the pieces of my life

Pie: I’m going to get some water.

Grabs a cup from the drawer. Walks to the fridge. Sniffs. Turns around.

Pie: I need another cup. This cup smells like tushie.

She opens the drawer. Pulls out a different cup. And puts the tushie cup… back in the drawer.

Can I get you something to drink?

Today is the day of the birthday parties: Doodles is going Mad Scientist; Pie is going Piggy Party.

Adam: What would you like from the bagel store?
Pie: I want a bagel with egg and bacon on the side. I need bacon because I’m having a piggy party!
Doodles: Bacon is made out of pig!
Pie: I know! So I need to eat bacon today! For my piggy party, I need to eat bacon!

I hope she’s not disappointed when I don’t serve bacon today at the actual party to her entirely Jewish guest list (she goes to a Jewish preschool).

Tomorrow is the Day of the Birthdays. While both of their actual birthdays were two weeks/a week and a half ago, most of their friends return to town this weekend from Summer, so this weekend is the parties (our town is obscenely late in starting school; per Facebook, most of my friends’ kids started going back to school a month ago. Doodles starts this coming Thursday; Pie the Monday after that).

Pie is obsessed. First there are the logistics. “I get to eat the face of the pig” (it’s a piggy party). Um, it’s a big face. And you have a little tummy. Well, not little. But littler than that face (side note: I expressed concern about both my kids BMI to the doc this week–in opposite directions. Doodles too underweight; Pie unsure about her weight. She told me that Doodles is actually quite height-weight proportionate–he’s about 4th percentile for height and just under 10th for weight–and that Pie is fine. She said, and I quote, “I have never seen a breastfed child become obese.” So yea child who could not be weaned!).

And then there’s the “I don’t want any six year olds at my party.”
Me: That’s fine. But then you can’t go to Doodles’s party.
Pie: [honestly bewildered] Why not?

And of course the fashion. For their birthdays, they each received T-shirts tied into their interests. Pie got one with pigs on it; Doodles got a mad scientist T-shirt.
Pie: Can I wear my kitty skirt tomorrow?
Me: You can wear whatever you want. But you’ll be wearing your piggy shirt and hat?
Pie: Yes!
Me: A solid pink skirt might go best.
Pie: I want to wear the kitty skirt.
Me: That’s fine, then.
Pie: It has pink in it so it’ll go.
Me: That’s great. Wear your kitty skirt.
Pie, thinking for a moment, then says: Well, maybe I’ll wear the kitty skirt to Doodles’s party and I’ll wear a plain skirt to mine.
Me: The parties are on the same day.
Pie: I know.
Me: You’re going to change outfits between parties?
Pie, giving me a “duh” look: Of course!

That girl is four years old. And I’m already soooo out of my league!

Pie, to Jasmine: I can name three countries in America.
Jasmine: Yeah?
Pie: Yeah. Florida. New York. And, um, Afghanistan.

Me: What’s today?
Pie: My birthday!
Me: How old are you?
Pie: Four.
Me: That’s pretty old. What can you do when you’re four that you can’t do when you’re three.
Pie: I can stay up late.
Me: What else?
Pie: I can play.
Me: You couldn’t do that when you were three?
Pie: I could! What couldn’t I do when I was three? I couldn’t go into kindergarten.
Me: Can you go in now that you’re four?
Pie: No.
Me: What did you do today?
Pie: I went to gymnastics camp. I had lots of fun. I even got to be leader and sometimes I could be first. That’s all.
Me: We didn’t do anything after camp?
Pie: Went to the Res! And that’s all.
Me: What’s your favorite thing to do?
Pie: To play my Polly Pockets.
Me: What do you want to be when you grow up?
Pie: A mommy.
Me: Anything else you want to be?
Pie: That’s all I want to be.
Me: Are you going to be a mommy who works?
Pie: Yeah. But I work out of the house.
Me: What kind of work will you do?
Pie: Housework.
Me: Outside of the house?
Pie: Inside the house.
Me: What work will you do outside of the house?
Pie: I will plant the garden. And water stuff. I can water dirt.
Me: Who’s gonna make the money?
Pie: I will.
Me: How?
Pie: How will I make money is I’ll find a money thing and then I’m going to call someone and ask if it’s money and then I’ll try getting it and then I’ll get some money out of the printer. And that’s all.
Me: You’re all done with the interview?
Pie: Uh huh. Can you read me last year’s one?
Me: Any grand pronouncements first?
Pie: What?
Me: Any big statements?
Pie: I want to be the biggest one in the whole universe of America.
Me: Happy Birthday, Sweetie Pie.

