the pieces of my life

My father, Peter, likes to complain that I don’t post enough but considering that 1) I don’t see him offering to come up and relieve me of some of my responsibilities (babysitters are always welcome!) and 2) where are his blog posts? I say to him a big fat thpppppp.

Today was one of those days when my greatest achievement was not killing my children. I have officially turned them over to Adam and I’m sitting her drinking my chardonnay, too lazy to get up and turn off the Miley Cyrus, which means tomorrow “Party in the U.S.A.” will torture me on my morning run.

Not related to my children’s monster meltdowns: After school today, I was sitting outside with my neighbor Beetle while Tab and Doodles played in their “clubhouse,” aka the bushes outside Tab’s house.

“So,” Beetle said. “Doodles has to wear all green tomorrow to school?”

“What?”

“He has to wear all green tomorrow for school.”

“For his play?”

“I don’t know.”

I yell to Doodles, “Hey, Doodles! Get out here!”

He lumbers out. I ask, “Why does Beetle know you have to wear green tomorrow, but I don’t?”

I get the mother of all “duh” looks. “Because I told her!”

Of course. Tomorrow all the first graders in the school are celebrating an African festival. There will be a play. My son will be playing the Boa Constrictor. There will be music on drums they made themselves. There will be a feast. Provided by the parents.

Another parent and I were assigned to make Benne Cakes. Of course, allergy-free Benne Cakes with Ener-G Egg Replacer, which I’ve never had much luck with. She starts first. I get a call. “These things are absolutely flat. Completely unusable.” In my cocky Martha-Stewart way, I assured her that I’d make mine and let her know how they were, fully confident that they’d be great. I made them. They’re flat. Completely unusable. And dark. And weird looking.

So I do a little Web research on Benne Cakes. Only to discover that benne means… sesame seed. Which we aren’t using. Because of allergies. So these things I’m making? My African Benne Cakes aren’t African and aren’t cakes. Yum!

Now I get to stay up late making more non-African, non-Benne, non-cakes. Lucky me!

So, Peter. You were saying?

Today in the car:

Doodles: Mom, I think the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus are related.
Me: Well, yeah. They’re both Christian.
D: Yeah, I know.
Me: You don’t tell people that they’re not real, do you?
D: No.
Me: Good.
D: Although…
Me: Yes?
D: I think the Easter Bunny is real.
Me: Really?
D: Yeah.
Me: Well, why didn’t the Easter Bunny bring you anything?
D: Because we’re not Christian.
Me: But you still think it’s real?
D: Yeah.
Me: Um. Okay. What about Santa?
D: He’s not real.
Me: All right.
D: You know, I think that maybe the Easter Bunny is Santa’s pet bunny.
Me: Wait.
D: Yeah?
Me: If Santa isn’t real, how can he have a pet bunny?
D: Well, maybe Santa is a spirit and the spirit of Santa has a bunny.
Me: Oh. Hey!
D: What?
Me: How is it that you can believe in the spirit of Santa but you can’t believe in God?
D: I’m just weird like that.

Dear Readers. Having fun. Wish you were here. Love, Jenny

No seriously, I know I haven’t been posting as much lately. It’s just with the beautiful weather and the holiday and all the other good stuff, I’ve been out doing instead of home computering. I need to do some construction on this site (and by “me,” I mean “Adam” and by “construction” I mean, “I have no idea what I mean”). For the past 8 1/2 years (gasp!) that I’ve kept this blog, I’ve FTP’d it to Blogger. No biggie. Although they’re now doing away with FTP support, which means… well, something. Apparently my main choice is to go to WordPress, if I want to keep my own domain, and it’s these gorgeous, beautiful weeks that make me wonder if I really will. Maybe it’s time to let the blog die a natural death before my son, who can now read everything I write figures out what I’m up to and starts to protest his innermost quirks being broadcast to the world at large. Something to think about…

