the pieces of my life

The boy is reading a new book a series about Nicholas Flamel. I bought him the first book (closing my eyes, covering my ears, and saying, “La la la” about it being for ages 12 and up), and he read it quickly. It mentions a–definitely grown-up book–called the The Book of Abramelin. The boy had to have it. It’s a pricey book.

“We’ll get it from the library,” I said. He was amenable. It’s nowhere, though, in our entire library system. “You have to pay for it,” I said. He was amenable. He counted out his money. He had $22. The book is $30.56. Finally I gave up. I said, “Why don’t you write a letter to the Book Fairy and ask for it?” He was amenable.

As I’ve mentioned before here, the Book Fairy is a fairy who appears totally at random, leaving a book under the the kids’ pillows. There’s no rhyme or reason when she’ll show up. Or what she’ll bring. But the kids do know that I communicate with her to let her know what we’re up to, so she can bring books related to what we’re doing. Before we go on vacation, the Book Fairy, for example, always knows to bring books about the place we’re visiting. At one point, the boy felt fairly sure the Book Fairy originated in the house–and there were even rumors that the boy had located the Book Fairy’s stash of books–but when he learned that the Book Fairy (or any fairy for that matter) doesn’t visit those who don’t believe in her, he got with the program.

So, the boy wrote the Book Fairy a letter (I kept his spelling and punctuation):

Dear Ms. Book Fairy,
thank you so much for the books! I have a couple of questens for you. My first questen is are you married? if so what is husband’s name? And my second questen is where do you get your books from? The reason I am writeing this letter is that there is a book that I want but I can’t get with my allowance The book is called “the book of Abraham the mage” (commenly known as the codex). Thank you!
Scencerally,
The boy

Magically, two nights later (it is just a coincidence that Amazon Prime takes two days to ship), the book appeared under his pillow.

The next morning, I said to him, “I saw the Book Fairy last night. Did she stop by?”

The boy said, “Yeah,” although I didn’t have to ask, as his nose was buried in the book.

I said, “It was odd, she had a message for you.”

The boy said, “Oh?”

“She said to tell you she is married.”

“Really?” The boy perked up and looked up from his book. “Who is she married to?”

“The Tooth Fairy,” I said.

“How is that possible? The Book Fairy is a woman and so is the Tooth Fairy.”

“Yes,” I said. “So. What’s wrong with that?”

He looked at me, rolled his eyes in a “my mom is a moron” kind of way, and said, “Nothing,” and went right back to his book.

Then, this past Friday, the girl came home from school with a new hole in her mouth. “I lost my tooth!” she said happily at pickup. Around her neck was a tooth-shaped box that held her tooth. She wore it all day and proudly showed everyone the way it rattled with her tooth inside. That night, as we came home, all of a sudden I heard a squeal.

“Mommy! Mommy! My tooth box opened up and my tooth fell down the grate!” I peeked down the heating grate and couldn’t find the tooth, although, granted, it was dusty down there and I didn’t look very hard. We agreed she’d leave the Tooth Fairy a note instead. Yet, that night, the Tooth Fairy was able to dig down into the vent and retrieve the tooth. She put the tooth back in the tooth box and left a note telling the girl that she should try again the next night with the tooth. The girl was very excited her tooth was found and she placed it under her pillow.

This morning the girl came eagerly out of her room and she announced, “Guess what the tooth fairy left me!”

Uh… uh oh. The Tooth Fairy? The Tooth Fairy has been very busy and tired and it’s just possible…

“She left me my tooth! The Tooth Fairy didn’t come!”

“She didn’t?” I said. “Well, she’ll probably come tonight.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured,” the girl said pragmatically.

But the boy wasn’t letting go so easily. “Oh really?” he said, with a gleam. “The Tooth Fairy forgot to come?” He pins me with a hard stare. “How did that Tooth Fairy just forget to come? Hmmm? Anyone know? I wonder how the Tooth Fairy could just forget to come!” He looks at me, blinking his eyes innocently, with a sh*t-eating grin on his face.

Sometimes that boy is a little too clever for his own good. And we’ll see what the Tooth Fairy brings him next time. Is it just Santa or can the Tooth Fairy deliver a lump of coal as well?

On Monday morning of Memorial Day weekend I woke up feeling great. Which means that either I have the stamina of a twenty year old… or I was still drunk. I’m sticking with the former (although I fear it was the latter).

