the pieces of my life

Today I was rolling out the bread dough, preparing to braid it for our Friday night hallah. Doodles’s friend, Tab, was over. The two of them and Pie were sitting at the counter while I did this.* Now, have you ever seen hallah rolled out into logs before it’s braided. It has a distinctly, um, shall we say phallic look to it? So I cringed when Doodles said to Tab: “You know what that looks like?”

Tab: “No, what?”

And now I’m preparing to jump in. Not sure what I’m going to say. Doodles has been going out of his way lately to be rude, disruptive, and to shock (but luckily only at home–he’s on best behavior at school).

Doodles: It looks like bones!

I’m greatly relived. But then he surprises me by continuing.

Doodles: Do you know which bone it looks like?

Tab: No.

Doodles: It looks like a femur!

Me: How do you know what a femur is?

Doodles: From school. [He points to his leg.] The femur is right here. [And I had to look it up just now to confirm he was right. And he was.] Do you know how I remember?

Me: No.

Doodles: Femur in front! So the patella is in back.

In those moments, I’m reminded that this kid has his own life. I, a runner who should know better, have no idea what the bones of my body are called. He’s got this whole world going on that I’m not part of where he’s learning and doing in his own life and becoming this real little person.

And then, then he reminds me. He’s just my little boy. Take dinner tonight:

Pie: I fed Haver at school today! [Haver means “friend” in Hebrew and it’s the name of the guinea pig in Pie’s classroom.

Doodles: You did?

Pie: Yes! He took the lettuce right from my hand.

Doodles: Who feeds Haver at night time?

Adam: The leave food for Haver at night, probably. And then, when everyone leaves, he watches movies on TV.

Doodles: Really?!?

Pie: No. He’s a guinea pig.

Doodles: I want a guinea pig!

Me: We’ll think about that.

Doodles: But who would feed the guinea pig lunch while I’m at school?

Pie: I’ll feed him when you’re at school!

Doodles: No! You can’t feed him. The only one who’s allowed to take care of Haver…

And here I’m thinking, “Hey, maybe he is mature enough to have a small pet.”

Doodles: …is Mom and Dad!

And there goes the guinea pig, folks. Once my baby boy, always my baby boy.

* This, I have to say, is my absolutely favorite feature in the house–that we have a peninsula in the kitchen where the kids can sit and have snack or do their homework while I’m in the kitchen; the kids love it, too, although they don’t realize it yet as I’ve been baking for them a ton more lately and that they’re in to. Just yesterday I made the most amazing pumpkin-banana muffins and they were oil free, If you try these yourself, I cut the sugar down to 3/4 cup for each, didn’t use oat bran, but instead used extra oatmeal, which I first ground in a hand blender to make it less textured for little boys who don’t like texture–the boy’s eaten four in the last 24 hours and only because I cut him off. Am I Martha yet?

Pie: Mommy, go like this.
Pie pulls her hair tightly back against her head. I comply.
Pie: Mommy, your hair on the bottom is white!
Me: Yes, it is.
Pie: You need to color it. How about purple? I’ll color mine purple, too.

Peter [my father], on the way to the “new” house after picking him up at the T station:
So, Pie, what color is your room!
Pie: Purple! Lily Lavender!
Peter: Oh! And what color is the guest room?
Pie: Um… it’s white! Like your hair!

Doodles: Dad, the laundry is really piling up. You need to do it.
Adam: Why don’t you tell your mother that?
Doodles: Dad! Mom doesn’t do laundry!

