the pieces of my life

And there were three in the bed and the little on said, “Smoosh over!”

When I was 26, I quit a good job, packed up all my belongings, spent three months driving cross country to reinvent myself. When I was settled in Seattle, I’d sometimes look at my life in wonder and think, “Wow, if I could that, I can do anything.”

When I was 28, I spent six and a half months picking kiwis on a kibbutz and then I spent a month and a half idling my way through Eastern Europe. When I survived three weeks in Bulgaria, I really felt it was an accomplishment. “If I could make it through Bulgaria on my own,” I thought, “I can do anything.”

When at the age of 32 I let my guy friends pressure me into riding a single-day double-century bike ride from Seattle to Portland (previous bike ride length at that point: 16 miles), I can’t begin to describe the feeling of elation I experienced when I, alone and tired after fourteen hours on a bike, crossed into Portland, Oregon. “I just freakin’ rode my bike two hundred miles!” I thought. “I can do anything!”

When at the age of 36, with a fourteen-month-old son, I completed my first marathon, I thought I was a rock star. Sure, it took me over five hours, but I did it. “I ran twenty six point two miles!” I thought. “There is absolutely nothing I can’t achieve.”

Last week I pushed my boundaries. I left my kids for the first time, I cross-country skied for the first time, I ran in seven degree weather. You guys all know how macho I felt. I am a freakin’ woman of steel.

Until. And then. Except.

Somehow, somewhere, for some reason, I decided it was a good idea to take my two children–my two-and-a-half-year-old toddler and my four-and-a-half-year-old preschooler–to New York City. In a car. By myself. For fun.

I have discovered that thing that I cannot do: I cannot survive thirty-six hours alone with my children.

I am broken.

But let me start at the beginning of this debacle. Doodles has been obsessed with Egypt, pharaohs, and pyramids for a long time now. Remember his birthday party? So I got this great idea (please read “great” dripping with sarcasm) of taking him to the Metropolitan Museum to visit the Temple of Dendur. “Wanna go to New York?” I asked him casually. “YES!!!!” came the resounding response.

Truth be told, I dilly dallied on the whole thing. I checked with my parents (who live in NYC part-time) and my sister (who lives there full-time, but works a hectic schedule) if they’d be around. I checked the weather. Hmmm, looks like snow. I thought about it. And then I realized, “This is a really stupid idea.” I basically told everyone we weren’t coming. “That’s probably a good idea,” my parents told me. My mother had foot surgery and has been hobbling around on a cane, not ideal for sightseeing with little ones. My sister would be teaching all day. Both my parents are currently spending a lot of their time searching for a bigger apartment.

Alas, the road to insanity is paved with stupid ideas (that’s how the expression goes, right?). On Wednesday morning, I was poking around Priceline. It was a gorgeous morning and I thought, “I can handle this!” so before I could come to my senses: Boom! I’ve booked us a room for two nights in New York.

That’s when the panic started. I called Adam, “What the F was I thinking? I can’t do this!”

“Don’t go,” he said.

“I already paid for the hotel room.”

“So what? We can eat the cost if we have to.”

But I, for one, am never one to “eat the cost,” frugal soul that I have, so while Doodles was at a playdate, I frantically packed us up, sinking ever deeper into a depression over my recklessness. After all, what does a four-and-a-half-year-old ever remember? Take a kid on a thousand dollar vacation to Paris, and what he’ll talk about is the bug he found crawling across his shoe at the Parisian playground.

So I sent Doodles off on a playdate and I packed up as fast as I could, trying to anticipate everything they’d need. It would have helped if I had tried to anticipate what I might have needed–in which case socks and deodorant might have made their way into my bag, and yes, I was a wee bit ripe by the end of the trip. Yet I wanted to keep everything to my one bag, their ice skating bag (I had visions of Wollman rink), plus toys in each of their backpacks. And a bag of snacks for the car.