Yes, it was yet another weekend in New York. We hadn’t been in a while, so we took the train down for the weekend. As we walked off the train, Adam was walking with Pie, and I had Doodles. A guy cut between us, and practically ran the boy over. “You okay?” I asked the boy. He nodded and I said, “What an a**hole.” The boy’s eyes opened wide as I leaned down and whispered in his ear, “This is New York City. You’re allowed to curse.”

“I can curse?” he asked with wonder.

“Yep,” I said.

“F*ck yes!” he said. That boy is a Brown through and through.

Adam was just as happy. Not about the cursing. He’s allowed to curse even in Boston. But the first night we met the Tweedle Twirp for dinner at Craftwork. I had mussels. Tweeds had ravioli. And Adam had the special, Pork for Two. For one. Two racks of pork. Pork belly. Pork head. Just for him. He started out happy, but ended up crying uncle and taking a bunch of it home. Adam clearly isn’t as tough as those of us with Brown blood.

The weekend was full of fun: The boy, my dad, Tweeds, and I hit Liberty Island and Ellis Island, while the girl, my mom, and Adam went to the Cindy Sherman show at MOMA (“One room was scary,” the girl told me, “so Nana covered my eyes so we could just walk through it.” I saw the show on Monday. “Scary” isn’t the word I’d use. More like “traumatizing.”)

We hit candy stores: Dylan’s Candy Bar for the girl; Economy Candy for the boy. I love Economy Candy. It’s totally old school, and any candy you remember from your childhood, they have. 

I was looking for a big bag of gummy bears, but they only had them in single colors. In 5 pound bags. I came very close to buying 40 pounds of gummies. I did learn that even I have my limits on gummies and there are some gummies that I refuse to buy. This one in particular:

After the sugar high, we switched children, and Pie, Tweeds, and I went for our regular NYC mani/pedi.

On Sunday, I had brunch with a friend from college, and now I’m plotting how to get to the Galapagos Island with the family to hang out with her (she’ll be moving there soon). Then Adam, my mom, and I took the kids to their first Broadway show, Newsies, and even waited for autographs at the end.

 

After the show, we hit but Strand. But for the first time ever, I messed up at the Strand. Normally I go through the New York Times Book Review for my shopping list, but this time I did some web searches and looked through some magazines and I made a list I was quite excited about (in particular, I’m eager for The Receptionist: An Education at The New Yorker by Janet Groth)… only to discover that the books I had selected aren’t released until the summer. Time was limited, the kids were antsy, and I didn’t have time to aimlessly wander aisles picking books at leisure. So while the kids stocked up, I actually walked out empty handed. Hard to believe, I know, but it’s true. Proof that the impossible is possible in New York.

That night, Adam ended up hanging at my parents’ apartment with the boy, who had a bad headache, while the rest of us went out for a family dinner. We got home at about 8, and I decided I was just too exhausted to go out. But I felt bad that Adam didn’t get to go out, so I said I’d rally for just one drink with him and the Tweedle Twins. Five hours later, we were walking home, my feet were hurting, so I just went barefoot up Avenue A, and stumbled back home to bed. We hit a bar on Avenue C that advertised on its sign “no phone” (too cool to chat with you, I suppose), then we made our way to Death and Co., where the entire time, I wanted to tell the woman at the table next to us that she could do way better than the guy she was on a date with. Of course the drinks were so tasty (and it didn’t hurt that it was my fifth drink of the night) that it probably added to the urgency of the situation, but I managed to keep my thoughts to myself. Back outside, I mentioned to the door person that the woman at the next table was on a date with a guy who clearly was gay, and she said, “Yeah, we get that a lot.” I’m generally happy with my suburban life, but watching that poor girl on that awkward date makes me so incredibly happy I’m no longer in my twenties.

Despite the late hour and the drinks, I was still up bright and early for a walk on the High Line with my family, brunch at Pastis, and a trip to MOMA, where I saw the aforementioned Cindy Sherman show and the others went to the Materials Lab.

And then, sadly, it was time to go. I hate leaving NYC. But we made it home and we dove back in. To Colonial Day. To Daisies bridging to Brownies. To baseball, soccer, track, piano, and drums. It’s been a week. And I’m ready to go back to New York.

