the pieces of my life

I’m having a sad moment. One of those, My children are getting too big too fast moments. Because today we… today we…

I can barely get it out.

Today we… we gave away the train table.

My kids could not care less about this major milestone in our lives. The boy lived at that train table for a few years. Pie had mild interest, but never really took to it in the same way. And at this point, it was merely taking up space. So we gave it to a two-year-old boy down the street.

Today is snowy. My kids are in school. And I’m wistful for a train table. Sigh.

We don’t own a flask. How is this possible? We are parents who like to drink, and we don’t have a flask. Which means I was forced to put the family bourbon in an old honey jar to take to the playground. That must break about twenty etiquette rules. Don’t tell Emily Post.

But I get ahead of myself.

We–along with most of this country–had a snow day (and why not? Did you know that 49 states had snow as of yesterday?). And (except for a flask) I was prepared. I was so prepared! We had everything we needed for the perfect snow day.

Morning in bed, reading to the kids from On the Banks of Plum Creek? Done.

Playing in the front yard while I shovel… and shovel… and shovel? Check.

New paint and plenty of popsicle sticks for the kids to make pictures and towers? Got that covered.

A little excitement of a downed (unused) wire that warrants a visit from the fire department? Arranged especially by me for my darling children’s enjoyment!

Bake cookies with the kids? Complete with whole wheat pastry flour purchased in advance just for the snow day? Of course!

A new book for the Tag reader and a new Didj game? All taken care of.

Quick board game break? Complete with letting the scared-of-losing child win.

A meet up with friends at the playground for an hour or two of snow fun? Would you think otherwise?

Bourbon in a honey jar to keep the grown-ups warm? Duh!

Hot chocolate for seven kids back at the house? You know it.

Snowcaps for the six adults? Oh, yeah.

I used every trick I had. Which would have been great. If we didn’t have another snow day tomorrow.

Can you see “Netflix Streaming”?

I really need to get a flask.

There is sadness in the house. True, heart wrenching sadness. The boy is sad because he must, once again, do homework and now he must write five sentences in his reading response journal instead of the first semester’s three sentences. The husband is sad because he built a beautiful outdoor rink but it hasn’t been cold enough to freeze properly, so we have a slushy mess in the backyard (and we won’t mention how he’s sad because he didn’t calculate the slope correctly, so the ice rink slants to a sad end). I am sad because it’s not Miami Beach and while I can handle a good winter, this is really a mediocre winter. By the time we returned, all the snow from the big blizzard had melted and last night’s big snow brought a mere dusting. Hardly warrants the homemade marshmallows in hot chocolate (I said “hardly!”).

But the saddest person of all? The littlest Medros. She is oh-so sad. Life for a five year old can be so difficult. Her heart weeps. She’s been moping about how sad she is and her heart is sad and she is sad and everything is so sad.

Me: I can understand. It’s hard coming back from vacation.

Pie: That’s not it.

Me: Is it going to back to school? It’s hard to get dressed in the morning after a week of lounging about.

Pie: No, that’s not it.

Me: Oh, you miss Nana and Peter? And playing with T Rex and Pad and Elf Girl? We had fun with them.

Pie: Yeah, but that’s not why I’m sad.

Me: Then what is it, baby girl?

Pie, lip a quiverin’: It’s… It’s… It’s because there are only two more episodes of Hannah Montana left, and I didn’t watch from the beginning so think of all the Hannah Montana I missed!

Me: Uh…

Pie: That and I want a pair of Uggs.

She’s a keeper, folks!

*Yes, I know, inflation. No more pay phones. Yadda yadda. But my 10th grade science teacher used to always say, “Too bad, so sad. Got a dime? Call someone who cares,” and it stuck with me.

The boat is emptied of children, the last café con leche has been drunk, and the girl’s tears over leaving sunshine and Nana have been dried. The trip is officially over and we’re heading back to slushy Massachusetts.

Sigh. But it’s only temporary because I’ve convinced the family to move back to Miami Beach. And by convinced, I mean they yell, “Nooooo!” while I put my fingers in my ears and sing, “La la la la la! I can’t hear you!” Pie says she’d miss her BFF, Doodles says he’d miss ice skating, and Adam says he’d miss having a paycheck. Whatever.

[Interjection: I love that at 8:42 a.m. in the Miami Airport, the Barcardi Mojito Bar is open for business! Of course, I’ll be passing because everyone knows you don’t have a Bloody Mary after dark and a mojito before 7 p.m. But it still makes me happy just by its existence.]

We started 2011 off right. Hangover be damned, I wasn’t going to start the new decade without a run. So I ran the eight miles to my cousins’ house, accompanied for half of that trip by Stoney of the R.V. (also known as Claudia’s other half. Hi, Claudia!), who actually rode a bike. At the cousins’, café con leches (what else?) started the day, and the kids all took a quick dip in the hot tub. And then it was an afternoon on the boat.

These photos taken by Ollie.

Let’s talk about the boat, shall we? Ollie’s had this boat for, oh, almost all these years we’ve been going to Miami Beach for New Year’s. The boat has this front area, which folks like to lay on and let the wind rush through their hair and relax. Only to get to the front area, you need to walk around the side of the boat. And I’m scared to walk around the side of the boat. I have this incredibly irrational fear of docks, getting on and off the boat, and being on the side where there’s very little railing. I can’t watch my children being put on the boat—it terrifies me. I need to have at least two adults flanking me and holding onto me as I step the six inches from the dock onto the boat. I’ve always looked longingly at the front of the boat, but it was never to be a reality for me.