The trip down was pretty uneventful. I picked up Doodles from his playdate and cleared up the confusion (“You’re taking him to New York to see the temple where the Jews pray?” I clarified it was where the Egyptians prayed, but he didn’t quite believe me). Pie slept for about an hour and a half and woke in relatively good spirits. Doodles was thrilled to get Triscuits–Triscuits!!–from a vending machine. Neither one got at all fussy till we’d already hit the Bronx. Including the one bathroom/vending machine stop, we made the trip in just barely over four hours. Found the hotel with no problem. Parking was just two blocks away. Trip is already a success!

We hop a subway to head to my parents’ apartment. Pie utters the comment she is to make every time we get onto the subway, “I LIKE the subway!” and Doodles scrambles for a window seat, despite my repeated insistence that we are underground and there is nothing to see! “Yes there is!” he insists. “Look! A wall!”

Dinner a Benny’s Burritos (the West Village one) is fine, although surprise surprise both kids make a dinner of chips. We leave my parents at about seven to head back to the hotel. “I LIKE the subway!” “I need a window seat!”

Out of the subway. Walking back to the hotel. And then it starts. The screams. “I want to go home!!!!” I assure Pie we’ll be back at the hotel in minutes. “No, HOME! I want to go home! RIGHT NOW!” For two blocks the munchkin is screaming and she won’t be appeased till we get back to the room and I turn on the TV. I make up a lovely nest for them on the floor–they’re so excited to sleep on the sleeping bag!–and in three seconds, they’ve happily ensconced themselves in the bed. So much for spacious living. Of course, Pie is incapable of falling asleep without some tears, and she cries for about thirty minutes, while I lie right next to her, ignoring her as I read my book. It’s really the only thing to do.

And then, they’re all asleep. It’s not easy to sleep with the two monkeys next to me. They end up head to head with each other, all cozied up, and then the next thing I feel is four little feet kicking my side as they’re lying perpendicular to me. But at least I can stop worrying about one of them falling out of the bed and I can drift off…

…until 2 a.m. Which is when the screaming started. Did you guys know that there is no toddler-appropriate TV on at 2 a.m.? Really! I know it’s shocking. I didn’t know how to calm the munchkin who has not only woken me and her brother, but I’m pretty sure is waking the whole hotel. So for an hour, she gets to watch The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. It was the most appropriate thing I could find.

At 4 a.m., she drifts off into sleep, and I’m determined to eat the second night’s hotel cost and head back. Yet, at 8 a.m., when everyone is awake, I feel delirious from lack of sleep and think, “We can make it one more night. Right?”

Surprisingly, the day was somewhat of a success. The kids loved the Met. Doodles was fascinated by the mummies and the Temple of Dendur and Pie seemed to enjoy the Degas collection (one of her favorite books is Dancing with Degas). My mother met us for a bit and Tweeds came when my mom left. We had lunch at the mus
eum and when Tweeds had to go to work, the kids and I took a bus down a ways (“I LIKE the bus!”) and I let them go hog wild in Dylan’s Candy Bar.

Back at the hotel room around 3, and there were no complaints when I let them gorge themselves on their candy and watch PBS. Pie was tired–I didn’t bring a stroller out with us–but she revived quickly when presented with chocolate. I didn’t revive quite so quickly. The wear and tear of corralling those two through the museum (“Don’t touch that! Don’t wander off! No, you can’t eat in the museum! No I won’t buy that! Don’t touch! Don’t touch! DON’T TOUCH!”) took a toll on me and all I could do was let them rest so that I could have a minute of downtime (“Mommy are you going to sleep? No, Mommy!” Pie says laughing. “You have to wake up! WAKE UP, MOMMY!!”) We met my parents for dinner again and Pie told them her favorite part of the day was, “I like the Degas,” and Doodles told them, “I got to watch TV… during the day!”

