More books

I started reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory to AM last night. He probably was around when I read it to Miss M, years ago, but now he really understands it. He made me read two chapters and wanted more. But it was late.

I’m excited to read it again; classic Dahl (like James and the Giant Peach) never wears out its welcome.

But is this the beginning of the end for picture books?

I hope not. Some of them are mind-numbingly bad or boring or stupid, but here are a few of my favorites. I could read these over and over again–and get to more often now, because half the time AM says, “You choose one!” at reading time.

• Miss Rumphius – Barbara Cooney
• Little Blue, Little Yellow – Leo Lionni (I believe he wrote this for his grandchildren)
• The Incredible Book Eating Boy - Oliver Jeffers
• The Hello, Goodbye Window - Norton Juster
• Say Hello to Zorro - Carter Goodrich

What are your favorite picture books?

 

Don’t let words get in the way

I wish I could say that my Hebrew has improved by leaps and bounds, but it hasn’t.

But it’s really ok. Because I’ve decided there are some things that I can never say anyway. These words, due to my accent and my origin, are permanently off limits to me. In my opinion.

They include:

• ברור (baroor, usually said as “barrroooooorrrrr”) — This is used to mean “of course” or “clearly.” Because of the double resh and my inability to roll it, I refuse to use this word except in a joking way and only to Taxman. At night. When the dog is already asleep. (She’s native-born.)
• וואלה (walla) — Means “great” and is sometimes used as a greeting. I have to imagine it’s from Arabic. It would make me sound like an idiot. Pass.
• יו (yo) — Used as an exclamation, but not only as a greeting (as it would be in English); sort of like “Whoa!” in Joey Lawrence sense. (Although they say this on Srugim, and it is not like Joey Lawrence.) AM picked this up from gan. It’s hysterical. I could never get away with it. Because I’m neither a sabra nor a 5-year-old imp who plays a lot of pick-up sticks.
• אחלה (achla) — Also means “great” or “super.” I just can’t. I don’t know. It feels fake. But I don’t even say “yofi.” I prefer “metzuyan.” I have no idea why.

Stay tuned for Hebrew slang I do say. Sometimes. (I honestly don’t have the chance that much, except in a self-mocking way when I go out for coffee with my Anglo friends.)

Live from Modiin

Since moving from our small rental apartment to our more spacious pad, we’ve all had to adjust. The kids each have their own room. This is usually good and occasionally cute (they’ve been known to have “sleepovers” on Friday nights), but sometimes comes with the “S/he is in MY ROOM! Get him/her out!” Business as usual, eh?

I could not love our basement/toy room/trash heap any more. I go down there about once a week; yell at the kids to clean up the mess; they don’t but pretend they are for about 20 minutes. Rinse, repeat. Awesome.

But the best feature of our house is the yard. The kids love the open grass. Taxman loves the citrus trees. I love the ability to throw everyone outside.

Then there is the dog. Her relationship with the backyard is a little more fraught. On the one hand, she loves to run around. She runs so fast the yard is actually very small for her, but she doesn’t seem to care. She also has a soccer ball she likes to maul while she’s running. When things get boring, she eats grass. Then I make her come inside. If she eats too much grass, she throws up, in which case I put her out in the yard again and it starts all over.

But, as she’s discovered, we are not the only ones who use the backyard. There are birds that flit in and out. Moths, mosquitoes, bees, and snails.

And the cats. Neighborhood cats that use our back fence as an allee of sorts. This makes the dog crazy. She has a thing about cats. Like they should not be allowed to exist and should be barked into nothingness. It’s not her most attractive quality.

Of course, the cats are not on a timetable. Sometimes one passes through all day; sometimes we get three or four in the space of an hour. The dog, however, is determined to keep us safe from the feline scourge, so she sits in front of the sliding glass door for hours at a time. When she spots one–or even just the leaves of the olive tree fluttering in the wind–she begins to literally shake from her adrenaline (or doggie equivalent?) rush.

I jokingly asked the vet if we were dooming her to a nervous breakdown. “Oh,” he said, “I have a friend whose property opens up to a place where there are always ducks coming and going. He calls it duck TV because his dog just sits and watches.”