Until. Until. Until yesterday, when I said to Tuna’s husband, “I wish I could go up there.” And he said, “Why don’t you?” And I replied, “Well, I can’t walk around the side?” And Tuna’s husband pointed down and said, “Why don’t you just go inside the boat, and come through the hatch?” Um, hello? There’s a hatch I can go through? Why has no one mentioned this to me in, oh, the past four years? Sure, enough, you go into the main bedroom (yes, there are three bedrooms and two bathrooms on this boat), climb up on the bed, and hop up through the hatch. And even better, when you’re there, people will bring you Bloody Marys! Freakin’ people who never told me about the hatch!

[Note: I spoke too soon. The girl’s tears are back. I said to her, “You can’t cry. I already put in my blog that you stopped.” She said, “Then you have to erase that.”]

After the boat, it was back to the hot tub and then dinner with my ‘rents. And now, now we wait for our plane. In a most sad way. Well, at least for me. Adam is playing with his iPad, Doodles is reading one of the three new Calvin and Hobbes book he got, and Pie is playing with her new Tag reading thingy. And me? I’m thinking about stone crabs, light-up mojito tinis, unlimited free babysitting, and runs on the beach boardwalk.

Only 357 more days till we get to do it again.

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

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

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

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

I’ve discovered where the performers who aren’t good enough for Storyland go: to the HumAnimals show at Jungle Island, which, apparently, is an “artistic fusion between the human and animal worlds.” In other words, it’s a bunch of not-quite-there acrobats in really bad costumes. Welcome to Miami, folks.

The boy and I are at Jungle Island alone this year, because all the girl wants to do is… Actually I have no idea what the girl wants to do. I only know what she doesn’t want to do, which is everything that isn’t ice cream or mani-pedis. The Yogi Bear movie? Terrifying. The Metrozoo? Kind of okay. Lunch outside on Lincoln Road? She hates eating outside, don’t I know that? I can think of a few new year’s resolutions I’d like to make for her.

So I’m doing the only rational thing one can do: I’m dumping the girl on the Nana. The Nana has no problems, with her broken elbow and all, appealing to the whim of one very demanding girl. The boy is happy with his grandfather. Which leaves me plenty of time to spaaaaah. Yesterday was the grown-up girls’ day, which means instead of candy cane ice cream at the Frieze, we drank lemon drops in the pool at the Standard. A definite win for the grown-ups.

And now I prepare for the annual New Year’s Eve party. I’ve baked cookies. Made some pomegranate syrup for bubbly drinks. I’m going to get dressed and head over to my cousin’s house. Where I shall eat, drink, and make merry. Tomorrow, perhaps, I’ll have some resolutions of my own, but I wouldn’t count to much on it.

Happy end of 2010!

The purging of the medicine cabinet has gone. Two bottles of Nyquil from August 2008 have hit the trash. I’m debating the 2000 Vicks Rub, because, really, it’s just a smelly thing. Maybe it’s still okay? Or maybe I’m just turning into my parents?

We’ve been here for four days and there’s much to report, but I’m drowsy from my burgers and beer and I need to be pleasantly in the mind set of relaxation as tomorrow is spa day. Just didn’t want to completely disappear from view.

For Art Basel, pink snails appeared all over Miami Beach, and they all still remains. Pie is making a game of counting them when she finds them. So far, she's up to nineteen.

Adam likes to grow a beard starting on December 25. He keeps it for the winter and then shaves it on June 25. Last night, I looked at him and said, “I’m not sure I want you to grow your beard this year.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Well, looking at the holiday card, I think I like the photo better of you sans beard. Maybe you don’t start growing the beard this Christmas.”

Long pause. Finally, he says, “Um, I already started growing the beard.”

Oops.

Ah, the holiday season is well upon us. Also known as card season.

This year, as with most years, I came up with the idea for our holiday card (always a new year’s card to avoid the whole “we don’t celebrate Christmas” thing). I cajoled my son into contributing a picture. I picked the photos. I came up with captions. I designed the layout. I ordered the cards. I bought the stamps. I printed out the return address label. I sent out–in a timely manner–about 98% of my cards. The few that remain need me to hunt up an address or a husband’s name or the like. I reminded Adam to do his. “I’m going to do it tonight,” he’s said every night for the past two weeks. And within about fifteen minutes, he’s asleep on the couch. In the morning, the card pile hasn’t shrunk at all.

A week ago, I gave up. “Print out your list,” I said. “Let me at least take care of the folks I know.”

“No, no. I’ll do it myself!”

Three days ago: “Print out your list.”

“No, no, I got it.”

Yesterday he printed out a list for me. Today I wrote a good third of his cards (apologies if you’re one of his friends who gets a card from me; in all fairness it just means that I like you, which can’t be said for everyone on his list, so be flattered).

Today he called at 2:30. “I’ll be leaving in a half hour.”

“So you’ll be home normal time?”

“No, I’ll be home early today!”

Sure enough, he walked in the door early. 5:40. A whole 20 minutes early. We ordered in dinner for the family. And then Adam looked at the stack of cards. “Okay,” he said. “I’m ready to help with this.”

Um, excuse me? “Help”? With what? Everything’s been done. He can’t mean he’ll help with his own card list, can he? He saw my face. “I mean, I’m ready to write my cards!”

We’ll see if he’s able. It’s hard to write when someone’s shoved the pen up your a*ss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can we then watch something else?”

“Nope.”

Huff huff. “Fine. I’ll watch it.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine! I’m watching!”

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

“No.”

“A Jewish man!” I tell them.

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

“Just watch the freakin’ movie.”

“But you said–”

“Never mind and watch.”

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

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

“No way!”

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

“Reallllly?”

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

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

“Nope. Not when he was your age.”

“A radio!” the boy piped up.

“Yep, that’s right!”

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

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

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

“Exactly.”

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

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

“Really?!?! But they’re kids!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No way,” the boy says.

“Nope,” says the girl.

“You don’t believe me?” I ask.

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

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

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