On Friday a snow storm was predicted so I wanted to get out of town nice and early. It was nothing major–just two to four inches–but I figured why risk traffic and snow. Of course, by the time we woke up at 6:45 a.m., three inches had already fallen and five to seven inches was expected, so I rushed the kids through their hotel breakfast (“Can I have a yogurt? Can I have an orange? Can I have more cereal? Can I have a bagel with cream cheese? Can I have another waffle?” and “Just a waffle for me. Okay a little cereal. No milk in it!”), and I managed to trudge through the snow with Pie in the stroller, the skate bag around my neck (“Why didn’t we go ice skating?” “Uh, I took you for candy instead.” “Okay!”), the clothing bag also around my neck, and the diaper bag hanging precariously as I discovered that, no, a $10 umbrella stroller cannot make it through the corner snow banks. But we got back to the car, and headed out in the mess.

The trip home was painfully slow–I skidded a few times on I-95, the snow was so bad–and the kids were edgy. At one point, I’m on the Triboro bridge, looking for signs for the Bruckner expressway. I’m trying desperately to see through the snowy fog and the moron car in front of me doesn’t have his lights on, making him nearly invisible. The snow is coming down fast, and I need to make sure I don’t accidentally head toward the George Washington bridge. I’ve shushed the kids as I’m trying to not skid across the road, but I keep hearing a “Mommy! Mommy. MOMMY!” and finally I yell back, “What, Pie? I’m trying to concentrate here,” and she asks, “Can you open my window?” and then adds, “Pleeeeaaaase?”

The “No,” didn’t go over that well. So she then turns to her brother: “Doodles? Doodles! DOOOOODLES! Are you awake, Doodles?” As if he had a choice.

Just over five hours later, we’ve arrived home. Of course, I needed to shovel my way into the driveway, as the storm followed us, but soon we were inside, ready to collapse. Pictures, by the way, are posted.

Would I do it again? Sure. In three years. With a nanny. And a lobotomy.

Doodles goes to a Jewish preschool. For the past few weeks, each child has been working on a Shabbat book. Doodles is extremely proud of his book and he explained what each page was. Here is the artist’s statement about this picture: “This is a picture of Jason Varitek because I wish he could come to Shabbat but he can’t because we don’t know him.” Jason Varitek, if you ever stumble across my blog, please consider yourself formally invited to Shabbat at our house.

I cut my finger last week. Not a big deal. A little bloody, but minor. But the thing is it’s on my thumb and as such I keep hitting it and it’s not getting better, so I’ve been putting Neosporin on it and stuck a Band-Aid on. Which is kind of like pasting a flashing neon sign on myself that says, “Please, ask me about my cut. Again. And again. And again. And again…”

Pie: What’s that?
Me: I cut myself.
Pie: How?
Me: With a knife.
Pie: Why?
Me: Because I was careless.
Pie: So you cut yourself?
Me: Yes.
Pie: With a knife?
Me: Yes.
Pie: Why do you have a Band-Aid? [Repeat ad nauseam]

And then, the coup de grace: On Sunday morning, I got up early and without thinking I grabbed a Band-Aid and stuck it on. It wasn’t until it was out of the paper that I realized my error: I had grabbed a Sponge Bob Band-Aid.

Pie: What’s that?
Me: A Band-Aid.
Doodles: Is that a Sponge Bob Band-Aid???
Me: Yes.
Doodles: Why do you have a Sponge Bob Band-Aid?
Me: I took it by mistake.
Doodles: I LOVE Sponge Bob!
Me: What do you possibly know of Sponge Bob? You’re not allowed to watch it.
Doodles: I LOVE Sponge Bob. Can I have a Band-Aid?
Me: No.
Pie: Can I have a Band-Aid?
Me: No.
Doodles and Pie: I WANT A BAND-AID!

Luckily I was running a half marathon that morning so I only had to deal with the Band-Aid bandits’ demands for a mere three hours before being dropped off in Hampton, New Hampshire. I met up with my friends from my boot camp class, although I knew I wasn’t as prepared for the race as they were, so I chose not to run with them and ran with a friend from my Saturday running group who assured me she’d be going slowly but still beat me by a good minute (Hi A.M.! Good run!). The race itself was pretty good–not too hilly, nice scenery, lots of the run was on the coast–but the weather wasn’t great. Started off chilly, but nice, in the lower 30s. By about mile 8 the rain started. By mile 9 it turned into a heavy snow that kept flying into my eyes. By the end, I was jonesing for both the soup and beer waiting for me. But I did much better than I had thought I would–I ran it in 1:54:34–although I was sore for a good two days after.

