me: How many seven year olds spend their birthdays in Venice?

7 year old: I don’t know.

Me: Probably all the Venetian ones, huh? How will you be spending your birthday?

7 year old: I’m going to a glass-making place.

Me: What do you like to do these days?

7 year old: Singing and dance.

Me: What kind of dance?

7 year old: Ballet, tap, maybe hip hop

Me: What are your favorite books?

7 year old: American Girl Doll books. The Best Friends series.

Me: What are your favorite things to watch?

7 year old: Shake It Up. Craft Wars. Cupcake Wars. Oh yeah. Project Runway. It’s so hard to remember them when you haven’t watched them in a long time.

Me: What are your goals as a seven year old?

7 year old: To stop chewing my hair. And to grow my hair long without getting much haircuts.

Me: What do you want to be when you grow up?

7 year old: I don’t actually know.

Me: What are you looking forward to in 2nd grade?

7 year old: The Japanese unit.

Me: Any grand pronouncements?

7 year old: No.

Me: Anything else?

7 year old: I think that’s good.

Happy birthday, Pie Pie!

Me: What’s today?

9 year old: My birthday.

Me: How does it feel to be a nine year old?

9 year old: I don’t know. I’ve only been awake for three hours.

Me: How do you know it’s your birthday?

9 year old: Because yesterday Mom told me that today is my birthday.

Me: Where are you?

9 year old: Poggibonsi, Tuscany, Italy.

Me: How will you be spending your birthday?

9 year old: Taking a train from Tuscany to Venuce, and then doing things there.

Me: What do you like to do these days?

9 year old: Play Lazer Tag. Um… I don’t know what else.

Dad: Who styles your hair?

Me: Wait, that’s not one of the questions. Okay, answer it.

9 year old: Your butts.

Me: That’s a 9 year old. What are your favorite books?

9 year old: That’s too hard to answer.

Me: What have you been reading lately?

9 year old: Artemis Fowl 2, 3, and 4.

Me: What are your favorite things to watch?

9 year old: Disney and Cartoon Network.

Me: What do you want to be when you grow up?

9 year old: Um, the complete opposite of her [points to Pie].

Pie: I thought you wanted to be a scholar.

9 year old: Yeah, a scholar.

Me: What are you looking forward to in 4th grade?

9 year old: Uh, next summer vacation.

Q: What are your goals as a 9 year old?

9 year old: I don’t know.

Me: What kind of scholar doesn’t have goals?

9 year old: I’m not a scholar yet! I have to go and study and… uh thingys.

Me: Any grand pronouncements?

9 year old: What’s a pronouncement?

Me: And I thought this would be the year I wouldn’t have to explain what a “pronouncement” is.

9 year old: Is a “pronouncement” something you say before an announcement?

Me: Sort of.

9 year old: Then no. I have nothing to say.

Happy birthday, Doodlebug!

Now that I’ve spent some time in Italy, I come to one major conclusion about the difference between me and the Italians: I pee much slower–or stiller–than they do. The bathrooms have lights that are either on timers or motion detectors, and I have yet to pee in one of them when the lights didn’t shut off mid-pee. Important stuff, I know.

We’ve long left Rome, which means I have no more trite expressions to use (when in Rome, do as the Romans… and leave Rome. Oh, look! I had one left!).

In Florence, one morning at the Mercato Centrale had my boy deciding to become a vegetarian. I’m pretty sure it was the pig testicles that did him in. The brains, didn’t help.

When his sister pointed out that he hates veggies, and would therefore be a breadatarian, he relented and decided he’d merely go kosher. I asked him to wait till as got home, as he’s living on salami and bread here. “That’s not beef?” he asked with incredulity. No, my friend, it is not. He agreed to wait till we returned home.

In the meantime, we’ve left my parents and sister to fend for themselves and we are now eating–I mean, touring–through Tuscany on our own. Today, we had an amazing lunch at an agritourismo, where we had an exquisite fried pecorino cheese and a lovely sampling of three local wines. I will be dreaming of that cheese…

What else have we done? Been to the Uffizi, the Academia, the Bargello.

Learned to make pasta.

Visited a monastery.

And eaten. Did I mention I’ve eaten a bit?

Okay, back to the tough life. Let’s see if, for once, I can beat the light timer! Ciao!

Why did you people let me eat so much?

Headed back from dinner, just me and Adam as my folks and the Tweedle Twirp were staying with the kids, we were pleasantly surprised by an operatic concert at the Spanish Steps. A calming end to a day of two whiny, tired kids.

At lunch, Pie was flagging. It’s hot, and to be honest, we had just walked approximately two miles, with pit stops only to see a few Caravaggios in a church. She was beat.

“I can take you back to the apartment,” I told her.

“I’m so tired. I can’t walk any more,” she replied.

“That’s fine,” I said. “We can save our shopping for Florence.”

“Shopping?” she said. “Oh, I think I can shop!”

Gee, thanks. Sure enough, she rallied. Luckily she’s happy with window shopping as we didn’t actually buy anything.

Pie, Tweeds, and I wandered as an exhausted Doodles vegged in the apartment. I can’t keep my daughter and my sister straight. Their names are as different as, well, as different as Pie and Tweeds. But I’ve given up. Now when I call out a name, I just append it. “Pie!” I yell before I realize I’m calling out the wrong name. “I mean Big Pie!” Sometimes I end up with Little Tweeds.

Tweeds (the big one), Adam, and I went to the Bone Church, which is one of the oddest, coolest sights in town. It may have been my favorite place in Rome, though I may not be the best judge, considering that I’m not a huge fan of ancient art. I know. I’m in the wrong town.

But you don’t care about that. You want to know the important stuff. Like what I ate. So today was: yogurt, caffe latte, deep fried zucchini and anchovies, mixed bruschetta, spaghetti carbonara, red wine, ginger cinnamon gelato, basil gelato, glass of red wine, mixed antipasto plate, rigatoni all’amatriciana, half a bottle of red wine, strawberries with whipped cream, and limocello.

Roly Poly is off to bed. Tomorrow, we take on Florence. Hope Florence has prepped the chefs! I’m still eating!

I’ve wanted to blog. Really I have. But blogging means putting down my fork, and I can’t quite seem to loosen my grip long enough to type. If I were going to sum up the trip so far, it would have to be Roly Poly Roma.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m here with my kids, my husband, my parents, and my sister. We’ve managed to do a bit. We’ve visited a few famous places, like the Trevi Fountain.

Toured the Colosseum.

Visited Ostia Antica.

Saw the Vatican.

And miscellaneous other things, like checked out the Borghese Gallery, the Jewish museum, the Castle of St. Angelo, the Parthenon, and so on.

But it all pales in comparison to the eating. The gelato. The fried artichokes. The pizza.The wine. The pasta. The pasta. The pasta. Did I mention the pasta?

Ah. Roly Poly Roma. Happy. Happy. Just don’t expect me to put down the fork.

(Note: All travel posts are typed on the iPhone, so typos may abound.)