So that’s what we have. Except it’s cat TV. Broadcasting starts at around 6:30 in the morning, when she starts griping about being cooped up in our room (where we keep her bed during the night). Downstairs, she settles herself in front of the glass doors. Prime viewing location. And she watches, beginning in a ramrod straight pose. Eventually, after being fed and walked, she’ll lie down and watch. This is punctuated by OMG REAL CATS CROSSING THE YARD HOWZAT LEMME AT EM. This part entails a lot of very loud barking and throwing herself against the glass. Finally, at noon or 2 or 3 in the afternoon, she collapses in a heap of exhaustion and post-adrenaline burnout.

Ramrod-straight back

Constant vigilance. Stage 2, post morning constitutional.

The enemy has been sighted.

Nap before afternoon shmira (guard duty).

So just is case you thought that being a dog might be boring; let me assure you that it is not. Frustrating, perhaps. But not boring.

edited to add: I forgot the best part! The dog will only respond to her name when she damn well pleases (that is to say, not very often), but say “Cat!” and she’ll rise from a dead sleep and run to the window. Or stop harassing the kids when they’re eating. Or jump off the couch. Or…the list is endless, really.

When lying liars tell the truth

So Miss M hangs around at school with a few other girls whose imaginations have been known to run away with them. Like the time they planned an entire production of Sleeping Beauty during the recess periods (this took months) and were literally going to mount it in the park before another mom and I kind of put the kibosh on the whole thing.

Sample conversation:

Me: Where are you going to put on Sleeping Beauty?

Miss M: In the park across from the school?

Me: When are you planning to do this?

Her: [specific date and time]

Me: Yeah, I don’t think so.

Her: But I made invitations! We’re inviting the whole school! We’re going to have refreshments!

Me: faint Uh. You know, you can’t have things like that in the park without a permit. You have to get permission from City Hall. (About 15% true, by the way.)

Her: Ok, then H (the most well-spoken of the 7 year olds, so excellent choice) will go to City Hall and get permission.

Me: How is H planning to get there?

Her: She’ll walk.

Me: It’s way too far for her to walk there by herself.

Her: Ok, then she’ll take a bus.

Me: *head explodes*

Anyway. Sleeping Beauty was so last year. At a certain point, Miss M came home and told me that the aforementioned H was going on a trip to New Zealand and Japan. I promptly forgot about it, figuring that talk among second graders is just that. Sort of like the time when Miss M told me that her friend from South Africa was born in China.

But it turned out that H really was going to New Zealand for a month, with her parents and brothers. With a stopover in Japan (this is was really caught Miss M’s fancy–since she read a book set there she is hot for all things Japanese…except the food, of course).

And it also turned out that another mom had the exact same reaction that I did to this news about New Zealand, namely four little girls who sit and plot and make stuff up all the time had probably crafted some harmless fantasy universe where they travel all around the world.

See? It’s not just me.

(I am, however, insanely jealous of the trip to New Zealand. Although perhaps not the getting there with three kids under 8. It’s really far!)

And now the royal we are six

I’ve been One Tired Ema for six years today. In truth, I’ve been a tired ema for seven and a half years, but my slightly cooler and snarkier on-line presence is but six.

I feel torn about what I’m doing here, now. So much of what was on my mind at the beginning, deep in the woods of toddlerhood and pregnancy and nursing and babywearing, feels very far away from the children I have now–and therefore the mothering I am doing. At the same time, people (if WordPress metrics are to be believed) find me by searching on terms like “tired breastfeeding” and similar phrases. So…am I helping anyone?

The truth is that a lot of the past three or four years (except for the fun of uprooting our entire lives from one country and moving it across the Atlantic) has fallen out of bloggable range. In the past year and a half I’ve been working more, which means I have less time to blog but also less to blog about, because I’m not going to talk about work itself…and Life At Computer: Home vs. Coffeehouses isn’t exactly scintillating. Also I’ve never been a blogger who throws open her entire life, so as there have been fewer surprises with the kids–their drama these days is very much lather, rinse, repeat–I have less to say.

But at the same time, I really love what I’ve built here, this bizarre baby book + peanut gallery (I mean that in the nicest way). I’ve met so many bloggers and commenters (and Twitter people) in real life, and this blog has been a conduit for me to find so many of my people. The ones who are wry and raw and funny and smart and don’t try to whitewash things or paint rainbows everywhere. Except when it’s necessary–because sometimes it is. Rainbows are pretty awesome.

