the pieces of my life

Curled up in Doodles's little twin bed.

I love coming home to this sight. Normally Pie falls asleep in her own bed, and makes her way into our bed in the middle of the night. But when she has a babysitter, despite the painted nails that she’s allowed, she still gets “sad” when it’s time for her to go to sleep. So, inevitably, she crawls into her brother’s small bed. I’m thrilled that he tolerates it. They have their moments, but when it comes down to it, they take care of each other.

Adam and I had our cooking class tonight. For about a year we took a once-a-month cooking class from this amazing woman in the next town over. She took a hiatus to go to culinary school, so tonight was our first class since then. Oh. My. God. It was amazing. I went in tired and cranky and I left sated and happy and with a gallon of rendered duck fat. No, seriously. Our teacher, Rose, is a vegetarian, and while she whips up this scrumptious meals for us (tonight was duck fat fries with duck breast, fig salad, pasta with a short rib sauce, and a ginger creme brulee–she’s expanded her class to more than once a month, so if you’re local and you want in, just let me know!), she often has more leftovers than her carnivorous family can eat. Which is where my family comes in. So I now have a huge container of duck fat in my fridge. And giant bag of potatoes from Boston Organics. If you’re in the ‘hood and you want duck fat fries, you know where to come!

Let’s start this by saying Adam is wrong. Screw top wines are never good and the Bordeaux did not improve after a day.

Now, let’s ask: Where did this boy of mine come from? I just had to tell him that two hours of reading was too long and he had to go to bed, but he was determined to continue studying the multiplication tables in some random book he found. Not my child.*

Shall we continue? My daughter has put a song in my head about a gooney bird. A mother gooney bird to be exact. With seven gooney birds. They can’t walk, they can’t talk. But they can flap their right arms. Like this.  And I can’t freakin’ get it out of my head.

But I’ve gotten even. I’ve put Cee Lo Green’s song in my kids’ heads. And have forbidden them from singing it in public. Not an issue for my boy. But my girl will be suffering. She can’t stop the music. She’s like my mother that way. But I’ve scared her that if she says the grown-up word at school she’ll get in big trouble. I like to parent that way. With fear. And profanity. The latter you can also credit my mom. She can drop an f-bomb like Mel Gibson on a traffic stop.

Speaking of cursing like Braveheart, I’ll be doing just that while I go all Fight Club on the next person who asks me, “So, Pie is in kindergarten? What are you doing with all that free time?” I’ll tell you what I do with all that free time. I spend all that free time at the gym, bulking up, so I can wale on the next person who asks me that. Don’t let it be you.

And that’s the way it is: Tuesday, September 28, 2010. Good night.

*Speaking of my boy and of film, my boy entered a film contest and came in second, proving there is some shared DNA (remember me? I did go to film school. Once upon a time). Unfortunately, his real name is on it so I can’t link to it here, but if I know you, comment or e-mail and I’ll send you a link.

So kids actually do things in kindergarten. They have echo owls to learn their sounds and they make apple trees with their families’ names on them. They check books out of the library that they can leave in the classroom and learn to dance “Eye of the Tiger.” The learn a poem about six little apples and the first day of fall (today!) is marked with a leaf on the calendar.

Who knew? Certainly not me.

“Wow!” I tell Pie. “That’s amazing all the things you’re doing just the second week of school. Doodles, I wonder why you didn’t have the echo owl.”

Doodles, with a mouth full of chocolate peanut butter, trying to do his math homework says, “We did.”

“You did?”

“Yeah.”

“You never mentioned it.”

He shrugs.

“You never mentioned anything.”

He shrugs again.

Pie asks, handing me a sheet, “Do echo owl for me!” Echo owl is part of the fundations program. I call out letters with specified words and the sound and she colors it on a chart she has. The idea is to have each letter associated with a word so the kids can remember what the letter sounds like. “N nut nnnnn,” I say to Pie.

She colors in the N.

“A apple ay,” I say next.

“That’s wrong,” Doodles said. “It’s A apple aaahh.”

“He’s right,” Pie says, as she colors in the A apple.

“Okay, M–”

“Mom, I’ll just do it. You’re going to do it wrong. Here, Pie, H hat hhhhh.”

I sit back and watch. I’m unneeded until I have to check Doodles’s work. He generally gets all his answers right, but I still need to check him for backwards letters and numbers.

While I’m checking, the two chat.

“I want a brother or another sister,” Doodles says.

“Me too!” Pie agrees.

“Not even the remotest chance,” I tell them.

“Why not?” Doodles asks.

“Because I am done. Done, done, done.”

“I want a brother,” Doodles says. “I know what you want,” he says to his sister. “You want a sister.”

Pie shrugs. “I don’t care. I like having a brother.”

And with that, homework time is suddenly worth it. Yea, homework time!