And Pie? What about Pie on this trip? Let me tell you what we’ve learned about Pie:

–Her legs break easily. But they heal quickly when ice cream is involved.
–She (along with her brother) have discovered that, yes, chocolate pudding does actually qualify as a breakfast food in Israel, and have availed herself of one daily.
–She can fall asleep anytime, anyplace, as long as it’s not in a bed and it will cause physical pain and general inconvenience to those around her. Otherwise, she’s wide awake and she wants to eat. Now. No right now. NOW!
–If you give her 20 shekels to Pie and 20 shekels to Doodles for ice cream to spend while they’re off with the other kids and the counselors, Doodles will come immediately back and hand you 11 shekels in change. Pie on the other hand will come back with a wad of chewing gum in her mouth (which the youth counselor said she bought and announced, “I’m going to share it with my family,” but when this family member requested a piece, she shook her head vehemently and chewed harder) and ice cream on her face, and yet, when you ask for the change back, she’ll stick her hand in her pocket, rattle around a couple of coins, and say, “I can’t find it.” When you stick your hand in your pocket and retrieve the coins, she says, “Oh, there it is,” and giggles.
–She thinks the Kotel is “cool.”
–The girl can find a phone. Anywhere. No, seriously. Anywhere.
–No, she doesn’t need the potty. Yes, she’s sure. Don’t you get it? She doesn’t need the potty!! Until five minutes later. When she needs the potty right now because she has to go really badly!
–She likes teenagers. Oh, does she like teenagers. Especially the girl kind who fawn over her and do her hair.

Reality is going to be a bitch for this little one. We’re about to hit a “no pudding, no shekels, no ice cream twice a day” zone. It’s going to be a rough re-entry folks. Hold on tight.

In the car, on the way home from picking up Doodles and playing in the playground (our one nice day! And tonight it starts to snow again):

Me: Don’t forget, I pick the dinner tonight.
[I got tired of the fights and the unfinished dinners and the demands for different food, so from now on, I pick dinner and they eat or not–their choice.]
Pie: I want to pick dinner!
Me: Nope! I’m going to do it.
Pie: I’m all done with this family.
Me: Okay. What family would you like?
Pie: I don’t know. You pick.

I’m here, I’m here. I’ve got a whole bunch of saved drafts that I’ve abandoned because they’re outdated. I’m feeling a bit over my head right now. I’ve got a suitcase that needs to be unpacked just so I can repack it, Adam’s harassing me to look at closet layouts, I have a program at the synagogue that I’m running next week, I have to buy booster seats for my kids for the tour bus, the apartment has to be packed, our trip has to be packed, my son needs 18 valentines for his class, I have homework for my Hebrew class, we haven’t yet picked out tile for the back splash, the landlord is coming by on Tuesday and the apartment is disgusting, and I’m doing the only reasonable thing I could be doing right now: pouring myself a glass of wine, getting teary eyed over Chesley Sullenberger and his crew standing on the field of the Super Bowl, and baking the Ultimate Chocolate Chip Cookies, courtesy of Foodie at Fifteen. So here’s a brief hodgepodge of the saved drafts in Blogger.

1) As most of the Northeast did, we had a snow day last Wednesday. For once, I didn’t dread it. I had no work to do, the kids get along well, and it was, well, snowy out. Because I had a 5:30 a.m. boot camp class, I was a bit tired, so I set the kids up with salmonella-free chocolate peanut butter sandwiches and a stack of Legos. I lay on the couch, and took a nap. They actually let me doze, on and off, for about an hour. We read some books. I relaxed. They played on their own. It only went awry when we had a playdate that we had scheduled the previous week. I wanted the kids to get together, because they don’t know each other well (Pie is at the same school as the younger boy and she seems very fond of him), and we’ll all be going to Israel together. This family has a four-year-old boy, a six-year-old boy, and a nine-year-old girl. Perfect right?

Almost perfect. Because I don’t drive in snow. I just don’t do it. I refuse. I was about to call and cancel the playdate when I decided to play with Google Maps new feature, plotting out walking times/distances. Not too far. .8 miles. 16 minutes. Doable right? “Hey, guys! We’re going on an adventure! We’re going to walk to our playdate!”

Doodles immediately started groaning. “I don’t want to walk! I hate walking!” But Pie, in her naivete, was game. “An adventure! We’re going on an adventure!” She bravely kept this up for the first 15 minutes, when, with bright pink cheeks and the wind whipping, and snow drifts up to her knees, said, “I don’t like this!”

