the pieces of my life

Apologies to my Facebook friends who have already seen this, but I’m a proud mama. My boy’s band, actually called The Colored Toasters of Raining #7 (“Mom, don’t forget it, it’s that lines with the crosses, not the word ‘number'”) performed at the end of the School of Rock February vacation camp. He was so excited to have his friends and us come watch (Tab, Jasmine, and Jasmine’s older sister joined us). He totally rocked out. And he loved it. The second he was done, he asked, “Can I do it over April vacation?” Here’s a short video of my little rocker-in-training: Whoo Hoo.

I watched with the kids the final shuttle launch of Discovery.

Me: This makes me a little sad.
Pie: Why?
Doodles: Pie, this is what’s called the end of an era. It’s the end of an era of space shuttles.
Pie: Oh! Now I’m getting teary.

***

The boy has been attending School of Rock for vacation week. Tomorrow his band performs at a club in Cambridge. He’s been listening to the songs he’s doing over and over and over. (He’s playing drums on Blind Melon’s “No Rain” and singing on Blur’s “Song 2” and Ozzy Osbourne’s “Crazy Train.”) He’s been jumping up and down on his bed every night and every morning, yelling, “A whoo hoo!”

I can’t get “Song 2” out of my head now. So I put it on and said to the kids, “I can’t get this song out of my head!”

The boy looked at me and said, “Mom! It might help if you stopped playing it!”

Gee, why didn’t I think of that?

****

For the big show, the boy wanted another stripe in his hair, like he had last year. (This time, though, he wanted green.) So I took him to the hair salon. While he was getting it done, the girl piped up.

Pie: Mommy, I want a stripe, too!

This isn’t the first time she’s asked. I’d gotten her some colored hair extensions last year, but it’s something that comes up every now and then.

Me: Are you sure? The only reason I hesitate is your hair is so long that it’ll take a long time for it to grow out. The boy’s hair is short, so it ends up getting cut out before it looks too funky.
Pie: No, I want a stripe , too!
Me: Well, okay. Let’s go find the other stylist.

We walk over to the other stylist. We all get our hair done at this salon, so they know us pretty well. I say to the stylist, “She’d like to get a stripe in her hair.”

Stylist: Yeah? Sure, we can do that.
Me: It’s going to take a while to grow out though, no?
Stylist: Yes. But it’ll be okay. Pie, you sure you want a stripe?
Pie: Yes!
The stylist smiles at me and then turns to Pie.
Stylist: Would you like me to put in a stripe or would you rather I paint your nails?
Not even a second’s hesitation.
Pie: My nails!!
Stylist: Let’s go!
She turns to me and whispers, “That works every time.”

***

The name of the boy’s School of Rock band? Raining Colored Toasters #7

As I was going through my photos and old journals, I called the boy up. “You know how we’ve been talking about Egypt and what’s going on there? These are pictures of Egypt that I took.” We go through, and I pull up a Google map and we talk about Sinai and how it was Egypt’s and then Israel’s and then Egypt’s again. We talked about the pyramids. Then, as I was on a roll, I offered to show him my pictures of Petra. I pull Jordan up on the map, but before I could even get to the first story I had, he said, “Why are we doing this again?”

My kids. Such a fascination with the world. Sigh.

–I’m not sure why my family doesn’t see it as an act kindness that I am willing to eat all the expired gummy bears by myself? What if they’re poisonous now? Why don’t they understand I’m simply taking one for the team?

–I don’t like to think of myself as a fair weather environmentalist, but I officially declare a hiatus on composting until the first thaw. If we could even get to the composter, I don’t think we’d be able to pry the lid off (sorry for the haze–the only way to take the picture was through the window screen):

–Yesterday was a snow day. A sleety/frozen rain/snow-covered snow day. The boy simply stayed in his pjs the entire day (the girl went on a playdate,so she had to dress. God FORBID there is a day without a friend in it!). But when he woke up in the morning, the first thing he did was go to his math workbook, where he has extra math that he requested from his teacher, and he did a few pages of algebra. “I need to warm my brain up,” he told Adam.

–My car got stuck in my own driveway today. Wheels spun. Wouldn’t move. “Move it up slowly and then hit reverse fast,” Adam advised. Um, there is no forward. Forward is only a giant snowbank. I did get it out eventually. “Maybe we should make our driveway double wide,” Adam said. “Maybe we should move our driveway to Miami,” I replied. “Um,” he said, “my way’s cheaper.” Yeah? So?

–I love that when I now use my “Can’t talk; noveling” mug, I no longer feel like a fraud about it.

–I think those gummies were poisonous! I definitely feel nauseous right now. I guess you shouldn’t eat gummies that have been expired for a year. Or maybe it’s that I ate all 3.5 servings in one sitting? And how is it possible that that one little bag could be 3.5 servings? No, it must be because they were expired.

Today was snowshoeing with the Daisies day. Eleven girls. Four older siblings. Seven grown-ups. A wide open field for clomping across. What could wrong? Oh, I know. My kids could be royal pains in the tush. Everyone else seemed to be doing fine. But mine? Not as much.

Remarkably, despite the 20 degree weather, it felt great out (this isn’t just me being masochistic–everyone agreed it was a beautiful day). No wind, pristine snow, sun out. Perfect winter outside weather.

The boy was happy… for a while. When he was off on his own, he was as happy as could be. But then I made him stick with the group. And he was sad. So very sad. And a wee bit angry. Just one Garbo moment after another: “I want to be alone!”

The girl snowshoed. And enjoyed it. For five minutes. And then she was tired. And thirsty. And. She. Wasn’t. Going. To. Walk. Anymore! Thank you very much.