I got the best compliment the other day. It wasn’t exactly a compliment, but I took it as such. A family that we met who made aliyah this summer, with their two little kids, invited us for Shabbat lunch. We had hosted them during Sukkot, and they are just really nice people. They go to our synagogue, and they took over the lease of our rental place, so we’ve seen them quite a bit over the past four months. During lunch, the mom said to me, “I remember when you said to me, ‘It will get better. It won’t always be like this.’” Which, yes, all true. When your kids are 1.5 and 3.5, you are in the weeds. When you are four months into remaking your life from scratch, ditto.

I don’t think I’m an oracle, by any means, but I’m all for the truth. This other mother found my comments refreshing because she knew so many other moms whose cheerful Facebook feeds, twice-annual family portraits, marathon running, and perfectly kept houses belied the fact that they were holding themselves together with Xanax and wrapping paper. I guess that’s a nice difference–now that the kids are so much older (“older”), I don’t know anyone who tries to be perfect. Something’s got to give when you have a third kid (or fourth), or your spouse works insane hours or travels all the time, or you can’t squeeze into your favorite skirt anymore.

My whole goal in starting this blog was to shed my shiny happy mommy facade and, to borrow a phrase, watch what happened. Or happens. I think I achieved that.

I don’t quite know what I’m saying here, other than I’m not giving up if you’re not. I’m just evolving. Slowly. Though I still haven’t a clue what I want to be when I grow up.

Life is like a sink full of dirty dishes

Or perhaps it’s just my life.

I have a sink. It’s never empty. I just…have a problem doing dishes right away. Possibly because I have more interesting things to do–like figure out what I can download on my Miss M’s new Kindle. Or work for pay. Or I don’t want to stand up just then. Or there’s no hot water. (Hello, Israeli winter!) Or…I just don’t know.

I have been feeling overwhelmed, and I can’t put my finger on why.

We are all, thankfully, healthy. Life’s not perfect, but we are financially, emotionally, and physically ok.

I’ve been battling my old nemesis, insomnia, during the past few weeks. That’s certainly sucking the wind right out of my sails. When I do sleep, fitfully, I’ve been having really weird–though vaguely entertaining–dreams.

Like when I dreamed that we were at a highway rest stop and there was a vending machine that dispensed (seriously) live puppies with a handful of kibble. And before we could stop them, a group of tween boys pressed the buttons TWICE and then abandoned two puppies (one of whom had a gimpy leg!). Taxman rescued them, put them in the car with us, and we cancelled our Christmas (I KNOW!) plans in order to turn around and come home with them. Then we pulled up to my boss (?), who was standing on the sidewalk, and I said, “Want to hear about how we turned 1 dog into 3? I’ll tell you tomorrow over coffee–you take black, two sugars, right?” And my boss was Alicia Florrick. Played by Julianna Margulies. And when I woke up, I thought: “Weird…I’ve never even been to Chicago.”

This is why I don’t feel rested, I’m sure of it.

So, in conclusion, my subconscious and not-so-subconscious are conspiring to keep me exhausted and unable to keep my house clean. And how is YOUR winter vacation?

Less sound and fury. More signing.

I am submitting this post to be part of PhD in Parenting’s Carnival of Toddlers.

On the morning of AM’s second birthday, he woke up next to me and asked to nurse. Taxman, Miss M, and I sang “Happy Birthday” and gave him a wrapped gift. “Book,” he said, as he tore off the paper.

“What do you think it’s about?” I asked him.

He inspected the cover slowly. “Dog!” he said excitedly.

“That’s right, a doggie,” I told him.

Except that’s not exactly how it happened. He had a speech delay and, at age two, he could not pronounce any consonants. But we had conversations—he even made funny comments—because he used sign language. Asking to nurse and talking about books and dogs was all in sign language.

We had started signing with Miss M, because we thought it was cool. She accumulated a vocabulary of over 150 words before her speech caught up with her hands. Fears that it would delay her spoken vocabulary were completely and utterly unfounded. But for a full year, from about 10 months to 22 months, it was an amazing window into her universe.

(We used the Signing Time series of videos. I used to think that using real ASL was important, but in retrospect it’s such as short time of their lives that “baby signs” or something invented serves just as well. On the other hand, ASL will save any embarrassment–made up signs have been known to indicate something vulgar or unintended.)