Pie: Why do you have a stamp on you?
Me: It's not a stamp; it's called a tattoo. It doesn't come off like a stamp.
Pie: Can I have a tattoo?
Me: You have to be eighteen to get a tattoo. When you turn eighteen you can get one.
Pie: When I turn eighteen, will you take me to get a tattoo?
Me: Sure! I'd be happy to take you. What kind of tattoo will you get?
Pie: A flower. No, a piggy!
Me: Okay. A piggy it is.
Pie: How do you get a tattoo?
Me: They use a needle to make the picture.
Pie: They stick you with needles?
Me: Yep.
Pie: Oh. Maybe I won't get a tattoo.
Me: That's fine, too.

Growing up, my father played Quiz Questions at dinner with me and my sister, although the game quickly became known as “Quiz Questions Me First!” because that’s what we’d shout out as soon as he sat down. The questions would be current events or history or science or whatever, such as “Who discovered the theory of relativity” or “Count to ten in binary numbers.” One of my mother’s great pet peeves in life is that my father loved to ask us geography questions, but he never used a map or globe to show where he was asking about. To this day, the only reason I remember that the capital of Ecuador is Quito is because of “Quiz Questions Me First.”

This weekend my parents were in town, and my father started discussing geography with the kids. Only we don’t own a globe. We tend to use maps on the computer, but it doesn’t give the kids a real sense of perspective on where things are. Yesterday morning, we took a trip to the Museum of Science before we brought my parents to the train station so they could head home. Lo and behold, my mom spotted in the gift shop a globe, which my father then purchased for the kids.

This morning, the kids were playing their own version of geography. Doodles would ask Pie a question and she’s randomly spin the globe as fast as she could and point.

Doodles: I got one for you, Pie! Where’s Israel?
Me: Can you find Israel?
Doodles, with a sigh: Yes, Mom!
Pie spins the globe with a quick jerk and then just sticks her finger out.
Doodles: No, Pie. That’s South America. Where’s Israel?
Pie spins again and points.
Doodles: Nope. That’s Hawaii.
I look over. Sure enough Pie has her finger planted in the Pacific Ocean in the general vicinity of Hawaii.
Me: How do you know that’s Hawaii?
Doodles: I just know!
I can’t figure out if he knows where things are or if his reading has improved that much, but either way, who am I to complain?

Doodles eventually gives up–Pie clearly has no interest in playing his way–and Pie just continues to spin this apparently amazing top.

Pie: Mommy?
Me: Yes?
Pie: Is it going to glow?
Me: Glow.
Pie: Yeah, glow.
Me: Um, no. It doesn’t glow.
Pie: Then why is it called a glow-b?

She’ll do okay, even if she doesn’t know where Israel is.

Once upon a time, or so the story goes, because I have a horrific memory and this is my dad’s story that I’m relating… Anyway, once upon a time, my mom cooked us all breakfast. According to my father, they were fabulous breakfasts. Some days it was scrambled eggs. Some days it was French toast. But every morning, before school and work, my mother cooked us breakfast. But, my father loves to tell me, I ruined it. Because I was never happy with what was served. If it was French toast, I wanted scrambled eggs. If it was scrambled eggs, I wanted fried eggs. If it was fried eggs, I wanted French toast. So one day, my mother had enough. And she declared, “I’m not cooking breakfast for you people anymore.” Which is why, to this day, my father resents me for him losing his breakfasts. And he likes to remind me of this. Frequently.

I will now shift topics, but rest assured, I will tie it all together at the end. I always tie it all together at the end. Don’t I?

A few years ago, I wanted to learn how to sew, so my grandmother gave me one of her sewing machines. My grandmother was an incredible seamstress–she sewed her clothes, her curtains, her everything. My parents got married on a week’s notice. My grandmother bought a size 12 white cocktail dress from Neiman Marcus and sewed it to size for my size 2 mother in literally days (and as I know the definition of literal, you can know that I mean that). My grandmother dutifully taught my mother how to sew. I have plenty of pictures of me in adorable little dresses that my mother sewed. Granted, she sewed out of necessity–another thing my parents frequently like to remind me, they had little money in those days and sewing my clothes was the only way to keep me clothed. But she did sew some awfully cute things. Fast-forward thirty-some-odd years later, my mother and grandmother still have their sewing mojo and the two of them collaborated on sewing the huppah for my and Adam’s wedding.

Now, as expert seamstresses, you’d think some of that might have rubbed off on me. It didn’t. In my defense, I’m pretty sure no one ever taught me. It’s possible my mother may have offered to teach me to sew, but I have no recollection of it. She taught me to crochet. She offered–on multiple occasions–to teach me to weld, solder, and use a band saw. I declined. But that’s a story for my therapist, not for you. Point is, no one ever taught me to sew.