The 16-minute walk miraculously only took 45 minutes. Did I mention that this playdate was .8 miles… up a hill? On mostly unplowed sidewalks? And death-defying drivers careening on the streets? In snow that turned to freezing rain? I knew I had made a bad mistake with this walk, but it was too late to turn around; we were closer to the playdate’s house. Oh, the false cheer I kept up. “You guys are doing great! You’re doing so awesome! What tremendous adventurers you are! Do you guys know what adventurers get when they get home? Hot chocolate! With marshmallows. So many marshmallows. I think we’ll build you a pyramid of marshmallows! And TV! Adventurers get lots of TV. Lots and lots.” Guilt gets you nothing but hot chocolate and TV.

We made it. Soaking wet and chilled to the bone, we made it. We enter the house and I try fruitlessly to disrobe us without spewing water and ice everywhere. We come into the house and Pie, uncharacteristically, becomes clingy. She had been anxious to play with the boy, asking all week when the playdate was, so I didn’t understand her behavior. Doodles got shy and the boy his age went off on his own. I sat down to have a cup of tea and to chat with the mom, and Pie climbed up into my lap.

“Go play!” I urged her. “You love playdates!”

Pie shook her head, buried her face in my shoulder… and fell asleep. And I mean asleep. I mean snoring you could hear across the room asleep. Doodles ended up playing with the younger boy and I ended up quickly calling Adam (who was working at Panera in town, given that the apartment is too small for him to work from home) to come pick us up.

At home, Pie woke up. And why wouldn’t she? She got hot chocolate. With a pyramid of mini marshmallows. And an overdose of TV.

2) Let’s talk about clothes. Or lack thereof. Because my daughter is a nudist in a way I don’t ever recall my son being. The minute she walks into the apartment, she disappears into another room. And moments later, out she comes, sans clothes. She spends the entire afternoon (or morning or evening) naked. She dances. She plays. She colors. Naked. We do insist that underwear goes on for eating, as hands go all over the place, but other than that, the girl is naked. All the time. If you’re ever wondering what Pie is up to? Now you know. She’s naked.

Digression: Does the ad for SoBe Lifewater, with all the guys in white shirts, kind of remind you of the sperm scene in Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex *But Were Afraid to Ask?

3) Doodles has become a royal pain in the a**. No other way to describe it. He’s been moody, refusing to listen, negative on everything, greedy as all get out, and impossible to live with. Nothing funny here. Just me at my wit’s end with my normally adorable, fun-loving, cuddly son.

Bruce is on. You no longer have my attention. Gotta go, ‘cuz I was born to run….

What’s better than watching TV? Being on TV. The kids love to have “naked tushie time” to dance. “Rock n’ Roll, Mommy!” Doodles orders, and on goes AC/DC’s Back in Black. But the thing is, they cram in front of the (small, apartment-sized) television trying to see their own reflections. They try out different moves. Wiggle it up. Rock it out. But it always leads to fighting as they try to make room. So Adam rigged up the video camera so they no longer have to fight to see themselves. Let the dancing begin!

As I mentioned, I’m really enjoying a bunch of craft blogs. Universally, these women (always women) who create these blogs seem to have these lives that involve cups of warm tea, knitting while the kids make imaginary worlds out of scarves and cardboard boxes, and lots of nature walks. I’ve learned that when a child is home for the day, all you need is a pile of books, a few art projects, and the ingredients to make fresh bread or ginger molasses cookies.

Last week, Pie was home sick. Did I say sick? The girl psyched me out. On Thursday night, she had a 101.2 fever. The next morning, she woke up with 100.5. Within two minutes of my calling her sick into preschool, her fever dropped, and she spent the day hovering in the 99.1 range. You know. The not-sick range. So she was bouncing off of walls. On the coldest day of the year. When the high was 14 degrees. And the low subzero.