Anyway, after the race Adam and the kids and my in-laws met up with me, and we all went out for a nice lunch at the Old Salt. Doodles has made HUGE strides in his feeding group, and he will now eat a fish stick or two, which means our dining options have grown. So we went for lunch where I smell (no showers after the run), Doodles is eating fish sticks, and Pie is trying to choke herself with my medal. Halfway through the meal, I look down and comment to Adam, “Um, my Band-Aid is gone and I have no idea where it is.” But the highlight was when Doodles hopped up from his seat and proclaimed loudly enough for the next five tables to hear: “I need to poop!”

Adam quickly shuffles him toward the bathroom, and I can hear him calling loudly, “I have poop inside me! I also have–“

Adam quickly cut him off with “We can talk about it when we get in the bathroom.”

So of course, in the bathroom, Doodles completes that thought: “I also have sperm inside me.”

(Note, I’ve tried explaining to him that, no, he doesn’t have sperm in him yet, but that conversation has gone nowhere fast.)

So now I’m sore. Doodles has sperm. And, for the record, Adam found my Band-Aid. In the wash.

And no. You can’t have a Band-Aid, either.

When Pie has a temper tantrum, I’ve learned to just walk away. They come fast, they come furious, they come frequently. Every little thing turns into a temper tantrum. If I walk away, the tantrum will eventually end and things can proceed as they were. Except…

Except…

Except it’s no longer just me that Pie has to break. It’s not longer me who has to stick with the “When you have a temper tantrum, you get nothing” rule. Because now there is Doodles. And Doodles can’t stand to see his sister in distress.

Pie was having a meltdown. I can’t remember over what. It could have been a) because I forgot and smooched her b) because she wanted a yogurt and couldn’t be bothered to ask me in a normal tone of voice c) because she wanted 2-3-4-5 pencils and I only gave her 1-2-3 and then I took them away when I realized she was using them to write in Doodles’s books d) because she breathes or e) none of the above. The rule in our house is, you have the right to have a temper tantrum. But I also have the right to not listen to the temper tantrum so you must do it in the playroom. If you won’t do it in the playroom, you will be put upstairs and the gate will be closed until you are done.

So Pie was tantruming. Rather than put her upstairs, I decided to retreat to upstairs, to sit in a chair and leaf through a magazine till she was done. I offered to have Doodles come with me, but he opted to stay downstairs with his sister. Sitting upstairs, I could hear the conversation:

“Look, Pie!” I can hear from top of the stairs. “It’s a creepy crawler! You’ve got creepy crawlers!” (Creepy crawlers being one of Pie’s favorite games.)

Pie: Waaaaaaa!

Doodles: Don’t cry, Pie! It’s okay! It’s really okay! Look, Pie Pie! Creeeepy crawlers! There are creepy crawlers on your arm.

I come back downstairs and Doodles pulls me aside and loudly whispers in my ear, “Just give her what she wants!”

A couple of days later, she’s having a tantrum because she wants a third yogurt of the day. Those yogurts are so sugary sweet that I of course said no. I retreated to my office while she screamed. Yet, suddenly, the cries suspiciously end. I mean immediately. I of course hurry back to the kitchen where I see the refrigerator open and hear Doodles asking, “Now, what would you like Pie Pie?”