I loved signing with my kids because I felt like I was doing something totally right.

When I had so many other first-time-parenting doubts, signing was the knot at the end of my rope. I knew exactly what my child wanted! Even if I couldn’t, or didn’t, give it to her, I didn’t have to guess as much. I could offer her choices, as limited as they were: eat an apple or banana; take a bath now or read a book now; put on shoes first or coat first. What toddler doesn’t want a modicum of control over her life? What person doesn’t?

Of course there was a lot of disagreement. She was a toddler. But it’s easier to play the game when you know the rules, so to speak.

Besides giving her choices and giving voice to her opinions, signing offered us the chance to talk about what she wanted to talk about, what made her excited and what she saw. Flowers and birds at the botanical gardens; monkeys at the zoo. The moon in the sky—during the day!

AM took longer to sign back to us. For a while he did a lot of pointing with his index finger—I called it The Index Finger of Doom, because woe unto you if you guessed incorrectly about where it was aimed. Thankfully he picked up signing too. It was our lifeline. It may have contributed to his disqualification from Early Intervention, but I wasn’t sorry we had a way to talk to each other. (We found our own way to speech therapy. He had his opinions about that too.)

Over 200 signs later, he began to really use words. Now we have conversations about the difference between nocturnal and crepuscular* animals, and I kind of miss him looking out the window of our building lobby and telling me if he was seeing buses or cars.

I wish there were a magic bullet to help me overcome my children’s slights toward each other, their hot tempers and eye-rollingly self-aggrandizing statements. But I’ll keep them as they are. Having a toddler was hard! I just miss that parenting confidence that came with nursing and signing, when, at the end of the day, I was so sure that I was doing something right. Though it was unconventional among my neighborhood peers–more common, I discovered, among Ask Moxie moms–signing was something kick-ass, really good for my kids, and a true help.

*Ha! Not my fault! E.B. White, The Trumpet of the Swan

Stuff worth reading

Just the normal stuff going on here at Chez Tired. Work, school, dog shenanigans, crankiness, coffee, and disorganization. Achla! (Excellent!)

I have been doing some reading though. On my bedside table is Anne of Green Gables, which I am re-reading and (of course) loving. Anne Shirley reminds me so much of Miss M. Minus the orphan thing. But the spunky ‘tude, red hair, daydreaming, and 25-cent vocabulary? Yes.

Of course, the 25-cent vocabulary of an 11-year-old is different than that of a 7-year-old, so I’m holding on to this book for myself until Miss M is more willing to use her dictionary.

I’ve read some really amazing things this week on the Internet though. Apologies if you’re my Facebook friend because you’ve seen a lot of this.

• My parenting style, carefully honed for years, is validated. Seriously, if there is one thing I am pretty sure I am doing right, it’s letting my kids have a lot of unstructured time. Reading and writing and drawing and fantasy scenarios are so important to Miss M. AM loves his cars, lining them up and scooting them around. They both love books. They run around the park playing imaginary who knows what, but I try to stay out of it. Unless someone is doing something dangerous or potentially criminal. Kidding about the criminal part. (I think.)
• One of my biggest issues with Orthodox Judaism. Sexual and physical abuse, corruption and fraud? Well, whatever, people are only human. But trying to make Orthodox Judaism more inclusive, attempting to push the envelope for more committed Jews? Not acceptable. I think this attitude is pretty messed up. Glad others do too.
• Someone mentioned in passing in the above article, a gay, Modern Orthodox rabbi, explains why and how he chose to perform a civil partnership ceremony, with Jewish religious elements, for two men. Honestly, it made me want to stand up and cheer. This rabbi, and this couple, are being so incredibly brave by simply living their lives as they were created. Rabbi Greenberg went so far as to create vows for them–because there is no such thing as a religious gay wedding ceremony in Orthodox Judaism–and how they would dissolve them, religiously, if they decided to end their civil marriage. So much thought and care.
• A Facebook friend tagged me to read this article, and I think it is so true. My day job(s) involve(s) a lot of content writing, and it is a fine line between using real words and SEO words. Bleh. At least I am no longer actively working for the US government. Those people eat, drink, sleep, and breathe acronyms.
• A dose of heartbreak. Please don’t let this happen to any child.

Have a good weekend, everyone!

Ahoy! The season of sharing!