Anywhos… What have I been busy with? Well, there’s Pesach (and I love how every time Pie says, “Pesach,” to my father, she quickly adds, “That’s Passover,” as if my father has no idea what Pesach is. Which he does. And he doesn’t. So she’s not completely off). We hosted a seder for 18, which was lovely, but a little busy. As she’s at a Jewish preschool, Pie had off last Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday for the holiday. And then Doodles had off Friday for Good Friday (and I tried explaining Good Friday and Easter to him, but boy did I mangle it. I tried to end on a joke–“Do you know, Doodles, how we’ll know who’s right?” “How?” “Well, when the Messiah comes, if he says, ‘Nice to meet you,’ we’ll know that we [the Jews] were right. If he says, ‘Hi. Good to see you again,’ we’ll know the Christians had it right.”–but somehow that only made it more confusing). And then Pie had off again this past Monday and Tuesday for the end of Passover. And yet I survived. Did I mention that Adam’s in London? Still surviving. And having fun.

So first night seder was at our house. We did seder bingo. Kids did the four questions beautifully. Ate too many desserts. Done by about 8. The second night we had seder at our rabbi’s house. Now that’s a seder. The kids loved it, although Pie petered out at 8:30. Doodles and I made it till the midnight end and he was enthralled by it. So the next day I let him play hooky, and Doodles, Pie, and I went to see the Egypt Tomb 10A exhibit at the MFA. (Get it? It was Passover? So we went to see about Egypt? Clever, no?)

I had to fit all of my week into Thursday and then on Friday, Doodles and I rode bikes, went to see How to Train Your Dragon, and then hung out outside. It was truly a perfect day.

The beginning of this week, Pie wanted playdates so I used the time to clean. I mean really clean. I finally got my office organized, and over the weekend, Adam had built these lovely shelves in our closet’s closet (yes, you read that right: our closet has a closet), so I moved all our CDs in there and then repurposed the original shelves in my office and the house is so lovely and beautiful! The house was fully cleaned today and I feel this urge to put police tape all over the door and make a huge sign that reads, “No Medroses Allowed” because the instant one of them comes in this house, there goes all my beautiful clean house. Sigh.

There’s more I’ve done. And more going on. But I don’t feel like writing about it. Children want to be let in. So I need to go guard my beautiful house. Because I can see the gleam in their eyes. The gleam of destruction. Sigh.

Today is Red Sox day in the boy’s classroom. Yet he said to me, “I have nothing to wear.”

I pointed out the spread of shirts from which he had to choose. An Ortiz. A Pedroia. A Matsuzaka. Even a Garciaparra . Plus two with no names on them at all.

“I only want to wear Varitek.”

To which Adam cringes. Because apparently Varitek sucks. And is on his way out. (As I would not know or care about these things.)

The boy is locked in his room at the moment. We all wait with baited breath, to see what he’s going to wear today….

Report cards came out last Friday and my son is brilliant. Brilliant, of course being a subjective mom’s interpretation of grades that run all over the place. Our town has this incomprehensible grading system of B, P, M, and E. B=beginning a skill, P=progressing on a skill, M=meeting expectations, E=exceeding expectations. Doodles had a healthy mix of Ps, Ms, and Es. Brilliant, right?

Anyway, I didn’t need a report card to tell me that the area Doodles needs to work the most in is his writing. But of course writing is the subject he likes least and the one he is most reluctant to practice.

Except on Friday, I had a brainstorm. A genius idea! I dug into the attic and found, from 1976 to 1978, my diary. With Strawberry Shortcake on the cover and a lock on the outside. And I read Doodles a few pages. The one that made him the happiest was this one:

(And I cringe reading this. How, at the ripe old age of 9 1/2, did I not know the difference between “loose” and “lose”? I blame my parents.)

Doodles needed a diary. Can I tell you how hard it is to find a locking diary that isn’t adorned in Hello Kitty or flowers or fairies? I thought I found a really cool one, but the price was, um, off putting. But I did find one that wasn’t great, but wasn’t “girly.”