I spend my entire days now counting. Okay, that’s not a hundred percent true. I spend a good portion of my day threatening to count.

I don’t even know where this counting started. I think somehow, somewhere, there was some book that advocated counting. Oh, I didn’t read the book. Someone just told me about it. And about the counting. So I count. Or I threaten to count.

“Doodles! Doodles, get out here right now! Doodles, I mean it! Don’t make me start counting! Fine! That’s one!”

The boy scurries out before I hit “three.” Because “three” is the be all end all of counting. At three, it happens. It goes down at three. Man, you do NOT want to see three.

At least I don’t. Because I’m still not sure what happens at three. So I tend to avoid three at all costs.

“Pie, close your eyes and stop playing. Pie, you are too old for me to still be lying here in bed with you! Daddy may put up with this crap, but Daddy abandoned the family tonight for some freakin’ Red Sox game and so you’re stuck with me, and I DO NOT PUT UP WITH THIS! Close your eyes! Now! Don’t make me count to three! Okay, that’s one! Stop kicking your legs and go to sleep! I’m going to get to two. If you don’t stop, I’ll be at two. Pie! Fine, that’s two! Don’t make me go to three. I’m serious here. I’m about to get to three! You are at two. Do you really want me to go to three? Pie! That’s two and a half! I’m almost at three! Close your FREAKIN’ eyes NOW!”

Thankfully, she generally drifts off somewhere around two and seven-eighths.

Because, let’s face it. What am I going to dole out at three? No TV? God, just let me slit my wrists right now if I can’t plop that girl in front of Disney Channel for a half hour. And what else could I possibly take away? Can’t take away stories–must read to our children every night in order to enlighten and educate and fulfill our duties to the public school system. Can’t take away dessert–we don’t do dessert except for Friday nights. What else is there? Not much. I paid too much for dance lessons and piano lessons and all the other lessons to withhold those. So it’s critical–critical, dammit!–that I never reach three.

And God help me if the two of them ever figure that out.

Yom Kippur begins at sundown tonight. My son and I began the negotiations this morning. We are not, in general, an observant family but we do make more of an effort around Yom Kippur.

Me: There will be no TV, iPods, computers, or electronics for the 25 hours of Yom Kippur.

It should be noted that the boy does exactly two things these days: jump on his bed while listening to Camp Rock songs on his iPod and lie in his bed, sucking his finger, staring out the window, while listening to Camp Rock Songs on his iPod.

Boy: Then what will I do?

Me: You can read. You can go outside. You can do some art. You can play with toys.

Boy: My toys are all electronic.

Me: No they aren’t. You have tons of non-electronic toys.

Boy: Are you sure I can’t listen to my music?

Me: I’m sure.

Boy: Well, can I play with my Lego robot?

Me: Um… yes. But you can’t hook it up to the computer to program it.

Boy: What about the programs that are already on there?

Me: Uh…

Boy: Well?

Me: Um, I guess that’s okay. But no hooking it up to the computer.

Boy: ‘kay.

Talmudic? Perhaps not. But it works in our house.

Pie the Kindergartner

I am now a lady of leisure. My younger child has fled to kindergarten, and I now have hours and hours to watch Oprah, eat bon bons, and get pedicures. I so cannot wait.

If only.

I have to say sending my wee one off is a bittersweet experience, one I’m not completely excited about. By default of being the second child, she just seems younger to me than her brother did when he started kindergarten. But she’s taken to school well. She doesn’t like the transition of walking into the school–her teacher has to peel her off of me–but once she’s in she’s immediately happy and I know way more about kindergarten after one week of school than I did in the boy’s entire year there.

The boy, surprisingly, is loving second grade. His teacher seems great and he’s excited about the desk fairy (who occasionally surprises with a treat those with neat desks), D.E.A.R. (drop everything and read), and math.

And me? I am procrastinating on deciding what I want to do next by overcompensating. I have thrown myself into school with a vengeance and have taken on enough that I shouldn’t have to think about what I want to be when I grow up for a while. I’ve got the PTO mini-grant committee that I head. I’ve taken over the school newsletter. In the spring, there’s Teacher Appreciation week, for which I’m the co-chair. I’ll be in the library once a week and in Pie’s classroom another day of the week.  And then there are the synagogue activities. I update the Web site every week. I write all the bereavement letters. I’m co-chair the women’s seder committee.

Doodles the Second Grader (holding a picture of Doodles the First Grader holding a picture of Doodles the Kindergartner)

And then there’s the novel. The novel. Dum dum dum! I just finished finally inputting all the changes from my last reader and I have sent it off to a new reader. But I’m pretty much there, so now I’m toiling over the query letter, which is agonizing, as in some ways it can be more important than the novel. (The query letter being the one page summary of the novel that I send to agents in hopes of representation.) The query letter is just no fun. And then there’s the researching of agents and the submitting. It’s all a very terrifying process (it’s important to research agents but in researching you just learn over and over how humiliating the whole process is) and it leaves me vulnerable to the opinions and whims of strangers, but strangers who can make a difference in my writing career. Now that I am a lady of leisure, I will have the opportunity to join a group of moms from the school who are part of a writing group, so I won’t be writing in a near-vaccuum (near, because I do have wonderful friends who read my stuff, but none of them close enough for me to have a chat with over coffee).