Depends on where you are…Happy Thanksgiving! Happy Thursday-End-of-Work-Week! or…both!

I’ve missed those posts that get a lot of comments because I miss your words and your wit. So I’ve decided to solicit it. Not in a bad way.

I would love for people to share something that they’ve learned during their time on Earth. It can be funny or sad or wise, about relationships, parenting, baking, whatever.

[Ed. note: If anyone has a recipe for peanut butter cookies that are more like puffy, traditional cookies and less like big crumbly messes, you get extra bonus points.]

I’ll start.

I had a “flashbulb” moment about parenting recently, when I realized that dealing with older kids is just a more complex parsing of “needs” versus “wants.” In La Leche, we talked a lot about babies’ needs versus wants–when they are little, their needs and wants are the same: to be held, fed, dry, warm, secure. Easy. (“Easy.”)

As they grow, their needs and wants diverge. Needs have to be attended to pretty immediately for babies and toddlers, less so for older kids. Their wants sometimes get fulfilled, sometimes don’t, and often have to take a backseat to someone else’s needs.

Example: “Ema! I need a cup of water!”

Chances are, unless this child has been fasting on Yom Kippur, this is a want masquerading as a need. It’s a relatively important want, so it will be attended to…soonish. Because if I need to go to the bathroom, that’s happening first. Eventually, you will be able to delegate the want-fulfillment to someone else, even perhaps that child. Stepstools by the sink are great for this.

Once your child starts spending big chunks of time away from you, it gets increasingly difficult to determine where the need/want bifurcation happens. You have to be a good sleuth. Or, you know, make a complete fool out of yourself in front of your child’s teacher.

For example:

“Ema, I need a white shirt for the tekes (school assembly) on Sunday!”

True. This is an actual requirement.

“Ema, I need a white skirt for the tekes on Sunday!”

False.

“Ema, I want a white skirt for the tekes on Sunday!”

After talking to the teacher, the truth emerges. Sadly, my need to not die a thousand deaths thinking of her in a white skirt trumps her wanting one. Not enough Shout! in the world.

I’m not sure where I am going with this, just that it exists and is something I should keep in my back pocket as I am dealing with the usual crazies around here.

Bonus share for the ladies:

The expensive bras are worth it. Trust me on this. The $100 bra from France, potentially handcrafted by little elves, will fit and flatter you in ways that the $15 Target bra and the $32 Maidenform won’t.

Even if you can’t necessarily afford to stock your wardrobe with a full range of expensive lingerie, you deserve one professionally fitted, knockout bra. Because there will always be a first date, a night on the town, a job interview, a special occasion–something!–where you will want to feel and look your absolute best. It inspires confidence. Really.

In which we all play our parts

Shabbat afternoon, 4pm

Miss M, calling from downstairs: “Can I have a persimmon?”

Me: “Yes. Wash it.”

AM: “I’m ALSO hungry!”

Me: “Put on some clothes; it’s cold downstairs.”

Miss M: “I want it cut!”

Me: “You’re going to have to give me a minute to get out of bed!”

AM: “I can’t find clothes!”

Me: “Just put on a shirt and pajama pants.”

AM: “Where is my cookie?”

Me: “Downstairs.”

Miss M: “I am cutting my persimmon!”

Me: “Absolutely no knives! AM, tell her to wait for me!”

AM: “Miss M, wait for Ema!”

Miss M: “It’s ok; I am using a plastic knife!”

Me: “No! No knives!”

AM: “I can’t find my cookie!”

Ten minutes later, rustling in the bathroom.

Miss M: “I cut my finger! I’m ok! I’m putting on a band-aid!”

AM: “I told her not to use a knife.”

Miss M: “I also cut AM’s apple!”

After Shabbat

Taxman: “Did you see her fingers? She sliced off the top of three or four fingers!”

Me: “WHAT?”

Miss M, crying: “I’m sorry!”

Me: “It’s ok, there are just small cuts. [Perhaps Taxman was exaggerating a wee bit?!] But I wish you would have listened to me when I said no knives. You have to have a little patience for me to get moving. You know Shabbat afternoon is the one time all week when I get to take a nap. Or you can…try eating fruit whole.”

Miss M, still crying, “It’s good that I didn’t die!”

AM, rolling his eyes: “Oh, Miss M, you don’t die from cuts like that.”

#neveradullmoment