The boy is addicted. Every few hours he jumps up and yells, “I need to go write something in my diary!” I’m dying to peer into his journal, but I respect his privacy. And, the fact is, I really don’t care what he writes. I just care how he writes. I want to know he’s spelling because and not becos, that he’s using capitals at the beginning of the sentence and punctuation at the end. I do, at least, know he’s writing neatly. As he sat down, I reminded him, “Now, you need to write well enough that your grown-up self will be able to read your handwriting,” and as I saw him go, he was making beautiful well-formed letters. So that’s half the battle. I plan on going at some point today to buy him a copy of Harriet the Spy. I think that will help to fan the flames.

And who knows? In thirty-five years, perhaps in his blog, he’ll scan in a page from his diary to show what he was up to as a kid. I just hope he spells “lose,” right.

Doodles and Tab have started their own business. I’ve insisted they wait till April vacation to really get going, but in the meantime, if you need anything done, they’re in service.

For the summer of 2011, we’re talking with two other families about spending the summer in Israel. The trip we took in February of last year was so amazing, that I’d love to spend more time there, get to know the country better. Husbands would only be able to spend a couple of weeks, but moms and kids could be there for four to eight weeks. Send the kids to camp there, learn the language, really immerse ourselves.

I told the kids about the idea. Pie said, “Yea!! Israel! It was so much fun! I can’t wait!”

Doodles threw his head back dramatically and complained, “Israel! Again!”

Watching the opening ceremonies (finally!) we watched the dance of the First Nations. Doodles had lots of questions about them, which I try to answer. Then I say…

Me: Maybe we’ll go there this summer. What would you think?
Doodles: Go where?
Me: To the Northwest. We could go to Seattle and then to Vancouver.
Doodles: Awwww! [Throws his head down in disgust.]
Me, surprised: That doesn’t interest you?
Doodles: No!
Me: If you could go anywhere on vacation, where would you go?
Doodles: Egypt!
Me: Well that’s not going to happen now. Where else would you want to go?
Doodles, with a big sigh: Nowhere.

Six years old. And already jaded. Wait till he realizes it’s all downhill from here.

I’ve been suckered. It’s 7:59 p.m. and I’ve got two incredibly sleepy children next to me. But I made the mistake earlier of saying, “Hey, the Olympic opening ceremonies are on at 7:30. If you guys want to stay up late, you can watch it.” They, of course, took me up on the offer, and we started watching.

Before we began, I said to Adam, “Did you hear about the luger?” “No,” he said. “Look it up. But don’t say anything. I don’t want it a topic of discussion.” What was I thinking? Doodles and I had a huge battle when I turned off the TV when Tom Brokaw said, “The footage you are about to see about the death of Georgian luge slider Nodar Kumaritashvili is graphic.” We had no choice but to explain to them about the accident. Pie keeps asking over and over, “So he went off the quarters?” “The course.” “So he died?” “Yes, he died.” “How did he die?”

Let me move on by saying the (male) sportscaster is interviewing snowboarder Shaun White. Me: “Man, I wish I had a head of hair like him.”
Pie: “Him? That’s a guy?”
Me: “Yeah.”
Pie: “How do you know?”
Me: “I just know.”
Pie: “Are those two people [Sean and the sportscaster] married?”
Me: “No.”

So all this is happening, and I finally say to Adam, “What time, exactly, do these opening ceremonies start? I thought it was 7:30.”

He does a little zing zing on his computer and then laughs at me. “Coverage of the opening ceremonies start at 7:30. But the opening ceremonies don’t start till 9.”

Try telling my kids, “Nevermind! I was wrong!” So instead I have two already tired kids trying their best to make it up till 9. It’s not going to happen. But they’re giving it their all, although I predict Pie will be out in about 2.73 minutes.

5. 4. 3. 2. 1. No, the ceremonies haven’t started. But Pie wins the gold medal in sleep. One down, one to go!