I had a lovely day for myself planned. On Monday, I had spent the morning in Pie’s preschool, making snowman pancakes with the class, because Pie had been jealous that I go in weekly to Doodles’s classroom (of course, a half hour before I was to go in, she said, “I changed my mind! I don’t want you there.” but she got over it). On Wednesday I was in the kindergarten (and I’ve told Doodles’s teacher that I can no longer work at his table, because it makes me crazy. I want to yell, “Stop being a Chatty Cathy and focus on your work!” But he’s not doing anything different from any of the other kids and I just need to work at another station). Tuesday is ballet; Thursday is ice skating. But as I promised all you people a completed draft of my novel, and I’ve actually been thinking about it and I have a ton of ideas and I have started working on it (and I’ve been reading Manuscript Makeover: Revision Techniques No Fiction Writer Can Afford to Ignore and it’s given me some good starting points; revision has always been a weakness of mine); I was anxious to dive into my novel. Especially because Monday is MLK Day so no school for the wee ones.

But the best laid plans, yadda, yadda, yadda. Pie was kinda sorta sick. The novel could wait. Alone time is overrated. I needed to take care of my baby. So Pie and I had a morning together, alone at home. And I’ve read my blogs. I know what to do. I set us up in the living room. I put her on the couch. I pulled a blanket over her. I made myself a cup of tea. And I turned on Noggin and stopped reading those blogs. I’m feeling much better now. Maybe I’ll even make some ginger molasses cookies. Or I’ll buy some from Wilson Farms and pretend I made them. See. I can be crafty, too.

I can only hope she’ll use her powers for good and not evil. I don’t think it likely, but I can hope.

Today, after ballet, I took Pie to the bookstore in my quest for some design books. Now that I know that a designer is out of the budget, I’ve taken it upon myself to educate myself at least minimally on design. Which meant standing for about 45 minutes in the Design/Interior Decorating section of Barnes and Noble, trying to figure out how The Big Book of Window Treatments is different from Design Ideas for Window Treatments, which is different from Window Treatments Idea Book how? I couldn’t figure it out, so standing there in the aisles of the store, I not-so-discreetly put all the books on reserve at my local library. The one book that really did look interesting, though, was a $45 book (only $30 at Amazon), which is on hold by many other people, but I’m on the waiting list, too, because I’m trying to save all available cash reserves for, oh, you know, furniture.

But the Pie was a patient girl, and while she made many requests for a book of her own, I was able to dissuade her and keep her nearby. I took my time, browsing the 50% off table and looking through the writing books. To appease her, I told her she could pick out a magazine for herself to read while we got a treat. Ladybug or Nat Geo Little Kids maybe or even Highlights High Five, if I was feeling particularly generous. She was pleased with this idea and I figured it would buy me time to look at the design magazines.

So off to the magazines we go. And then she began. “Brides! I see brides! Weddings! Look, Mommy, a wedding magazine! Can I have a wedding magazine? How about just a small one. Please? PUH-LEASE? Mommy, I really need a wedding magazine. I need it for me and Jasmine. Mommy, I want a wedding magazine. See, Mommy, this one is a little one? Can’t I have just a little wedding magazine? Just a little one? It’s okay, Mommy, just a little one. Mommy, I really, really want a wedding magazine! Please? Please? Please? Please?”

I insisted not, that there was just something morally repugnant about buying a three-year-old a wedding magazine (although I didn’t state it in those words), and that no, absolutely not, she could not have a wedding magazine, the kid magazine are just over there and she can have whatever kid magazine she wants.

“But Mommy I want a wedding magazine! With a bride! I need a bride. Oh, please, Mommy, oh please! Oh all right. Where are the kid magazines? Look! Look! Look, Mommy, look! Cinderella is on this magazine! Can I have this magazine? Oh, please! Can I have the Cinderella magazine,” to which I quickly replied, “Sure!”

It wasn’t until I had paid for the magazine, purchased a vanilla milk, and was reading some inane cartoon about Snow White that I realized the girl had completely hoodwinked me. I mean, on what planet was I going to buy her a princess magazine? But that master manipulating mind of hers realized if she posited it against the wedding magazines, it was a no brainer! Of course she could have the princess magazine! (Did I use the word posit correctly there? Hmmm…)

That girl is smart! And it scares me. I need to increase brain power. Maybe start doing crossword puzzles or something? Someday she’s going to be a powerful CEO. Or world leader. Or grifter. Hard to tell at this point.