This Sunday our Daisies bridge to Brownies. Let me start off by telling you, I love being a Girl Scout leader. I love the girls in our troop. I love my co-leader. I think the whole experience has been fun and it’s been amazing to see the girls blossom over the last two years, and I look forward to being able to do more with them as they get older. This past year we’ve done art classes, Christmas caroling, volunteered at Cradles to Crayon, seen a play, went letter boxing, and so much more. We’re going on a morning canoe trip in a couple of weeks, and I can’t wait.

That said, there are days when I’m tired, when the girls are whiny, and when things just don’t gel. Today wasn’t exactly one of those. But a bunch of us got it into our head that we should have an all-school Girl Scout event. That’s 1st grade Daises (bridging to Brownies), 2nd grade Brownies, 3rd grade Brownies (bridging to Junior Girl Scouts), 4th grade Juniors, and 5th grade Juniors (bridging to Cadettes). All in one celebration. All with one bridging event.

Today, for our normal Daisy meeting, we met outside the school with all the other troops to practice the ceremony and figure out how the bridging/ceremony/singing will go. It. Was. Bedlam.

Tonight at dinner, I said, “Sunday should be interesting. Today was a total clusterf**k.”

The girl and the boy asked, “What’s a clusterf**k?”

I said, “What does it sound like?”

The boy said, “I dunno,” but the clever little girl said, “It sounds like a circle of f**ks. Like f**ks in a circle. Oh! I get it! It means chaos! A clusterf**k is chaos. Yeah, today was a clusterf**k! Clusterf**k, clusterf**k, clusterf**k!”

Excuse me while I wipe away the tears. She just makes me so proud!

I have a start to a (long) post about our Memorial Day weekend in New York, but things have just been way too busy! For starters, today was the day for pickling the cucumbers.

Then it was time to practice letters, both with a quill and ink and on the slate.

Then the tin had to be punched to make new lanterns, the candles had to be made, silhouettes were needed to decorate the barren walls, and the weaving had to be done.

Every now and then, mother and son can take a break to say hi.

But then lunch has to be served…

…before the planting has to be done…

…and sachets need to be made to cover the stank of the unwashed Colonists (side note: I know why the Colonist women wore shawls. It was to hide the pit stains! Those clothes are hot!).

But be careful! You never know where the Redcoats are lurking.

No need to worry though. The Minutemen will have your back.

Hopefully the next few days will be less busy and I can post. That is, if I can find a computer in Ye Olde Computer Tavern.

Pie came home with this from school yesterday:

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…!

My son has officially learned the meaning of “addiction.” He’s having a hard time quitting the finger habit (the boy has been sucking on his finger since he was practically in utero).

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!

Yesterday morning I took the girl to school, and then ran home to get the boy, as he had a consult with the (da da da duh!) orthodontist. I was harried, trying to get everything organized to get out the door, when I quickly grabbed my travel mug and went to fill it with coffee. Of which there was none.

“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.)

My memory is terrible. Details always disappear and faces blur in my memories, which is one of the reasons I persist in this blog; it gives me a point of reference, a way to recall what I was doing/thinking/feeling at a particular time. Unless the event is something I did over and over, it’s lost in the crevices of my mind. I remember the things we did regularly: Breakfast at Nancy’s when we lived in Boulder, where every week my mother would reprimand my father, “Butter or whipped cream. Not both.” The bike route I took every morning through the woodsy back areas on my way to elementary school in South Miami, when that stupid orange bike safety flag my mom made me put on the back of my seat would bend and get caught in the trees (this was in the pre-helmet days of bike riding. Remember those days?). The yearly Passover seders at my grandparents where my grandfather whipped through the seder and my grandmother made amazing potatoes, which was all I would really eat, because everything else she cooked was just this side of inedible. Cue Tevye, but for me, tradition is what it’s all about, and what I constantly try to reinforce with my own family. The kids probably won’t remember the singular things we do–the art projects and science experiments that were one-off–but they will recall what we do regularly: homemade hallah every Friday night, the book fairy who brings them surprise reads, our morning walks to school.

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!

Treat your body like a temple. Let me tell you: I’ve been doing this. It doesn’t work.

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!

It’s a sad day in Brownville. The Easter candy is all done. What? How does a house of Jews have Easter candy? Well, that’s the point. We don’t. At least not anymore. I dutifully went to the after-Easter sales and loaded up. I will say that I didn’t eat a single bite of it until Passover ended, but when the holiday was over, I embraced the one that starts after: The Festival of Peeps.

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.