Lots of times when I run, my mind is focused on something specific: a problem I’m trying to work out in my novel, working out a school situation for Doodles, thinking about ways to get Pie over her tantrum stage. I frequently make and go over my to-do lists when I’m out there. Running is the best method I have for de-stressing and working things out. But occasionally, I’ll just crank up the iPod and my mind will float where it may. This past Monday, as I kept up a nice tempo and ABC (the band, not the kid song) was playing, my mind wandered and I started thinking about the kids. But oddly, I realized, that when I think about the kids, I think about them about two years behind. When I picture the kids, I think of Pie as a toddler, speaking in halting sentences, and Doodles, as this little kid bopping around and tripping on himself with his uncoordinated walk. When I see them in real life, it’s almost shocking.

Who are these big kids? I sign Pie up for kindergarten today and, oh, the things she can do! She can go to the computer, turn it on, load up her phonics game, and play. She can add and subtract and write the names of everyone in the family. She’s the best Go Fish player I’ve met. She’s adept at using my iPhone and knows the words to Selena Gomez’s and Hannah Montana’s most popular songs. She oozes attitude like a teenager.

My boy is not just reading, he’s reading. We’ve moved way beyond Minnie and Moo and Biscuit and his new “just right books” include my childhood favorites, like Judy Blume. We’re reading Freckle Juice together and last night, as we went to bed, he said, “Yea! Another chapter of Freckle Juice!” He absorbs information and can spew out things he gleaned from books or school or by looking it up on the computer. Adam and I are no longer the ultimate sources of knowledge–he can find things out himself.

I’ve noticed of late that my kids simply take up more space. Pie’s outgrown her car seat and we’re going to be a booster-only family. Doodles laughs every time I mock-cry, “My baby boy! Stop getting so big!” and he tells me, “Mom, I can’t help it! It’s what I’m supposed to do!”

What’s a mama to do?

Six. That’s right, six. The magic age when a child becomes embarrassed by his mother. My son has suddenly blossomed into tweendom. Walking home from school, I was chatting up a neighbor girl. A second grader. Who lives on our block. Walking home with her father and her younger sister. The humiliating conversation?

Me, first to Tab and then to Doodles: So, anything exciting happen today?
Tab: No.
Doodles: Mmmph.
Me to neighbor girl: How about you? Anything exciting happen today?
Neighbor: Well…
Doodles, hitting me with his jacket: Mom! Cut it out!
Neighbor: We watched a movie at school today.
Me: That does sound exciting. What movie?
Doodles: MOM! CUT IT OUT!
Me: Sweetie, I’m allowed to talk to our neighbor if I choose to.
Doodles: No!
Neighbor: It was a Magic Schoolbus movie.
Me: What was it about?
Doodles, still hitting me: CUT IT OUT CUT IT OUT CUT IT OUT CUT IT OUT CUT IT OUT!
Neighbor: It was about gravity. Because we’re learning about the moon!
Doodles: Cut it out!
Me: Doodles you’re being rude.
[pause a few seconds]
Doodles: Mom, can I have computer time when we get home?
Timing isn’t his forte. And for the record, the answer was no.

Pie, four-year-old little Pie, isn’t immune to tweendom, either. Her birthday is six months, four weeks and one day away. Pie is suddenly into the rock stars and she’s planning a rock star birthday. (“Can I have a swimming rock star birthday?” “That might be a bit much.” “Okay, then this birthday will be a rock star birthday and my six birthday will be a swimming party.”) She’s obsessed with being a rock star. Which has led to some interesting outfits. Pie has a number of dresses that she loves, but which she’s clearly grown out of. A few weeks ago, we agreed that she could keep wearing the too-small dresses but with a pair of leggings underneath.

A couple of days ago she put on one of those dresses, which barely grazes her tush.
Me: You’ve definitely grown out of that dress!
Pie: Oh?
Me: It’s too short on you. Why don’t you put some leggings?
Pie: Oh, I don’t need to!
Me: I thought we said when dresses are too short, you’d wear them with leggings. Lots of rock stars wear leggings. It’s very popular for rock stars.
Pie: But, Mom, I saw Hannah Montana! And she had on a really short skirt with no leggings! So I’ll just wear tights with the dress.

Just shoot me now.