Almost everyone was happy to stop. Well, just about everyone. The other leader and I brought hot chocolate for after and I made cookies for all the Daisies. The boy ate one. He asked for another. He got another! But then halfway through eating it, he overheard someone asking me what kind of cookies they were. “Cherry Chocolate Chip!” I said. The boy looked at that half eaten cookie, handed it back to me, and said, “I don’t like it.”

“But you ate one and half of them!”

“That was before I knew what it was. Now I don’t like it.”

I know, you’re jealous. Sorry. They’re all mine!

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.

This is what happen when Jewish children watch the Christmas specials on TV:

(And for those who need a translation: Dear Santa, What I want for chrismass is a nerf gun. I also want a pet. I really celobrate chanakka. I just wanted to write a leter to you. Why do you live in the north pole. from, Doodles. P.S. My chimny to the fire place is blocked. I do not have a xmas tree. leeve the present in the family room. thanks.)

The boy is way into Calvin and Hobbes.

Me: What are you reading?
The boy: Calvin and Hobbies. I found it on the shelf downstairs.
Me: It’s pronounced Hobbes.
The boy: Oh.

Five minutes later.
The boy: For the next holiday, I want some more Calvin and Hobbies books.
Me: It’s Hobbes.
The boy: How do you know?
Me: Just one of those things a mother knows.
The boy: Hmmm.
Me: Are there other comics you like? [Every Sunday morning, the boy rushes out–usually in his underwear–to get the paper, which he then destroys in the family room to get to the comics.]
The boy: No, just Calvin and Hobbies.
Me: Hobbes!!
The boy: Uh, yeah, right.

Forget pronunciation. I think we need to work on basic “Trust your mother” issues!

Our DVR is so backed up that it’s randomly deleting stuff. I don’t like it when my stuff is randomly deleted. I told Adam to get me one with more GBs. He said there wasn’t one. So now we’re on a mad dash to watch all the shows we’ve saved. Which means I get to blog, because Grey’s Anatomy is on our list and I can only watch the non-gory parts. Adam tells me when it’s safe to look, and I’ll chat with you guys when it’s gross. I think we’re pretty close to done with the show.

It’s the end of the weekend, although we really don’t have weekends anymore. Hockey has started. The boy has hockey now twice a weekend and next week the girl starts, too (at different times). That plus Hebrew school plus drum lessons plus the usual birthday parties (two this weekend) and playdates (two this weekend), and weekends are pretty much kaput.

I’ve been working the haus frau thing to the max. We went apple picking a couple of weekends ago, and the kids wanted the BIG bag for apple picking. “What are we going to do with twenty pounds of apples?” I asked. “Puh-lease!” they begged. We caved. This was the first year when the kids did all the picking. In the old days, they’d pick for five minutes and then we’d take over. Not this year. They were picking machines. We had to stop them when the bag was overflowing–definitely more than twenty pounds.

And I used them. Every freakin’ last one of them. I used apples in salads, apples with peanut butter, apples in oatmeal. I made apple butter, apple sauce, apple-pumpkin muffins, apple-apple muffins, apple crisp, mini-apple pies, apple fruit roll-ups.

What else can I tell you while Dr. Altman does her heart surgery? Pie has reverted back to impossible bedtimes. It’s gotten to the point where tonight, as she was whining her way upstairs, that Doodles shook his head and announced, “This is not going to end well.”

The boy lost a front tooth. He tortured me with it for a while first–pushing it out of his mouth at odd angles–but it finally came out. He put it under his pillow. The tooth fairy came. She left a dollar and a note. Unfortunately, she wrote a joke in her note (Why do vampires brush their teeth three times a day? So they won’t have bat breath). The next morning, the accusation came: “Mom, you left it, didn’t you?”

Me: Why would you say that?

The boy: Because there was a joke in there and you know lots of jokes.

Hmmm. Didn’t think about that. I leave jokes in lunch boxes. The tooth fairy leaves jokes in her notes.

Me: Well, what was the joke?

The boy: Why does the vampire brush his teeth?

Me: I don’t know. Why?

The boy: Um… what was it? Oh, because his teeth are batty.

I could honestly say: I’ve never heard that before! Nope, not me.

He better watch himself. Next time, the Tooth Fairy just might leave him apples.

Let me preface this post by saying I’m on a train to Poughkeepsie, I’m severely hungover, and I’m sitting next to two backpackers who wish to perpetuate the stereotype of Europeans and their dislike of frequent showers.

So as most of you know, I have my children’s lives plotted out down to who they’ll roommate with in college. And up to now, everyone’s pretty much accepted it.

And then, yesterday:

Pie: I’m not going to school here.

Me: Of course you are. You’ll go to Tisch just like your mommy. You’ll live with Mimi, who’s also going to school here [a bonus about being friends with me: I’ll also plot out your kids’ lives].

Pie: I don’t want to.

Me: Yes, you do. The school color is violet. Purple is your favorite color.

Pie: I’m going to go to school in Arlington.

Me: Sweetie, there are no colleges in Arlington. But you don’t have to worry, because as soon as you come to NYU for school, we’ll be moving to New York, too! That way we’ll be right near you at NYU and really close to your brother at Princeton.

Pie: I’m not going to NYU and I’m not living with Mimi!

Me: Oh?

Pie: Yes! I’m going to Princeton and I’m living with Doodles!

Doodles: Oh man! I don’t want to live with Pie in college!

Me: Oh hush. It’s a wonderful idea! Absolutely, Pie. You can go to Princeton and live with your brother.

Doodles pouts. Pie is happy.

Pie: But you can still buy me a purple NYU shirt. I’ll still wear it.

Me: Oh joy.