Here I am. A grown woman with a little girl, a not-quite-so-little boy, and a sewing machine. I’ve got a manual. I’ve got a box of spare needles, empty bobbins, and… well, stuff. And I have no idea how to use any of it. I’ve got this fairly sophisticated machine and I can–almost–sew a straight line with it. But I’ve got this crafty streak that wants to be able to use the machine. I have this not-at-all secret side of me that longs to be Martha Stewart. I’m a stay-at-home mom. I’m working on my novel (yes, yes, I am!). But I have lots of time when children are occupied, but not so occupied that I can do anything that requires total focus (like writing). For instance, when a playdate is over, and I am summoned approximately every 14.7 minutes. A good time for sewing.

A bunch of weeks ago, I went with the kids to Jo-Ann’s Fabrics. I was going to sew. With the help of the Internet, damn it, I was going to sew. I let the kids go wild. The boy wanted a cape. The girl wanted headbands. I thought I might, just might, try my hand at a skirt.

And then we saw it. The dress. It was on a mannequin and the girl just swooned over it. “Mommy! I love that dress. That dress is beautiful!” Next to the dress is a free pattern. “Easy” it reads. “Simple” it promises. So I look at the girls face. And I look at the pattern. And I sigh and say okay. The girl and I choose our fabric. We choose our ribbon. And I promise that eventually I will put it all together.

Over the course of the next few weeks, I sew a few capes (complete with the Air Force fabric that I couldn’t talk the boy out of). I make a headband that is worn for five seconds before the girl declares she can’t stand it. I start working on a few projects for upcoming birthday parties.

The fabric for the dress sits. It’s in my office. And every few days, Pie wanders in and says, “When are you going to make my dress? I want my dress. Can you make my dress, pllllleeeeeaaassssse?”

One day this week, Jasmine and Pie are playing. Playdates for Pie of late have been iffy–we’re in the midst of a full season of perfect temper tantrum storms these days. They emerge from nowhere, build to awe-inspiring fury, and then spend themselves, leaving only a helpless wrath of destruction. Therefore, a playdate is no longer free and easy time. It’s on-call time on a new level. No writing, No reading. Nothing that requires substantial concentration or my leaving the general three-room vicinity.

Hey, how about sewing? I can sew! So, I start sewing. Have I mentioned that I’m not a sewer? So “Easy” and “Simple” are “Laborious” and “Tricky.” And I had to stop every few minutes to run into Pie’s room to fix a toy, find a purse, or answer a question. Luckily no change in weather patterns, so it was a relatively calm afternoon. And an afternoon later, I’m just about done. Even with a matching headband. Yeah, the seams don’t quite line up. Okay, so maybe the double hem wasn’t exactly intentional but the only way to keep the bottom from falling down. Maybe, it’s a bit big. It’ll fit perfectly next summer. Or at least the summer after that. I have the girl put it on so I can mark where the ribbon ties go.

“Where’s the ribbon?” she asks.

“Right here,” I say, showing her the green ribbon we picked out. Together. The two of us. Me and Pie.

“No!! That’s the wrong ribbon! I want flip-flop ribbon! I want ribbon with flip flops on it! Where’s the flip-flop ribbon? I don’t want green ribbon! That’s the wrong ribbon!” And the tears ensue….

All right. Thirty-three years later. I admit it. I should have just shut-up and eaten the French toast. Sorry, Mom.

I’m putting Doodles to sleep in his room. We’re about two-thirds of the way through Harry Potter. Adam is putting Pie to bed–in our room, of course. The rooms are, oh, twenty feet away from each other. Pie, the delicate flower that she is, let’s one rip.

Pie: Oooh, stinky!
Adam: That’s what happens when you toot. What do you say?
Pie: It wasn’t me. It was Doodles.
Adam: No, it wasn’t. It was you. Say “Excuse me.”
Pie: It was Doodles.

I think she’s training for a career in politics.

After her epic temper tantrum, Adam and Pie had a little heart-to-heart.

Adam: I hear you had a rough day.
Pie: Yeah.
Adam: What happened?
Pie: I didn’t go to ballet.
Adam: How come?
Pie: Because I had a temper tantrum.
Adam: Uh huh.
Pie: And I didn’t get to go to Doodles’s family night because I had a temper tantrum.
Adam: That’s right. How come you didn’t have a temper tantrum when you were at Beetle’s house?
Pie: Dad! [please hear the “duh” in her voice] We don’t have tempter tantrums at other people’s houses!