And of course I need to start working on the next thing. I’m very excited about a one day Flash Fiction Crank I’ll be attending at the Salem Literary Festival as a means to get me out of my novel rut and to start thinking in different ways.

So, lady of leisure, yes. But bon bons and Oprah and pedicures? Not so much. Although, lady cannot live by novel alone. Feel free to send the bon bons.

–My son convinced my daughter that Hebrew school was the evil of all evils. But she announced yesterday afternoon, “Hey, Doodles was wrong! Hebrew school is fun!” And because of that, I didn’t cut out his tongue.

–The Dolphins won yesterday, and my son announced, “That’s not good news. Because I now root for the Patriots.” And I didn’t smack him across the head.

–My son asked this morning, as I tearfully prepared Pie for her first day of kindergarten and got together everything we needed, “Why do you always wait till the last minute to make my lunch for school?” And I let him I live.

That boy likes living dangerously.

Doodles, as security, checked names against the guest list and handed out all-access passes.

Can I get a “Whoo hoo”? Whoo hoo! The birthday party season has ended and I survived. Guitar-shaped cake. Check. Gold rock ‘n’ roll cuffs. Check. Backstage passes for everyone. Check. Freeze dance, pin-the-sunglasses on the rock star, limbo. Check. Beers consumed. Check. Thank you notes all written. Check. I am DONE!

Of course, it all finished just in time. Because we head full-speed into fall. While everyone else has been in school for weeks now, Doodles starts second grade this Wednesday. Rosh Hashanah is Thursday. Pie starts the kindergarten the following Monday, and has three kindergarten events between now and then. Hebrew school for both starts next Sunday. Between the four of us, we have three parties to attend next weekend.

Rock Star Pie with a Rock Star Buddy

Anyone wondering how I’m going to cook for Rosh Hashanah? The same way I cooked for today’s party. By taking my pans and batter across the street to Beetle’s house. Because, yes, we are now on week nine of no oven. Oh, the part came in. The guys came. And surprise, surprise, it was the motherboard. Hmmm, didn’t someone say that already? Like last July 3? So I’m waiting, waiting, waiting….

In the meantime, the stage has shut down, the little rock stars are fast asleep, and I’m going to–shocking, I know–open a bottle of wine.

Pinata booty

Rock Star Cake

I confess. Tonight as I was blowing up plastic microphones and guitars for Pie’s Rock Star birthday party, I had on Bridezillas. All of a sudden, a cold chill went up my spine. I had a flash forward to Pie, twenty-eight years from now at her own wedding (we get married late, us party girls) . That girl is going to be a bridezilla. You can tell by the way she micromanages what I will be wearing to her party. The way she critiques birthday cake decorations. The way she demands that we play Pin the Sunglasses on the Rock Star without closing eyes, because she doesn’t like her eyes to be closed, tradition be damned. The way she melted down over who got what silly bands in his or her goody band. The way she insisted I sew matching rock star skirts for her and Jasmine to wear. They way… well, I just get dizzy thinking about all the ways. She’s been planning this party for six months now.

When she’s ready for the big leagues… I think I’ll be joining the Peace Corps. Although the other side of the world may not be quite far enough away.

Miss Five-year-old Thang

Me: What’s today?

Pie: My birthday.

Me: How can you tell?

Pie: Because there’s balloons and writing on my wall and the usual stuff that was on Doodles’s birthday.

Me: How old are you?

Pie: I’m turning five.

Me: How is five different from four?

Pie: ‘Cause you get to go into kindergarten.

Me: What are you most looking forward to.

Pie: Having Ms. V teach my class and Jasmine in my class.

Me: How will you celebrate your birthday?

Pie: With Mommy and Doodles.

Me: Doing what?

Pie: Going out and doing lots of fun, fun stuff with them.

Me: What can you do now that you couldn’t do when you were four?

Pie: I can swim by myself. I can do a little bit of writing. And I now know all my numbers.

Me: That’s a lot!

Pie: And that seems like enough.

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

Pie: A mom.

Me: Are you going to work outside the house?

Pie: No. Work in.

Me: How are you going to have money?

Pie: I don’t know.

Me: How many kids will you have?

Pie: Two or one.

Me: Any grand pronouncements?

Pie: No.

Me: What else do you want to say to everyone?

Pie: I don’t know. That’s all.

Me: Happy birthday, Pie Pie.