Note: This post brought to you by copious amounts of Noggin and homemade chocolate chip cookies. I’m going for the coolest mom award today.

I’m contributing to the delinquency of a diva. The snow is piling up outside. Adam isn’t feeling well, so he’s napping. We’ve read books, shoveled in the snow (just for fun and we discovered the greatest snow fun there is–I pull sheets of ice off the picnic bench in the backyard and the kids jump on it to shatter it), had hot chocolate, wrote some thank you notes, kids played with Legos and painted and I cleaned, and we started packing. And it’s only 3 p.m. I don’t have the energy for an afternoon of Mickey Mouse Playhouse and Imagination Movers, so I’ve turned on Wedding Central and the kids are riveted. Pie’s already chosen her cake: “It’s going to be the biggest one in the world. It’s going to have chocolate sticks with trees and a piggy. And it’s going to be Pie and Jasmine.” For what it’s worth, I did try to show them both Land Before Time and Charlotte’s Web but Pie freaked out at both of them, and Doodles finally said, “Can we just keep watching the wedding channel.” Et tu, Doodles?

It’s been a languorous weekend. Despite sounding like I got a lot done this morning, I’ve had this lazy haze about me. I’m feeling unusually stressed these days as there’s a lot coming up. Two things are on the forefront of my mind:

The first is the house remodel. We’ve given our notice on the apartment–we’re to be out by February 28–and things are supposedly in the fast-moving stage of the house. I’m not completely sure I believe it. We were stuck at a point where I couldn’t see the changes–electrical work, plumbing work, waiting for inspections. But now we’re moving. Insulation is in. The walls started going up on Friday. Plastering will be done this week. According to the contractor, we’re about two weeks away from the hardwood floors going in (one of the final steps). According to the architect, we’re supposed to be picking out paint colors. So we have about six weeks till we’re out of here and in the house. Only, we’re going to be gone for ten of those days, which means we get back from our trip, and will have just five days to get out of the apartment…

Which brings me to my second stress. Our trip. We’re going to Israel. Yes, Israel. And I’m waffling big time on the trip. Everyone I know who’s ever been to Israel tells me I’m being silly and it’ll be fine. For starters, we’re going nowhere near the Gaza. For second, we’re going with a tour group (with our synagogue), so we’ll be on a tour bus with security on the bus. They’ll be constantly checking the security situation and revising our itinerary as needed. We won’t be on any public transportation at all. The biggest issue is that we won’t be allowed to do many of the things I really have enjoyed doing in the past (like shopping in the shuk. I’d been fantasizing about everything I was going to buy for our new home, but that’s totally out at this point). We leave in about four weeks. And four weeks in Middle East terms can really be a lifetime. For the first time ever, we bought travel insurance, which means up to 24 hours in advance of the trip, we can cancel and still get 75% of our money back. But I really don’t want to cancel. Adam’s never been and I’m anxious for him to see it. Israel is such an amazing country (I’ve been three times already, including a six-month stay on a kibbutz). But–and this is not an invitation for anyone get to political with me; I don’t do politics here–I’m feeling vaguely terrified. How do I decide whether or not to go? (And yes, it’s “me.” Adam really isn’t worried at all, he’s said, and he’s looking forward to the trip, as is the rest of our group.) I’m literally waking up in the middle of the night worried about taking my kids into a war zone. Yet every time a trip to Israel has been postponed (my sister missed out a trip in the ’80s), it’s been for naught. I am absolutely certain if I cancel the trip, I’ll seriously regret it. I am confident that once we get to Israel, it will all be fine. But I can’t stop my stomach from churning now.

So I’m trying to focus on other things. Like the marathon I have coming up in two weeks. And the craft projects I want to do as soon as we get into the house and I have easy access to my sewing machine. I’m officially addicted to craft blogs. And I’m thinking about organizing (starting with photos and ending with the kids’ toys in the new house). And packing boxes (I’m storing them in Beetle’s basement so there isn’t a mad rush when we get back from Israel). And Pie’s wedding. And the multitude of other minutiae that crop up.

And come March 1, I’ll be a sane person again. Relatively speaking, of course.