Pie’s favorite words are “I can’t do it.” Walk to the car? “I can’t do it.” Put on her jacket? “I can’t do it.” Feed herself lunch? “I can’t do it.” Yet, on the food issue, Pie’s found herself a new sucker. Doodles, apparently, doesn’t realize that the girl won’t starve if she misses a meal. Hell, she eats about fifteen of them a day (nonstop, all day. “Snack, Mommy!” We set a new record last week. Hard-boiled egg at 7 a.m. Two bowls containing four kinds of cereal with milk at 7:30 a.m. Carnation Instant Breakfast milk at 8 a.m. Strawberries at 8:20 a.m. And then, in the car to preschool at 8:40 a.m., she starts whining as if she hasn’t been fed in weeks, “Mommy! I need a snack! Mommy, I’m hungry!”). Last week was no exception. I gave Pie a bowl of mac and cheese. She demanded to be fed. I refuse, walking into the kitchen to get my own lunch. I expect to hear screams, but I don’t. And walking back in, I discover why. It’s because Doodles is standing precariously on the edge of his chair, leaning across the table to delicately shovel macaroni and cheese into his sister’s mouth (quote of the day: “I don’t think that one wanted to be eaten, Pie. That’s why it fell onto the floor. Because it didn’t want to be eaten.”). And Pie is happily allowing her brother to feed her.

On one hand, I want to commend him for being such a great big brother. On the other, I want to make him deal with her every temper tantrum if he’s going to encourage them. If you’re looking for me, I’m hiding upstairs. No. Seriously.

And then there’s the Doodles, who’s no longer a bug in any way shape or form. The questions are nonstop. And they’re getting tougher. Keeping in mind the advice of a fellow preschool mother, who told me that when kids ask about where babies come from, they’re often asking something else (like “Where was I born” or “Are babies born in hospitals”), we’ve been reading How Are Babies Made, which I think is both informative and age appropriate. Just enough details, but not overly specific (“The baby squeezes out of the opening between the mother’s legs”). So I guess no one reading this will be surprised when I tell you that he looked at me with a puzzled expression and asked, “But how does the sperm get from the daddy to inside the mommy?” After I stopped laughing hysterically, I went back to the old tried and true “special naked hug” and for the moment, it appeased him.

Then there are the religion questions. I wish I could remember how this topic came up–I think it started with one of his pronouncements that when he grows up he wants to be a daddy and also various discussions about who is and who isn’t Jewish–but somehow, we ended up here:
Doodles: What if I marry a Santa person [Doodles’s own term for a gentile].
Me: What if you do?
Doodles: Will my children be Jewish?
Me: If you and your wife want to raise your children as Santa children, then you will. If you and your wife want your children to be Jewish, they can be converted and become Jewish. [Note: Judaism is a matrilineal religion.]
Doodles: They can be Jewish?
Me: If you and your wife both decide on it.
Doodles: How do they get converted?
Me: Well, a rabbi would perform a ceremony and they’d become Jewish?
Doodles: How will I find a rabbi?
Me: I’m sure you’ll know some rabbi who you can ask.
Doodles [slight panic in his voice]: But what if I don’t?
Me: Well, you can always the rabbis you have now, Rabbi L. or Rabbi J.
Doodles: Oh. Okay.

So there you have it. Doodles will get married. He will have a special naked hug. And he will find a rabbi. And all is well in the world. Until his next question….

Hey, it’s me! I know, it’s the middle of the morning, my working time. And God knows I need the working time given that I get a whopping 2 1/2 hours a day three days a week and last week we had one snow day and this week had MLK day, leaving me with just 2 1/2 hours twice during the week. Not like I have assignments due. No, not at all! But here it is, 11 a.m. and I’m just lounging away, blogging, TV on, bonbons by my side.

Oh, wait, those aren’t bonbons! That’s just an empty pot waiting for my son to throw up into. And Ernie and Bert are getting a little grating on that TV. Sigh…

The thing is, Doodles is actually bona fide sick. I always have my doubts, given that he’s been having a tough time separating from me at school. Every morning it’s “My bones hurt. My head hurts. My chin hurts.” I just “yea, yea” him and pack him off to school. But last night at about 4:30, he told me his throat hurt. Hmmm. Then at 5 p.m., he had a massive emptying of his belly onto the kitchen floor. Okay, now I’m starting to believe him. I quickly try to mop up the mess, get him out of his clothes, keep Pie out of the throw up, IM Adam to get his butt home, and start to run a bath. At 5:14, the house reeking of vomit, I get him into the tub. At 5:16 the power went out. For over an hour and a half. Shortest bath on record as I hurry him out, hunt for flashlights and candles, and settle everyone in the living room to wait for Adam. The house still smells because there’s a pile of disgusting clothes and cloths in the kitchen that need to go downstairs, but no way am I attempting the basement in the dark. I can see the neighbors fleeing their houses for evenings out, but because of little throw-up boy, we’re stuck in the house. Adam finally gets home, I send him right back out to Panera for plain bread and yogurt for the big little one and a sandwich for the little little one. Panera, though, is mobbed because it turns out a huge portion of town is without electricity.

Kids get fed. Electricity goes back on. And an e-mail appears in my in-box that strep is going around the preschool.

So here we are. One prescription for Amoxicilian. One morning of PBS Sprout. And one morning (more) of no work getting done. The joys of motherhood. Adam seriously better be bringing me home bonbons tonight. Oops. What’s that coming up on the other side of the room? Gotta go…

Doodles was having his morning constitutional and Pie was bugging him, so to distract her, I said, “Pie, where’s your baby?”

Pie ran to get her doll, but of course, ran back to be with her brother again. He, though, didn’t mind. Here’s their chat:

Pie: I have my baby!
Doodles: Oh! It’s your baby!
Pie: Yeah.
Doodles: I can be the baby’s daddy!
Pie: Okay. You be baby daddy.
Doodles: Pie, I’ll change your baby’s diaper and do her laundry.
Pie: Okay.
Doodles: Because they’re daddy jobs.
Pie: Yeah.
Doodles: I’ll take good care of your baby.

Feminist heart of mine, be still!

In all seriousness, my little boy is showing some big boy interests. Doodles is currently obsessed with Star Wars. He comes home from school with pictures that he’s asked his teacher’s to label, which he calls his “movies”: “Luke Skywalker and light saver,” “Star Wars reflections in outer space,” “Someone from Star Wars caught one of the laser blades,” “That’s the end, Star Wars laser blade movie.” At our neighbors house, he ogles the Star Wars pop-up book. He can tell you all about Anakin, who turns into Darth Vader. Thing is, he’s never seen the movie. And he won’t. Not for, oh, about a zillion years. You think I’m going to let the kid who is frightened of Swiper on Dora watch Star Wars? The kid who walked out of Ratatouille because it was too scary? Who refuses to go upstairs alone at night to get his pajamas? Oh, how he begs for the movie, but I stand firm. But it just seems so odd for my little guy to be blathering about Darth Maul and “light savers.”

But his interests really are changing. He wants to be read chapter books. He’s really trying to expand his food repertoire (with a bit of success, I should add!). He’s reporting with pride his job each week at school (this week he’s attendance taker). And today we got his kindergarten registration forms. I teased him about it: “You’re not old enough for kindergarten!” I said. He agreed. “I know. I’m four and a quarter. But soon I’ll be four and a half and after four and a half is four and three quarters and then is five and five is old enough and then I’ll go to kindergarten!” (Yet he can’t read a digital clock?)

My little baby. Not so much. How is this happening?

Every other Wednesday, I go to a boot camp class at 5:30 a.m. I leave the house at about 5:15, so Adam’s on his own with the munchkins. This conversation was reported to me this evening (note, Doodles makes his way into our bed in the middle of every night, so this conversation is taking place with a half asleep Adam in bed):

Doodles: Daddy, can we go downstairs?

Adam: What are the numbers on the clock?

Doodles: Um. Five. Four. Eight.

Adam: Okay, when the clock numbers are Five, five, five, let me know and we can go downstairs.

Adam dozes off again. He’s woken up again.

Doodles: Daddy?

Adam: Mmm, hmm?

Doodles: Daddy, it’s taking a very long time.

Adam: Well, what are the numbers on the clock now?

Doodles: Um. Six. Zero. Two.

My father thinks he’s going to teach Doodles about Fibonacci series. I think he may want to start with a few more basics. Community college, here he comes!